In an attempt to cram as much as possible into our final days, we went to the swimming pool last night because Tom’s class was having a social gathering there (Where else would you go in the middle of winter?).
The kids were all having a good time when one little girl was spotted walking very cautiously through the water towards her parents, a life-guard keeping an eye on her. She was asked what the matter was and appeared reluctant to say too much. After a bit of prompting she said, just loud enough for the group of parents to here, “I think there’s a poo in the water!”
Images of Caddyshack sprang immediately to mind as the parents quickly urged their children (who were of course happily swimming on obliviously) to exit the pool.
Fortunately there was an unconnected pool that they could continue their fun in as the turd count seemed to just keep rising as the attendant arrived ready to fish it out. And believe me, I don’t think there were any baby ruth bars in it!
… 1 more sleep!
Jun 29, 2007
Jun 28, 2007
Where Dead People Go + Beauty Tips
Where the dead people go.
Yesterday we took the kids out of school so that we could all go to the zoo together for a last outing in Adelaide as a family.
As we stood watching the Lions, waiting for them to be fed, Emily said to me, “They might feed them a person Daddy!”
“No, I don’t think so, I think that you’ll find that they will give them a bit of meat from a dead animal.”
“It might be a dead person Daddy.”
“No, I really think that you’ll find that it will be a piece of dead cow Emily.”
“Or it might just be a bit of a dead person, like a leg, Daddy!”
I gave in, obviously there wasn’t going to be any swaying that line of thought.
Beauty tips
This morning as I was getting Emily into the car, I told her how beautiful she looked.
“I don’t want to wear beautiful clothes Daddy,” she told me adamantly.
“But I like it when you’re beautiful,” I assured her.
“Yes, but I might get them dirty and then I won’t be beautiful and I’ll have to put on even more beautiful clothes and I might not have any!”
Ah, the workings of a young mind.
…2 more sleeps … yikes!
Yesterday we took the kids out of school so that we could all go to the zoo together for a last outing in Adelaide as a family.
As we stood watching the Lions, waiting for them to be fed, Emily said to me, “They might feed them a person Daddy!”
“No, I don’t think so, I think that you’ll find that they will give them a bit of meat from a dead animal.”
“It might be a dead person Daddy.”
“No, I really think that you’ll find that it will be a piece of dead cow Emily.”
“Or it might just be a bit of a dead person, like a leg, Daddy!”
I gave in, obviously there wasn’t going to be any swaying that line of thought.
Beauty tips
This morning as I was getting Emily into the car, I told her how beautiful she looked.
“I don’t want to wear beautiful clothes Daddy,” she told me adamantly.
“But I like it when you’re beautiful,” I assured her.
“Yes, but I might get them dirty and then I won’t be beautiful and I’ll have to put on even more beautiful clothes and I might not have any!”
Ah, the workings of a young mind.
…2 more sleeps … yikes!
Jun 27, 2007
Last
We’ve reached the point where everything seems to be the last at the moment. The last time that we see friends, the last time that Emily has attended kindy, the last time that we get to visit some of our favourite places (well at least the last for now).
Saturday was my last soccer game for the club that I’ve spent the last 12 years at and it surprised me just how emotional it was. My soccer career faces an uncertain future as we head to Canada as it will have to compete against a host of other priorities; priorities against which it probably won’t stack up against too well.
Four weeks ago I wasn’t sure when my last game would be, primarily because with the way that my body has been treating me this year in regards to injury, any game that I played could have been my last. But I dearly wanted to be able to walk onto the pitch and say, “This is it. This is the last one,” rather than have to point backwards in time and say, “That game where I tore my hamstring/groin/calf/, that was my last game.”
So I was thankful that I was in fact able to do it. I ruled out playing the game that’s on this weekend, the day before we fly out because I didn’t particularly like the prospect of 13.5 hours on a plane with my family and a brand new sporting injury.
So on the final day as I sat on the ‘old bastards bench’ getting changed for the day, the strips were pulled out and I waited until number 8 came along. Now my association with number 8 isn’t that steeped in history, it’s a fairly recent phenomenon that stems back to a bitterly cold day in the Adelaide Hills where I realised that the white number 8 shirt had long sleeves. And given the day in question was hovering somewhere around the single figure mark in terms of temperature, it seemed like a good thing to me.
