Let them eat cake. After beating it into submission with a rolling pin.

It has been a long time since I have done any "real" art.

The sort that you do with pencils and paper or paints.
I reckon it was 1987 the last time I did anything significant like this drawing.

It is always something that I am going to get back to when I have the time.

My creative outlet these days comes in the form of sewing, knitting

and making birthday cakes.

With the exception of the occasional purchased ice-cream cake,

each year I wear like a badge of honour 

the hours that I spend making

then decorating a themed birthday cake for each child.

This year we had a request for Pokemon

(note- well worth doing the homework to find the simplest Pokemon character in existence...)

and my daughter wanted a Dolly Varden cake

(not Dolly Parton cake, as one friend thought.

Barbie's boobies are a tad more discrete than that version)

I was secretely chuffed as I had one of these as a girl.

and you would understand that, in an accumulated 17 boy requested birthday cakes,

my sons had never asked for a pretty doll stuck in a cake.

(note- well worth investing in a doll that has legs which are disarticulatable

[possibly not a real word, that]

It is not worth the time and effort trying to reason with a 6 year old fairy princess

as to why Barbie's legs had to get sawn off
and no, no glue stick in the world would reattach them)

I am not a girly girl

but I did love the idea of re-creating a cake that my mum made for me

nearly 40 years ago.

While I take a pride in the results I achieve,

I admit that, as the year passes

and as the years pass,

I mark the passing of each set of birthdays with a celebratory booyah

as I get a break before the next round starts.

So when the last cake request for the year involved some creature that was 

pink and round and Japanese and apparently needed to be made from ice-cream,

it seemed timely that I came across a recipe for a pinata cake.

It wasn't a hard sell.

"Hey, lovey.

Wouldn't you prefer me to make you a giant choclate crackle filled with goodies

that you get to whack with a rolling pin then pig out with your mates?"

It was fun to make

and quite fast too, compared to the half day I usually spend decorating the cake.

The end was brutal and it was ugly.

But it was all over very quickly. 

I have to be honest and confess that a cake was definitely harmed in the making

of this 10 year old's birthday.

The siblings have requested their own pinata cakes for their birthdays next year

so I might get to spend a bit less time cake decorating

and maybe pick up a pencil again.

Sex Ed. Or why 249 million sperm have to die.

(www.healthewomb.co.uk)

My mother is not a great communicator,

especially when it comes to emotional issues.

I remember calling her from University, distressed that a friend had died,

and her response was "Well, that's not very good, is it?"

When I had reached puberty, she handed me a book.

That was how I learnt about menstruation and other rather significant changes 

that were happening to my body.

In grade 9, if our parents had ticked the appropriate box

and signed the appropriate form,

we were herded off,

girls to Mrs Smith in this room,

boys to Mr Brown in that room,

where Mrs Smith and Mr Brown somewhat uncomfortably

enlightened us on the nitty gritty of the birds and the bees

and how not to have baby birds.

Grade 9.

I can't imagine most kids these days getting to grade 9

without teaching their parents a thing or two about the topic.

Last week, I took my 3 off to the "Where did I come from?" session at school.

I nearly bailed when, in the car ride there, my 9 year old son was explaining to his little sister

that you can't have babies unless you kiss someone or get really close to them

and you have to be married.

Did I really want to ruin that innocence with one graphic sentence

in the school hall?

The seminar had a nice turn out of 5 to 9 year olds

and their parents

and the lady in charge was obviously well practiced

in saying words like "penis" and "sex" to a hall of kids
without showing any evidence of weakness to the pack.

There was a universal "ewwwwww" (from the kids)

when it was explained that the actual way that those sperm cells from daddy 

get to the egg in mummy

is by daddy putting his penis into mummy's vagina.

(My, my. What a difference 10 years will make to that reaction)

Friends had taken their children to a similar seminar

and this got explained as a"special hug" between mummy and daddy

but you know what?

The little kids accepted this new fact about life and went with the flow.

There was a universal titter (from the adults)

when kids were yelling out their household's pet names for female pink bits

and some little one yelled out "trapdoor".

At the end of the evening,

the message that hit home to me was that the kids

took the facts on board, 

processed them and moved on.

We as adults can choose to be embarrassed or vague or deflective

when we get asked those uncomfortable questions that are going to come.

I don't want to hand my kids a book and tell them to read it.

I know that a book should at least be giving the correct information

and I might read that book with them

but I need to be there

to make sure that they are coping OK.

