Sunday, November 8, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
In the meantime I am off to Pingrup this weekend for a Bush Poets' Dinner and fundraiser for the Royal Flying Doctor Service. This was a great gig last year, and I am looking forward to meeting up with fellow bush poets and hearing their contributions to the evening.
I am in the throes of writing some new poems as well as trying to kill a crow that keeps invading my chook house and stealing eggs. We've had three attempts at shooting it, none of them successful. Crows have ears and eyes in the backs of their heads. Everytime Tom tries to sneak round the side of the house to take a pot shot at it first thing in the morning (e.g. 5.30am) it spies him and takes off.
It is probably not helped by the fact he has done nothing to camouflage himself and blend into the scenery. Naked, apart from ugg boots and a gun is enough to scare anyone away.....
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
When the police vehicle she is driving breaks down one night on a quiet country road near Dungirri, New South Wales, local police sergeant Kris Matthews flags down a passing car. She gets a lift into town with Morgan 'Gil' Gillespie, a man who appears somewhat guarded and secretive, but does not seem out to harm her. What she doesn't know is that the residents of Dungirri have branded this man a murderer for the last eighteen years, and are in no mood to welcome him home to the small country community.
Things take a turn for the worse when the body of a dead woman is pulled from Gillepsie's car boot the following morning. However, one thing Kris Matthews is certain of is that Gillespie is not the murderer. Why? Because the body wasn't in the boot the previous night when they drove into town, and Gillespie has the best alibi a man could want.....Sergeant Kris Matthews herself.
So begins a fast paced novel of crime and romance as Kris and Gil embark on a journey to discover who the murderer is. This novel is packed with action, organised crime, and police corruption as the reader is drawn through an intriguing unravelling of Gillespie's past and his ties to this small country town.
Set in a dramatic Australian landscape, "Dark Country" is one of those books you hope to read on a wet weekend, curled up on the sofa, whilst disappearing into its pages for a ripping read of thrills and spills. Pure, unadulterated entertainment of the 'popular fiction' genre. Long may it live!
Be prepared for bodies walled up in deserted farm houses, bodies pressed up against one another in unbridled passion and bodies of evidence all hurtling towards a dramatic climax.
Just the book I was looking for after Christos Tsiolkas's "The Slap."
Also by Bronwyn Parry "As Darkness Falls." Visit www.bronwynparry.com
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
We used posts and tin sheeting for a rustic effect on the eye, a sensational feeling on the pocket, and to tie in with the stables which you can't see in this photo, but are to the right of the fence. It's all starting to come together and an annihilation and rejuvenation of the old garden has given us a great project at the homestead.
We went over to Scadden on Saturday and saw a beautiful garden owned and tended by the Thomas's. Sensational! I was swept up in the wonderful box hedges, amazing array of plants, olive trees, weeping mulberry trees, mop tops, crystal clear swimming pool and grass tennis court complete with pavilion. Quite breath taking. It made me want to rush home and start frenetically and frantically working on my own garden, and ours needs a lot of work let me tell you. The pool, for example, has water in it, but it is black, three inches deep and full of sticks, leaves, dead frogs and mosquitoes.
So on Sunday we decided to finish the fence before attacking the pool. In my frenzy to help shift a pile of posts off the trailer I dropped one on my foot and am now nursing a broken toe. I then took a large piece of skin off the middle finger of my left hand moving a selection of wooden rails, and capped off the day by driving a piece of weld mesh wire into my skull as I bent down to plant some wormwood in the chook house.
Given that I had also started the day with a extremely energetic walk for over an hour, I was totally crippled by 6pm and a strong gin and tonic was called for. I am subsequently looking for a strong, youthful virile type with steel capped boots, gloves and head protection to work in the garden.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Here you are having the Hill Plains experience along The Duke of Orleans beaches east of Esperance. The city boy turns biker boy and let me say you 'done real good' for the first time on a quad bike. What a day it was and didn't we blow out the cobwebs!
Just thought I'd let you know I am slowly recovering from my injuries after Tommo took off like a mad man along the beach with me and the dog up pillion and realised too late that he was headed for a cut away on the beach. Too late! Did you see how far we flew and where we landed after we had become airbourne?! My ribs are still a bit tender after the impact on landing and the dog looks a bit wary when we both get onto the quad now and suggest he joins us.....
