Poor old Rummage has fallen into disrepair. There are metaphorical tumbleweeds in the form of junk spammers ago go . All it needs is a whistling wind, lone violin and John Wayne to appear menacingly on the left.
In contrast, the family of Rummage is peachy keen. The small children continue to be the highly excitable lunatics that they have always been. Give them a darkened room, a brown paper bag and some yoghurt and I guarantee you they will have created some kind of rocking installation whilst screeching with laughter. That's how they roll, those two.
The French is, as ever, exactly who he always was and who he will always be. As much as he might complain about being compared to sedimentary rock. And I know he will read this and complain. My answer is to look to the beauty in those fixed intransmutable layers of integrity and strength.
There are other good things too. The band continues to evolve with bass player and drummer. There are times when we are akin to a scene from Flight of the Conchords - the contentious issue of a name for example. I'm thinking of listing them all here and asking for a vote. I saw Jello Biafra of Dead Kennedys fame do a spoken word piece on band names in the 90's. He had nothing on us. We are currently known as Honey West and the Dukes of Haggard but that is subject to change without notice.
I turned 40 in August and am pleased to discover that I didn't wake up with a burning desire to book myself in for some bizarre facial augmentation. I did buy a pair of hot pants and I DO wear them. And if that passes for a mid-life crisis, I am good with it.
Xx

There's only so much time I can handle a photo of myself sulking in a fedora at the top of this page. So enough already.

Actually, it could well have stayed there for eternity if some bright spark from a Channel 10 production company hadn't suggested that I appear on some god forsaken insightful reality show to discuss infidelity. It took me all of a heartbeat to decide that I would prefer to stab myself in the eye repeatedly with a pointy stick before doing that. Also not so keen on the placement of ads for marriage counselling here at chez rummage. Lord knows I am most certainly no expert.

The one thing I am rock solid on is a very large feeling of gratitude to the people who responded to that last post without prejudice or judgement. Thank you for your kindness and giving me the benefit of the doubt. I want to pass on thanks from the French as well - he read through each comment and I know it helped him too. 

I want you to know that we are good here at the house of rummage, my little family and I. Life is a curious and colourful beastie and I never seem to be able to take the easy road in anything, the french says that's why he married me, I can't quite believe that he hasn't changed his mind. But he hasn't and I am finally beginning to understand the meaning of unconditional love when I look in those gentle brown eyes.

The knowledge that I am surrounded by people with grace and big hearts is an unexpected kindness that I treasure. I have a friend in Adelaide who I've never met but have known now for years and her emails during this time I have read and reread as a kind of sustenance. I don't know why I woke up a month ago and had to write about what happened and I don't want to dwell on this but releasing it out into the ether has helped me in a profound way. There is a Ruth Park novel titled Dear Hearts and Gentle People and that's how I often think of the people who read this blog. You've helped me through a dark time and for that I am grateful.

Enough now.

This is a post that I have felt the need to write for a long time. You may like me less by the time you get to the end of it. So be it. I can't avoid writing it and there might be someone out there for whom it may even be of use.

When I was in my twenties I saw things as absolutes. Black or white with no room for shades of grey. And I judged people accordingly. People I met were either fabulous or hideous, there was no space in between. The self-appointed queen of judgementalism, me. There were a whole lot of things that I held in contempt - things like marriage (during the Trotsky period), becoming a wage-slave and infidelity.

I got over the marriage aversion pretty quickly when there was no other alternative but for the French and I to go through the ritual. And then I shocked the hell out of my socialist pricinples by sobbing through the ceremony. An irony that was not lost on most of the people at the service. Becoming a wage slave came with the territory, you know the deal, the sudden acquisition of whitegoods, the house and car mortgage. One moment you're in torn jeans with multiple body piercings the next you are in a tailored pantsuit with a tasteful string of pearls. What the fuck happened?

Infidelity. Not cool in my book. You meet someone, you realise they are your partner for life. You settle down together, maybe bust out a few kids - FIN - No messing about. Not that the odd bit of flirtation is out of the question. I could flirt for Australia if it became an Olympic sport, I like men, can't help it. But no funny business. 

So what do you do when someone comes into your life who turns you inside out and upside down? This happened to me last year, I met someone and fell completely and uncategorically in love with them. There were no corners or handles to hold onto. I was in that space of which the early cartographers would write 'beyond this place there be dragons'. 

