Challenge 33 - Sponge-worthy

A dear friend is having root canal work at lunchtime. I decide to bake her a Whisked Sponge with Blueberry Sauce and Double Cream. I have never made a sponge cake before.

Have no recipe for blueberry sauce so decide to make one up. Hey - I know sauce.

Place blueberries, water and sugar on to simmer. Now have to whisk eggs, sugar etc over pot of boiling water for ten minutes. Fussy! Start whisking. Wrist starts to ache. Change to gammy left hand. Change to right. Sweat dripping (it's hot - 8.30 in the morning and 86F for my US readers; a 'plain stinker' for the Aussies).

Take off heat. Whisk for another 5 minutes, advises cookbook. Arm falls off. Enlist Master Three, who stands on small red chair and whisks with glee.

Line 2 sandwich tins with greaseproof paper. Don't want a sandwich sponge - want traditional round sponge.

Attempt to place rectangular greaseproof paper into round tin. Un-uh. Run pen around base of tin on paper and cut out circle. Strike two - batter will seep underneath. Settle for brute force: multiple layers jammed in hard. Perfect!

Fire Master Three as whisker. He keeps stealing the merchandise. Master Three drops whisk on floor and mixture goes everywhere ... calm thoughts ... - it's 8.45.

Cooking constantly interrupted by Book Brain. Book Brain is an occasional condition I get when working on a manuscript (this an old one called 'Big Girls' Briefs' -going gangbusters lately). I'm in the groove and dialogue runs through my head like a telly on-full in the next room. Periodically I stop and jot in my little book. Tick tock.

Sift flour and salt and, using a metal spoon, gently fold flour into egg mixture, alternately with combined butter and hot water. How?? Grow an extra arm? Look at Master Three. Bad idea. Get Partner out of office and together we juggle ingredients into pan. Batter barely covers the bottom. Maybe sandwich pan better.

Tick tock, too bad. Into the pre-heated oven with you.

Blueberry sauce perfect - take off heat. Blueberry sauce cools and congeals into a tiny black puddle. Remnants up side of pot harden like glue. Stick finger in. Still tastes great, so chalk up as a Win.

Read recipe again and jot notes for Blog in different book. Yarg! Forgot to put hot water in! Damn you, Book Brain. No! I'm sorry ... Don't leave me! How bad can it be? It's only water.

Tick tock, two minutes to go.

Time! Look at cake. Has crust like pavlova. Poke to see if it springs back, as per recipe. It's hard. Poke again. Finger goes right through crust and sponge deflates. Close oven and slip quietly into denial's sweet embrace.

Partner looks at sauce. 'Look, Ma' I say, holding saucepan upsidedown. 'No gravity!' 'Want me to get a coal chisel out of the shed?' asks Partner. I reserve my decision.

Cake's been in oven way too long. Still looks mushy through Hole I Prepared Earlier. Leave cake in.

Take cake out and photograph. Partner looks on with furrowed brow. 'What am I supposed to do with it now?' I ask. 'Discus, anyone?' he says.

Challenge 32 - Tarot

I didn't plan on doing this. Tarot has never held any interest for me. Conjures images of nasty old crones hiding in tents and sharping for money.

This is how it all began ...

Night before I leave my parents' I go through my brother's art works. It's more nerve-wracking than I expected. Haven't looked at this stuff for a couple of years and memories come flooding back.

'Don't forget Alien With Brain,' says Partner. Tell him I don't recall that piece. 'You'll know it when you see it,' he says.

Art all rolled up in postal tubes. Pick one up and try to take lid off. Art falls out the bottom. Mum flinches. Turns out to be art that other artists gave Rohan over time. Whew ...

Pick up another one and same thing happens. Why me? Try to distract mother with pithy observation: 'There's a frog on your book,' I say. 'It appears to have relieved itself.' 'Well, Dear, you are in the country,' says mother. I'm left wondering how something so big could come out of such a bitty little frog like that. 'You going to move it?' I ask. 'To, say ... the toilet?' 'Nope,' says Mum. 'The python's moved back in.'

Oh joy ... maybe it'll eat the tarantulas. Little brother told me Incey escaped last year. Incey is the size of a bread plate. Mum spent the next two days stalking around the house with a broomstick. Incey eventually turned up minus a leg. The common theory is that he got into a fight with the neighbour's dog. Having met the gigantic, poisonous arachnid my money's on the spider.

Back to the Tarot ... I move a pile of stuff and a Tarot card falls out. What is that? I wonder. The Nine of Clavicles? Ah. Pentacles.

Not too freaky as freaky goes. What's freaky is that I moved the same pile of stuff two more times and two more times the sodding Nine of Pentacles falls out.

Pick up a book on Tarot. Most embarassed at library as also have books on ghost hunting, witches, the occult and some fluffy thing by a former Las Vegas showgirl about the underworld (and she don't mean the one in Vegas, baby). All in the name of research for a novel, I assure you.

I open the book. Within a whole minuite I glean certain facts:

1. Fives are bad.

2. I should have checked to see if my card landed upsidedown.

3. There is a card called The Fool so I reckon I got off lightly.

Look up Nine of Pentacles (sounds like a lucky octopus, boom boom). The card features a rich chick holding a bird. So far so good - can't remember the last time one of those bit me. Book says I have no concern over finances and that the spirit world would provide buckets more than I'll ever need.

Run right out and buy a Lottery ticket.

Card also says I'll travel to exotic places. Not so far. And the next person who asks why will meet the blunt end of my boot.

If the card is reversed it means I'll still have buckets of money but no love to share it with. That's fine - I'll just move to Hollywood and join a support group for the rich and aimless.

Console self that if Lotto doesn't pan out, family is all the wealth I'll ever need.

PS to the Powers the Be: That doesn't mean I wouldn't like a super yacht ...

Challenge 31 - The Table

Wake up with burst of energy. Today I shall conquer The Table!

Buy varnish at hardware store. Feel like a bona fide tradie



(that's a 'tradesman', for those who require US translation). Buy 3 giant paint brushes for applying said varnish. 'They're a bit big, aren't they?' says concerned shop guy. 'Nope,' I reply. 'I figure the bigger they are the less painting I have to do.' 'Gee,' he says. 'Never thought of it that way ...'

