The Smart State

So I checked out the myschool website - http://www.myschool.edu.au/

By the looks of things, my kids better brush up on some armed robbery skillz because they won’t be going to University anytime soon. So poor were the results.

Both schools were below average for years 3, 5 and 7. My first reaction? What the Fuck?

I have two school aged children. One in year 2, one in Year 6.

Sam, in year 2, has Aspergers and luckily he began Prep at a school with a Special Education Unit that is highly regarded on the Gold Coast. As such, a lot of kids at his school need extra attention. Some, like Sam, who is in a main stream classroom, need a teacher aid with them a lot of the time, so they can concentrate, learn their ABCs and 123s and not skiv off to the sandpit and play. Others need no help academically, but need a lot of help behaviour wise. Either way, this school has a very large proportion of children with varying degrees of academic ranges and the majority sat that test.

And they still did better than my daughters school that we pay for.

My daughter who is 11 this year and in grade 6 was part of the year 5 Naplan testing last year at this Catholic Education School. We changed her from her brothers school due to one fact and one fact only. She couldn’t understand her teacher. This particular school is multi-aged, meaning it’s not about what grade you are in, but the stages. Early, Junior, Middle and Senior. It’s a great notion. The kids who are smart, get taught to their ability, not grade, the ones who are struggling, get helped along. So the theory goes.

Maddie is an avid reader. Massive reader. Out reads me. This is not a biased observation, it just is. Her division and overall maths are not so crash hot, nor her presentation of work or her physical education. So when her mid-year Year 4 Report came home and it showed a C for Reading and English, I was a little bit baffled. See, her teacher for that year, and the subsequent year was a male who is from Pakistan. I had had him as a client some years earlier and he got the total shits with me because I couldn’t understand him. So when I realised, by some weird cosmic force, that he was going to be Maddies teacher in year 4, my first thought was “How in the hell will she learn when she can’t understand her teacher?” I told her to tell me if she couldn’t work out what he was saying. She said she would. But she didn’t. Because she didn’t want to leave her friends. Excellent.

So turns out she couldn’t understand him for the majority of year 4. He was a lovely man. He really liked Maddie. He made her the mentor of other wayward children in her class, with the best of intentions, but at the end of the day, the realisation that my child was to be taught by this teacher again in year 5 and possibly not learn, concerned me. We were always going to send her to a Private High School anyway, so figured, Year 5 was as good a time as any to change her to our only affordable option – Catholic Education.

I know, it’s all a matter of prioritising and budgeting and yes I agree. But, we’ve got 3 kids, all of which would be in private schools at the same time, we have extra medical costs associated with Sam and you know what?, I can’t see how the kids are really going to be better off if we are stressed off our heads just so they can go to the “Best private schools” on the Coast.

See, this is the problem. When I was a kid there were private schools on the Gold Coast. Not nearly as many as there are today, but the major ones were there. But it wasn’t an issue. Well it didn’t appear to be. You went to the school you lived the closest to. Or, if you were exceptionally wealthy, you went to one of the private schools. End of story. Even then, everyone was still friends. There certainly didn’t appear to be the same sort of class system. Nor was the awkward conversation at dinner parties “Oh so where does your child go to school?” Fuck, isn’t it hard enough just to exist these days, let alone be judged by what sort of education your child receives? And isn’t it our right, as a taxpayer, as an Australian, for our children to receive the best of education and health regardless of wealth?

And most teachers at state schools are wonderful. My son has had the best teacher for the last 2.5 years I could ever have hoped for. She was wonderful. I truly believe it comes down to what suits your child. Only you, as the parent can make this call.

I can totally see the frustration on both sides of the fence for both pro Naplan testing and anti. Teachers are being raked over the coals for shite results that aren’t directly their fault. Some schools are getting awesome results due to the fact they deliberately wrangled for less academically gifted children to avoid sitting the test.