It is important stuff and, heck knows, at times it will be emotional stuff,

especially when they reach the next seminar,

"What is happening to me?"

There are a number of disturbing things about the "Gangnam Style" song

(OK, yes, it is catchy)

but the one that is the top of my list

is seeing 5 and 6 year old children

doing the dance and singing "se-xy la-dy".

We have explained to our kids that sexy is not an appropriate word for them to use 

at their age.

After this talk, they do now have a little understanding about the can of worms

that words like "sex" and "sexy" are opening.

My oldest was a tad non-plussed about the fact

that both sperm and wee came out of the same place in a willy

but was super excited that sperm looked like tadpoles.

My youngest loved the cute pictures of the babies
and took in the information that made sense to her.

Only my 8 year old,

my beloved, sensitive boy,

seemed scarred by the whole evening.

He had already decided that he didn't want to be a woman
because he didn't want to go through the birthing process.

But he was devastated to learn that only 1 of the 250 million sperm

racing for that egg would make it 

and that the other 249 million plus sperm would curl up their toes.

Oh, boy.

I think that puberty and hormones with him is going to be a roller-coaster ride.

House keeping

 I need to dust off my blog a bit 

and give it a spring clean.

In the process, I should also let you know

that, with the imminent demise of google reader,

you can start following me over at Bloglovin'...

Just click on that button over there,

yes, up there in the top left corner;

yes, that's the one.

Or click here:

http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/5290819/little-boozle

Wally is so excited, he can't get over there fast enough.
...
Well, he'll be there when he wakes up, for sure.

I really hope that blogging is like riding a bicycle.

I've been more or less missing in (real life's) action
for the past 6 months.

I reckon that I have thought about blogging daily.
I have written long and- I swear- hysterically entertaining or thought provoking posts in my head
as I got on with life.

...things like buying Australian products,

the indignation that John Barrowman didn't get a call up
 for the Dr Who 50th Anniversary special,
 sex ed.,
palm oil,
why some blood isn't thicker than water,
why my child waits until I leave the state to need the emergency room,
 human nature at its very, very best and its very, very worst...

But things just happened.

Things like broken bones
(yes, that would be plural...bones*)
 5 year old Queen Bees,
an overseas visitor,
an education crisis which almost caused me to consider home schooling
(and if you know me, you know that "home schooling" is not a phrase that is compatible
with my temperament.
There is a reason that I became a vet and not a teacher)
four birthdays,
a fiftieth wedding anniversary,
family stress,
seemingly never-ending, non-resolvable business stress,

a trip to Fiji,
a trip to Kangaroo Island
 and the Barossa Valley,

 my annual interstate sewing weekend,
and then a general and ongoing apathy when it came to just sitting down and writing a post.

How can I want to do something so badly
but just can't be bothered?



I have managed to sew and knit
to let off creative steam.

So really it has just been...life.



I am hopeful that the next six months will be a little less hectic
with no broken bones
and a lot less apathy
and that I will start blogging again.
Surely it is just like riding a bicycle.

(*My toe, which lost the fight with a door frame, has healed now
but my son's arm, which lost the bout with his bed frame,
is still healing.
I think falling over in your bedroom and managing to fracture your arm
in a nasty manner is somewhat freaky
and yet somewhat expected from a kid.
Luckily their healing capacity is also somewhat freaky
in a fabulous way)

Jesus Christ. You superstar.

The last (and only) time I saw a production of Jesus Christ Superstar was in 1992.

The cast covered a good whack of the Who's Who of Australian music at that time.

...John Farnham, Kate Ceberano, Jon Stevens, Angry Anderson...

I was 23 at the time and I was a Uni student.

And, to be honest, I don't remember what I felt about it

(either due to the passage of time

or the fact that there are great big blocks of time at University

that I don't remember)

but I do know that I didn't feel what I felt when I saw the 2013 version last week.

I hadn't listened to the soundtrack for years

and JCSS has not been on my list of favourite musicals.

But I am a Tim Minchin fan

and yes, OK, I did want to see what Andrew O'Keefe was going to do.

If I had to own up to having a favourite Spice Girl,

it would be Mel C.
(The one who could actually sing)

Plus I was interested to see if Ben Forster lived up to the hype around his portrayal of Jesus.

(www.cooltry.com.au)

And wow.

Wow. Wow. Wow. Wow. Wow.Wow. Wow.