From then on, regardless of whether we were in our blue or our white strip, I took number 8 so that whenever the temperature took a dip and we were in white, I got to wear the long sleeves.
So Saturday rolled around and our boys were wearing white. I was quite pleased that I’d get to close out my career with the long sleeved number 8 on my back.
As the shirts were passed out, I waited for number 8 to emerge from the kit bag. It didn’t happen. I stood up and became part of the sorting process, but after some 3 attempts at rummaging through, it became clear that the shirt that I dearly wanted to wear for my last game had gone missing.
Someone suggested that Paddy had it on and I walked out muttering something about the violent and intentional homicide that I was about to exact upon his body in order to retrieve the shirt. Fortunately, as I walked out and saw that he was indeed wearing number 8, he moved his arms and revealed short sleeves … it was the reserve strip.
Moments later it was announced that we were going to play in the blue strip and it all became irrelevant, but I donned the number 8 anyway.
The game was a success. We won, I scored our first goal during my last game and fittingly, with some 15 minutes to go, felt the slightest of twinges in my hamstring and asked to be removed from the pitch.
I was moved more than I thought I would have been when I came off the pitch to a standing ovation from a larger number of people than I would have expected.
It is even more moving when the people that you respect at the club have really nice things to say to you when you’re departing, because its always nice to think that you’ve managed to have a positive influence on a group of people that you respect.
And to top it all off, during drinks at the pub after the game, I was presented with a token of appreciation from the guys … one signed, long sleeved white number 8 strip, nicked from the club.
Classic.
Saturday was my last soccer game for the club that I’ve spent the last 12 years at and it surprised me just how emotional it was. My soccer career faces an uncertain future as we head to Canada as it will have to compete against a host of other priorities; priorities against which it probably won’t stack up against too well.
Four weeks ago I wasn’t sure when my last game would be, primarily because with the way that my body has been treating me this year in regards to injury, any game that I played could have been my last. But I dearly wanted to be able to walk onto the pitch and say, “This is it. This is the last one,” rather than have to point backwards in time and say, “That game where I tore my hamstring/groin/calf/
So I was thankful that I was in fact able to do it. I ruled out playing the game that’s on this weekend, the day before we fly out because I didn’t particularly like the prospect of 13.5 hours on a plane with my family and a brand new sporting injury.
So on the final day as I sat on the ‘old bastards bench’ getting changed for the day, the strips were pulled out and I waited until number 8 came along. Now my association with number 8 isn’t that steeped in history, it’s a fairly recent phenomenon that stems back to a bitterly cold day in the Adelaide Hills where I realised that the white number 8 shirt had long sleeves. And given the day in question was hovering somewhere around the single figure mark in terms of temperature, it seemed like a good thing to me.
From then on, regardless of whether we were in our blue or our white strip, I took number 8 so that whenever the temperature took a dip and we were in white, I got to wear the long sleeves.
So Saturday rolled around and our boys were wearing white. I was quite pleased that I’d get to close out my career with the long sleeved number 8 on my back.
As the shirts were passed out, I waited for number 8 to emerge from the kit bag. It didn’t happen. I stood up and became part of the sorting process, but after some 3 attempts at rummaging through, it became clear that the shirt that I dearly wanted to wear for my last game had gone missing.
Someone suggested that Paddy had it on and I walked out muttering something about the violent and intentional homicide that I was about to exact upon his body in order to retrieve the shirt. Fortunately, as I walked out and saw that he was indeed wearing number 8, he moved his arms and revealed short sleeves … it was the reserve strip.
Moments later it was announced that we were going to play in the blue strip and it all became irrelevant, but I donned the number 8 anyway.
The game was a success. We won, I scored our first goal during my last game and fittingly, with some 15 minutes to go, felt the slightest of twinges in my hamstring and asked to be removed from the pitch.
I was moved more than I thought I would have been when I came off the pitch to a standing ovation from a larger number of people than I would have expected.
It is even more moving when the people that you respect at the club have really nice things to say to you when you’re departing, because its always nice to think that you’ve managed to have a positive influence on a group of people that you respect.