Thought you'd like this pic, Teddly. Easy rider!! Catch you back in the big smoke,
Love Vic x
Monday, August 17, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
There was quite an attractive photo of Sabrina & I taken at the dinner that evening, but we liked this one more, and I've called it "The Two Nuts", which seemed appropriate given Sabrina's Dinner Speech. She stood on a coffee table, as she is knee high to a grasshopper, with a glass of red in one hand (which no-one seemed able to prise off her, and as she has a black belt in kick boxing no-one seemed overly keen to either) and regaled us with wonderfully politically incorrect tales of her life up north. These sort of people really should be bottled. Note I say bottled, not pickled. We were all fairly pickled by the end of the night anyway.
Local girls who added to this wonderful day included Michelle Barrett from HomebodE who not only shared her business sucess story with us, but the emotional roller coaster she is currently on having a severely injured three year old in Princess Margaret Hospital at the moment. We had a 'Parky' style interview with author of 'Red Dust' Fleur McDonald, who absolutley loathes public speaking, but did a fabulous job. She has a great website.
"Just google Fleur McDonald and I come up in first spot" she said.
"Just google Victoria Brown and I come up as a 23 year old American pole dancer" I replied.
And the list of wonderful women continued with Gill and Mandy providing delicious morning and afternoon teas from their enterprise 'Biccies', to Gail Adamson-Reynolds talking about the indigenous culture tour and bush tucker business her family runs, Kepa Kurl. Gail is a great bird who had us in stitches telling us how they had tried to get grants from the government for various projects in their business. Cramming an hour and a half of info into forty minutes, she delivered some classic lines, including;
"We put in for one government grant thinking 'You beauty, we'll get it, we're black....but we didn't!"
One of her messages to us was 'If you haven't been on a local tourist trip offered by a business in your town you should. How else can you promote your region if you haven't experienced what's on offer?'
Mae Connelly from Farmanco spoke to us on Grain Marketing in the most entertaining and engaging way,if that is humanely possible, and Crawford Taylor from Diamond Sponsor Rabobank seemed an exceptionally happy chappy, particularly at the dinner where he was the only man in a room full of drop dead gorgeous women. Onya Crawford!
Congratulations to the SEPWA Ladies Committee once again. If you weren't there this year, make sure you are in 2010.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
We had a fabulous time exploring Denham, Shark Bay and Dirk Hartog Island. Well worth a visit, and with 'young' who are capable of shopping and cooking I did not have to be Camp Bitch on this trip. Bonus! The usual joys of camping occured. Rain and wet tents, leaky swags, bout of tonsilitis for 'the boy', but luckily on a day when a doctor was in Denham. The doctor only visits twice a week! Oh, and I had the usual ablution experience, dashing in for a 'quickie', ripping my pants down, delivering, and then discovering there was no loo paper about two seconds before the automatic lights went out and I was plunged into darkness. 'Noice....'
Back home now for week two of the school hols, and surrounded by washing and 'boy' magazines of the shooting variety. We have a rabbit problem so 'the boy' has pulled out his back copies of "Shooter". The title story on one reads "Big Night Out on the Bunnies".........phew! at least it's not "Big Night Out on the Birds"....
Off to the washouse, darlings! Catch you soon.....
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Seeding is almost at an end here at Hill Plains. I thought I'd better post a picture of 'the rig' that has put the whole 4500 hectares into the ground. Seems funny to think the whole farm is under crop this year having sold all of our sheep due to the shocking late break to the 2008 season.
Canola, wheat, barley and 10 hectares of peas are going in this year. The talk around the kitchen table is all about 'Do we need a bigger seeding bar?' Do we need another header? Do we need another chaser bin?' Boys, please...I know Prime Minister Krudd is encouraging us to spend in order to keep the economy going but there's no need to go crazy. What ever happened to cutting the stuff with a sythe and putting it up in stooks? If the world collapses and we run out of fuel that might be the only solution to getting the harvest in. Scary....all day out in the fields . I'd feel like Tess of the D'Urbervilles. Better get another milking cow.
I keep reminding the husband that it is only fair that I do my own personal bit to help boost the economy, and this time there is no question about it. 'I do need another winter coat. I do need another pair of winter boots. I do need another winter sojourn.'
But as they say....'some seeds fell on stoney ground'.
