Author Archives: technogumby_UrbanMs

There’s (still) a rat in my kitchen.

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We have been enjoying our cosy old world kitchen, feeling very capable handy people and project managers. Having spent several thousand dollars renovating, precipitated by the need to seal the floor to stop the rodents getting in, it was a bit of an anti-climax to find it was still happening. Hmmm, but I’d removed all the furniture including built in cupboards and nailed down stainless steel mesh robustly over any hole bigger than a pencil, and curved it up under the masonite walls before nailing on the trim with pedantic satisfaction; a job well done. So where could the rat be getting in?

Ah: under the stove was a small hole. Not to be thwarted as the mightier, larger and supposedly more intelligent creature, I took some quick set epoxy putty and plugged the hole. That’s that!

Over the next  couple of days, I heard sounds like the shed door closing loudly. Metallic sounds. I assumed it was the westerlies although I couldn’t see what was making the noise. The dogs kept going toward the back door and barking. Then I realised the sound was coming from the oven area, but as soon as I walked into the kitchen, the sound stopped. Undeniably, the sound was still happening periodically… a loud sound… could a rodent be trapped in the oven? Repeated examinations and openings of the oven door and sneaking ins with a torch revealed no rodent. I started to worry I had somehow sealed in the living when I blocked that hole in the floor, but why would it sound metallic?

Just when I thought I was going insane – well I am, but anyway – after tapping the floor of the oven compartment trying to mimic the exact kind of metallic noise, through a gap at front under the door hinge, I saw the rodent, exhausted under the bottom tray of the oven with a look that said, “OK you got me. I can’t get out. I suppose you’ll kill me now.”

Well at least I had finally SEEN the rodent, so at least there was a diagnosis, but looking at the oven construction was bringing to mind some very destructive and expensive scenarios for getting the little fellow out. It clearly couldn’t get itself out as it had been rattling around in there for a couple of days, poor thing. There was some sort of black tray in the compartment with it and I wondered if that had slipped in position as the rodent got in, trapping it there. Luckily, while feeling around to see how the very bottom panel might come off, it opened effortlessly to reveal a storage compartment for oven trays! I didn’t know we had a bottom compartment in this oven. So I looked in and the frightened rat disappeared up the back wall, into the cavity behind the oven compartment, which I assume is where it had fallen in, from the gaps at the top.

So I left the compartment door open, turned off the light, put the dogs in the bedroom and left the back door open. Problem solved I think. The only thing is if it likes it in there and chooses to return, although I hope it’s learnt its lesson. Extreme vigilance will nevertheless be required prior to lighting the oven. I think we’ll open the bottom tray first, just in case a quick exit is necessary. THAT may deter a long term settlement but I’d hate to roast a live rodent, or realise too late and have a flaming furry rat charge about like Halley’s comet, setting fire to everything.

So the good news is that:

1)      At no time had a rat been in the actual oven space where we cook food to eat, and

2)      The tray in the storage compartment turned out to be the oven griller shield we have been looking for for months now, ever since the oven was installed! I will obviously need to CLEAN this, but at least we can now use the griller after all.

I’m dangerous when bored.

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I have great affection for the furry creatures of the earth, this is true, but when the local rodents, who’d long been using the holes in our floor boards as the rat superhighway, started to feast in our kitchen at night, first spreading scraps on the floor then going for the fruit in the bowl on the table, this was really stretching the friendship. Time to pull in the welcome mat. Poisoning is not my cup of tea, and I like to keep it that way, so I’d have to plug the holes in the 1890’s floorboards, the historical remnants of plumbing past.

Being unemployed, there was no excuse why the tools couldn’t come out of the shed. However I wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable mess I’d find lurking behind the kitchen cabinet kickboards, as I approached with resignation, crowbar in hand.

I wasn’t in love with our 80’s chipboard kitchen, not even the “classic” orangey coloured benchtop, in fact especially not that. Chipboard: surely whoever invented this stuff deserved to be the one dealing this mess. Chipboard: just add water for a soggy flaking mess. Rat urine will do nicely if water is not available. The industrious little creatures had chewed right through the stuff and made themselves at home.

Well that was easy. Too easy: the kickboards came away leaving the disintegrating cupboard walls looking at me. It was then that the conviction and spontaneity possessed me. I declared, “I’m going to rip out the kitchen”.

I was a little tentative at first, which was potentially life-saving.  Slowly but surely I uncovered a Pandora’s box of previous dodgy renovator oversights. Of course you would just tack a power point inside the cupboard and install a cupboard with wiring running outside the wall behind it. They very forward thinking individuals who put in the ex-kitchen, revised the sash window sill up several inches to put the bench in, which explains why our kitchen window can’t be locked (project for next time). However, once I started with the power saw, reservation went out the window. I managed to remove the entire cupboard, leaving the sink in place on a temporary wooden frame.