And to top it all off, during drinks at the pub after the game, I was presented with a token of appreciation from the guys … one signed, long sleeved white number 8 strip, nicked from the club.
Classic.
Jun 25, 2007
Trip Hazard Ahead
Sometimes, when everything is going according to plan, you sit and wait for the small little thing that's going to be the one to trip you up. Of cousre, its when you sit and wait for it that it doesn't happen.
Its when you don't stop to think about the fact that its all been sailing somewhat smoothly that things tend to trip you up.
So it was that after an hour on the phone this morning, trying to speak to the Canadian to find out where my work permit application was at that I had a little stumble.
You know your inquiry hasn't started well when after stating your name and hearing them type it in, they say, “Can I just check the spelling of that.” Which of course is followed by the doom-saying words, “Your application doesn't seem to be in our system, do you mind holding whilst I take a look?”
I wasn't going to push it enough to say, “I've waited 50 minutes to get this far, of course I mind!”
Minutes later the girl comes back on the line to say, “I've found your application,” (Huge sigh of relief from yours truly) “but it usually takes 4-6 weeks to process, you really should have submitted this a lot earlier.”
So now I am sitting here waiting for a response from my company to the question, “If this permit doesn't come through in the next four days, what happens about our pre-booked travel, accommodation, car hire, holiday ...?”
And by golly I just love the wait ...
...6 sleeps to go ...
... I think.
Its when you don't stop to think about the fact that its all been sailing somewhat smoothly that things tend to trip you up.
So it was that after an hour on the phone this morning, trying to speak to the Canadian to find out where my work permit application was at that I had a little stumble.
You know your inquiry hasn't started well when after stating your name and hearing them type it in, they say, “Can I just check the spelling of that.” Which of course is followed by the doom-saying words, “Your application doesn't seem to be in our system, do you mind holding whilst I take a look?”
I wasn't going to push it enough to say, “I've waited 50 minutes to get this far, of course I mind!”
Minutes later the girl comes back on the line to say, “I've found your application,” (Huge sigh of relief from yours truly) “but it usually takes 4-6 weeks to process, you really should have submitted this a lot earlier.”
So now I am sitting here waiting for a response from my company to the question, “If this permit doesn't come through in the next four days, what happens about our pre-booked travel, accommodation, car hire, holiday ...?”
And by golly I just love the wait ...
...6 sleeps to go ...
... I think.
Jun 21, 2007
Scrunch or Fold
Is it a question that you’ve ever been asked? Is it something that you’ve ever even given thought to? Do you have any idea what I am on about?
I am referring to your practice with toilet paper. At that moment when you’re sitting upon the toilet and you come to clean things up, do you fold the paper neatly? Or do you savagely scrunch it?
It may appear that I’ve given too much thought to this, but I haven’t really, its just something that pops into my mind occasionally. Especially when they put ads on TV that reference it.
I am a folder. And I remember why I am a folder. Its because I was once upon a time when I was just a wee little lad, instructed to start folding the toilet paper because I was using too much.
Now, many years later, I have to support the practice of folding. Just from an environmental perspective. But what I find most amusing is asking other people (especially after a few drinks) if they scrunch or fold. It’s a great dinner party topic.
Many people answer quite firmly, having obviously thought about it or having been asked at some point in their own history. But the ones that are most amusing are the ones that sit there, giving it consideration for a few moments. Again, some of them then give you an answer. But the really delightful few come back to you with, “I don’t really know!” And their eyes gleam. And then later they go to the toilet. And when they return, their eyes are alight and the proclaim their dedication proudly.
Which is when you get to have the best bit, the argument about which way is the better to go. Should you fold and risk finger penetration? Should you fold and risk random paper assignment and toilet blockage?
Do you scrunch or fold?
p.s. ... 9 more sleeps (single figures! arrgh!)
I am referring to your practice with toilet paper. At that moment when you’re sitting upon the toilet and you come to clean things up, do you fold the paper neatly? Or do you savagely scrunch it?
It may appear that I’ve given too much thought to this, but I haven’t really, its just something that pops into my mind occasionally. Especially when they put ads on TV that reference it.