I am not going to try and defend my conduct in this. He was and is a married man. I knew this and yet it didn't stop me. I actively sought a relationship with someone I had no right to be with, I knew that I was betraying not only his partner but my own. Still this didn't deter me. I would have done almost anything for this man if he had asked. None of this sat lightly on my shoulders, I lost my appetite, I lost weight, I couldn't sleep. I cried my body weight in tears of blood.

The one thing I am proud of is that I told Olive at the outset. He knew and amazingly he watched and waited. His conduct was amazing - he didn't judge me, he didn't ban me from seeing this other man. He simply bore witness and asked me not to leave. This might sound weird but remember, he is French and they have a very different take on infidelity to we Anglo-Saxons. In hindsight it was probably the smartest thing he could do. If he had tried to ban me from seeing this man chances are I would have done exactly the opposite. 

As it was the man that I fell in love with did not feel the same as me after some time. It ended before it had really begun. And I have been floundering ever since. It would be a lie to say I no longer feel the same way, if I could make it go away I would. My hope is that with time this will recede for me.

Do I regret that this ever happened? No, I don't. I know a lot more about myself even if itsn't the kind of things I would have liked to know in my twenties. I am no angel. But fuck it, I'm trying. I struggle with my demons and try to chart a choppy path towards integrity. I have a helluva lot more empathy for people in this situation now and I mean ALL the players.

This will also sound bloody awful but I am still grateful to have a deep capacity for love. When I fall for people I do it deeply and irrevocably, friend or lover. I know I will always love this man, I don't have any anger or resentment towards him that he doesn't share how I feel, it is what it is. My gratitude and love for Olive and the way he is trying to steer us through this is without words.

This post is not to ask for your forgiveness or for you to grant me some kind of immunity from blame. I write it because I need to and because no one ever really talks about this kind of stuff. We sweep it under the carpet and pretend it's not there. But it is there and for better or for worse it helps to talk about it. 

I was burrowed so deep in a tangle of patchwork blankets and bizarre early morning dreams that I missed the alarm. Then it took me a good ten mins to psyche myself up to take my clothes off and then another ten to throw myself out of the boiling hot shower to kit up. Today I seem to be wearing three layers of clothing on my legs and four on my chest. Le sigh.

Each autumn I congratulate myself that I am now a true Canberran and at the first frost I know it ain't so. As I write I am watching the sunlight refracting off the patches of silver on the grass - a kaleidoscope of colour.
Cold but beautiful.

Mother's Day is not the happiest day for everyone out there. Your mother might do you your head in, she may not be with you anymore, maybe you're trying for kids without success.

It can be tricky. So I don't want you to think I am thrusting my handmade A4 paper briefcase with pipe cleaner handles in your face. Just want to say I hope you have a good day whatever your circumstances are and if you are a mum I hope you got a cup of tea in bed. You totally deserve it.
All my love. Xx

Well little Jett's been written off and today has been an official Day of Mourning except for when I bought a super pair of boots, I am so shallow. We're going to look at a zippy little car tomorrow that involves stripes and 6 speeds so the grieving period was brief but meaningful.
There has been much secret mothers day activity in the house that had me locked in the bedroom for some time. I suspect there has been a raid on my fabric stash so it will be something that I have to wear (oh god).
In other news I am obsessed with that show 'Friday Night Lights' thanks to that Kootoyoo hipster - cant link to her on this software but you already know who she is so hop on over. Xx

Had a car crash today. Me with my wee girlies in the back. Feeling wobbley now but thankful that no one was hurt. It was a young guy driving like a bat out of hell, colliding with the passenger side. I've never been a driver in an accident before and hope I never am again - it all happened so incredibly quickly but I remember fighting to keep the car on the road and the heart-stopping scream from my smallest in the back. When the car came to a standstill I got them out and they were FINE. Not a scratch not a bruise and I could have kissed the ground we stood on with relief - I would have embraced that young driver like a long-lost relative knowing that they were safe. It's moments like these that you know you would slice open one of your own major arteries if it would mean you could protect children. Total weirdness, there I was walking away from a car accident like I had won a million bucks.

And everyone was awesome, I know in the past I have written about how I have learnt to rely on the kindness of strangers. This occasion was no different. People came out of nowhere to help. A lovely guy stayed with me to help with the girls, someone else came over offering food and drinks. Several people stayed to be witnesses. The police were fab and the poor young guy who ran into us was totally shaken up but lovely as well. Just when you might feel like you're losing your faith in humanity people turn around and show you how incredibly decent and kind they can be. Love that. Love you too lovely reader.