By the time Jesus was getting his hot forehead anointed with myrrh by Mary Magdalene,

the production of Wicked that I saw last year has dropped from first place to runner-up

in my list of best. ever. musical productions.

It is set in modern times

(think reality shows, text voting, graffiti and hashtags for Jesus and his supporters,

CCTV cameras and mobile phones)

and is very clever.

It reminded me of Baz Luhrmann's interpretation of  Romeo and Juliet.

(www.perthnow.com.au)

We "only" had Forster's understudy, Rory Taylor,

who was "only" just brilliant.

Tim Minchin may not be the world's best singer 

but his voice was fantastic in this role

and the passion and emotion of Judas was breath-taking.

(Added to that he can carry off heavy eye makeup like no other man I know)

(And for anyone who is interested,

Andrew O'Keefe's role involved a single song

and a crushed velvet red suit.

Brilliant.)

(And for anyone who is interested,
Jon Stevens is ageing well. Very, very well)

I would go and see it again in a heartbeat.

And again.

And again.

(www.smh.com.au)

I haven't stopped playing the soundtrack since I saw it.

To think that Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd-Webber wrote this 

when they were under 25...the mind boggles.

I am not quite sure why I didn't appreciate how bloody good it was before.

Maybe a long-haired John Farnham just didn't engage me.

In the past week, I have thought more about the story of Jesus and Judas

than I have since I completed my First Holy Communion in my teens.

Even though the ending is...well, let's say somewhat predictable,

whether you have religious beliefs or not,

the story of frailty and betrayal and the desperation

of the characters will move you.

So do you like your vulva?

(recision.wordpress.com)

I don't know about you but I find that one thing suddenly might start
cropping up all over the place in my life.

Last year, for example, it was zombies.

Telly shows, movie, books, dinner conversations, kids' video games...

It seemed that every time I turned around,

there was the walking dead.

This year, for a complete change of pace,

it is labiaplasty.

Yes, you heard right.

Labiaplasty.

L a b i a p l a s t y .

Besides being one of those words that looks more weird the more time you write it,
it is a word sure to make a girl shudder and cross her legs in the same protective way

that blokes do if you mention a body blow to their goollies.

A friend recently chose to have the elective procedure done

while under anaesthetic for another necessary surgery.

Then, a few weeks back,

Mr Boozle and I watched a British documentary called "The Perfect Vagina".

(Yes, technically it should have been called The Perfect Vulva)

Now, even after I had started writing this post,
an article has arrived in my in-box.

Let me state right from the outset quite clearly that this is a procedure 

most definitely not on my bucket list.

In fact, it is probably on the Top Ten Things that I Don't Want to Do before I die list.
Somewhere between jumping out of a plane and eating a bowl of pea soup.

I am not willing to consider anyone approaching my va-jay-jay with hot wax on a blunt stick,

let alone a sharp scalpel blade.

Apparently it is a procedure that is becomingly increasingly common.
In Australia the surgery may covered by Medicare
and has been performed on girls as young as 14.
(and remember that this would require parental consent)

I do understand that some women have abnormal labias.
Abnormal to the point of them wanting surgery
and believing that this will improve their quality of life.

But this is a surgery that can result in complications
such as infection, decreased sensation and scarring.

What I don't get is a young girl thinking that she needs surgery down there.
What is that about?
Who are girls comparing themselves to?
(Or who are their partners comparing them to?)
Naked women on the internet?
Porn?
Women in the porn industry would have more "attractive" vulvas
in the same way that their breasts are going to, no doubt, have to meet a certain "porn standard"
Obviously they are not going to represent the normal population of women's bodies.

As a heterosexual woman who is not  involved in a profession that exposes me to women's genitals,
I can say that I don't have a lot of experience with women's vulvas.
The documentary surprised both Mr Boozle and myself
with the range of "normal".
There is a huge amount of variation out there.

And as far as wanting your vulva to be "perfect"...
I don't even really know what that entails.

While I am preparing myself for talks with my daughter
about peer pressure, smoking, birth control, hairy legs
and maybe tattoos,
I can't say that the idea of needing to discuss her self-esteem in the same conversation
as her genitals ever occurred to me.

Yes, the human body is beautiful and should be loved.
But I've got to be honest.

I don't think any pink bits are pretty.
I am not going to call a penis handsome
and I don't think a vulva is what you'd call classically beautiful either.
But it doesn't mean that there is anything wrong with them.

But seriously, our society is going off the rails
if our young girls are wanting artificial boobs and shaved off labias in order to feel good about themselves.

