Recently I was startled awake by the raucous cawing of some crows, and as most crossword fans know, the correct term for a group of crows is a ‘Murder’; a word not far from my mind at that moment.  It was 4.30 a.m., and as I lay in my bed thinking dark thoughts involving shotguns and flamethrowers, it struck me that I’d never heard crows calling out before dawn. 

Amid the squawks came the distant clatter of a shunting coal train, and I recalled the first time I heard that particular noise in 1976, on our first night in Gladstone.  My little brother and I had just drifted off to sleep when a nearby loco ploughed into a long line of empty coal wagons.  As sonic booms shook our room, we shot from our beds, certain that the world had come to an end.  Gazing out of our bedroom window we were amazed to see that all the houses in our street were still standing.  Our father, woken by the train, or possibly our screaming, crammed us back into our beds where we lay gibbering until we fell asleep. 

Throughout the night, along with the shunting, were the sounds of QAL hooters, and shiftworkers coming and going on their two-stroke scooters, plus the beeping horns of the ‘call out’ taxis.  Taxis were sent out at all hours to wake up and deliver employees to the plant and considerate cabbies would merely hammer on the front door, as the woken worker stumbled about inside, frantically grabbing his work gear while yelling, “Stone the flamin’ crows!  I’m coming!”  Stupid cabbies though, would sit outside the house, honking their horns until someone either came out to go to work, or punch them about the head.  Sometimes it was both.       

Callouts were worth big bucks, and one old workmate told me that when his wife heard a taxi pull up next door during the night, she would lean out of their bedroom window and scream, “You hungry beggar!”  Then she’d make him ring work and demand a callout as well.  Callouts are extremely rare today, which means my mate, his suburb, and a battalion of cabbies, are getting a lot more sleep of a night.    

The crows finally shut up as the sun rose, and I stumbled from my bed thinking, ‘Yep, Gladstone’s a bit quieter nowadays.’  Opening my curtains I saw that the crows had flipped open our bin lid and were pulling apart the garbage bags and spreading rubbish all over the street.  History repeated itself as our street woke to my cries of, “You hungry beggars!  I’ll murder the lot of you! Stone the flamin’ crows!”

This week I was sent an E-Book by the very charming, and always funny, Tim Brownson – How to be Rich and Happy.  You can catch up with Tim here: 

http://www.adaringadventure.com/blog/wordpress/

I’d been humming and ha-ing about purchasing this book from Tim for a few months now, and this week I got a copy and started working through it.  I mean I’m actually DOING the exercises as I read, as opposed to my normal, speed read, quick reflection, forget, and move on looking for the next motivational ‘hit’.

Ok, it’s been a lot harder than I first thought to discover my Values.  Pinning them down is driving me nuts… there must be an easier way of identifying them dammit!  But I persisted until I had enough info before moving on with the book.  Then I got to the section titled, “What are your favourite movies?”  which hit me harder than a slap up the side of the head with a wet fish.  Humour was one of my values by the way  

I nominated six.  These are six movies I sit down to watch at least a couple of times each year without fail.  And in those six movies are the values which call to me.  There is something about the story, the characters, the setting, the vision, challenges, missions, or goals in those shows, that touches me at ‘bone level’.  And that is what I’ve spent the last few days thinking about, and has led me to start looking more closely at my favourite novels, short stories, and poems.  There is a definite pattern forming… a pattern my wife informs me that she has been aware of for some time!  I’m not going to go into detail, but basically it boils down to the lure of adventure with a group of close mates, overcoming serious odds, and returning home better for the experience.

Or, perhaps I’m a selfish sod, who shouldn’t have got married…   

Well, it’s just like an adventure isn’t it?  The hero has to go through a debilitating low before he wins through to the eventual happy ending… apparently. 

Either way, I’ll keep plodding on, and keep you posted.

No idea who this is, but we have the same running style... slow and painful.

Let’s just say that this Summer has knocked me for six.  The heat was so bad that just walking down to the running track left me exhausted, and after 1/2 an hour of running on the treadmill at the gym I needed floaties to get off the machine. 

But this week, a bout of cooler weather (belting down rain!) has seen me out and about a little more.  Still miles behind schedule though.  Each time I pull on the running shoes the dogs go into a frenzy, because it’s walking time.  I have tried a few times to run with them, but it’s hard to get into a rythym when they want to stop every ten feet and pee on things! 