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What a journey of discovery as I replaced damaged Masonite walls and matched trims, removing obsolete plumbing from the wall space and discovering the original house didn’t even have a kitchen and that it was constructed on the existing verandah. Taking the bit in my teeth, I removed the sink taking it out the back to wash up using a hose and bucket.

Then I sealed the floor. Hooray, but what about a kitchen now? Five weeks after the crowbar entered the kitchen, we had repaired the walls and painted and had a new cabinet made and installed…. but what about the hole in the floor under the stove?

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ANZAC Day

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Our family didn’t go to war. My Father was an  electrician and therefore essential services. Both my Brother’s escaped conscription in the seventies as their numbers didn’t come up and they were in uni which may have saved their bacon. Lots of other people weren’t so lucky. Like an evil lotto, their birthday was drawn from the bowl and off they went, unless they wanted to go to jail. My Father’s friend wound up in the guts of a bomber, stuck there with no way to bail out if the plane went down. He learnt Morse code and had to keep his mind focused  to send and receive messages as all hell was going on around him. He returned from WWII, but as a frail nervous wreck for the rest of his life.

My Father the tradesman was sent out with a mate on an American warship to fit some fans in the mess hall. The US soldiers were not used to the tropical heat. The ship went out on exercises in Moreton Bay while the work was being done. As the ship walls were metal, the fans were welded on. Then the on-board guns were fired, modern day cannons and the fans fell off the walls, such was the force. Not to be outdone, they then welded the fans onto the walls so that metal of the fans’ cases and the mess wall flowed freely together, industrial strength. More explosions but the fans stayed put. They explained to the Officer in Charge that not only would the fans not last long with all that vibration, but whoever had to replace them would have a hard job removing them. “No problem,” was the reply.

Clearly the best possible outcome would be the elusive “world peace” as perennially spouted by beauty competition contestants, but humans fight for territory and resources… they even fight for peace, which is ironic.

Because of war there are today millions less people than there would otherwise have been. People who weren’t born because their potential parents were shot, gassed, bombed and tortured. Countless lives were ruined by disability both mental and physical. Perfectly healthy people with all their lives ahead of them, wasted. Looking for justification or meaning for all this is futile but of course, today is the opportunity to pause for thought, for solemn contemplation to honour those who collectively changed the course of history…. as they say, “Lest we forget”.

Things to do with a hire car… #2638

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“Are you coming home from work soon?”

“Yes…” I waited for a supplementary question, “Did you want something?”

“No, I’ll see you soon then.”

I arrived to find a labrador greeting me, which is not unusual, except that we have a brown one and a black one and now here was a blonde one too.

“This is Olsen. Isn’t he lovely? I’ve rescued him.”

Indeed she had rescued him from certain death at the pound…  in a hire car which we had while ours was being repaired post accident…  in a hire car which was due back early in the morning; a hire car with black cloth seats which now looked like a Yeti had rolled in the back.

So off I went to vacuum the car. We can’t get our car off the street as we have a driveway which might once have accommodated Clydesdales but certainly not a car. So time to get the extension cord and take the vacuum out into our busy road and clean the car.

Of course, the lock on the front security grill door had chosen this as the perfect time to jam completely. Therefore out the front window went I with the vacuum cleaner. Were I Sally Pearson, the Olympic hurdler, this might have been simple but, as I am not, parts of me may never articulate quite the same way again.

So on to vacuuming the car to the amusement of traffic driving by… simple.

 

The doctor will patronise you now.

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Have you ever had tests or X-rays taken and received the results in an envelope sealed with a sticker that instructs, “NOT TO BE OPENED EXCEPT BY THE DOCTOR”?

Did you know pathology companies have a policy that they won’t give the results to the patient only to the requesting doctor?

How very audacious of the medical system to keep you the patient, you the paying customer, in the dark, the last to know, waiting on the doctor’s convenience.

It’s your information, it’s your life.

You have paid for it, even if Medicare paid, you and fellow taxpayers paid for it. It belongs to you.

You will be able to understand it. After all the General Practitioner is not a Pathologist or a Radiologist. Even if the detail is not clear to you, there will be an interpretation written in clear English for the doctor to read. It’s usually in bold at the end so it’s easy to find.

If you feel you will not be able to cope with the implications of the results, then of course seek counseling and use your best judgement. However, I feel that most of us, most of the time will just want to know and that should be our option not the doctor’s. I would not want to be waiting and worrying.

Next time you get one of those envelopes, rip it open, so it’s obvious you’ve done so (it’s not naughty) and have a read, so you don’t have to wait to see the doctor. I’m not saying don’t see the doctor.