I take home manly wares. Partner looks at varnish. 'That stuff's toxic,' he says. 'Off-gasses for years.'

Darn! That stuff cost me thirty bucks! I look for receipt. No receipt. Hide tin from Partner and head back to hardware store. Vague recollections of carpenter friend using orange oil on his wood. Find some and ring it up ($20). Also buy roll of sandpaper ($12). This table is getting expensive ...

Take BEFORE pic of table. It's where the kids do pretty much everything - gluing, painting eating, plotting destruction of the world - so it's in bad shape. Use sander for a while and give up. Table is lumpy so sanding is too patchy to be useful. Have lightbulb moment and change sandpaper. Is a bit better, so I alternate between sanding by hand and using evil machine. Take DURING pic.

It's 70% humidity today and 33 degrees C. Partner ferries me glasses of water on regular basis. Sawdust forming archaeologically significant layers on my skin. Master Three thinks I look like Casper the friendly ghost. Much more of this and it'll be Casper the homicidal ghost.

Finish table.

Give orange oil a test run on coffee table. Table is the lid off a French wine barrel and is about as healthy as the big table (for similar reasons). Check out the difference! And that's without any sanding. So excited I wipe down every wooden surface in the kitchen and lounge room. Wood sparkles with renewed vigour. I feel like the Fairy Godmother of Wood, then change name to Fairy Godmother of Nice Finishes to avoid misinterpretation.

Oil table. Take AFTER pic.

Huzzah!! It's a thing of beauty. Put Chair I Prepared Earlier beside it and bask in the glory of my success.

Hmmmmmmmmmmm. Five other chairs looking a bit sad in comparison. What to do?

Challenge 30 - Roughing it

My idea of a holiday involves a turn-down service and little points on the ends of my toilet paper. So it was with girded loins and steeled jaw that I suggest Partner and I go camping.

And I don't mean Scout Camping (aka baby sitting in a large-ish backyard). I mean the kind of camping where it's just you, the elements and that giant amenities block called Nature.

We arrive at Koombooloomba and set up camp. There are a few families here - mostly with humongous camp set-ups that involve portaloos, camp showers, patios on their broad acre tents and generators to run their fridges. We. however, have two sticks to rub together and a dome tent with the structural integrity of a Kleenex.

Go hunting for firewood. Koombooloomba is on top of a mountain behind Tully - town best known for its giant fibreglass gumboot. Tully measures rainfall in metres, not inches. Dry firewood scarce. We bushwhack, trudge and push our way through hostile territory. I have tick paranoia. Suddenly every tickle on my skin is a blood sucking parasite. Every few steps Ido the pogo and flick frantically at my clothes. I hate ticks.

Back at camp I spy two widow-makers suspended in a tree. 'I'll get one for the fire,' I declare. 'It's going to fall on your head,' says Partner. He picks up a rock and examines thoughtfully.

Remove shoes and start up tree. Tell self nibleness is all in the mind.

Hear words Youtube and camera. Climb faster. Can't reach branch. So close! Lose skin off arm as I slide down trunk like 80 grit sandpaper (see, I know stuff).

Drag esky over and stand on tippy toes. Can just reach branch. 'It's going to fall on your head,' says Partner. Ties a piece of rope to his rock. I reach branch and pull ever-so-gently. Branch touches down like a pussy willow on the wind.

'Ha!' I shout, doing triumph dance. Partner gives loppy smile, like Clint Eastwood. Throws rock over second branch and pulls rope. Branch hits ground. High fives all round!

That evening we hike. Ground covered in dodgy rocks. It's like the surface of Mars out here (see top right hand corner of pic). I fear for my delicate ankles.

Throw my first line into the water. Within seconds I have a fish. A minute later and I have caught the second fish of my life. 'This camping business is AWESOME!' I declare. Partner catches fish and smiles. I throw line in and it snags.

'Don't have many sinkers,' says Partner. 'You'll have to go in.' Toss clothes off and wade into water. Dam at 30%. Ground silty and horrid. Slip on slimy rock and disappear up to armpit. Find line and un-snag.

'It's getting dark,' I say. 'Time to head back.'

'When you're catching fish, you don't leave,' says Partner. 'It's a rule.' He's wearing Dodgy Ron's Fishing Adventures cap so he should know.

'Time. To. Head. Back.' I say. Night falls quickly. Terrain treacherous - no dirt, just shifting shale and slippery rock. Bank incredibly steep. Crest and follow dirt road and hit 6ft fence with barb. Getting tricky to see my own feet. DON'T PANIC!! I mean, don't panic.

Clouds shift to reveal full moon. Make up prayer to Moon Goddess and struggle down rocky embankment. Again. 'Don;t follow too close,' says Partner. 'I don't want you landing on me.' 'Nice,' I say. I would never do something like that. He has no squishy bits worth landing on.

Finally reach camp site and collapse in exhausted heap.

Bask in glory of first night at Koombooloomba. Sunshine, fish and firelight ... how good is that?

Challenge 29 - Feeding Father Foreign Food

My Dad is a meat and three veg kinda guy. In short, he won't eat anything that can't be found in a British hospital cook book.

I break the news to him gently: 'Hey Dad! How 'bout Moroccan for dinner!' 'Moroccan what?' he asks. 'Food,' I say. He blinks a couple of times as the information filters through. 'Sure, Love. Sounds good.'

Yeah, right. Time to show him a whole new world of Funtastic Cuisine. I make the trek into town and stop at supermarket. They have rabbit, pigeons, African spices, you name it -no but no lamb mince. Go to Woolworths. No rabbit, no pigeons, no African spices - and no lamb mince. Go to butcher. Look for lamb mince. Baarp! Strike three! Do I really need to borrow gun and raid nearest sheep farm?

'Got any lamb mince?' I ask the butcher. 'Why?' Okay, smart guy. I'll play your silly game. 'To cook with,' I answer sweetly. 'Hey, John. We got any lamb mince in the freezer?' John scratches head. Does he know where that hand has been? 'I think I saw some a couple of weeks ago. Try on the bottom.' Welcome to the country - where the food is Always Fresh!