The thing is, we all just want our children to get a decent education. We don't want to feel ashamed because our children are attending under performing schools. We don’t want special attention or favours. We don’t expect to have sunshine blown up our arses about how good how child is. We do expect however, to get decent, fair and equitable teaching for our children. No matter what school that they attend. No child should get better marks because they have access to more equipment at home to process an assignment. No child should get favoured because they catch up with a certain childs mother from time to time. That crap has to stop.

So this website may eventually help average out the results across the country. If a school is particularly struggling, perhaps a crack team of experts will descend on the school and work out how to help the situation. That to me, would be a positive outcome generated from this site.

Apparently there is a frenzy of parents pulling their children out of under performing schools based on this website but, if you were happy with your childs school before this website went live but now have concerns, back yourself. You know what’s best because no one knows you child quite like you do.

You wanna be startin Something.

I’ve never had a brand new car. Well until about 2 years ago I hadn’t. We were sick and tired of buying other peoples “bargains”. It

probably came to a head in 35 degree heat, after the air conditioner in my 2000 Daewoo Nubira Wagon completely shit itself. In fact, it not only went on strike, it went on the attack by blowing hot air at me. Around that time, the electric drivers’ window also refused to open. Sometimes, when it wasn’t in a particular mood, it would open and

not shut, but it rarely co-operated in full.

So there I was, 3 kids, 40 degree hot hair blowing directly in my face like a hairdryer, my window steadfastly refusing to budge and a $2000 bill on the cards to fix my $2000 car. A couple of meltdowns that included me rocking in the corner later, and we decided it was time to bite the bullet and get a new car.

As we could only afford so much, or more, as we were being incredibly tight, we decided the smallest car in the Honda range would fit us as a family of 5. The Honda Jazz. Anyway that is a very long path to get to my main goal of telling you I got my very first ever brand new car and then someone crashed into it.

I had been out all day. I had dropped two kids off to school. I had picked Mum up and we had gone to a gazillion different places over the Gold Coast that as per usual, left me no time to go home and vacuum the house on my day off. Shame.

After dropping Mum home, I went back to school and carefully parked my car and walked in to the school to pick up the kidlets. This was only 3 weeks after I had purchased the car so of course, the kids were on a food ban inside it, so too were we having a texta, play doh and Lego embargo. I had washed it every weekend; I had vacuumed it lovingly and gone off my chops when the middle child emptied his sand filled sneakers onto the backseat of the car.

It was early days. Then some bitch ran in to it.

I had packed three kids into it and had driven all the way home before I realised. For some reason I went back out to the car, probably to just stare at it (kidding) and that’s when I realised, the front of the car was seriously fucked. How had I missed this? Could I be that dense that I didn’t hear the noise that would have sounded like a bomb going off when I hit what appears to be a silver pole?

I spent the next 30 minutes crapping myself and offhandedly dropped the bomb to my husband after he got home from work. Fortunately, as well as a plumber, it appears my husband is serious crash investigator because the first thing he said to me was “Nah mate, someone has backed into you”. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

So I was looking down the barrel of an insurance claim that I would have to cop the brunt of, both ratings and monetary wise. Bloody bastards. Not to mention, my car had been deflowered. Do to her what you want people, she is no longer pure.

Some weeks later, I was walking in to pick up Sam and one of the Mum’s I’m friendly with said, “Oh, that’s your car!” I probably looked at her a bit blankly. Blink Blink.

“Do you know how you got that massive dent in the front of it?”

Me: “No, someone ran into it, but don’t know who.

C’s Mum “I do”

She went on to tell me how her and another mum had been walking into the school when, let’s call her Lorena the Moron or LTM for short, had tried to reverse park into a non-existent parking spot between my car and the one behind me. Clearly she didn’t make it as a) she’s not a Polly Pocket and b) there was a massive fucking dent in my car with her paint all over it. C’s Mum then led me to LTM’'s car to show me my paint on her rear, smashed, bumper. What the Hell.