Friday, June 5, 2009
At last we've had some rain and as we drove around the farm this morning we came across a mob of ducks on a dam. The collective noun for ducks escapes me for the moment. It's not a flock, I'm sure. This is one of the many things I love about Australia, everything can be lumped under 'mob' in the collective world and no-one contradicts you!
It's been a great week so far and this rain has capped it off. As I watched the dawn come up this morning, silhouetting the shearing shed and the eucalyptus trees, I could hear the steady throb of the tractor engine in a nearby paddock, seeding our barley crop. Above that, the heavenly sound of rain on a tin roof, whislt the fire crackled away in the sitting room, revitalised by a few well placed mallee roots. A perfect start to a June day on the farm.
On Wednesday I had a radio gig on ABC 720 with Eoin Cameron and the Slim But Savage One (his producer for those not familiar with the Perth ABC Radio breakfast program). We played The Appendage (the poem about having fun with chicken necks.) This led to many lovely emails from all sorts of people including a gentleman from a group of dog walkers in Perth; a lovely lady hoping to get a copy of A Bird in the Bush for her mother who is blind; two emails from old friends we haven't spoken to for over ten years, and one from a lady who remembered my dear departed mother when she was living in Kalamunda. She too lost her mother to cancer (her mother Sheila had lived next door to my mother, Jane) and we have decided to raise our glasses to them both at 6pm tonight.
Thanks for contacting me, Christine, and in answer to your question "Is 6pm to early for farmers?" the answer is "It is never too early for these farmers to appreciate a good glass of red."
This is one of the things I love about radio, its ability to connect, or in this case reconnect. Thanks to Cammo and the team having me on the program this week I shall be sharing a reflective moment at 6pm tonight, when I raise my glass with a woman in Perth whom I hardly know to toast our wonderful mothers.
"To Jane and Sheila".......wish you were both here...
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Sometimes farming husbands are quite useful in the garden. Mine, for example, dug sixty holes for me this morning into which I then planted the bottle brushes seen in the picture. These are Callistemon citrinus “White Anzac”.
I usually have to cajole and wheedle my Hunter Gatherer into doing anything in the garden. “I’ve got nearly twelve thousand acres to garden without your bloody acre too” is a well worn cry in this household. If there is the slightest whiff of a menial gardening task, both he and the dog are on that four wheeler motorbike and off in a cloud of dust faster than a kid sneaking biscuits from the pantry....and that’s lightning fast I can tell you.
However, mention the phrase “I might need a chainsaw” or “The backhoe might do it,” and suddenly you have a gardening maniac on your hands. A farmer with a backhoe will ignore seeding, harvest, or any really important farm job, if given the slightest opportunity, to dig up twenty years worth of eucalypts, garden beds, lawn, orchards; in fact he’ll dig up anything he can place his digging and ripping tool into given half the chance. A backhoe is like drugs to most men. Once they get a taste for it they are hooked for life. This is because they never really wanted to turn their backs on all their Tonka toys in the sandpit of their youth.
My advice is to supervise constantly. Do not, under any circumstance, pop into the house to quickly get that load of washing out and onto the line whilst leaving the husband to rip out the single dead tree you wanted removed. Big mistake. I did that once, and we now have no eucalypts at the front of the house at all. The same applies with the chainsaw. Men go crazy with this power tool in their hands. A light pruning or simple request for the removal of a few diseased branches on a fruit tree can leave you totally branchless, fruitless, leafless and staring at a single stick in the ground.
“I was only trying to balance it up” he will declare.
Finally, never forget that women sit on a potential fortune. Use it. Men always complain that they ‘never get enough’, so use your asset to get what you want done in the garden. In line with gardening terminology we call this “The Root System”. Warning.....never pay up front, and never offer a totally unreasonable amount of “roots” in order to get the job done. I did, and we now have a heart shaped piece of concrete by the swimming pool fence into which are scratched the words “One Root X 200”.
A banker friend out for lunch one year casually asked if the debt had been repaid. When told that it hadn’t, he quipped,
“What about interest?”
Nice one, Dave. Needless to say I have not invited him back for lunch since.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
What am I doing here on this glorious spring day, lying in the dusty dirt of the sheep yards grasping a pig’s penis? Can’t the over-sexed idiot sort out his own love life so that I can peel off my androgynously unattractive work clothes and take off to town clad in crisp white linen to sip on a latte whilst overlooking the spectacular view of Esperance Bay like other girls?