I pay an horrendous $15.99 and take home my prize. Dad will eat if I have to sit on his chest. Enjoyment optional. (Of meal, not sitting.) Pop equal amounts lamb and beef mince into pan. Go to find Moroccan spice mix I bought couple days ago. It's not there. I send everyone out in co-ordinated search. Nothing. Nada. A big zipparoo. I have small tanty in the pantry. All spices bought that day are missing.

No problem. Calm thoughts. I know spices ... can make my own! Mix up a bunch of stuff and throw into pan. Feel very witchy. Tastes so good I spend a moment in stunned silence. We're back on track!

Next, vegetable and Haloumi skewers. Everybody likes food on a stick. Everybody worth knowing, that is. Slice off part of my fingernail and some finger below it. Search through veg. Can't find flesh. Oh well. Some lucky punter gets extra protein.

Finish skewering. Family look dubious. 'Look!' I cry. 'Finger Food!' Colour and composition perfect. I am a craftsman. Cook skewers and pop into warming oven.

Now, where's that flatbread ...?

Flatbread missing. Presume worst - the spices knocked it up and they've run away together. Either that or that pesky rip in the space/time continum has struck again.

This time I have tanty in the kitchen in front of family. 'It's all ruined!' I cry. 'Flatbread is integral!'

Mum hands me a glass of red and pats shoulder. 'I'll whip some up, shall I?' Mum starts mixing flour and stuff. I start drinking.

Mum looks at flatbread. 'Well,' she says, 'It's flat, alright.'

Flatbread a disaster. Almost transparent, like cooking pancakes with plain flour. So I've heard ...

I remember skewers. They are burnt and horrible. Pick a piece of Haloumi off and drop it onto bench. It goes clunk. Tastes burnt and hollow, like my soul.

I boycott meal in favour of more red wine. Boys eat Moroccan sloppy Joes.

'That was great, Love,' says Dad. 'Wouldn't want it every night, though.'

Challenge 28 - The Steam Engine

Today I rode the steam train. The Capella is a 4-6-4, the last of its kind in the world and that makes it kind of special. Just think about that word for a moment: the last.

My father and brother volunteer on the line - keeping the boiler stoked, laying track, putting out the odd fire and re-building the odd bridge that burns down because of aforementioned odd fire. That's a funny thing about steam engines. They throw soot and sparks into the undergrowth and their potential for a carnage-strewn wake is impressive. But fear not! They have a Section Car (or Putt-Putt, to use the steam-enginey vernacular) that follows like a trusty Spaniel and squirts the smokey bits before they wipe out the neighbour's milk shed. Dad used to design railway bridges so this is like turning the once-daily grind into a fun hobby. Big boys need their toys. Or so my boys keep telling me.

We arrive two hours early - I assume because said boys want to bask in the splendour of Capella's mighty majectic-ness before all the tourists arrive. Cute, until the rain starts.

But, Dear Reader, this is Ravenshoe (the highest town in Queensland) and what tourists call 'a moderate downpour' the locals call 'heavy mist'. It's all a matter of perspective. Having lived in Ravenshoe I subscribe to the 'heavy mist' school of thought. And it was misting by inches, let me tell you.

The train was all a steam engine should be: noisy, hot, rumbly fun with heaps of whistle toots and bridges so narrow you feel like Harry Potter puffing his way to Hogwarts. The kids are in heaven. We choose a seat in the open carriage and are promised sightings of rare beasts such as drop bears and cobras and bunyips and not-so-rare beasts such as Paris Hilton in the nuddy. I request staff give adequate warning before Paris rounds the bend on grounds I'm fond of my retinas. I win smiles from approving parents.

The kids see farms and dams filled with happy ducks, inventive bush dunnys and cows aplenty. They see iron roofs twisted and torn like paper from Cyclone Larry and piles of rubble that will never be re-built. A group of kangaroos are spooked and hop off into the bush.

'Can we follow them?' asks Master Three. 'No, they've gone bush,' I say. 'Why?' he asks. 'Because that's where they feel safe.' 'Why?' 'Because they're kangaroos,' I say. 'Can we follow them?' 'No.' 'Why?' 'Because those are carnivorous kangaroos,' I sing-song-say. 'They eat small children.' Once-approving parents glare. 'Too much?' I ask.

We arrive at Tumoulin and disembark for scones and jam. Miss Eight asks for orange fizzy and I comply. It's Christmas, afterall. This of course means Master Three has to have some. Within minutes Master Three starts doing laps around the grounds hooting like a train and patting strange dogs with his face. 'Sorry, sorry,' I say. 'Is he scaring him?' 'No,' says the nice Asian lady. 'His eyeballs have been removed.'

I get nose to nose with the poodle. By God, she's right! And yet I feel it looking right through me ...

'Who wants to blast the whistle?' says train guy. Kids swarm like killer bees. Train guy feels the pain. We all feel the pain. Kids hang off that whistle like it runs their life support.

'We like our ears,' I say to Master Three. 'You're not going to do that, are you.' Master Three looks at me like I'm gum on his shoe.

BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRP!

While he's BARP!ing I'm tipping the orange muck into a potplant.

On the way back to Ravenshoe we sit inside. The seats are huge and red with pull-out armrests and massive windows that roll down manually like a motor car from the 70s. On the wall there are B&W pics of the Capella at Tumoulin station in 1913. For such a young country that's pretty impressive. Mum and I pretend we're on the Orient Express and mutually enable eachother's pining need for a G&T.

'What are you looking at?' I ask Mum. All I can see is her rump out the window so it must be good. Could it be Istanbul?? I lurch for the window and bang my eye on the glass. 'It's not that clean,' says Mum, pre-empting my thought of suing the line for excessive cleanliness. I nurse my eye and stagger down the aisle in search of Miss Eight. The ticket lady at the counter looks suspicious. 'S'okay,' I say and bump into the wall with my shoulder. 'I've been drinking.'