So, being the non-confrontational and peace loving person I am, I left a note on her windshield. You know – “Hey, I believe you smashed into my car a couple of weeks ago and I now need your insurance details to get this fixed”.

Nada

I knew who she was. She was the mum who used to, rather than get off her arse, shout at her son to stop throwing sticks at classroom windows. I knew of her well before she slammed into my car. It was often this “Benjamin, Benjamin! Git ere Benjamin. Put that rock down Benjamin! Don’t hit that boy, that’s not nice Benjamin. Cmmmmeeerre!!!. Um how about this mole, get off you arse, discipline your child and stop him from touching my child.

My car wasn’t the first to meet with LTM either. Another ladies car was backed into and a stationery motorbike was knocked over. Or course, I learned all of this much later.

So, I thought, I’m just going to have to confront her. I really didn’t want to. She was unhinged at the best of times, fairly big Nurofen Plus addiction but she never showed. What I didn’t want was for hew to get anywhere near my vulnerable son, Sam.

I attempted again with the note on the windscreen. More forceful this time. “If you do not contact me by 5pm today, I will have no other choice but to go to the Police”. Then I sat, covert like, around the corner, watched her grab it off her windscreen, scrunch it up, and throw it on the ground. Oh it was on.

So I went to the Police station. Stood in line for over an hour whilst various grievances were aired and people on parole checked in. My turn. Explained my sitch. The young police man grabbed the phone and said “let’s see who owns this car then shall we”. Apparently her boyfriend gave her the car. He was in Melbourne. Awesome.

Look, long story short, the boyfriend tried to get me to say it was him who backed into me – Um NO. I asked him if she was pissed or on drugs. His response

“No, just a very nervous driver”. Well how’s this, I don’t’ want a nervous driver around my kids at school thanks. His next sentence?

“You’re lucky you didn’t confront her actually, she can get quite aggressive”. Um sorry, I’m the one she backed into and then fucked off on and SHE gets aggressive?

I got the details, got my car fixed and constantly got mega death stares from LTM.

But the spell was broken for me and my new car. Our dog scratched the bonnet about 6 months later, badly and I barely cared. No less than 6 trolleys have gone into it in car parks. My stilettos have ripped their way through the carpet in the driver’s seat. Meh. It get’s washed 6 monthly if it’s lucky.

It's sad for my poor Jazz. Innocent victim in the scheme of things. Kind of like me.

HERE FISHY FISHY

OK, so it struck me, whilst my seven year old son was feeding water, via a dropper, to Seabushy (aka weed from the ocean) that he may indeed need an actual pet to care for.

We have, of course, tried this before with other animals but for one reason or another, things just haven’t worked out. But to see a child first prepare a funeral for Seabushy Number 1 then resurrect her as a surly tween, aka Seabushy Mark 2, I quickly realised that this kid needed a pet that at least breathed from time to time.

Seeing as I have placed a self-imposed ban on myself adopting any new animals , and my husband has basically given me this as an option (read ultimatum) “get another animal and I walk out that door and never come back”, I was left with no other choice but get cunning. Well, he said no more animals. He said NOTHING about fish.

So yesterday, on a bit of a whim, I went to the local petshop, picked a very old school fish bowl and three very different fish who apparently live harmoniously together. Yeah, just like my three children do.

Sparkles (Named by the female ten year old) is your everyday run of the mill goldfish. Even though when I left the petstore, and for the entire drive home, Sparkles was happily burning around in her bowl, when I walked through the front door, she was laying on the bowl floor, lifeless. Shit Shit Shit. Could I be that spectacularly crap at owning a pet? Seriously? Did I knock her head when I got the bowl out of the car? Had she gotten wedged under a purple rock and had a heart attack? Just when I was about to shield the kids eyes, she got up, swam to the top and kept on swimming.

Jacob Wills Haunted House (aka Seabushy 3 for short) is a black, bug eyed goldfish. He is the most piggish fish I have ever seen. Blew the other two out of the water when it came to sucking up that fish food. He is currently working tag team with Sparkles to move the rocks in the bowl with their heads – conjoined twin style. The seven year old is in charge of Seabushy 3.