No, he quite obviously is incapable of sorting out his love life, which is why I am here grovelling in the dirt trying to help him impregnate a somewhat reluctant sow. I am reminded by my husband (who is grappling the head end of the sow to prevent her running away from this incompetent inamorato), that these are the sort of things a farmer’s wife must do in order to bring home the bacon.
I should not be here. This was not the life plan I had in mind when I arrived, a fresh faced English rose at the age of twenty two, on Western Australian shores for a year of travel, fun and frivolity. As the great niece of William Hartnell, the first actor to play ‘Dr Who’, I rather fancied myself on television as a time traveller’s assistant journeying through the universe. Fresh out of University with an arts degree in English and Drama I was going to be an actress and ‘tread the boards, darling’. I had no intention of becoming a provincial yeoman.
Well, a fat lot of good that plan was. Just one look was all it took, and here I’ve been ever since, a farmer’s wife living in the middle of the Australian bush.
(to be continued)
Monday, May 11, 2009
Who cares what the date is……thank God we’ve got one! Our one day of the year when we can sit back and say without guilt to our offspring, “What’s for tea?” Isn’t that the number one phrase that is guaranteed to drive even the most patient mother to drink?
Many children take the opportunity of making their mother breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day, which can be a joy or a nightmare, depending on whether breakfast in bed is your thing or not. It’s not mine. It reminds me of a little ditty:
‘They woke her up early that day
With a half-cooked boiled egg on a tray
She cried tears of delight
Though it wasn’t yet light
The dawn was two hours away……’
I remember the first year my brother and I were allowed to buy our own Mother’s Day gifts without any guidance from our father as to what might be appropriate. We hot footed it round to the village shop, and bought what we presumed was the perfect gift for any mother. A packet of Brillo Pads and a dishing washing sponge on a stick. Needless to say there were no tears of delight on that occasion either.
I’ve kept all the gifts and cards my children made for me when they were at primary school. The champagne corks on a string transformed into birds with stick-on beaks, eyes and feathers; the set of pipe cleaner rings made by my then four year old son; the little hand prints and poems; but by far the most hilarious would have to be the computer generated card from Tiffany, when aged eight. A rose adorns the outside and the inscription within is a classic:
You are like a rose. You bloom every now and again….’
Ouch! But you must take into consideration that this card was for a mother who didn’t let you watch ‘Home and Away’ or have roll-ups in your lunch box.
Mothers are carers, but some are seemingly more caring than others. Am I a mother who dropped everything immediately at the sound and sight of my screaming child clutching a mildly scraped knee? No. It had to be loss of limb or arterial bleeding before my sympathies and attention could be attracted. A decent sort of injury was required in this household. We bred ‘em tough out in the bush.
Why this callous attitude, I hear you ask? Well, it’s a generational thing isn’t it? My grandmother dislocated my mother’s arm whilst trying to stuff her into a winter coat, and shouting “Stop screaming, Jane and just put the dratted coat on…”
My own mother sent me to school with a bunch of grapes and a very nasty looking arm saying “Stop fussing, Victoria. The swelling will soon go down.” When it hadn’t after three days an X-ray revealed a green stick fracture.
When my son broke his leg after falling off his motorbike; exactly a year after his sister, imbibed with champagne, had broken her leg falling off a pair of high heeled shoes at a party; exactly three years after she had broken her collar bone falling from the top bunk bed onto my son; wasn’t I entitled to scream to the heavens:
“Why do you kids always need doctors, X-rays, surgeons and hospitalisation on the January long weekend when everybody is out of town for God’s sake?”
I can’t help wondering how my children will bring up and fuss over their little dears.
Maybe they’ll be like the mother of three notoriously unruly youngsters who, when asked whether she would have children if she had the choice to do it again, replied “Yes……but not the same ones”.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
It is a pretty exciting week for Fleur McDonald of Esperance as her debut novel “Red Dust” hits the shelves of book shops all over Australia. I will be interviewing Fleur at her book launch at Le Grand Bookshop in Esperance this Friday night, where so many friends and family will raise a glass to celebrate her wonderful achievement.