When Pathology sends your results to the doctor, get a copy. By the way, did you know you have the right to tell the doctor which pathology company you’d like to use rather than accepting whatever company provides the doctor with their stationary. The right of assignment is yours.

Similarly, when you get a script from the chemist ask the pharmacist not to put the sticker over the information about the active ingredient and strength of the medication. Ask them not to throw away the information pamphlet which the drug companies put in each packet. That’s useful information you should know. The chemist routinely throws them out so you don’t get concerned about the side-effects etc. After all, the doctor has made the judgement for you and wouldn’t want you to be unduly  worried, burdened with all that information relevant to the drug you’re taking (?)

Doctors are very qualified, necessary contributing members of society but if no one complains, you get more of the same. It’s only by challenging for patient’s rights, that the culture changes.

Free, free, free…

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Whilst stuck in a waiting room today, I was traumatised by the spectre of daytime television suckering people our of their hard earned money. Have you noticed that those telesales adds no longer advertise the total price? Surely that’s illegal, but obviously not. Perhaps it should be. Today there was free offer of a generous range of cosmetics free for first 295 callers. No costs were mentioned, even the postage was free. I suspect the number 295 was somehow selected on the basis of some dodgy psychology that suggests this is more likely to make people call.

…but hang on, it says, “Credit card callers only”… Why would you need a credit card if the offer is totally free? This is almost as depressing as watching people flush their money down the drain on poker machines.

Taxi!

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Having settled in at Baan Boo Loo overnight and devouring the first of many giant scrumptious breakfasts, it was time to grab the map of the old city of Chiang Mai and start walking. I’m one of those who like following the map but my partner finds it tedious, so I just tried to keep track of where we going as she went about spontaneously. After all, you can never be more than 1 km away as the old city has a surrounding wall and moat. Below is one of the gates . If you have a magnifying glass you can see a Tuk-Tuk and a motorcycle, two of the most common ways to get around in Chiang Mai.

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There are also big red taxis like troop carriers and cars which operate as taxis, just as you would have in Australia. It’s a case of using whichever one is most appropriate. The streets are busy and there are intersecting lanes and lanes off lanes. At home I wouldn’t walk down some of these but here I never felt in danger. If the main road is called Warraroot then the lanes are Soi Warraroot 1 etc.  The thing is, these lanes are very narrow and the drivers here are fearless and skillful in negotiating traffic, commonly coming head on until they work around each other. I didn’t see a hint of road rage. The population is mainly Buddjist. Orn gave me a succinct summary of what this means; “Don’t disturb yourself and don’t disturb others.” They seem to live by it.

The Thai people love their King, not the elected government, but the Royal family whose images are displayed as giant posters all around. Such is the respect for them that the poster images show a younger King and Queen although they are becoming elderly. The King is best known for popularising the notions of environmental awareness, sustainability and self-sufficiency forty years ago which makes him a visionary trend-setter really.

Everywhere you look,  you can see the clash of the old and new. The commercial influence is all pervasive.

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Just as it is in Australia, the tearing down of traditional houses in favour of modern buildings is happening apace and is controversial in some quarters. Concrete is the new black. I noticed in the week we were there, a building being made ready to sell motorcycles. The construction was still finishing as the shops were being fitted out. You wouldn’t see that in Australia. Another thing you wouldn’t see is bamboo scaffolding. It’s quite strong and flexible but is only good for six months after it is cut. I hope there’s some good quality control on that! Here’s what it looks like.

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Here you can see a typical street scape with the open red taxis.

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Crossing the road takes a little getting used to. If you waited for a clearing you’d wait forever. It’s a matter of assertiveness and judgement. All forms of vehicles flow around each other. It’s almost mesmerising. Somehow the locals manage not to have accidents. The only incident I saw was some fellow coming off his moped. He just looked a bit embarrassed and just got back on. There aren’t many pedestrian crossings, but it’s a bit different: it’s not called a Zebra crossing because of the black and white stripes; at a zebra crossing run like a zebra! I found it quite cute that the traffic lights have a smaller set below so the Tuk-Tuk drivers can see them.

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I would hate to be a phone technician here. This post is one of the neater ones!

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The Tuk-Tuk drivers are assertive but not pushy. Anytime they see a tourist walking they offer their services. They don’t speak English very much, but quoting the name of the nearest temple e.g. Wat Phra Singh gets you close and pointing works from there.   Home to Baan Boo Loo.

Here, kitty, kitty!