I am a folder. And I remember why I am a folder. Its because I was once upon a time when I was just a wee little lad, instructed to start folding the toilet paper because I was using too much.
Now, many years later, I have to support the practice of folding. Just from an environmental perspective. But what I find most amusing is asking other people (especially after a few drinks) if they scrunch or fold. It’s a great dinner party topic.
Many people answer quite firmly, having obviously thought about it or having been asked at some point in their own history. But the ones that are most amusing are the ones that sit there, giving it consideration for a few moments. Again, some of them then give you an answer. But the really delightful few come back to you with, “I don’t really know!” And their eyes gleam. And then later they go to the toilet. And when they return, their eyes are alight and the proclaim their dedication proudly.
Which is when you get to have the best bit, the argument about which way is the better to go. Should you fold and risk finger penetration? Should you fold and risk random paper assignment and toilet blockage?
Do you scrunch or fold?
p.s. ... 9 more sleeps (single figures! arrgh!)
Jun 18, 2007
Special
Yesterday was the 17th of June. That meant that the biggest hand on the clock moved inexorably forward another tick.
I am 37.
Given the fact that I’d been out drinking with some old work colleagues on Friday night and then played a game of soccer Saturday afternoon, I have to say that I felt every minute of 37 years old and probably had some minutes on loan from later in life as well!
We had nothing special planned for my birthday, Caroline had a hockey game in the afternoon and we were to catch up with family to celebrate in the evening (special in itself, but not special as in unusual).
And with an impending move to the other side of the world, the whole gift thing was made difficult for people, because its not like there’s too much one actually wants when already living out of a suitcase which will soon accompany you around the globe.
But the day was definitely special and the thing that really made it that way was the four smalls and what their Daddy’s birthday meant to them. I came home from soccer Saturday and stepped into a hive of messy chaos which I was quickly warned away from.
I was presented with the fruits of the labour on Sunday morning; a collection of home-made cards, greetings and love-filled wishes from my children. It was priceless. There really is nothing that you could ask for that could ever come close to the love that was delicately folded and moulded and imbued within each of the items that I was presented with.
It was in all ways, special.
I am 37.
Given the fact that I’d been out drinking with some old work colleagues on Friday night and then played a game of soccer Saturday afternoon, I have to say that I felt every minute of 37 years old and probably had some minutes on loan from later in life as well!
We had nothing special planned for my birthday, Caroline had a hockey game in the afternoon and we were to catch up with family to celebrate in the evening (special in itself, but not special as in unusual).
And with an impending move to the other side of the world, the whole gift thing was made difficult for people, because its not like there’s too much one actually wants when already living out of a suitcase which will soon accompany you around the globe.
But the day was definitely special and the thing that really made it that way was the four smalls and what their Daddy’s birthday meant to them. I came home from soccer Saturday and stepped into a hive of messy chaos which I was quickly warned away from.
I was presented with the fruits of the labour on Sunday morning; a collection of home-made cards, greetings and love-filled wishes from my children. It was priceless. There really is nothing that you could ask for that could ever come close to the love that was delicately folded and moulded and imbued within each of the items that I was presented with.
It was in all ways, special.
Jun 14, 2007
Now that's Super!
Something that came up whilst gaming recently ... a new magic item for fun and gain:
Underwear of Flying. Only functions if worn on the outside of all other clothing :D
... oh and 16 more sleeps ...
Underwear of Flying. Only functions if worn on the outside of all other clothing :D
... oh and 16 more sleeps ...
Jun 8, 2007
Life in a box
Over the last two days, our lives have been wrapped, packed, boxed, sealed and now consigned to a shipping container.
I’ve never been present when movers come in and pack you up ready for a move before. Its quite a surreal experience to come home and find your worldly possessions wrapped and packed. Things like chairs are clearly evident as chairs from their chair-shaped packaging.
The rocking horse was interesting too.
And today the truck and container arrives and off it all goes … to await us somewhere in Canada.
I found myself outside, looking at the stars the other night and considering the fact that in less than a month, the night sky would have all changed. It suddenly struck home somewhat just how big a move this is. Its odd how little moments like that hit you and make you stop and think about all that you’re leaving behind. I’m sure that there’s a heap of people that would look at what we have here and simply say, “you idiot. Why give it all up?”
