I'm up early though we had a late night. Some men have been yelling downstairs from the courtyard since about 5 am. I don't know what they've been yelling about - most people speak Russian here but many also speak Ukranian which is similar but different; the words sound like I should be able to understand them but I don't.

We had a slow start to the day yesterday but made up for it later. It was raining yesterday morning. We didn't get down to breakfast until almost 10 am. We had arranged to meet mum's friends and had decided to walk there but the rain was quite heavy. We got as far as the construction awning at the end of our lane way and stopped, waiting for the rain to ease. It didn't, so we decided to run for it into the shopping area half a block away to find some umbrellas. Armed with our brand new, compact, Austrian made umbrellas we soldiered on.

It was fun walking through the city in the rain, jumping puddles, listening to mum curse as her light blue pants got splatered with dirty rain water. There is no drainage in the roads and lots of potholes and just general holes from damage to the roads and pavements where water puddles. We stopped to exchange some US dollars; there are little money exchange booths everywhere with signs outside advertising their exchange rate. So far mum had only exchanged her money, wanting to pay for everything while we were here in Odessa. This was fine until she told me "you don't need that" one too many times at the privoz the other day. I felt on top of the world with a wad of local currency burning a hole in my pocket.

We arrived at my mum's friends place and again found the table laden with the leftovers from the other day. After the late breakfast it was a little hard to cope with but we managed to put away a bit of this and that. The rain had stopped and our next stop was their old school - Number 26.

Though it's school holidays here the school was open for a vacation care type program (though the poor kids were doing something very boring looking in the classrooms rather than the fun activities they may have been doing at a vacation care at home). A funny moment was when the kids ran out of their classroom for a break and one of the boys, aged about 8 or 10, immediately got out his mobile phone. Some things maybe very different here but some things are very much the same. We were allowed to have a look around and the place brought back lots of memories for mum and her friends, who went from place to place and door to door saying "do you remember this room?", "do you remember that teacher?". It was great to see.

The school itself is bleak. It is large, with high ceilings and huge doors. But as with almost everything here it is badly maintained. The paint is either peeling or layered on thickly, without any sign of care or workmanship. Outside is all concrete, not a blade of grass in sight, with rusty basketball hoops and a huge hole in the ground which mum said was there when they were - over 40 years ago. To me it doesn't seem like a happy place but it brought back lots of happy memories for mum and her friends.

We kept walking and saw the hospital where I was born. Or should I say the mother's home because these are seperate here. Poor mum wasn't allowed to have anyone with her when she gave birth to me and the staff were horrible to her. I don't think there were too many happy memories there.

Our next stop was another friend's place at Arcadia beach so we called our friendly private taxi driver and eventually he turned up to drive us there. This friend - Zosa (as they affectionately call her) or Zoya - is wealthy by most people's standards. She was not in mum's class but two years below them at their school. I'm not clear as to how she became part of their group. She is a lovely lady, one of those people you want to be with, something warm and charming and welcoming about her personality. I was looking forward to visiting her and her apartment, which had been heralded as something special.

She lives in the penthouse of a seven storey apartment building at the start of the Arcadia beach area, far from the water but overlooking it. The large apartment block she lives in is 12 years old, it's modern and there are gardens around it. It is a million times better than just about anything else I've seen here but still it's somewhat bleak. I'm not sure how to put my finger on it.

Her housekeeper is coming down in the lift to walk their gorgeous chocolate labrador as we are going up. We are shown the apartment, which is over three storeys. It is huge, there is no doubt about it. I've never seen anything like it. Big rooms and lots of them. Their bedroom is probably half the size of my own apartment - she says her husband calls it the Sex-o-drome - which is funny but a little unsettling. On the top floor is a large rumpus room with a giant empty spa and a huge outdoor area which overlooks all the surrounding parklands and new apartment buildings and a smudge of the sea. It is an impressive place.

I think Zosa's husband is a jeweller and a businessman (though he was a journalist and she a pre-school director at the start of their marriage, and thus very poor). Her son is a well known actor, now living in Moscow. He is no Brad Pitt but he did buy his mum a nice little brand new Toyota Corolla for her 60th birthday.