And even worse, if parents are agreeing with it.

Out of the mouths of (growing-up-oh-so-quickly) babes

(www.wordsfromwillow.blogspot.com)

My oldest child is nearly 10.

A really awkward age when he (mostly) knows how to throw an insult out there
but often doesn't know how bad it is
or even what it means.

In the past 2 days alone,
thanks to assorted friends and books,
he has managed to offend practicing Christians ("for the love of Jesus Christ"),
elderly people (his grandparents are"fossils")
and pretty much anyone in between.

His best to date, however,
was to tell his little brother that he had a big dick.

A teasing fail firstly because his younger brother didn't even know what the word "dick" meant.

And secondly...well, for obvious reasons.

It proved very difficult during the parent-child talk about not using adult words
to restrain myself from explaining why this wasn't actually an insult
and why, one day, he might be praying desperately that someone might say it to him.

Breathing on my own.

When I took the kids back to my folk's place in the new year,

my parents were very keen to have the children visit by themselves.

Yes, all three, easily bored, demanding and hyperactive children visit by themselves.

There was a suggestion of me flying over, leaving them for a week and flying back home 

but I recognise the limitations of both the grandparents and the grandchildren

and felt that it was in the best interests of healthy relationships for all concerned

if I wasn't that far away and if I wasn't gone that long.

So I took myself off to Hobart for two days.

Two days.

All to myself.

No kids.

No commitments.

Not even a hubby to please.

And oh, it was soooooo good.

Being a mother,

I feel a certain obligation to announce that I miss my children.
Do you know what I mean?

But in the short term it really is a general absence makes the heart  grow fonder kind of thing.

Apart from being displaced at knowing that I couldn't actually get back to them,

did I spend two days wondering what they were doing at any given moment,

keen to get back to them

or wishing that I was there to tuck them in?

In all honesty, I didn't.

I have to be honest and admit that, 

...while I love my kids more than anything on this earth,

while I will defend and protect my children ferociously ,

while I would die to save them,
the whole mother's pledge of honour...

 I sort of thrive when I am apart from them.

I spent 2 completely self-absorbed days.

I shopped.

I wandered.

I sat in cafes and knitted and watched people.

I sat in my undies in the heat in my hotel room

sitting up late watching movies and drinking iced coffee for dinner.

I wrote blogs posts in my head and started sketching.

I read.

My world, standing on busy city streets, was suddenly a quieter place

without demands of life and family

and it cleared my head.

I swear that I could almost feel my creativitiy returning.

Something else happened that I wasn't expecting.
I felt really nostalgic about my childhood.

I spent of lot of time in Hobart as a young child

as my working parents sent my brother and I off to nan and pop's for the holidays.

My nan is gone now,

 my pop is drifting away

and it is dozens of years and two houses ago since they lived in this city.

But I remember how much I loved it then

and still love it.

It has history. 

Beauty. 

And, for me, many memories.

We used to ride the ferries when they were working boats

but now the couple left are taken out as tourist attractions

We'd stroll around Salamanca Market,

which is still big...in size, quality and personality.

We used to wander around the docks after the Sydney to Hobart yachts arrived,

though back then it took a lot longer for the boats to get to the finish line.

These are the strong memories,
so many others faded and gone
now that I can no longer have a conversation with my nan and pop
and have them remind me of some experience we shared that I have forgotten.

All memories of times not shared with my mum or dad
which seems fitting in the context of this post.

I guess I have a guilt thing happening

that I can actually be away from my offspring and be doing a happy dance.

I feel like it is not what I am meant to feel.
I imagine it is similar to what some women feel when, for whatever reason,
they had a C section or bottle-fed their baby.

But my kids are with me in my heart and mind

and I wouldn't have it any other way.

It would seem that I am just a person who needs to breath on my own for a while.

Talk the talk.

(www.articulate.com)

People who know me well will tell you that you can't shut me up

or get a word in edgeways, upside down or inside out once I start talking.

This is true and yet as a rule I find it very hard to make ongoing, polite conversation with people that I don't know in social situations

(in part, I admit, because I just can't be pfaffed)

I am blessed to be a stay-at-home mum

but in those 6 or so hours while the 3 kids are at school,

I thrive on being a loner.

I love pottering by myself

and enjoy my own company probably more than is good for me.

I get to be in my own space,

(usually a bra-free and fluffy-slippered place)

accompanied by a never ending cup of coffee 

and the ipod cranked up to play everything from show tunes to synthesizer music from the 1980s.