I find Miss Eight communing with some special needs gentlemen and their carers. One of them has my camera. I swapped it for a microwave in '07 but it's all I've got. 'Take picture?' he says. 'Absolutlely,' I say.

Back at Ravenshoe the sun is shining and the kids are beaming. Around fifty people disembark, all smiles. Mum and Dad are proud as punch as my little brother steps out of the Capella's engine covered in grease and soot and gives a wave.

Some gin and an icepack, and the day goes down as awesome.

Challenge 27 - Power Tools

After days trying to sand my chair by hand with 240 grit sandpaper I decide to defer to Partner's suggestion and bring in modern technology.

Go to 1st birthday party of friend's son. Give present, kiss baby, ask to borrow sander.

Men pause. Air thickens. Silently they rise and march to Inner Sanctum (i.e. shed) without me. Tool borrowing is serious business. Tool borrowing involves treaties, trade agreements and conventions no woman is privy to. Men are in there a long time. Have I asked too much? Did I push too hard ...? Partner appears holding sander like newborn child. Success!

Partner observes me sanding chair by hand. 'That's 80 grit,' he says. 'You'll leave grooves in the wood.'

I ignore.

'You going to use the sander? Doing it like that? Well, it's kind of a waste of life.'

I don't tell Partner I am having a bad day - so bad in fact that sanding the bloody chair by hand was the best thing about it; meditative in fact, like watering 1/2 acre of lawn by hand. (Am very Zen when upset.)

Partner gets out sander and does technical stuff. Holds it out to me. 'Don't think you can hurt yourself with that.'

Has this guy met me? I take sander like it's a snake. Examine closely. Sandpaper is 80 grit. Ha! Start sanding. Great clouds of old varnish, wood and goodness knows what (is that peanut butter??) float around me like a toxic cloud. Hand begins to ache. And back. And neck.

Manage to run sander over thumb. Is okay - haven't had any feeling in top of thumb since run-in with Vengeful Duck. Bastard! Now have Legacy of Vengeful Duck!

Grit in eyes, up nose, down shirt, in hair. Decide sanding more enjoyable with Champagne. Alcohol steadies the hand, right? That's why professional pool players are banned from a soothing larger before tourney. Decide logic is sound. Pour, drink, sand. Second glass and chair looks good.

Turn chair over. Seat falls off. Have Champagne.

Strangely no longer concerned by lack of seat on chair. I can fix that. I can fix anything!

Time to down tools. Am leaving for holiday tomorrow and need to pick. I mean pack. Shall finish chair and begin on table when I return.

Final Note: Am 'going bush' for three weeks - no internet, no mobile phone coverage. Just three weeks of swimming, eating, cooking and laughing at the stars. Ripe pickings for New Challenges! Especially since Little Brother has new pets: tarantulas called Incey and Wincey. Little Brother also has sense of humour. Did I mention I don't do spiders?

Anyhow, shall try to Post whenever we 'go to town'.

Wish me luck with the spiders!

Challenge 26 - Belly of the Beast

I'm not what you'd call 'well-traveled'. Having said that, I've been lost, shot, robbed and disoriented without ever having to take a long-haul flight, which pretty much evens things out in my book. (The shooting was an air slug to the left butt cheek, but it still counts).

I wake up feeling intrepid. With this in mind I pack myself off to the train station and buy a ticket to No Man's Land, aka, the nastier, dirtier and creepier parts of a place called The Valley. Every city has one. It's where they shoot all the cop shows.

Partner declines to join me on grounds that he doesn't fancy the smell of urine. I feel open-minded and ready to embrace the grottier parts of our culture. Especially in broad daylight. Hit The Valley and take a big noseful of air. Over-ripe mangoes, incense, curry, body odour - no urine. Make note. There's graffiti, filthy pavement, litter and shops with names like Lucky 7, and cafes with crusty ducks in the window hanging by thier feet. We're close to Chinatown (these guys know how to treat a duck). Realise I'm hungry.

Know a Chinese supermarket/acupunturist/herbalist around here (stock must mix 'n match). I want to eat something weird - I mean genuine - not the bog-standard ho-hums found on your average restuarant menu. I go in search of authentic ingredients to make something myself - dried giblets, sharkfins, mouldering mushrooms - anything I need to Google to identify.

Wing Hing's is shut on Wednesday. Today Wednesday! No where else on my radar sells bits of unidentifiable weirdness.

Not to be defeated I find Indian supermarket.

Cool Bollywood music has my sandals tapping. Myriad smells, colours, sounds and strange words cause firestorm in synapses. By God, I love food! Heaps of stuff I can't pronounce. V. authentic. Some bling and a damp sari and I'd be unstoppable.

Asafoetida, Gorkeri, Veola ... no wait. Veola is hand cream. No good on pappadums.

'Bombay Duck Pickle'! Nice to see one of the bastards put to good use. Blurb reads: The Bombay Duck is a fish, so called because it is only found in the Arabian Sea. Some of the world's mysteries were never meant to be solved ...

Shopgirl tries to sell me massive sack of Atta flour so my chappatis are soft. Tell her I left my mule at home. No response. I buy 1kg of flour and find sudden interest in DVD selection - esp. the Indian Ray Romano with cowboy hat and chiquita in a damp sari.

I walk out into the heart of Chinatown and am accosted by ABBA, piped through street P.A. system. Do police know about this?! Sacrilege!

Go in search of Authentic Lunch. Am tourist in No Man's Land, so look for strip club to eat toxic bar nuts and check out Miss Electra's competition. None appear to be open. Wrong time of day for the Night Crawlers. (Probably why I'm still alive).

Find tiny restaurant with no roundeyes in sight - food must be authentic! Order Five Treasures With Rice. No clue what treasure is but 'treasure' implies tasty goodness. (Rice self - explanatory).

Old Asian lady barks question at me. Pardon? Again. Pardon? Points at grey/green orbs in window and raises eyebrows in universal motion. Yes! Sure! Is it hot? She stalks off, comes back and hands me soup. Soup clear and patently free from green orbs or treasures. Or rice.