Georgia, the new name for the tiny unidentified fish Hurricane Jack selected, is named after his very serious girlfriend from Kindy

So this is kind of our trial run. If we do OK with Sparkles, Seabushy Mark 3 and Georgia, we can present our case to my husband. And maybe something with fur will be next. Although, this statement from my seven year old is not very encouraging. Right before going to bed tonight he came out, kissed the fish bowl and said “Goodnight Seabushy, I hope you don’t die.”

AUSSIE AS

This from Dave Hughes: (Comedian) “Can Australia Day just calm down a bit. Don't get ahead of yourself mate, you're not Christmas”

But that’s the thing though Dave, it’s better than Christmas. It’s not about a guy who supposedly turns water into a quite a nice drop, it has relevance to everyone in this magnificent country of ours. We still get to eat and drink ourselves stupid, yet there is no stupid overpriced gift giving and more often than not, we spend the day with people we truly want to be around. Oh, and we usually get to play a game of beach cricket with a big fuck-off hat on our heads and swim on big blow up thongs. Better than Christmas? – Um, YEAH!

Apparently it wasn’t until 1994 that the whole country unified to make the 26^th of January each year, a public holiday, thus the spirits of all Australians were lifted as one. Ever since, there has been this slow but sure evolution into the event that is Australia Day. Akin to News Years day, plans are made, lamb chops and sausages are purchased and Triple J Hottest 100 is cranked. Even if, like me, you hardly know any of the songs anymore. It’s just tradition. Well, was tradition until Triple J accidently leaked the winner this year pre-countdown. Here’s where I admit I do not know the song that actually took the Number 1 spot. Yep, my Triple J listening days ended somewhere around pushing a basketball sized baby out of my vagina - the same day I had to grow up.

We have a long standing tradition, ok, 3 year tradition, where we meet with a great bunch of people we met when we lived on the Tweed. It started out as a bit of a nothing one day when picking up the kids one day after school. “What are you guys doing on Australia Day?” “Oh nothing much, you?” “Thinking of going down to Jack Evans boat harbour – want to come?”"Sure" And so it happened. Jack was all of 6 weeks old, and the day was unexpectantly awesome. We ate, we drank champagne (yes, yes, after the requisite amount of time after feeding J of course), we played cricket, we swam, we spoke ALOT of shit and then we went home and continued on for another couple of hours. The best thing? – it was easy. Some would go so far as to say it was - Aussie as.

That’s the thing about Aussies, we are easy. Easy in the easy going sense, not the I root everything that breathes kinda sense. That mantle is well and truly held by an American Golfing genius.

The fact that this year the police have a zero tolerance when it comes to drinking in public spaces is understandable but, I’m going to use the word here - it is positively, UnAustralian. I cannot comprehend a game of beach cricket without being able to hold a drink whilst fielding. Or a champagne and orange whilst we cook our Webber bbq breakfast. Looks like we are going to have get tricky and reuse that coke zero can, because we aren’t’ the ones the cops need to worry about. It’s the young guys and few dipshit adults that are decidedly unAustralian. Who cannot get together; have a great day, a few bevvies without it turning into a racist punch-up. If that’s your intention buddy, just stay home and have a wank, because that is clearly what you do best.

So what does being Australian mean? If you have always lived here, how do you know the difference?

Vegemite: Basically brown yeast. Oh yeah and don’t we Aussies just lap that shit up. Me especially. It goes well on toast with lashings of butter. The outside world, on the other hand, has a different opinion. Cheesymite aka poo in a jar, is a whole other story.

Thongs: Pretty much the only country using the word everyone else in the world uses for g-string. Makes for some pretty interesting lost in translation moments.

Our flag: Word of warning though, the Australian Flags on car windows has the chance of going the way of the Frangipani Stickers. Overexposed by bogans. Today in the Harbour town car park I saw the triple threat. Frangipani car seat covers, Australia Day flags off the windows and Crazy Bitch Sticker on the back window. Avoid at all costs.