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This photo above is of one of the two largest tigers we met at Tiger Kingdom. The handler took this shot because the guests are not to get this close to the face. In fact just after this shot, a playful swipe sent the camera flying but to no ill effect. Point taken though. This fellow is 20 months old and about 4 foot long. Its paws are as big as our hands. We were allowed to lie against its rump, play with its tail and rub its belly, which they seem to like a lot.   Amazing opportunity. There were four large cats in this enclosure. The handlers were playing with them just like little pussy cats… which of course they’re not. A young girl was hastily chastised by staff for sticking her hands through the fence from outside despite clear signage to the contrary.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

At Tiger Kingdom you can get in touch with tigers of all sizes. You can literally buy tickets for personal encounters with the smallest, small, medium and largest tigers… take your pick. The smallest were about the size of pet cats. We lay down with them and had a good pat and cuddle. I don’t know where else you’d get to actually touch a tiger… and all this for $30 each!

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I was pleased to see the conditions for the animals were clean and spacious and that the handlers did not mistreat the tigers.

 

 

 

 

 

The elephant in the room

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About an hour an a half north of Chiang Mai, into the mountains, is the Elephant Nature Park, a different sort of elephant attraction because the focus is on the well being of the animals.   These are not wild elephants but a lucky handful of those who were rescued from cruel servitude, injured or just neglected and unwanted after the logging trade was finally wound down, just before every last teak tree was removed from the face of Thailand… just in time I hope.

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The park is set in beautiful mountain country, similar to rainforest, with a swift flowing mountain river running through. There is accommodation for over night stays and it’s possible to volunteer here. There’s plenty to do… and plenty of “do”. The poo patrol is kept busy.  We fed the elephants pumpkins, pineapple and bananas, the latter being the gold currency it seems. They’re very keen on bananas. You can walk with the elephants around the park and wash them in the river, which is great fun. They then have a good scratch and cover themselves in mud which seems counter-productive but then the sun is quite hot here.

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The ages range from 60+ to the newest who was only a month old when we saw him. There is no breeding program here, so the birth was a surprise. The mother elephant had been rescued from Burma after having stepped on a land mine (unfortunately common). Half of one of her massive feet had been blown sideways, but soon after arriving in the park, she gave birth. With extensive and on-going veterinary care she is recovering well enough on that foot but of course will never be quite the same again. Good thing she’s in proper care. Some elephants are forced to work the streets of Bangkok, terrified and at risk of being killed by traffic. Please do not give money to people using elephants in this way.

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Each elephant in the park has a fellow who accompanies it everywhere all day, a mahout in the old terminology, but the elephants are not beaten here. We saw a video about how wild elephants are tortured to “break them in” for work. Traditionally, they were locked in a crush, restrained and prodded with sharp spikes for days without and water. I didn’t know the full extent of this before. Some of the elephants here have broken bones from work injuries. Another was deliberately blinded in both eyes to force obedience. This was after she had given birth while working on a mountain-side, the newborn tumbling down the slope away from her, still in its sack where it would have perished. She was too distressed to obey commands so blinding her was their response. What a horrible story. Here in the park she has no further problems, thanks to having been adopted by another elephant who is her “seeing eye elephant” so to speak. They are never far away from each other. In fact here they are below..

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If you wish to see elephants in Thailand please do go to Elephant Nature Park because the money you spend there goes  to  the  care, feeding and veterinary costs for these magnificent animals. There are also about 300 dogs in the park, rescued from the streets of Bangkok during the 2012 floods.

http://www.elephantnaturepark.org

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Snakeman, he so crazy!

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For about $30 a taxi driver in Chiang Mai will drive you around all day, however far you like, waiting for you to go to whatever shows or shopping you wish. As we entered the King Cobra snake show, we were keenly greeted by staff, “C’mon lady-boys, come and see snake show!”  OK then. The warm up was the younger snake handlers with various smaller local snakes. At one point a fire-cracker was let off as a short length of rope was tossed into the audience at the feet of a Japanese lady who was instantly screaming.

Then out came the King Cobras. The scale is hard to see in the photo but they are as thick as my forearm. We were assured that no one within lifesaving driving distance had any ant-venom and anyone bitten would die within 30 minutes. We assumed they’d been milked of venom before the show.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

So the Snake Man worked with two of these simultaneously, repeatedly leaning over to kiss one. The compere worked a PA system with the disco music volume being lowered for comments such as, “Snake Man, he so crazy,” and “Snake man want to kiss you, Watch out Snake man.” After suitable photo opportunities, the laughing Snake Man jostled the still rearing cobra in front of us, about a foot away, then milked it, showing that there was actually a large amount of venom there.

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It’s a hard way to earn a living. The audience tossed some money into the ring. We had the usual nature park photo of us with a medium sized python around our shoulders, then it was off to Tiger Kingdom!