But if I do have to (God forbid) don a bra and actually leave the house, 

watch out anyone who makes eye contact and hesitates in their stride.

It is like an uncontrolled craving for human interaction takes over me once I enter the real, functioning world.

It doesn't matter which complete stranger ends up being the deer to my headlights.

I am off and chatting before they have a chance to retreat.

Admittedly, some individuals do rise to the challenge of  a two-sided conversation.

In others, however, I can see the physical change of eyes glazing over,

as the smiles and nods become an automatic reflex

and their brains daydream them to happier places.

I have had a lengthy discussion about boob jobs with a complete stranger behind the counter

at the local newsagent.

I have discussed the pros and cons of my post-natural-childbirth toiletting habits with a lady 

at the local chemist.

(Luckily it was at the chemist.

The person serving at the bakery might not have been so soothing and sympathetic)

I have discussed the likelyhood of vomiting on my children

(yes, vomiting on my children) with other parents

in a waiting room.

Don't get me wrong.

It isn't all bodily fluids and ablutions.

I have chin-wagged with various victi.....er, individuals about global warming, 

ever increasing supermarket monopolies,

Pokemon versus Skylanders,

men's sex drives, online shopping, 

the crap printed in the gossip magazines,

the tastelessness of tomatoes...

I could go on.

(They might say that I do go on)

Sated, I come home,

get back into my comfy slippers,

at peace knowing that I can still hold a conversation with other real human-being-adult-thingies,

and resume playing "Defying Gravity" at high volume.

But what has really struck me this past year

is that my kids are growing up

and with that, the conversations are growing up too.

No more discussing if Bob the Builder's Lofty the crane is a boy crane or a girl crane.

No more talking about "tana" toast and "nana" bread.

We have finished the chats about why one should wee in the toilet rather than in one's undies.

While a small part of me is mourning the loss of my  sweet babes,

a big part of me is running around with my shirt over my head 

shouting booyah at the top of my voice.

In the past month, we have discussed racism and acceptance, Christianity and faith,

circumcision, home-branded products and supposed "Australian made",

where babies come from (as in physically- where they actually come out from)

umbilical cords and belly buttons,

the implications of losing your belief in the tooth fairy when you have a young sister

who hasn't even lost a tooth yet.

Even Hitler, albeit a very sanitised version, got a look in.

I get to talk lots.

And as a bonus, it is really interesting stuff.

But it is really interesting stuff laden with responsibility as a parent.

This is our chance to teach our kids the real facts 

and to shape that moral compass that will make them better human-being-adult-thingies.

And I can do it all from the bra-free, slippered-feet comfort of my own home.

I can get my fix without having to bail up neighbours and strangers 

in the supermarket aisle or in checkout queue.

Now I am just going to enjoy these conversations until I need to start talking to my youngest,

my daughter, about boys and "women's things" in general.

That is, I hope, more than few year's away yet.

Before then, my boys will want to talk about (or more likely not want to talk about) girls and "men's things"

but that is sooooooo Mr Boozle's job.

I'll be changing out of my slippers, putting my bra on and heading out the door and leaving them to it.

Peripheral.

Growing up in Tasmania meant two things.

(Well, three...if you include the ever-lasting bitterness at being left off the map

by our own countryfolk at the 1982 Commonwealth Games in Brisbane)

It meant that you were very familiar with two-headed, incest jokes

and it meant that you were cold for a lot of the year.

Most people associate Tassie with being cold and wet.

It is generally a fair call. 

You can be there in summer and need jumpers and tracky daks

in the middle of your beach holiday.

I always prefer to go there for winter as you only need to pack for one season.

Mr Boozle and I sniggered 5 years ago when we were visiting the rellies and the radio announced that it was going to be "a scorcher" at 30 degrees.

But things are changing.

Yes, the weather is still unpredictable

and yes, it is still bloody freezing down there in winter

but it is a common misconception that it is a lush, wet state

and that it is always cool.

Early in the new year, I took the kids home to my folks' place

just outside of Coles Bay on the east coast of Tassie.

Driving from the airport to the coast,

you could see how dry it was.

Not yellow. Just brown.

Vibrant greens of the winery vineyards dotted the thirsty landscape.

After a couple of days,

I headed south to Hobart for a couple of child-free days.

It just so happened that it was the hottest day on record for Hobart

and it was the day that the major fires broke out.