I eat soup. Tastes like Honeydew melon and chicken fat. Smile happily at staff. Old lady drops plate of Five Tresures in front of me. The Mother Load! Huge pile rice with 5 different shiny meats on it. Hang on ... are there five meats? And why is the only readily identifiable meat bleeding? Sashimi chicken!!! NOOOOOOOO!!!!!! I smile happily.

Oh God. Chopsticks. Wave at old Lady. Communication problematic so I simply demostrate my chopstick prowess and let her work it out. She rolls eyes and brings fork and spoon. No knife. I smile happily. Grey/green orbs turn out to be hundred year old eggs, which taste better than they sound. And kind of salty.

Overall: shiny, meaty, mystery treasures were pretty awesome. Apart from al dente chook.

Convinced I'm likely to die some time after lunch, I decide to be reckless. Go into seedy, sex part of town. People spit on ground, sleep on benches, lurch around in gangs. Tattoos, piercings, bad vibes. Me in Birkenstock sandals, Colorado shirt, red straw hat, backpack and neon sing on back that says 'Mug Me!'. Self-preservation gene kicks in. Time to get out.

At train station I walk past a man.

'Grrrrrrrrr ...'

I've had enough. 'Did you just growl at me?' I ask most forcefully. Me and my red straw hat.

'Me?' he says. 'Nope.'

'You did. You growled.'

'No I didn't. It was a yawn.'

I give him my Disapproving Mummy glare.

'Sorry,' he says.

And that's me, reporting from the Belly of the Beast. The police have said I might be able to ride along with them in The Valley one night in the new year, just so I can see what the worst of the worst is like after dark.

Boy, am I looking forward to that!

Challenge 25 - Fit to Strip Pt 2

Okay, Carmen Electra. I admit I was under-prepared for Fit to Strip - The Lap Dance. I was arrogant. I was ambitious. I was so bad the chair was embarrassed.

Not this time, My Pretty. This time have done my homework:

1. Watched Demi Moore in Striptease (Oscar-worthy performance by her bottom sadly overshadowed by Burt Reynolds' surgical resurrection and scary toupee).

2. Have fancy painted toenails (Ladybirds - very sexy, but maybe only if you are Man Ladybird, which in itself is sexually confusing).

3. Have gone blonde (Eeek!)

4. Rented Fit to Strip Vol 1 (uses words like 'basic', 'introduction' and 'low impact' - that's me!).


Miss Electra tells me she's going to work my thighs, hips, buns and abs. Mmmm ... buns ... No! Workout now, buns later. Witness my self-control!

Says a good warm-up is key to avoiding injury. Wish she'd mentioned that on the Lap Dance DVD before I pulled a hamstring getting intimate with a piece of furniture. Okay, doing warm-up.

'5, 6, 7, 8 and 2, 2, 3,4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 4 ...'

Give up trying to count with Carmen. Must be sub rosa stripper algorithm too advanced for my feeble brain.

Instructed to do Cat Cow yoga pose. Try to make cow look sexy but only manage cow who really needs milking. Ponder this and decide it's probably the same thing. Only so much a cow can do, really.

Says 'hip rolls' are foundation for any good striptease. Finally! I have hip rolls - probably from too many buns.

Finish warm-up and get into The Routine. Excitement palpable. Miss Electra toying with me like co-ed with down-filled pillow and glint in her eye. I follow obediently. Swing head in circles with abandon and glasses fly off. Deduce strippers must wear contacts (notable exception - naughty school ma'am routine).

I'm with her all the way: '5, 6, 7, 8-' bend down, grab ankles, slide up, touch butt and smack it. What? Must be punishment for buns. Or rolls ...

Realise I'm still in PJs. Oh well. Had to come off sooner or later.

Phew! Am hungry after all that creeping, crawling, slapping and slinking. Have sticky bun in fridge. It's her fault ... all that talk of buns. But I have secret weapon! Hold Haematite Stone Blessed by Gnomes and resist bun. Kazam! It works!

Sit down with Master Three to watch re-runs of Battlestar Gallactica. We do nothing but have cuddles and eat ham & cheese toasties for a whole hour.

It's going to be a good day. Yes sir, I can feel it in my bones.

Challenge 24 - Chair Repair

Ah, wood. Who doesn't love a bit first thing in the morning?

Today is Chair Restoration Day. It was supposed to be Table Restoration Day but Partner said it was insane to sand a six foot table by hand. After an hour on the chair and scant progress made, I find I must concur with my learned friend.

I've never restored anything in my life. If the fix isn't quick I just buy another whatever-it-is and toss the old one out. How wasteful! If you click on the pic you will see just how sad the finish is on this chair. So off I popped to the hardware store and stocked up on sandpaper and varnish.

It's prudent to note here that the only woodworking experience I have was at High School. I had my own work bench because the other kids claimed to value their lives. Honestly - one little accident with a nail gun ...

So, with my trusty sandpaper and a pocket full of faith, I begin.

It's very meditative, this repetitive motion - working, working, working toward a single, simple goal. My mind wanders pleasantly and the minutes tick by unheeded.

Master Three is helping me. He's chuffed to be doing 'woodwork' with Mummy. That's been the unexpected bonus of this little adventure. The children see me doing something new and exciting and they want to join in . They are inspired, and what parent doesn't want to be an inspiration to their children? They see that it's okay to try something new and whether the results are spectacular or a spectacular failure matters not.

The fun - the adventure - is in the trying.

Challenge 23 - Idea to Fruition

This morning I painted my toenails black with red spots like a Ladybird. This of itself isn't strange but it is indicative of something. I feel 'arty'.

The arty feeling hits often but goes nowhere. My brother was the Artist in the family (note collage from previous post). I was the- God knows what I was but it frightened my parents. Poor things. Then I turn my awakenings of evil toward law school. She is Lost! they cried.

Point being, today I had no excuse not to finish the cartoon I was brainstorming a few blogs ago. I took up my box of pencils and began in earnest at about lunch time. Then came the trip to pre-prep to hand in forms, the library book that had to be returned, the child that had to be collected from school (God forbid!) and all the attendant stuff that happens with two hungry, hot, excitable kids at home.