Out on the hustings

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Before the internet and even before TV was the main source of propaganda distribution for politicians, public speaking throughout the electorate was the way candidates aired their views to the voters.

I was in early primary school and was excited to read in the newspaper that the then Lord Mayor, Clem Jones would be speaking around the corner from us. I asked my parents could I go and listen.

“Just don’t make a nuisance of yourself”

So there was the Lord Mayor of Brisbane standing  on a soap box sort of thing, speaking his mind. At the end, after others had asked their questions, I approached, “My parents vote for you. Would you like to come around for a cup of tea?”

And so the Lord Mayor of Brisbane followed me home, possibly to see what sort of parents raised such a precocious child and allow her to walk unaccompanied to political rallies.

If I recall correctly, Mother had her hair in curlers and Father was wearing his usual white singlet and shorts; perfect for an audience with Clem. They had a bit of a laugh. I didn’t even get into trouble.

Mimba

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When I turned eight, I joined the Brownies, which is the younger version of the Girls Guides. Our new leader asked what totem name we would give her. Looking  through a book of aboriginal words, we chose Mimba, which means a flock of pigeons and the naughty Brownies were possibly suggesting a link to what typically drops from pigeons from time to time.

Anyway Mimba took us on a bus trip. I found a seat next an old lady and chatted away, then to my horror, noticed the other Brownies were no longer on the bus. I hopped off at the next stop but couldn’t see them anywhere. There was nothing else for it: I would have to find a Police officer and confess my lack of attention. I was relieved to find a policemen in a café. His motorcycle was parked out front. I’m sure he was delighted when, just as he was about to chomp into a large steaming burger, I approached him  and, all courage failing, burst into tears. Oh great, a lost Brownie. It must’ve made his lunch.

The saving grace for the policemen’s lunch was that he could not put me on the back of his bike so he called a police car. The only available car in range was a plain clothes detective’s car. They were also delighted to be dealing with a lost child. After all, they already had problems of their own. “Wanna puppy, kid?” One of the detectives looked at me hopefully. On the back seat was a box of puppies to be given away. I already had a dog and so couldn’t help.

By the time the police car drove into the reserve and up to the Guide Hut, Mimba was just returning with the others. She had no idea I was missing. The police asked her a few pointed questions about her competency. Poor Mimba. Good thing it was time to go home.

 

Roundabout

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My father came up the back stairs one day, many years ago, his glasses twisted so they barely sat on his face. There was a tell-tale cut across the bridge of his nose. He looked like the boy from the Band Aid add, who’d skinned his knee and was coming home to clean up. He was somewhat out of breath at the top of the stairs, after all he was well past middle age, but still built like a wiry blacksmith. If I wanted the details, I’d have to conspire, so I asked him what he’d been up to.

From what he said and my knowledge of his personal style from past experience, here is what probably happened.

Driving along in his 1962 Chrysler Valiant station wagon he saw a chap on a motorbike (the scourge of the earth) daring to enter the same roundabout he was approaching.

Given that my Father had no great interest in  road rules generally and, in particular, any that didn’t suit him, there was a near miss which sent the motorcycle rider flying off his bike. The man got up and approached the car. Let’s call him Giovanni. This action is likely Giovanni’s first mistake as my Father was simply waiting for him to pick up his motorcycle and get out his way so he could keep driving.

Giovanni: Hey you respectable elder citizen with significant driving experience. You seem to have nearly killed me. Would you like an opportunity for comment on that assertion?

Kev: I’ll give you, you person of likely Italian ethnic origin, an opportunity to just leave before I feel it necessary to help you remove your motorcycle from my intended path of travel, by crushing it under the wheels of my car.

Giovanni: Perhaps it is your eyesight which has caused you not to see that I was on the roundabout and therefore had right of way. Perhaps it would help you understand if I punched you in the face through the open window of your very valuable car. (Giovanni’s second mistake, as Kev was just warming up)

Kev: Good fellow, I would hate you to singlehandedly expend such energy to travel in my direction,  so allow me to assist with the further movement of your person into my car by grabbing your proffered fist and arm and continuing your ingress except for your face which will be improved by repeated contact with the outside of the surround of my car window. Don’t worry, it’s quite solid in construction.

Giovanni: Actually your eyesight is quite good. You really don’t need these glasses which I will now stomp into the road surface under my feet, just for the exercise and so you are not troubled by disposing of them. (Mistake number 3)

Kev: (alighting from the vehicle) You know some exercise would be good for me too. You must be careful to buy only top quality motorcycle helmets. In fact I have dire concerns for your welfare if you continue to wear this one. It smashes into splinters on the gutter. You see, there’s nothing left but the chin guard now. You should hurry and go buy a better one.