Anyway, as the big day approaches, I’ve measured out a few road runs which I’ll get into this week.  I’ve worked out that I’m not a treadmill, or oval runner, as I tend to get bored fairly easily.  And I’m quite looking forward to pounding the streets, from light pole to light pole.  With a bit of luck the heat will stay away until I can get my routine sorted.  

The only other thing to sort out is the chafing at the top of my legs.  It’s only a small section of skin, but geez it hurts when it starts to burn.  So I end up running like some sort of perverted crab…  Will slip on the bike pants and a pair of running shorts over the top and see if this helps.  Apart from that, all else is good so far, and I’ve just got to work on increasing the distance I can run.  At the moment, my longest without a break is 7 k’s. 

This Easter, the Road Runners are holding their annual Good Friday Fun Run.  This year I’ll sign on for the 10 k event, with the goal of running the entire length without stopping (not even for a toilet break this time!).

Last week I spent several hours at the beach frolicking in the surf.  The suntan lotion I had slathered all over myself was the ‘old bottle’, the expiry date on it was November 2007.  I didn’t know suncream had an expiry date.  So this week, Mr. Stupid is peeling flaky skin off his quivering hide. 

That ad which comes on at dinner time is really getting to me, the one where they show ‘skin cells under stress’.  Basically the jist of the ad is this; if you’ve ever been sunburned, and let’s face it, who in Gladstone hasn’t, then you’re going to die.  It’s almost enough to put me off my meal, but I force it down anyway because I’m obviously going to need to keep my strength up. 

The sun never used to be our enemy, and songs about the sun also contained the word ‘fun’, which was what we lived for.  Summer days were spent outside playing, swimming or running about in Queensland’s’ industrial strength sunshine, and nearly everyone had a ‘healthy’ bronze tan, with the only exceptions being nuns, nerds and freckly redheads.          

Unlike today’s’ porcelain skinned, light avoiding celebrities, many of the stars of my youth sported tans which made them look, trendy, with it, and hip.  Admittedly, their sun-wrinkled, leather brown skins had all the elasticity of ancient parchment, but it was the ‘in thing’ and everyone wanted it.

In order to emulate that much desired brown skinned look, we would lie in the sun for hours at a time, our bodies glistening under layers of oil.  It sounds incredible when I think about it now, but coconut oil was the lotion of choice; we might as well have been using chip fat!  We weren’t sun baking; we were basting, literally roasting in our skins as we rolled about on our towels like chooks on a rotisserie.  And like a roast, our skin would quickly dry out, and peel off.  So help me God, we actually used to have competitions to see who could get the largest shred of skin off in one piece.  Our skin cells were way beyond stressed, they were literally traumatised, and it’s a miracle that any of us have survived this long.

Nowadays at tea time, I sit in front of the tele watching those skin cancer ads while food drops from my slack mouth.  Gazing down at my spot covered skin, I fervently wish that I had never lived in a tropical wonderland which encouraged the outdoor life.  I wish that I had always worn a shirt and used sunscreen.  I wish that I had stapled a wide brimmed hat, the size and thickness of a circus tent to my head every time I left the house.  I really wish I’d never been sunburned.  Ever. 

But mostly I wish that I’d had insisted we eat tea at the table with the tele off, because those ads are killing me.

I’ve just woken up after finishing night shift earlier this morning, and the weather here is abysmal.  Well, it’s good for Gladstone, lots of rain, but the wind is gusting between 20 – 30 knots here in town, so I can imagine how hard it is blowing outside the harbour. 

Right now there is a little ship out there bobbing about in 3 metre seas.  The crew will be drenched, and dry places out of the wind and rain will be at a premium.  I’m sort of glad I had to work now.  

I know it can’t always be plain sailing, and that this is all part of the ‘replica sailing’ adventure, but still, I hope the crew aren’t getting too knocked about. 

At least they don’t have to worry about scurvy…

Up at dawn this morning, took the dogs for a walk to get the paper, wandered home and sit down to read the paper before going for my first jog of the year.  On page two, I see a familiar looking ship, and read that it has berthed in Gladstone for a couple of days.  I’m so surprised that I spray my Weet-Bix across the table, and while I frantically grab my carry bag and bicycle helmet, I hurriedly explain to my wife where I’m going.  The run is forgotten…

On the way down to Auckland Creek, I wonder if the ship has already left, I hope not.  Parking my faithful pushie, ‘Pubtruck’ outside the Yacht Club I gaze up and down the creek, Duyfken is nowhere to be seen.  Two men hosing down their outriggers are watching me, and one of them says, “Miss ya boat mate?” 