Point is it took me ages and I had lots of little people trying to help me. I finally finished the carton and showed Partner. 'I don't get it,' he said.

Felt like slamming the door on my own head. After all this time and effort! My first toon is a bust!

It's because I can't draw @#$#%^#^CATS isn't it.

I knew they would undo me in the end!

Anybody out there get it? At least a little bit?

Challenge 22 - Witchcraft or Whatcraft?

Went to library to research magic tricks for Master Three's birthday. Computer searches kept throwing up witch-related stuff.

Type 'Witchcraft' into search box. Computer gets half way through search and grinds to a halt. 'Error on page' it informs me. Wooooo. Spooky. Abandon search for party tricks in favour of the Dark Magix (bunny in a hat? Pah! Shall conjure him a pony - possibly also in hat).

Have always been completely superstitious and totally scornful of 'magic'. Irony apparent. Show me proof (or Poof!) and I shall believe!

Today's Challenge: Cast a spell (that works)

Start reading book. Let's see ... universe, crystals, blah blah, stars, energy pathways, blah blah. Where's the good stuff? Like, like giving enemy scabies or making self look like Carmen Electra while doing Fit To Strip For Beginners? Book says any spell cast will be returned three-fold.

Cancel scabies.

Right. Says make wand. Okaaaay. Filch one from Miss Eight's toybox (has sparkles). Next: Don't work spells when tired, lethargic or pre-occupied. Sheesh! Am a mother! Have coffee, clear brain and move on. Time to choose spell.

Choose Strengthening Willpower. This was made for me.

Require:
Salt - Check
Haematite stone - errr. Having chops for tea. Rub rock on chop to acquire haemoglobin. Check!
Wand - Check
Red Candle - Check
Bach flower essence - (I can't believe what I have in my cupboard) Check!
Gold thread - Yellow close enough - Check

Says best done on a Tuesday. Is Tuesday in US (book non-hemisphere-specific) - Check!

1. Cast Sacred Circle with wand. Put stuff in circle.
2. Pick stuff up. Wave stone over flame.
3. Call Sylphs, Salamanders, Undies - sorry - Undines and Gnomes to bless my rock.
4. Tie up rock in cloth, sprinkle flower essence.
5. Don't forget your manners - say thankyou.
6. Hold rock when eyeing off that last bit of chockie in the fridge.

Piece of cake!

I mean, no. No cake! Am strong, like rock! And smell kind of flowery...

Conclusion: Shall keep you posted on rock's dissuasive powers when midnight munchies come around.

Mmmm ... chocolate ...

ART: MESMER ON VENUS, by ROHAN MAZLIN

Challenge 21 - The Lap Dance

Could it be true? Say it isn't so! In my attempt to shake things up and get a life I have traded one rut for another.

Stairs ... origami ... yoga ... stairs ... origami ... yoga ...

See a pattern forming?

I go in search of more interesting exercise. Feel frumpy anyway - feeling aided by the fact I bought a second pair of Birkenstocks today (my feet are in love. They betray me!).

Find exercise that not only burns calories but makes me into instant sex kitten. Hurrah! Allow me to introduce CARMEN ELECTRA'S FIT TO STRIP - The Lap Dance! Heck, I'm all for any exercise that involves sitting down.

This is not Denise Austin, darling of the discreet and dainty 80s workout crowd. This is in -your-face (sorry) hands-on (sorry, sorry) give-it-up-baby (yeah I give up) 'exercise' routines from the Real McCoy.

Watch Miss Electra introduce herself and explain how awesomely sexy we're all going to be by the end. I'm pumped. I'm ready.

I'm being observed by my three year old ...

Plug him into a computer chess game and retreat to air conditioned privacy of bedroom. Dim lights. A layer of cigarette smoke and the sour smell of desperation and I could be in any strip club in the world. Have chair with imaginary fat truck driver. Don't have knee boots with four inch heel but Birkenstocks feel fine (excellent arch support).

Grab back of chair, lean forward and shake bum from side to side: one two, and one two, and one two. I'm feelin' it! Hit pause and run to ensuite to check sexy-quotient. Look mildly sweaty and confused. Try more bum swings. One two, and one two. Four minutes in and I pull a hamstring. Massage it out in sexy manner.

Next bit: sit on chair and do some sort of Whoopty Do. Run back to ensuite and apply make up so I don't feel wierd rubbing own thighs while watching DVD of strange woman with strategic enhancements.

Something feels wrong. Technique? Trunk size? Belief in my own Woman Power? All of the above, really.

Miss Electra finishes and I'm finished. Look at DVD case. Lap Dance is for Advanced Whores (I mean Ladies). Okay. Resolve to start at beginning of series. Then test out on Partner. Mwa ha haaa! He shall tremble before me!

Conclusion: I'll never look at a chair the same way again.

Challenge 20 - Guerrilla Art

Since visiting the Gallery of Modern Art, arty stuff has been on my mind. Particularly the kind of art that people are subjected to against their will.

Yes folks, I'm talking about Public Art.

Who are these people? Who decides that the four blue triangles with bowling balls on top are enriching our collective souls? Why is public art (for the most part) sterile, pointless and inaccessible to said public? And don't even ask how much this stuff costs.

Today's Challenge: Design and install an accessible, aesthetically pleasing piece of art in a public place. For free (and preferably lawfully).

I choose a playground. Doesn't get much more public than that.

Assemble tools: Pair of old trousers and a three foot long piece of dowel. Arrive at playground. Kid's birthday party in full swing ... can cope, so long as they don't toucha-da-art. Or want to use the playground within fifteen foot radius of where I'm standing. Should be easy - I have big stick.

Miss Eight tries to steal stick. Put foot on stick and growl. My stick. Operation Public Art begins!

Parents suspicious about stick. Decide to be discreet.

'My Mother the Artist,' shouts Miss Eight from the top of the pirate ship, 'is about to perform a miracle.'

A: Am not artist. B: Don't believe in miracles - believe in occasional confluences of fortunate events.

It's none for none today, however you say it.

Everyone stares. I'm bare foot up to my ankles in leaf litter, holding big stick in one hand and trousers in the other. Hat not large enough to conceal body.