Giovanni: (picking up his bike and getting out of there) You know, it is your mental state which has been the problem. If you will accept my advice, you would be appropriately housed in an asylum. Have a nice day.

So then we had a cup of tea and I agreed not to tell Mother. Kev had been a bad boy.

 

 

Hot massage!

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We decided to travel to Thailand because we like Thai food and were intrigued by the little we knew about the place, and most of all because we wanted to see the great work being done at Elephant Nature Park. However we did know of the reputation of the Thai sex industry, so we initially viewed with suspicion the invitations on every street to have a massage. Our hostess Orn, at Baan Boo Loo. assured us that the sex trade was mainly in Bangkok and not in the old city of Chiang Mai. She arranged for us to go to a very nice and reputable establishment for Thai massage. The taxi to Fah Lanna Spa was complimentary and  punctual, so we hurried downstairs, but without our glasses, as we discovered reading the massage menu. Squinting, we chose one hour of this (pointing) followed by one hour of that (pointing). After a very relaxing cup of herbal tea, we were ushered down a walkway bordered by fish ponds to a very private area where we donned the largest size they had in modesty garments and lay down as instructed. Hot rocks were applied to us… VERY hot rocks. At least we were only going to be having this phase for… um… one whole hour. I tuned out after a while and it became better. There followed a pummeling which seemed disproportional in strength to the stature of the elegant Thai ladies who were administering this therapy. Politely they asked us if we were OK. Politely we answered that we were. After all this is what we had requested. The massage although set at the softest of the available choices, was thoroughly chiropractic. At the end of two hours I stood up feeling that I must be two inches taller. Surely this was akin to a benevolent elephant stomping. We made our way back to the reception area where we had more very lovely herbal tea. It really was nice, but I’ve no idea what it was; I almost suspect there was something pain-killing in it, as we vowed to return for more before we returned to Australia… but next time, with our glasses.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Massage (of the entirely appropriate kind) is very cheap in many places along the roads and we had  massages at various places. Some are little caravans or demountables but one place was an art deco building which may one have been a bank turned into a mix of a polite granny’s lounge and a clean swimming pool change room. We had neck and leg massage there for an our for about $4.50 Australian. Just the thing if you’ve been walking around all day. From the outside of the building though it looked like nothing in particular.

Next time at Fah Lanna Spa we had a facial and a massage more like what a sports therapy person would deliver back home. We had this in a large open room which was very relaxing and this I would recommend to anyone.

http://www.fahlanna.com

 

I’m being crushed by a Boeing constrictor.

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OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAHow exciting: my partner and I finally going overseas together. Not really looking forward to the long flight but it has to be done. I wonder who will sit in the aisle seat. I must be getting older. Once upon a time I would hope to get a window, now I realise that strategically, the person in the aisle seat is standing (sitting actually) between me and the loo.

Oh, a body builder, oh joy.

Has anyone else noticed that men take for granted that they will get the sole use of the arm rest for the entire journey? I don’t know how they decide what to so when the person beside then is also male.  Anyway, this fellow went one better: taking the small pillow provided (but not for this purpose) and putting it over the crook of my arm and onto my breast, he then plonked his over sized arm there. I felt so useful and fulfilled. I don’t know why I didn’t say anything, perhaps I was in shock.

So apart from eating and drinking it was going to be a long trip. Even eating was challenging. Try this: move your left hand in front of you and to the right and your right hand over to the left so that your elbows are together. Now try to reach out and do anything with your hands without moving your hands more than a foot in front of you. Well not quite that bad, but almost. The drinks steward stopped coming past us as a response to the bulk-man demanding as much free alcohol as possible. Vodka in one hand and rum in the other.  Classy. I managed one drink before our steroid man fell into a snoring coma.

I was saved by the inflight selection of music which was extensive. As much as I basically passed out for a couple of hours, when we arrived at Bangkok, I was fairly cabbaged. As we landed, I could see this was the biggest airport I’ve ever seen (which means nothing as I had previously only ever travelled within Australia and to the north island of new Zealand). Our luggage was checked straight through to Chiang Mai so we just had to find the connecting flight. We had an hour and a half, so that would be easy.

As we left the plane, we had no idea which way to go but were swept along by the flow of people who, hopefully, did. As we passed through the gate, we had stickers attached to our chests so staff could locate lost tourists, no doubt. After following the bright yellow signs to domestic connecting flights, for about 20 minutes, we started to wonder just how far we’d have to walk. The next the sign advised another 1000 metres! Good thing we weren’t dragging our luggage with us. There were so many flights through the airport that we couldn’t see ours displayed on the flashing signs which  alternated between Thai and English. When we ran out of signs, we asked someone who pointed and happily found our connection.