I smile, “Don’t s’pose you saw an old sailing ship round here somewhere?” 

The younger bloke points out to sea, “Yeah, passed one about an hour ago, it was in the main channel making for open water.” 

My heart sinks.  I thank them, saddle up and drift along the road that follows the creek to the inlet.  Riding up the road alongside the creek I glance into the marina and spy three masts covered in old fashioned rigging.  With a whoop of joy, I turn Pubtruck around and hammer across the bridge to the marina, where I find the Duyfken alongside and securely moored.  Excellent! 

I am watched by a young man and an older man with a beard.  We get to chatting about the ship.  Brian, the older bloke is a mine of information, and I tell him I am writing a novel about Portuguese caravels, and he immediately invites me on board. 

The next half an hour is an education.  We stay above decks, and chat, I pepper him with questions, and he talks about the historical journey of the Duyfken, and the story of the current replica.  He is a good natured sort of bloke, easy going, laid back and knowledgeable.  The sort of person who is perfect to organise groups of volunteers to keep the ship afloat. 

I am full of questions and he tells me that the best way to learn about the ship is to join the crew and do a trip.  Sweat breaks out on my brow.  They are leaving tonight he tells me, but they are short a cook and a mate.  A cook is coming, but the mate, well that’s a different story.  Am I interested. 

Am I interested!  Right then, the appeal of running away to sea is very real.  I’d read about it, dreamed of it, and watched movies, and now, right now, I’m being offered the chance to throw in my lot with the crew and sail off tonight. 

His phone rings.  I take the opportunity to get some photos, and give myself an uppercut… I have to work tonight, my team is shorthanded, I haven’t prepared, I worry about the coming weather, I’m searching for excuses…  I haven’t got the guts.

The ship will sail tonight if they get a mate.  If not, then tomorrow, maybe.  It is, as Mark tells me, in the lap of the Gods. 

The crew is mostly asleep, scattered about the deck, some are under the deck.  Room is sparse.  They look tired, and Brian tells me about the shifts, how they work for 4 hours, on a round the clock roster.  I ask him about travelling at night, do they stop.  He laughs, “Every landlubber asks that!” he says.  I am a landlubber.  No they don’t stop at night.  It takes too long to get the anchor up and down, and anyway, the anchor is poorly designed, the ship will drift. 

I want to stay, to learn more, but instead I go silent.  He tells me that the ship is always looking for crew numbers, they rely heavily on backpackers, or enthusiasts.  Because it is a replica, you sleep rough, it is not a luxury cruise, but a working ship.  I am entranced by the idea, and ask him when he will be back.  He shrugs, “Might not stop in Gladstone, maybe Bundaberg, or Mackay.  We’ll be down south for three months, before returning to Cairns.” 

I shake his hand, and bid him farewell.  I have a plan in mind.  I will not sail tonight, but will do my best to sail with Duyfken from Brisbane, on her journey northward.  This gives me time to prepare, to organise time off from work without rushing.

I pedal home from aerobics, and tell my wife about the trip.  She asks, “Why don’t you just go?  Ring work, and join the ship?”

Sweat breaks out on my brown again.  I’m reaching for the phone as I post this, I have to make some calls…

I wasn’t sure if this column was ever going to be used… but here it is.  I was a bit surprised to see that they had edited the part about Long Suffering Wifes’ response.  Anyway, have inserted the edited sections in italics.  Cheers,  Gb.

One of funniest skits on the TV show ‘Little Britain’ is when the outrageously dressed Welshman cries: “It’s lonely being the only gay in the village!” as he struggles to hold the pub door shut against a mob of gay people clamouring to get in. 

Recently, some people in our town were delighted to discover that they weren’t ‘the only gay in the village’, while others were stunned to learn that, not only do we have gays in our village, they also wanted a nightclub. 

A little research revealed that the average percentage of gay biased folk in most communities is approximately two percent.  But I think what these figures actually revealed was the number of people who were honest enough to admit to a researcher that they were in fact, gay.  My investigation was interrupted when Long Suffering Wife strolled by the computer and stopped dead in her tracks.  “Um, is there something you want to tell me?” she asked eventually.    