“Red Dust” is Allen & Unwin’s lead title for May and I can thoroughly recommend it as a great read. In the tradition of Rachael Treasure, this heart-wrenching outback saga is the inspirational story of a woman doing her best to triumph over adversity and forge a new life. I opened the first page at seven thirty one wet Sunday morning, and finally put it down, finished, at eight o’clock that night. I don’t recall eating much that day, and I couldn’t think of a better Mother’s Day present for this weekend.
After the tragic death of her husband, Adam, in an horrific plane crash, Gemma Sinclair defies community expectations -and Adam’s dying words- by taking on the daunting task of managing the 10,000 hectare station he bequeathed her.
As if Gemma’s grief and the job of looking after Billbinya Station aren’t enough, a wave of innuendo soon sweeps the community that Adam’s death was no accident.
Congratulations Fleur! If you enjoy this sort of fiction, and have a passion for the Australian bush and the characters that live in it, buy the book and check out Fleur’s website http://www.fleurmcdonald.com/
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Farm kids are brought up with death from a very early age. They see sheep die out in the paddock from fly strike. They see casualties at lambing and cancerous ewes that need to be put down. On one occasion, as we checked the lambing paddock, our children watched as an eagle suddenly swooped down out of the sky and carried off a weakened lamb from right under its mother’s nose. The ewes cries of protest were pitiful to hear and we could do nothing but watch. We couldn’t do a thing.
Then there’s off the farm death in the form of roadside carnage passed on the weekly trip into town.
We had two types of ‘dead’ as our kids were growing up. There was ‘Dead’…..and there was ‘Flat Dead’, depending on how many times a vehicle had run over the carcass on the road. The kids didn’t express much of an interest or emotion in the dead animal at all. It was just a fact of life. They were very complacent about the whole thing, and usually very together when it came to the death of family pets.
I particularly remember a phone call we made to the children while we were away sailing in Ireland one summer. They were being looked after on the farm while we were away, and we rang every couple of days for a catch up on their news. This particular morning we managed to get hold of eight year old Will first.
“G’day Will. It’s Mum. How are things on the farm?”
“Yeah, good thanks, Mum. But I think the rabbit’s dead.”
“What do you mean you think the rabbit’s dead?”
“Well we found the head in the carport.”
He was quite matter of fact about it, but this is hardly surprising. We’re talking about a child who, having buried his pet guinea pig a few years earlier kept discovering the carcass as the family dog exhumed it on a daily basis. It became a bit of a game for the family. Each morning after breakfast it would be a case of ‘find the carcass’. A good nose was essential of course. It would turn up under hydrangeas, on the verandah or in the vegie patch. After six days it resembled a very small toupee, but mercifully as the decaying smell diminished, so did the dog’s urge to exhume it. Eventually Brownie did get to rest in peace….or was that ‘pieces’……?
We had a pet kangaroo for a few months. We had found her on the roadside still in her mother’s pouch after the poor thing, dazzled by the car’s headlight’s, had leapt straight in front of our oncoming vehicle. She was doing so well and we loved her dearly, but one day she was inadvertently run over by a reversing vehicle. The mortified driver didn’t realise that Missy was directly behind him. We decided to bury her with the other pets in the orchard. It was in the middle of harvest so we were pushed for time, an undertaker and a decent service. The husband rushed in for lunch and a swift burial, and we all clustered around as he speedily (“got-to-get-back-on-the-header”) dug a hole. The only problem was that in his haste he didn’t realise he was digging over the burial site of one of the guinea pigs. There was a strangled “Oh…” as the digging ceased. “I seem to have dug up someone else” he said. He moved three feet to the right and the burial resumed. The children didn’t miss a beat and just shifted all their flowers to the new site.
I don’t mean to be flippant, but death is such a part of life here, though not every pet death has a black humour story to accompany it. Three years ago we lost our beautiful black pony, Zipper Mouse. It was a cloudless, clear blue skied December morning after a storm the night before. One of many that cross our farm during the summer months. We were about to leave for Tiffany’s Year 12 graduation dinner in Perth. Zipper was Tiffany’s beloved first and only pony. We received a call on the two-way as we were about to pull out of the farm.
“You’d better get back here and over to the goose paddock,” said our workman, Kris, “and you’d better bring a gun, Tom.”
I knew it was one of the horses immediately. I wondered which one of the three it might be, the relatively new chestnut mare, the old buckskin mare or the much loved high spirited black pony, Zipper Mouse. The last pony my mother had broken in before she died. The first pony the children had ever sat on.