Our body builder went off to join his connecting flight to Phuket and then to yet more alcohol, no doubt.

Good thing our bags did arrive safely with us in Chiang Mai. We were to stay in Baan Boo Loo guest-house in the old city of Chiang Mai and were to be met there. “Baan Boo Loo” was written on a piece of cardboard held by a smiling man who spoke no English, so we followed him to our means of travel, a Tuk-Tuk or motorcycle with passenger compartment attached. He politely ignored my inelegant attempts to get in the back, requiring a gynecological examination like posture. The city flashed past, albeit at a relatively sedate pace as the two-stroke engine farted out kerosene fumes into the cool refreshing night air. This was fast enough as our  luggage was swaying in the open-air compartment as we traversed the roads then sideroads then alleys like footpaths and then to our guest house where Orn waited to show us mercifully to our rooms and bed. Ah: horizontal… snore!

http://www.baanbooloo.com

 

 

Words to live by…

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Sophie and Jess offer their wisdom aided by the late great blind black Cocker Spaniel, Moby…

Moby: Just because humans put it in the bin, doesn’t necessarily mean that you couldn’t eat it.

Sophie: In fact, don’t assume that something is inedible until you have actually tried it. Who would have known that socks and undies were so tasty? Great texture. The toes and crutch are the best bits.

Moby: You will always regret not stealing that bread if you don’t do it now!

Moby: Any flat (or flatten-able) item on the floor is potentially a dog bed.

Sophie: Any human bed is definitely a dog bed.

Jess: Humans look silly when they have no fur on.

Sophie: … and yet, humans are dirtier and smellier than dogs. They need one or even two baths a day or they start to pong but we can go weeks at a time. Sniff me! Go on, tell me honestly.

Jess: Fresh as a daisy. Actually maybe you sat on a daisy. The other day, I scooted on mint… really fresh… tingly too.

Sophie: You dirty old dog, you… and you’ve been spayed!

Wisdom: it’s not what it used to be.

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1

We’re often quoted the words of the ancients as being evergreen and relevant to our lives today. Why not instead hear from the ordinary folk? Surely everyone wasn’t parading about in a toga philosophising. Instead of Pliny the Elder, what about Plonko the dimwit? Surely volumes could be written from his lips… but why would you bother, you ask? “Don’t bend over to look in a cupboard and then stand up abruptly,” doesn’t compare with “I think therefore I am.” No, actually it’s a lot more practical isn’t it?

I’ve seen any number of people who would benefit from this sort of grass-roots advice:

  • If you are fat and forty, parcour is not for you.
  • If you spend all your money you’ll have none.
  • Don’t use an edge trimmer to mow a whole lawn.
  • That person is only being complimentary because they work for you.

In case you think I’m being smug, I would benefit from not bending over, walking into our metal chicken shed and then standing up. In fact, at the risk of demolishing my own case that prior advice might help, I’ve done this on more than one occasion!

Nevertheless, Plonko, who has done every stupid thing in the book, reminds us not to walk around with our head in the clouds, over-engineering things and ignoring the obvious.

Sticking our beaks in.

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Our friend down the road, who is always catching me for a chat when I’m walking the dogs, called me on the phone saying she’d done her back and couldn’t look after the chickens at the local pre-school during the holidays, as she’s agreed to do, and could we help.

“We’ll just bring them home to our girls,” says my partner.

…”but we don’t have a box to put them in”

“Don’t be silly, Gail”

So we drive down the road and find our way into the kindy, into the enclosure (which has a roof just above head height for kindy kids) and proceed to run around bent over at that height, eventually catching them both, one each.

I’m imagining the headlines in the local paper, “School Pets Chook-napped.” Fortunately, we managed to keep hold of them as we came back though all the gates and into the car with she who volunteered us displaying her grip, no doubt practiced from controlling toddlers, to keep both chickens, Snowy and Rosie,  on her lap until we got home, at which point I opened all the gates at home right through to the back, ran back to the car, grabbed Snowy so we could both run quickly to the back chicken area, leaving the car open in the street as we had no spare hands…

“Someone will steal my handbag, Gail”

“Don’t be silly, dear.”