But the adventure beckons and now seems to be rushing toward us like a brake-less locomotive.
23 more sleeps …
I’ve never been present when movers come in and pack you up ready for a move before. Its quite a surreal experience to come home and find your worldly possessions wrapped and packed. Things like chairs are clearly evident as chairs from their chair-shaped packaging.
The rocking horse was interesting too.
And today the truck and container arrives and off it all goes … to await us somewhere in Canada.
I found myself outside, looking at the stars the other night and considering the fact that in less than a month, the night sky would have all changed. It suddenly struck home somewhat just how big a move this is. Its odd how little moments like that hit you and make you stop and think about all that you’re leaving behind. I’m sure that there’s a heap of people that would look at what we have here and simply say, “you idiot. Why give it all up?”
But the adventure beckons and now seems to be rushing toward us like a brake-less locomotive.
23 more sleeps …
Jun 5, 2007
The Reality Sink
This morning I woke up to the harsh reality of movers coming in at 0830 to begin the process of boxing up our crap ready for transport to Canada. As I wandered about the house trying to get kids ready for school, I looked at the complete and utter disarray that was our life’s possessions and couldn’t help but think, “we’re not ready.”
The fact that I was packing my clothes in preparation for our departure from the house this evening (we’re moving to the in-laws) at approximately 11:43pm should probably have been a clue. Add to it the fact that when I woke up I had to unpack in my efforts in entirety and start again to reassess what was in my suitcase and you probably have a fair view of where my head was at.
Especially given that I’d had a conversation with my future boss in Canada in the morning and he’d said, “Come over for a couple of weeks and then come back and get your family.” It was tempting … get away from all the stress here and go see the world a little. But the reality was that it wouldn’t have been fair on anyone else and right now wouldn’t be a good time to go getting all selfish. So I’m not doing it.
Mind you, I don’t think that we’d ever be ready. Recovery from Spit and Swallow had gone well in most areas of the house, though the toy room had suffered from their being ‘more kids that anyone could have seen outside a child care centre’ as one friend noted on Saturday night.
The movers arrived on time to get a tour from Caroline, which must have just sent chills down their spine as they realised just what state we were in. I said to one of the guys, “you must hate people like us,” and he kind of laughed a bit like he was thinking, but unable to say, “Yes, you are correct. People like you in this inadequately prepared state do indeed shit me.”
I rushed out to take the kids to school and then came to work … 3 hours late. There’s something about knowing that your life is being packed up and not being there to see it that I find just a little nerve-racking.
It will be even weirder to go home at the end of the day to a home that isn’t mine, knowing that the whole adventure looms larger and larger every day.
25 more sleeps …
The fact that I was packing my clothes in preparation for our departure from the house this evening (we’re moving to the in-laws) at approximately 11:43pm should probably have been a clue. Add to it the fact that when I woke up I had to unpack in my efforts in entirety and start again to reassess what was in my suitcase and you probably have a fair view of where my head was at.
Especially given that I’d had a conversation with my future boss in Canada in the morning and he’d said, “Come over for a couple of weeks and then come back and get your family.” It was tempting … get away from all the stress here and go see the world a little. But the reality was that it wouldn’t have been fair on anyone else and right now wouldn’t be a good time to go getting all selfish. So I’m not doing it.
Mind you, I don’t think that we’d ever be ready. Recovery from Spit and Swallow had gone well in most areas of the house, though the toy room had suffered from their being ‘more kids that anyone could have seen outside a child care centre’ as one friend noted on Saturday night.
The movers arrived on time to get a tour from Caroline, which must have just sent chills down their spine as they realised just what state we were in. I said to one of the guys, “you must hate people like us,” and he kind of laughed a bit like he was thinking, but unable to say, “Yes, you are correct. People like you in this inadequately prepared state do indeed shit me.”
I rushed out to take the kids to school and then came to work … 3 hours late. There’s something about knowing that your life is being packed up and not being there to see it that I find just a little nerve-racking.
It will be even weirder to go home at the end of the day to a home that isn’t mine, knowing that the whole adventure looms larger and larger every day.
25 more sleeps …
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