 “Just gathering some data for the column dear,” I replied as I scribbled frantically away. 

  “Bit of a sensitive subject isn’t it?”  she said in a worried voice. 

“Don’t worry little mate,” I answered, patting her arm in a reassuring way, “I’ll treat it with my usual tact and sensitivity.”  She tottered off for a lie down as she had suddenly come over all faint.   

Anyway, if the statistics are to be believed, then Gladstone could potentially be home to nearly one thousand gay (Rainbow Folk), and I wondered why I didn’t know any.  Or perhaps I do…  And there’s the problem; it’s not something you can actually ask someone is it?  Not unless you’re seeking the sort of response which may quickly turn violent.      

Obviously I’m not the only one who has difficulties knowing who is and isn’t gay, thus the calls for a ‘Pink Nightclub’, for people who want to hang out with like-minded folk, comparing designer clothes while sipping expensive cocktails.  And if the stats are correct, then the venue may need to be much bigger than first thought, and will require a lot more little paper umbrellas than is currently available in our town.

But, I’m very cynical when it comes to statistics, particularly since the 2001 Census, when over seventy thousand Aussies claimed to be Jedi Knights.  Can you believe that?!  Some of them may be living in our town!  You may even be working alongside one, but who would know?  Maybe one day they’ll have a club too, where they could meet, socialise, and compare light sabres.  Until then, all I know is; ‘It’s lonely being the only Jedi in the Village’.

Yesterday I struggled awake at 5.30 am, sat on the edge of my bed then thought, ‘Not today.’  Another run postponed due to heat and tiredness. 

Instead I walked the dogs to the shop, got the papers, did some scribbling, then, because I was feeling guilty, decided to go to the gym and do an aerobics session.  A quick check of my schedule revealed that at 9.30 am they were doing a Fitbox class.  Right on!

There were two blokes, me and some lad who looked superfit, among a class of women of varying ages.  Three of us were first timers.  We did some warm ups, learned a few basic positions then teamed up with a punching partner. 

I got Betty (yes, her name has been changed!)

Betty has been a keen participant of these classes, and it shows.  She has a mean right.  Real mean.  We take it in turns to punch, jab, and uppercut each other, glove to pad.  The counting thing is my downfall.  Thankfully Betty counts while she hammers the pads.   

At the halfway point, I’m in a lot of pain.  Every inch of my clothing is dripping with sweat, and my punches are definitely losing their ‘oomph’.  Speed is also not my thing by this stage.  Betty is not only fast, but still hitting with considerable impact. 

During a break, I apologise to the entire group for anything I may have inadvertently done, or said to them in the car park prior to the class.  I don’t want any of these people upset with me… ever. 

The other bloke in the class has had some boxing training in the past.  The loud smacks coming from his gloves reverberate around the room.  I try to match the sound, but can’t keep up the pace.  My arms are turning to custard, and I can’t seem to catch my breath. 

In spite of the pain, the fact that I can’t count, that I’m often leading with the wrong hand, and my left arm refuses to play the game on the uppercuts thanks to an old break, and that I’m being outpunched by a girl, I am actually surprised to find myself having a good time. 

Betty is encouraging me, and I crack jokes.  We push eachother a bit harder.  Then we swap with the rest of the group.  One woman is literally shaking, her arms are like jelly.  I sympathise and don’t hit her gloves too hard, and count faster than she is hitting.  We are both happy with this  

At the end of the class the Little Pocket Dynamo running the session laughs and says, “You won’t recognise your own handwriting for a while!”  She’s right.  My hands are shaking so much I think I’ve contracted galloping palsy. 

It’s the hardest workout I’ve done in a long time.  Apparently we burned more calories (approx 2300) in that session than an hour on the treadmill.  I’m hooked.  Well, hooked, uppercut, and jabbed.

In a desperate attempt to stave off watching the Chipmunk ‘squeakuel’, I managed to divert the Littlest Princess into the following movies over the past couple of weeks. 

The first offering, Fantastic Mr. Fox was quite enjoyable.  We got a few laughs, and (for me anyway) a couple of ‘close to the bone moments, eg:  “…does anyone read my column?”  “Why can’t you be happy with the life you’ve got?”  etc. 