So it would be simple if both lots of chickens get on… but no, Thelma the pecking bitch chicken took one look at Snowy and pounced, so there was now a logistical exercise worthy of tetris:

  1. PLAN: catch Thelma and evict her from her area until the others go to sleep so she can be put in another area with some straw and camp out… not too cold, not raining. Should be fine.
  2. Other chickens go to sleep and are locked in their house.
  3. Put Thelma in another area where there is cover and straw.
  4. Listen to her crow like a rooster for a fair period of time.
  5. SUPPLEMENTARY PLAN: slide door partition across in the middle of one chook house and lock her in one section of the chicken house, but away from the other potential victims who are sleeping, albeit nervously.
  6. Watch Thelma peck aggressively at the wooden partition then hop up on the roosting perch.
  7. I foolishly think, “Ah she’s given up. She’ll sleep now.”
  8. Watch as Thelma launches off the roost, attempting to break through the wooden partition… several repeats.
  9. I wonder if she’ll break her neck… several repeats.
  10. She eventually roosts, possibly concussed.
  11. In the morning I take Thelma out first and lock her in an open area of yard by herself.

It was a long two weeks, but at least Snowy and Rosie settled in well.

Technogumbies are made not born!

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Did you know that Windows 1.01 was released on November 20, 1985?  So there is no excuse why, in 1995, I didn’t know Word existed.

Returning to University as a mature age student, I strode confidently into the library, familiar with what tertiary study was all about… looking for the library catalogue… looking for the filing cabinet full of paper cards with the book details typed on them, yes, typed on them with a typewriter. Instead, there were only a lot of little televisions. Other people were looking at the details of books on these screens. “Oh, the catalogue is on these screens. I can see it there.” I sat at a blank screen, and discovered that there were many, many key combinations that did not result in anything like instructions appearing as to how to work the catalogue. Eventually someone spoke to me, as you might to someone seriously brain impaired, “Hit this key twice.”

“Oh yeah, that’s simple isn’t it, smartarse,” I thought on my way to the desk to get a set of instructions.

Later in semester, I went to the printing centre to print out my assignment which of course I’d written in DOS, as I’d suffered long teaching myself how to work in DOS. When I’d asked my young friends about DOS, they’d thought I was some sort of uber techno-geek interested in archaic IT. However, now I noticed a page on someone’s screen for the first time that looked a lot better than mine… “It looks like a page that a typewriter makes,” thought I. So it was quite reasonable to exclaim, in a tone reminiscent of someone seeing a space alien, “What is THAT?”…

“What do you mean?” said my fellow student as if I really needed medication. I repeated, “On the screen, what’s that?”

“It’s my assignment. Do you think it looks bad?”

“No, I mean how are you doing that? How are you typing that?

“It’s Word,” was the infuriatingly simple reply. “Yes, don’t patronise me: it’s many words,” but before I could open my mouth, the student recognised the look on my face for the complete ignorance it represented… “It’s a computer program that does this.”

“Wow,” says I. “Where can I get it?”

“Um, just on every computer on campus… on every computer around.”

So my life was transformed. Oh well, I helped others with their Anatomy and Physiology and they explained computer applications to me… win win.

Now when I teach my 82 year old Mother how to use Word 2010 and how to play minesweeper, I do so with a certain humility, understanding that she is not stupid and NO software is intuitive.

Charades, anyone?

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I’m a planner. Before our holiday to Thailand, I checked the flights and our passport expiry dates. I looked up the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade to see their advice as to safety and customs. We were vaccinated within an inch of our lives and listened earnestly to dire prognostications of the kinds of illnesses that could befall us if we ate anything that wasn’t boiled in front of us. I don’t like any nasty surprises… but I’m human… female, in fact… so guess what I forgot.

No problem, of course; I’ll just go to a Chemist. I’m a mature adult and it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. The sign even said, “English speaking chemist.” Great.

My question regarding feminine hygiene products was met with a polite, benevolent but puzzled face. Obviously the chemist speaks some English but not this particular phrase. I speak no Thai. OK, she’s a woman. Great. I try to explain about sanitary napkins: “You know, you put them on your underpants.” No luck. I consider any sort of gesture or diagram which might describe tampons but remembered that it’s very important to be polite in Thailand.  A very rare thing happened: words deserted me. So I smile and look around the shelves, looking increasingly like someone who should be returned to the asylum from whence I had obviously escaped.

“This not medicine?” The chemist broke the silence, for which I was immensely grateful. Clearly chemists in Thailand only sell medically relevant products, which, in retrospect, is perfectly sensible. “No, not medicine,” I managed, backing slowly out the door, nodding and smiling, hoping that no closed circuit television would be capturing how supercilious I looked for later display on TV or the web.

Thankfully, in the main street was a cluttered shop with bulk washing power and toilet paper… aha! All the things that are now crammed into our Chemist shops at home but at twice the price of a supermarket. There I found tampons and, so relieved was I, that I purchased enough to last until menopause. The “super” napkins that were apparently 20% longer than normal were so short I need to put two together lengthwise. At least I didn’t have to wrap toilet paper in papyrus and secure with a length of string.

Please, don’t let this put you off at all. Chiang Mai is fabulous as I’ll relate elsewhere.