Our beaches: I don’t have much to draw a comparison to, other than Bali, but from what I have seen in movies, our beaches rock. They are clean, white and apart from when they throw in the odd stinger, are the best ones in the world.

Our Weather: Ok, this is not unique to Australia, but thunderstorms and hearing the crack of thunder on a tin roof whilst drifting off to sleep, pretty much sums up my summers growing up.

Meat Pies: Does it get any more Aus than this? Lara “Where the Bloody Hell are you?” Bingle tweeted this: "Four n Twenty pie @ the cricket mmmm” Now that is Aussie. Sure the whole translation of “Where the Bloody Hell are you?” ad campaign fell flat on its bazookas to the UK audience it was supposed to entice, but really and truly, it’s a stunning girl who’s engaged to a top Australian cricketer who’s enjoying a meat pie at one of our national pastimes. Plus, she’s just had her Aston Martin (not very Aussie) stolen (very Aussie) and found by the cops (Very unusual in any country).

Our accent: The way I’ve always looked at it. We are speaking correctly, everyone else has an accent or a twang or just a whole other language. Now I realise we are 23 million* in a world of 7 billion* Kind of makes us the minority. So in essence our accent comes across as very abrasive to some. I know it has been pointed out to me lately that I have been saying “ay” when I say something needing confirmation like “This weeks gone really quickly - PAUSE -- ay?” Not the most charming feature for a lady to have.

I am sure there are hundreds of more Aussie things we do. Quirks and ideals we as Australians have that are unique to the lucky Country. Whatever you do on Tuesday, remember our indigenous population who were here before any of us and well before that fateful day in 1788 when the First Fleet landed. Also remember that we are the ones living now. We, our children and our children’s children will be the ones that keep Australia what is considered to be one of the luckiest countries on Earth. So love it, respect it and respect each other. Most importantly Have a fantastic Australia Day.

Feel free to share your Oz as Moments.

*Give or take

The Hard Knock Life.

So the kids go back to school on Wednesday. And you know what? They still aren’t particularly keen to get on board that particular groove train.

Oh I’m sorry. 8 weeks holiday not long enough for you sunshine?

This time of year always catches me by surprise, even though I get plenty of warning. I mean how do prepare for a six - eight week period every year where the kids are in freefall. No more routine, no more hot devon lunches (my child requests these, please do not think I would enforce Devon on ANYBODY) and no homework.

And it should be a time to get loose I guess. They’ve worked hard now haven’t they? They’ve had to endure countless stolen HB pencil incidents, fights in the schoolyard over whose handball they should use and let’s not forget the tough and gruelling fun run on the beach where my daughter consumed 5 sausage sandwiches. Ahh the hard knock life.

But now it’s all over, I returned to work on Monday which as always was a nice change after having absolutely no structure or point to my days for four weeks. On the downside, it put a stop to wine o’clock each arvo.

My office shuts down for four weeks over Christmas/New Year. My husbands’ work for two. We used to take the entire four weeks off together. This year that idea was sidelined due to two major problems. Number one, we were eating air sandwiches come Australia Day due to lack of funds and number two, my husband and I were ready to stage a WWF Smackdown versing each other by week 3. To Mr and Mrs Morley being together 24 hours a day /7 days a week – Computer Says No.

On the brightside, the hot x buns are already a daily special at Woolworths and the chocolate eggs on the shelves. Won't be long until the kids will be downing tools again. When I grow up, I want to be a kid....

Oh on a sidenote, today, after 3 weeks of the most prime swimming weather ever, Jack got his casts off his broken arms, and finally, got to have a glorious swim, carefree down the Broadwater.

THE MONEY PIT

Our grand plan was this: Buy a house, renovate it, sell it for a motza and then do again - five more times. I pictured us; mortgage free, equity rich, able to relax in our late forties and dining out regularly on our brilliant idea.