'I'm blind,' I say to the man nearest me. Man looks skeptical.

I use trousers to clear leaf litter, then begin. Idea is to create an ethereal reflection of a fig tree. Must work fast because earth dries quickly in summer and loses discernible contours.

Aesthetically Pleasing Public Art finished! Not really accessible, though ...

'She's very clever,' says lady.

Another pulls her child close. 'Stay away from people with sticks,' she says. 'People with sticks are dangerous.'

'Come on, kids!' I shout. 'Who wants to destroy some art?' Kids stomp and jump all over art. Squeal with the delight of little people who are allowed to do something they know is just that little bit naughty.

Satisfaction. Art now officially Accessible as well.

Challenge 19 - Walking Crab, Hostile Lily

It's Bedtime for Bonzo (aka, Master Three) but he hasn't finished his chess game with Daddy.

I don't know how to play chess. Don't know how to play many games at all, though I have been known to indulge in a bit of Baghdad Monopoly. Buildings have bullet holes and bomb damage and names like Akhmed's Camel Emporium. Not exactly politically correct, but a sense of humour is what sets us apart from the fishes (I was going to say 'apes', but then recalled being mooned by a baboon at the Adelaide zoo).

Point is, I'm at a loose end. Kids doing kid things, food's cooked and personal space is but a pintuck in time away.

'Make a Walking Crab', says Miss Eight. 'But there are three whole pages of instructions,' I say. 'So?' she says.

I clean toilet.

I sigh.

Miss Eight starts singing: 'I saw Mommy kissing Saaaaaanta Clause ...'

Saw Santa two days ago. He smelled like cheese and needed a good dentist. Open origami book to Walking Crab. Sweet Jesus! Could I be ready for Walking Crab? I haven't finished my training, Master!

'I saw Mommy kissing Saaaanta Clause ...'

Crab looks good.

'Mum, Malcolm says he loves me. He chews his clothes.'

Crab looks awesome. Crab instructions, however, look like a third year trig test.

Use Christmas paper because it is pretty. Also turns out to be non-compliant. Step 7: Squash fold. Who fold? Look it up in 'Folds'. It's not there. Use female intuition - I mean fist - and Bam! Squash fold!

Success short-lived. Open Pockets. Hold A, Pull B. Eye starting to twitch. I can do it ... I can do it ... Maybe origami knowledge is cumulative. Like trauma.

Something wrong. Crab looks like beer coaster. Unfold, refold.

I give you Walking Crab!

That doesn't walk.

In fit of pique I take stiff card bought from craft shop and begin to make a Lily. Card also non-compliant. Bully card into something that resembles the picture - but mostly it just resembles a Triffid.

Conclusion: Need to go back to simple stuff. Although those geometric boxes are kind of pretty ...

Challenge 18 - Wax on, wax off

As previously noted I am Team Razor, not Team Wax. Wax seems brutal and unnecessary, like regime change in middle of summer.

Notice eyebrows becoming unkempt. Can't find tweezers. Bought wax a few weeks ago because it was cheap and set at eye level in supermarket. (Simple creature, me).

Take wax out of cupboard and read directions. Heat in microwave for 1 minute. I don't have a microwave. Boil kettle. Try to scoop a bit of cold wax into pot. Wax like concrete.

Must heat wax in plastic container, then decant enough for eyebrows. Submerge wax pot in boiling water. Success! Edge bit runny.

Directions for every part of body except eyebrows. Hmmm. Could mean wax not for eyebrow region. Recall I have Hands Of A Surgeon and proceed accordingly.

Use end of plastic spoon because paddle too big (perfect for groin area - another clue). Wax like mozzarella - strings of it everywhere. Unlike a tasty Italian cheese wax sets like superglue in three seconds flat.

Get wax in eyelash. It won't wash off. Cold water sets it harder and I am forced to read precautions on box. Will not wash off with water. No kidding.

Can't pull eyelash out. Will have bald patch. Need to get to cinema in thirty minutes. Sorry eyelash. You gotta take one for the cause.

Eyes watering. Mascara running. I'm late!

I hate wax.

Challenge 17 - Hallelujah, It's Raining Frogs

Thirty-one frogs.

Can count those. Counting children at kindy, however is like counting blowflies in bottle. The din like an F111 taking off. And the fear ... oh the fear ...

Thought Scout Camp would prepare me for dealing with group-frenzy situation. The sheer terror of all those beady little eyes looking to you for love and guidance. Well, maybe not love. Or guidance, for that matter.

Looking at you for non-threatening contact and lawful discipline ...

Semantics aside, I couldn't believe how nervous I was this morning. It was like an oral exam at uni or giving a speech at a work conference. Had I prepared well enough? Did I need to explain the history of origami? Do I need a map with Japan on it? If I tell them paper was invented 2000 years ago do I need to explain what a year is? Argh!

Showed them some pictures. 'I can't see!' shouts little girl. Move book. 'I can't see!' shouts little boy. Forget book. Start folding. For the love of God start folding.

'Anyone know what this is?' I ask. 'A paper plane!' they shout. They always shout. 'Yes,' I say. 'That's how we Caucasian folk make a paper plane. Now look at this one.' I hold up another plane. Silence. Decide to abandon words with too many claps. 'This is what an origami paper plane looks like. Which one will go better?'

'That one That one!' they all shout, pointing at the Caucasian plane. Ha! I know the answer and they don't. Feel superior for first time that day.

Throw first plane. Nose dives into foot. Throw second plane. Soars gracefully around room and into far wall. Children squeal with delight. I'm on a winner!

'This is how you make a hopping frog,' I say and start folding. 'I can't see!' miscellaneous child shouts. I lean forward. 'I can't see!' shouts another. Desk is shin height so now I'm on knees leaning with arms fully extended. Frog doesn't look quite right.

Frog fails to hop.

'Look!' I say. 'I made a frog for each of you.' Meaning: Love me and my awesome effort to amuse you on my precious day off. Or else.

'I want a dinosaur!' shouts little boy. He's trouble. Can see it in his eyes. Shifty ...

'I want a crab!' shouts another.