To my horror it was Zipper, fatally struck down in the paddock by lightning the night before. A freak accident. She lay so still that I knew she was, mercifully, passed the gun. She was quite stiff and cold. A small trickle of blood oozed from her nose. The only sign of the lightning strike was a section of her mane that was frizzled as if caught on a gas burner. Death would have been instantaneous.
She had been a fiery pony in life, difficult to break in, but an amazing jumper and performer when you had won her confidence and trust. Her bond with Tiffany was very strong. High-couraged and sometimes unpredictable, she had lightning speed in life, and had certainly made her exit from this world with a bang. That was the nearest we could get to any humour to alleviate the sadness of losing this furry friend. It took us until last weekend to go through her rugs and ribbons and pony gear that had been stored for the last three years in the tack room. We made a pile of her things to sell or give away. They sit on the verandah as I write.
Some family pets leave a foot print indelibly etched on your heart. Zipper was one of those. We miss her so much.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Monday 27th April 2009
Well, our family has been waiting since the last SARS outbreak for the next bout of fatal respiratory influenza. A good friend informed us last year that it wouldn’t be a case of ‘if’, but ‘when’ another viral ‘flu, be it bird or otherwise, mutated and gave the world a shake up. “Were we prepared?” she asked.
Discussions ensued on how we would cope if we had to batten down the hatches to avoid any contamination from those people in the nearby environs who may have contracted the disease. There would be no trips to town. We would go into lock down mode. We would have to be self sufficient. My husband, The King, came up with the idea of a commune, for a select few, at Hill Plains. It became ‘the’ conversation at every district dinner party. We have been sounding out possible recruits from friends and family ever since.
It’s quite simple. If you have a skill to share you’re in. If you don’t……er…..sorry, you’re out. But me no buts. That’s the rule. I swiftly grabbed the position of Entertainment Officer, for fear of ending up with Washer Woman, Cow Milker or Chief Cook and Bottle Washer. (I have to leave some positions for the less skilled….. mercifully.) The King is so useful he can fill a myriad of positions, all of which are extremely useful and manly, so he’s definitely in. Plus he’s the only truly useful person in the family when it comes to hunting and gathering, so we can’t argue with him anyway. Dictator is a word that springs readily to mind when I glance at him across the kitchen table. He wasn’t totally convinced that we really needed an Entertainment Officer, but as I have a few physical attributes that he finds highly entertaining, and which I threatened to withdraw his access to if I couldn't take on my job of choice, the position was reinstated very swiftly.
The phones and emails have run hot today with the first few city friends booking their places. So far we have had offers for the positions of nurse, communications and intelligence officer, wheat grister, cider/beer maker, a lady with a recipe for making yeast, as well as an email from a couple in Leederville:
Requesting permission to seek refuge at Hill Plains for the near wipe-out of mankind. We will require abluting facilities and power and in return will be the vegie garden growers.
Tomorrow I will be joining ABC Radio’s Ted Bull on his program, to discuss just how the commune plans are progressing. I have a sneaky suspicion he might be angling for a berth in the commune, and that he will put himself up as T-Ball Coach, for which I fear I shall have to tell him, there is no position. Knowing him he will then ask if it is OK if he brings a bottle of wine instead. I shall reply, “If it’s a bottle of Grange, Ted, you’re in. Actually, make it a case.” That’s reasonable. We can’t be giving away beds here.
One good thing to have come out of this pending crisis is that the children have all of a sudden become uncharacteristically helpful about the place, displaying hereto unknown cooking skills, pouring over an old cook book favourite ‘101 ways with mutton’ and displaying physical attributes such as swinging on axes. It’s been a long time coming.
Yesterday I retrieved from the bowels of the pantry cupboard the large esky filled last year, in a moment of panic, with emergency survival rations in case we were isolated from the shops for a few weeks. It is supposed to contain vast quantities of pasta, rice, tinned foods, dried fruits and vegies, matches, batteries and most important of all…….chocolate. The only problem is that I keep flogging bits and pieces out of it when I run out of things and then totally forget to replace them. Also, some stuff has already passed its use by date. Well, I guess that’s not actually news in this household. The kids found something in the back of the fridge last week that had Use by: Mar 2001. I hadn’t the heart to tell them I cook with that sort of stuff all the time….
Maybe our immune systems will be able to fight off the disease after all…..