Sadly, we are shit at it.

This is not our first renovation. But it is the most major.

We just totally underestimated the scale of the renovation. To be honest, I had just had a baby, the house was dazzling us with its orange shag pile carpet and the vicinity to the Broadwater gave us the type of false sense of security that we could live in a tent as long as we stayed close to the water. Naive' or stupid? You be the judge.



I have just had 3 weeks “holiday”. Apart from the previously mentioned hellish and repeated visits to the hospital with the 3 year old shit magnet, we have also, most every day, either performed the renovating, or visited warehouses and factories to get the stuff required for said renovation.

I liken the process to getting married. OK, bear with me.

From the moment we set a date for our wedding, it was on. And I mean fucking – on. Every Saturday and Sunday was taken up with visits to bridal shops, venues, churches, travel agents, wedding expos, cake makers, balloon shops and yeah, you get the picture, it was weddings a go go.

Then the wedding came and went. It had been a full scale military exercise to bring that day together, not to mention, squeeze into my dress and then, poof, it was over. I was bereft and cast adrift on my Saturdays. What now? Spend actual time with my new husband?

And money, Jesus don’t get me started on the so called “budget”. Please read that and make the stupid quotation marks as you do, because the sentence above is pure bullshit. The thing is, my husband actually does a hell of a lot of this himself and we are still leaking money like a kid with gastro. Plus we just have such different ideas on what needs to be done and at what cost.

Tip for would-be renovators: unless you freakishly agree on everything in your lives, you can expect at least one conversation when you tell your partner to shove a particular tool up their arse. It is almost guaranteed.

So my analogy of marriage and renovating a house I guess is this: Every single spare moment we have at the moment is taken up with our new project, renovating the unrenovatable. The project has changed, but it still requires the same amount of passion and input as a wedding does.

I mean, what will we do when the house is complete? I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We will make the word renovation a swear word in the Morley household, never to be mentioned again. Oh and live happily ever after.

BUT SIR, I WANT SOME MORE...

So I am on holidays at the moment. As such, I have zero motivation to cook. So we’ve been indulging in the restaurant culture perhaps more so than we usually would. As such, we are getting to see many facets of this service industry.


When I say restaurant culture, the playground and surrounding tables at McDonalds get a Guernsey here right? Totally kidding. Mostly.

No, really, we have been out particularly to places nearby, read: within walking distance that Mum and Dad can still have a bevvie and take the kids home via foot. But lately two places have stood out. And not for the same reasons.

First example:

Stats: Lunchtime

People: 4 Adults, 3 Children.

Place: Restaurant Juliana’s. Paradise Point, QLD. Mostly services Sovereign Island, one of the most expensive real estate sections in Queensland.

Ok, so it wasn’t the food, which was adequate, nor the service, which was semi-fast, it was the attitude we received. I queried the bill. She had in fact overcharged us $50. I knew it. No apology, in fact she told me it was because it was written down wrong on the bill – like it was my fault. I don’t think I am adequately telling you what was wrong here. Out and out, the owner and the one who ended up processing our bill, was just incredibly rude. She was spewing because I was using EFTPOS. She was spewing that we were asking for Take away coffees to be included in the bill we were paying. And this was not my first shite experience. She once told me, when having breakfast and reading the Sunday paper by myself, with not one other customer in the joint, that I would have to move because I was taking up a table for 4. Why did we eat there again? Fuck only knows.

Second example:

Stats: Dinnertime

People: 2 Adults, 3 children

Place: Restaurant Clink, Southport, QLD, Restaurant in a Hotel with a Comedy Club

Last night, we went out for dinner. Even though it was way past the 3 year olds bed time and
even though this usually equates to hell, we gave it a go. Surprisingly it was awesome.