There was no Disney schmaltz either.  The baddies were bad, and the goodies actually killed chickens.  Ok, they didn’t show them actually ripping the heads off, but as close as you can get.  In fact I wouldn’t have been surprised to see one of them having a dump!  Maybe it was my eyes, but the colours used were reminiscent of an old movie, maybe this was a deliberate move by the director, tipping his hat to the author, Roald Dahl. 

Anyway, we left the theatre with smiles on our faces, and a desire to watch the show again.  Probably not a movie for the littlies, but one for kids over 8-ish? 

This week we waddled back to see The Tooth Fairy.  Now, I’m not a big fan of the Disney, ‘Paint by Numbers’, cliché ridden, oddball character gets girl and saves the day type films.  And I’ve haven’t actually seen Dwayne Johnson in a film yet, which goes to show you how out of touch I must be.  But… I actually enjoyed this film.  The Littlest Princess enjoyed this film.  We both laughed, enjoyed some whispered private jokes, and left the theatre feeling pretty damned good. 

The character, Tracy, played by a stringbean Englishman, cracked me up.  He is the spitting image of an old workmate of mine, and has the same characteristics, which was probably why I liked him so much.  He and Dwayne worked well together, and Billy Crystal’s small parts were equally enjoyable.  He’s good at what he does ol’ Bill. 

On the way home, the Littlest Princess asked if we could buy the movie, so I’ll give that 4 thumbs up on the enjoy-o-meter, and I decided that I could also sit through it again.    

I must admit I was sort of reminded of Hulk Hogans’ films back in the 80’s & 90’s (when he had hair) which seemed to strike a chord with kids, and another ‘certain audience’.  Which has left me wondering, “Am I really a redneck?”  Maybe it’s time I took in some adult offerings to redress the balance?!  Soon.   

Anything but that damned chipmunk movie.

This week I edited out 200 words from a column I had sent in a few weeks ago.  I was pretty happy with the result, and may have to look at my novels to see how much ‘fluff’ could be trimmed out of them!  The Subs’ still managed to trim a few words from this weeks offering (have inserted them in italics).  Enjoy.  Gb! 

One of my favourite places in Gladstone is our Art Gallery, and a few times a year I drag our kids through it, in a long, whining procession, in the hope that they’ll pick up a bit of culture.  I’m a father, it’s my job. 

Gladstone has many outstanding artists who deserve our fullest support and encouragement, and the gallery staff do a wonderful job of promoting their work.  And never have any staff members uttered a cross word in my presence, threatened me with violence, or tossed me from the building. 

Let me explain.  Several years ago I took Long Suffering Wife to the State Gallery and gazing at an ancient marble bust, I wondered how someone could look at a block of rock, then chisel away the shaded bits to reveal a perfect human figure.   

“Don’t touch the statue please sir,” said a security guard. 

“No worries,” I replied, quickly removing my hand.  Five minutes later, I clambered down off a huge metal structure which I had been closely inspecting, and was met by three guards.  One of them was my old mate, “Sir, I asked you not to touch the exhibits!” he bellowed. 

“No,” I countered, “you said don’t touch the statues, and… Hey!  Get your hands off me!” 

As I was bustled to the door, the guard muttered in my ear, “It’s the acid in your hands sir,” he grunted, giving my arm a further twist, “it wrecks the finish.”  Long Suffering Wife joined me in the car park, eventually.   

I returned months later to see a travelling exhibition from the National Gallery, and things were going well until I took a photo of a huge portrait.  A guard appeared, “Hand me the camera, please sir,” he said. 

“Why?” I asked. 

“You’re not allowed to take photos of the exhibits.”

“Listen,” I started, “I’m a taxpayer, so I’ve contributed to the cost of… Aargh!”

Tossing me out a side door, he smiled and said, “Your taxes also pay my wages, sir.”    

Whipping back to the front entrance I was confronted by a posse of heavy set, and grinning security guards.  I’ve heard of suffering for your art, but I wasn’t prepared to suffer that much. 

“I’ll be back!” I cried shaking a defiant fist. 

“And we look forward to seeing you again sir,” came the merry reply. 

In our art gallery they actually mean that when they say it.  So, I heartily encourage all of you to pay a visit.  And best of all, you won’t have to wear a disguise like a certain individual does when he visits the State Gallery.  Oh, and don’t forget to take the kids.