First boy scrunches frog and drops onto floor. I show lots of teeth. It could be a smile - they'd never know the difference.

Calm thoughts ... calm thoughts ... I am a leaf on the wind ...

At home partner suggests I'm well-suited to being a clown for children's parties. Don't they all feel the same way?

Conclusion: Glad I didn't do balloon animals. Small mercies ... small mercies ....

Challenge 17 - Cartoon Day

Always figured there was nothing to cartoon strips. Couple lines here, couple curves there and a witty one-liner at the end. How hard could it be? I mean, Dilbert toons are hilarious but hardly high art. And haven't we all thought we could draw like that if we really tried?

Well today I did. Try, that is.

The challenge was to design and draw a complete cartoon strip. I figured it would take two hours tops. After four hours my brains started leaking out of my head. Five hours and my back ached and I thought I was going to hurl.

#*%#%&* I CAN'T DRAW EFFING CATS!

Feel better now.

Point is I managed a pencil version and couldn't get time to ink. The children are starting to object to being called Kid 1 and Kid 2 (which once was an endearment and now is a necessity). So instead of finishing the cartoon - which oh god - I just realised doesn't have a name - I apparently have to feed and bath them.

This has happened a few times now, and I'm afraid I have to change the perameters of the quest, challenge, personal exploration, whatever you call it that I have started in order to take care of what's most important: staying out of jail for child neglect. And possibly husband neglect.

So. I shall still complete 365 new things - just not necessarily one every day. The point is, after all, to enrich my own life, not detract from others'.

Challenge 16 - Scout Camp, Part 2

SUNDAY

The morning begins with an announcement by our Fearless Leader that the children will make their own scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast. Logistics are puzzling. One Primus, one fry pan, ten kids, five adults

But no, they're not using a fry pan. They're using plastic bags. Kids instructed to break two eggs and toss some bacon into a small snap lock baggie then put it into a large snap lock baggie. I watch in horror as bags are submerged in boiling water. Don't even mention the health issues - we've just used thirty plastic bags to make breakfast! Feel like suggesting we just hand them each a pack of White Ox tobacco and a Zippo. Breakfast of champions! (And felons).

Express my distaste to Fearless Leader then get to work documenting tragedy that is breakfast. Mmmmmm ... short chain polymers on toast. My favourite! Tastes as good as it sounds or your money back!

Camp packed up and I dispense origami gliders for children. Their looks of joy make the last three minutes of my life worthwhile.

Notice one boy's glider keeps nose diving. 'You okay, little buddy?' I ask. 'You can't make planes for crap,' he says. 'Oh yeah?' I say. 'Well, you throw like a girl.' Child looks mortified. I take off before he tells mummy.

Have three girls in the back on the way home. The noise is stupefying. All I can think about is a frosty beverage, hot shower and a quiet lie down. Maybe some therapy. Toss children and bags out of car and vent for half an hour at partner. Nail of sore thumb keeps catching on things so I Super Glue it shut. Wipe face and corner of mouth sticks together.

Partner examines gluey mishap and smiles. 'Missed a bit,' he says. 'Good one,' I say. 'Now shut up and get me a straw.'

Conclusion: Sometimes there are perfectly sound reasons for not having experienced something. (Good judgment comes to mind ... and self preservation ... foresight ... intelligence ...)

Challenge 15 - Scout Camp: Night of the Zombies

SATURDAY

5am start. No time for coffee - must pack stuff I didn't pack the night before. Shove toast toward bleary-eyed Miss Eight and manage to get out the door only 5mins late.

Forgot Miss Eight's sleeping bag! Do I have time to go back? Does she really need sleeping bag? Will ascetic child reflect badly on parenting skills? Do I really need to answer that?

Scout den: Packing by committee takes as long as you'd expect. People getting grumpy. Finally have three boys in our vehicle and we're off. Very excited!

Confiscate iPod so boys stop shouting at each other. Kid in the middle slaps me in the head with a book and then slaps driver. Whack whack! Tug o' war ensues as I skillfully attempt to confiscate book. Have uncharitable thought about kittens and burlap sacks. Wonder what possessed me to volunteer to look after Other People's Children then I remember - I've never done this before.

Look over shoulder and see Head-slapper doing bubbly spits onto carpet. 'Hey!' I shout. 'What do you think you're-' Head-slapper vomits noisily onto floor. And my bag. And driver's only jacket. Van screeches to halt and we go into damage control. I draw short straw and have to clean up vomit with wet wipes. Boys (like puppies) are facinated by vomit.

Back on the road the smell is palpable. Spend rest of trip with head out window and trying not to touch anything with spew-ey fingers.

Arrive at camp ground and throw bag into bin. Scrub hands til pink and can still smell spew. Amputation becomes viable option.

Erection time! Tents look like origami nightmare. I begin threading a pole through some holes and bending it into upright position. 'That doesn't go there,' says small child. 'Good work,' I say. 'That's one point towards your tent-putting-up badge. Pass me that hammer.'

Stinking hot day: Swim time!

River the colour of mud. Bottom covered in tennis ball sized, slippery rocks. Can there be negative visibility under water? If not this place has set a new benchmark. Kids don't mind at all. Notice a few of them aren't confident swimmers. I call for their attention and give lecture about submerged dangers. 'Don't yawn at me Missy! This is serious!' I jump for a ball and right knee locates the only submerged danger in entire swimming hole. Spend next hour limping around, counting heads and having small panic attacks. The weight of responsibility in a place like this is overwhelming.

That night the children perform Zombie Skit. Kids lurch around in the dark groaning and looking for brains. (Don't look at me kid.) Zombies are picked off one by one by brave little protagonist. He breaks their legs, sets them on fire and brains them with an imaginary rolling pin. Excellent work. Zombie badge for you.

Adults perform skit that has us on our creaky knees shouting, 'Allah akbar! Pray for rain!' about 15 sodding times. I wait to be shot by sniper or struck by lightning - either one is fine by me. Children have no clue what we're doing and lose interest. Someone asks for their money back.

I take my growing sense of dread to bed. Listen to possums raping and pillaging until sleep finally takes me.