We were greeted with enthusiasm. We were sat at a table that suited us. In short, this restaurant, which is essentially a pub restaurant, gave 5 star service and 6 star food. We asked once, we got it. The food was consumed by every single child and Mum and Dad went home and just passed out (sure fire sign of a fantastic and filling meal). Plus I just happened to indulge in a baileys/vanilla bean panna cotta at the end which kind of sealed the deal.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that, in these economic times, and even these times of just being a bit skint cause it’s after Christmas and we’ve all had a few days off, it’s not often we get to go out and actually indulge. So if we do, we expect to enjoy it.

And look, we are pretty easy going diners. I don’t even send back glasses with obvious lipstick marks on the wine glass.

But rude people shit me.

DON'T STOP TIL YOU GET ENOUGH

10 Things I need my husband to stop doing sooner rather than later:

1. Putting a wad of wet clothing at the bottom of the washing basket, then dropping his dry, yet repulsive work clothes on top, and then leaving it to fester.


2. Drinking all the Cordial


3. Eating all the Timtams


4. Bringing out his dirty filthy lunchbox from the day before AFTER I have finished doing the dishes.


5. Denying me a pet.


6. Shaving his head like a thug.


7. Shaving our sons head like a thug without consulting me first.


8. Play wrestling with the kids until he makes one cry.


9. Worrying about nothing.


10. Compulsively farting.
    

10 Things I need my husband to never stop doing – Ever

1. Loving his kids like he does.


2. Feeling like getting up and going to work each day.


3. Play wrestling with the kids on our bed. (Yes even though it invariably ends in tears)


4. Laughing at stupid stuff I say.


5. Playing endless games of tetherball with every member of the family.


6. Wanting to go and get me the paper every weekend.


7. Having the desire to turn up to violin/choir/recorder etc etc recitals even though they are often more painful than childbirth.


8. Being chief Wheelie Bin operator.


9. Taking hold of my hand when we cross the road.


10. Loving me.

Got any to add?

FANTABULOUS

“The fucking lotto numbers – don’t forget to ask them for the lotto numbers!” That line from one very sceptical neighbour when we announced we were off to see a psychic at the Psychic Expo yesterday at The Southport RSL.

I was, am not now, a virgin when it came to this kind of stuff. Apart from messing around with tarot cards with my girlfriends when we were young, I knew nothing.

But yesterday definitely popped my cherry. And it didn’t hurt a bit.

I was so nervous going in there. I mean what was I worried about? Well, actually I was scared she would be able to look inside me and see every thought, nice, negative, odd, lovely and absurd that I was having at that very moment. What if she could tell I had made an observation whilst waiting my turn that I thought she should have gotten her roots done before this big expo? Did she know I’d drunk a bottle of wine the night before and was feeling like particular shit? And what if she just ended up being all kinds of wrong and I was wasting my $25. Mind you that’s $25 for 15 minutes. $100 an hour for using her extra-sensory perceptive powers. Wow, wish I were psychic.

I was offered a recording of my reading for $5 but realised, that um, I don’t own a tape player any more. These guys need to get with the times.

So sitting there, waiting for Donna my guru, to finish up with a middle-aged woman who looked particularly ticked off, I couldn’t help but listen to psychic number 5, Esmeralda.

A lady who was at least 85 in the shade, sat supported by her walker with Esmeralda. I didn’t hear her question but I heard the answer. “No darling, you aren’t going anywhere, anytime soon.” Immediately I felt a lot of affection for Esmeralda. I mean, she could have seen that this old duck was not going to last past next Tuesday, but she wasn’t about to tell her that. I suddenly got what all this was about. About reaffirming stuff, making you feel better and if they happen to hit upon some real issues, then all well and good, otherwise, if it just gives you a reason to keep going, well what’s the harm? Esmeralda went on to ask a series of questions and make predictions to which the old lady refuted. Didn’t matter, the old lady was satisfied and even gave Esmeralda a kiss on her way out.

Enough of others, it was my turn.

I sat down and Donna looked into my eyes and kept staring for what felt like an eternity and then said “Um, I need your ticket before I can start love” Oh shit, right, so after rummaging around my sinkhole of a handbag, I finally found it and we got to start properly.