It's all too herbal now so must go and pass out with a glass of wine on the lounge. xxx

When we camp it's usually out in a windy paddock somewhere with facilities that include a thunderbox pit toilet and a rusty tap. I quite like the dodgeyness of it all, the space, the free-ranging small child movement. So it was with trepidation that we booked a week at Clarkes Beach in Byron Bay.

To give you some background things were a bit pear-shaped from the start, we drove through the night about 11-12 hours from Canberra. I distinguished myself by shifting from 5th to 2nd gear and vice versa when the spirit moved me and I sang Bruce Springsteen loudly whilst driving to keep myself awake - this drove the French mental and tempers were a tad frayed as we traversed the Pacific Highway. All this fell away though when we hit Coffs Harbour, I was born there and the sights and smells - those crazy neon hibiscus flowers, the not-so-big Big Banana made me feel like I was coming home. Anyway, I digress, this is a very rough guide to Byron from Canberra and back.

Bluebottles - Woolgoolga

Wooli - if you are driving like bats out of hell through the night & small children have just woken up and hooked into their 'arewethereyets', stop at Woolgoolga. There's a wee cafe called Bluebottles (cnr Beach and Wharf Sts) near the caravan park that doesn't have much going for it in the looks department but it serves lovely big breakfasts and the people are gold. You know how most people in a caf ask you how you are going but don't give a shit? These people genuinely want to know. If you need to take marauding children to the bathroom for seventeen thousand hours, the lady in the cafe will nod sympathetically and wait till you get back to place the shortest of short blacks in front of you. I could have kissed her.   

Up Next - when we stopped fighting and hung out in Bangalow with the Herbals.

In Country Sleep

I

Never and never, my girl riding far and near
In the land of the hearthstone tales, and spelled asleep,
Fear or believe that the wolf in the sheepwhite hood
Loping and bleating roughly and blithely shall leap,
My dear, my dear,
Out of a lair in the flocked leaves in the dew dipped year
To eat your heart in the house in the rosy wood

Dylan Thomas

We spent some quality time in the emergency department waiting room last night at Calvary Hospital in Canberra. Five and a half hours to be exact and I'm pretty fucking cranky about it.

My five year old had the classic childhood accident, slipping and falling on her chin, splitting it to the bone. I was out getting some groceries at the time and came back to Apocalypse Now. The French (bless him) has a different approach to me in these situations and was administering first aid in shouty, theatrical gesticulations guaranteed to make any small person think she is dying. Before I could get her out the door I had to guarantee that we would see the resident plastic surgeon# (wtf?) and report back every ten minutes on progress. By the time this little girl-child was in the car she was shaking with shock and had deerintheheadlight eyes, certain of imminent death. So all the way to the hospital I sang every nursery rhyme that came to my head, one hand on the wheel, the other hand hold a wad of bandage to her chin.

When we arrived at emergency, the staff were everything that you would expect of them. Professional, highly trained, calm, assertive but also from the number of people in the waiting room, outrageously understaffed. We chose a strategic seat close to the front desk, not knowing that this would be our home for the next five and half hours. We read books and played eye spy and had drugs adminstered to numb the pain until E fell asleep on my lap. I spent the next three hours motionless watching the fascinating human condition as it presented itself in that small hot waiting room and slowly but surely became very bloody pissed off. NOT with the staff, they were to a man (and woman) wonderful. It was the fucked up nature of the system that allows very small children and elderly people to sit  in pain for hours and hours waiting to be attended to that incensed me.  For myself I can understand the wait, I've lived in a number of countries where waiting is like a national pastime. Healthy young adults can get in line, I'm good with that. Very young children and elderly people have the right and I would say our society has the moral obligation to ensure that their needs are attended to promptly and effectively.

As it stands E's needs were met if not promptly, certainly effectively by a young registrar who was profuse in his apologies. She will have the classic rites of passage chin scar to remember the occasion. My question now is when will we as a society get our collective shit together and effectively fund our public health system? Afterall what can be more important than meeting the needs of some of the most vulnerable members of our community?

# Sidenote: The French's demand re a plastic surgeon sounded ludicrous to me at the time but I realise that it demostrates a clear difference in the investment in health services between Australia and France. In most public hospitals in France children are triaged and attended to very quickly and it would not be considered laughable to expect a plastic surgeon to be on hand to suture a split chin.