(It also just so happened that I had no air conditioning in the car

and my ipod informed me that it was turning itself off as a survival measure)

In Hobart, it was hot.

And it was windy.

A strong, dry wind that made it hard to stand upright.

The sun was glowing that brilliant, stunning orange

that you know is a masquerade for the smoky atmosphere

which heralds fire somewhere not too far away.

Then it got surreal.

Turning on the news, I found out that the road leading down the peninsula to Coles Bay

was closed.

The Bicheno fire was sweeping south west and heading towards the northern end of the road.

My children were not in any danger but it was unsettling to know that I couldn't

physically get to them.

The winds would have to change direction and it would take some time to reach my parents' house

and they had good access to wide beaches and shallow water if need be.

I got messages from mainland friends who knew that we were going to Coles Bay

and had heard that the road was closed
and worried whether everything was OK.

City life carried on but the topics of conversation over coffee and at the markets had altered 

beyond discussing how hot it was to how awful the fires were.
Tourists were redirected towards areas not closed down.

I heard one man on the phone informing his son that their beach shack had gone up in flames.

When I headed back up the coast on Sunday, 

I was driving not knowing how long I would be waiting in a pull-over till the road into Coles Bay opened.

The drive was eerie.

As I drove further out of Hobart, the smoke got thicker

and we were passed by local fire trucks.

 A fire had broken out not far from the road further north

so there was new smoke to add to that drifting up from the huge southern fires.

Traffic was thin and I can't tell you how unnerving it is to drive into a gully road,

surrounded by a smokey haze,

with one half of your brain telling you that the road is open and that it is all good

while the other half is wondering where other cars are

and knowing that there was no way out until you reached the end of the gully.

Even when I finally hit the coast, the pervading smell was of smoke.

I had to drive a lot further up the coast before I could trade that smoky smell

for the refreshing smell of ocean salt.

It was short lived.

The road that I had driven along less than a week before was now a dry yellow landscape

with a dingy brown-grey haze,

broken only by the flashes of brilliant green of occasionally vines.

I didn't see any traffic moving in my direction.

A large convoy of cars passed me at one point

and I honestly wondered whether I should be turning around.

I felt like I was driving into a fire.

Views that I took for granted each time I passed them had been swallowed.

When I arrived at the road closure,

the official word was a one to five hour wait.

Luckily it was only a little over an hour before they let us through.

We drove past pine fence posts still burning 

and plastic road markers doubled over from their exposure to the heat.

When I got back to my folks' house,

it was unsettling to see that my mum had packed the kids' suitcases just in case.

There was never any sense of urgency or panic;

just a recognition that if it happened, they would need to go.

My folks were pragmatic enough to know that if they got themselves and the kids

(and hopefully some family photos) to safety, the house didn't matter,

unlike their elderly neighbours who didn't seem to appreciate that any fire that was heading up the hill
towards them would not be stopped.

So I found myself back at our annual beach holiday,

building sandcastles,

following sting rays in the kayak,

admiring the large flocks of birds, temporary visitors

until they could return to see what damage had been done to their homes.

But we were surrounded by ever shifting smoke.
The tourists had gone and the wind had dropped.
It was so quiet and so still.

We wondered when the power would go off again.
While our only road out was closed,

we checked to see if the police were still stationed at the corner to make sure
that no-one would attempt to use it.

We wondered if the town across the bay had lost their power

but really knew that it was due to the thick haze between us and them.

We assumed that the smoke coming over the nearby hills was due to back burning but checked the

website over and over just to be sure.

I am a city girl
with a home in a built up area away from the coast and the hills.

I consider myself safe from fire and flood.

(Our house is, however, built on one of Adelaide's two fault lines

but there has been no action there since 1954

so I am choosing to ignore the fact

that the my geologist-father-in-law reckons that it is time for another quake)

But it had never occurred to me to consider the fact that my parents

have retired to a small township on a peninsula of densely wooded national park

and that one day the winds may not be so benevolent

or that fire may not be so far away.

I was only on the periphery of those fires.

But it gave me an awareness that I didn't have before.

While I cried for the livestock and the wildlife that would have perished,

above all else, I found myself be thankful each day that no human lives had been lost.

Let me state the bloody obvious-
because it came to me with perfect clarity last month
somewhere on the drive down that gully...
No matter how much we get caught up in our possessions, our earthly goods,

when it comes to the crunch,
there is nothing that comes close to knowing that your children, your partner,
your friends and your loved ones are safe.