Immediately she told me I had a very creative aura. “You need to use your talent – you are a communicator, or an artist, no definitely a writer. You don’t do that for a living, but I see you writing columns. You need to write a novel”. OK, fucking hell, pretty good.

“You need to keep with the writing and stop blocking yourself” A lot along these lines and then I got to pick 11 tarot cards. I watched the lady before me do this and she seemed to almost hover over them trying to get a feel for them. I felt nothing so was just picking them randomly. She started laying them down and then she started asking me about my husband.

“Has he been somewhat restless of late? a bit scattered?” Ooooh not that I know of. Then this

“I sense an addiction with your husband, is he addicted to something?” Um, unless he has an underground crack addiction I haven’t picked up on, then no.

Then it hit me. Yes he surely does have an addiction. Its name is BUNNINGS. Spot on the money. I didn’t tell Donna this; I didn’t get a chance because she told me “You will go through great disappointment with your husband for a couple of months. This could be to do with a property, you may want to do something he doesn’t, but it will all work out, just don’t push things”. Plus,

“A lot about the choices you make this year will take care of things financially”. Way to put the pressure on me Donna.

She also touched on 2009 and how it was a year of a lot of waiting and no being settled. True dat.

Then it was over. 15 minutes were up and she was ready for her next sucker - ahem - client.

My friend also said she got quite the amazing reading. Hers was spot on with her job and kids. Hers even gave her a hug at the end. Donna clearly picked up my reluctance to touch strangers.

I guess I thought, with my mum so recently passing away, that Donna would tell me Mum was telling her to tell me stuff from beyond the grave. You know like that she’s not impressed that I’ve given up on ironing all together or that I should stop yelling at her grandkids so much. But nada.

So am I a believer? After yesterday, call me a sucker, but yeah, I kinda think I am.

NEXT STOP: SHITSVILLE

Is this it? Please tell me it is? So, I last left you on New Years day, safe in the knowledge that the world is still turning yet still slowing down to throw the Morleys off at the 1^st FUCK YOU stop on the itinerary.

Last night, I was having the best sleep I’d had in a long time. So deep in sleep was I that I didn’t realise the deep base coming from Kid Rocks Sweet Home Alabama rip-off was actually coming from down the street and not from a bogan nightmare. See the fuckstick neighbours who I have blogged about before, didn’t actually move. Well they did, but just one house further down the street and merged with another group of dipshits. So now they have just become one gigantic home of dumb arses living in the one house. I honestly didn’t think they could cohabitate and not blow themselves up, but 6 months on it’s all still standing, so there you go.

Anyway, back to last night. I had spent a good part of yesterday, back at the Emergency department of the Hospital getting our 3yo’s second hand put in a cast. Oh yeah. Apparently it is a good idea to check the ENTIRE kid out when he falls from his fathers 6ft shoulders. Hey, I know I’m not a doctor by profession but seriously, how hard is it? So the little man is home, seriously zonked after some painkillers, two arms in casts, looking like he’s done a few rounds with the ear biter Tyson and he is finally having a serious nights sleep only to be woken by these tossers who turn on the shittiest song in the world on their sub-woofers in their van, at 2am in the morning.

Obviously I just lost it. I have seen the stupid girl who lives there get out of a taxi and I have screamed at her “Tell you’re stupid fucking friends to turn off that music before I called the cops you dumbshit”. She ran. Fast. And the music was off within about 30 seconds. Apparently a 34 year old woman screaming like a banshee and clearly on the edge is enough to scare stupid people. Take note.

3yo woke up this morning and hurled. Not a big one. Just enough to let us know “hey guys, just because I’ve got two casts on my arms doesn’t mean I’ve finished with you yet” A few high temps, a failed attempt to take him to the “after hours” doctor and we are here. Home, on high alert.

So I know, in the scheme of the world, the above is not the worst that could befall us this new year. I get that, but I just want a little break from the roller coaster ride. Just for a little bit.