She really is the host with the most and great fun to be with. We eat some more as by now it's late afternoon, her housekeeper eating with us (which is lovely and tells us about the sort of person Zosa is). Then we go upstairs and she reads us some of the very funny, very witty poems and songs their friends wrote for them for the 120th birthday (when she and her husband turned 60). We laugh a lot, people here love to laugh, every conversation is filled with jokes and banter; the slightest exchange with friends or shopkeepers or strangers in the street has a joke or a play on words built in.

Finally, around 7 pm, we decide to take a walk down to the beach itself. Mum has fond memories of coming down here in her youth. We walk along the main road leading to the beach, it's quite a long walk from here. We pass a shopping mall and decide to have a quick look. As we were told it's like a museum. It's brand new and gleaming, inside the shops are filled with overpriced designer items only Donald Trump can afford. Shop after shop filled with shoes, clothes, bags, homewares, all staffed by well dressed gorgeous young things. All devoid of a single customer. It's like a ghost town. It's a total mystery to me how a place like that would make money.

Further along they are building a large number of new apartment blocks, great big towers. To be frank I'd be worried about living in them; the city is built on catacombs which apparently accounts for why so many buildings are collapsing slowly. Would you want to live on the 15th floor of a building built on catacombs? Zosa says that they obviously have some sort of building/engineering technology which makes them safe but I'm not so sure. I've seen building sites here and I'm not filled with confidence. I think as with a lot of "new" money they are going for style over substance.

The beach area itself starts with a park or a wide walking path surrounded by park. There are stands on both sides selling food, drinks and souvenirs, even a little old day offering a weighing service for about 7 cents (personally I'd pay a lot more than that not to know my weight, especially after a few days of Ukranian eating). At the end of this path, where previously you would have walked down to the sand itself, they have built a giant nightclub/restaurant. This is one of many giant nightclub/restaurants they have built along the foreshore here. The beach itself is very much secondary, which is probably good because it's awful. The sand is grey, apparently naturally, and littered with rubbish. There is a narrow concrete walkway of sorts but it is crumbling and dangerous looking; you have to climb through a rusting metal structure, possibly an old rotunda or something, to step onto this path. There is an area of the beach with white plastic sun lounges but mum says this is a private beach area for which you have to pay. Though the water is calm and looks clean from where we were standing it is not the most inviting beach I've ever been to.

We walk around and the commercialised awfulness is astounding. The nightclubs all trying to outdo each other in terms of decorations and size. We see young girls arriving for a big night out, quite possibly they are prostitutes, they certainly dress that way. I think long legs and a pretty face are a meal ticket out of the poverty here (and lots of other places) and I say good luck to them.

Walking back we go a different way and wander around the streets immediately behind the beach. Streets filled with luxurious houses and small hotels. We finally make it back to the main road and by now we're exhausted, it's after 9 pm. I think we're going to get a bus back up the road to Zosa's place (she stayed home to wait for her husband to return from work) but suddenly mum's friend Lara is hailing a car, yes just a car. Apparently it's common and normal to hail any passing car as you would a taxi. I guess what we may have called hitch hiking but in a much more normal-mode-of-transport manner. The person takes you up the road, you pay him a little money. The car Lara pulled over is small; there are five of us (traditionally built) ladies - and the driver. Lara hops in the front and her sister Milla, Jules, mum and I squeeze (and I do mean squeeze) ourselves into the back seat. I'm not happy Jan.

Back at Zosa's we sit around for another few hours. The table is laden with sweets on our return: delicious freshly fried little local fish (not everyone's cup of tea but I love them), freshly baked apple strudle which is gorgeous, a big bowl of cherries and chocolates. We drink tea and talk and laugh. We could easily sit there all night but at 11ish we call for a taxi and head back.

As always I cause a drama by daring to open my mouth when mum haggles with the taxi driver over the fare. This is a recurring theme on this trip.

Bye for now. Lots of love to everyone at home. (Go the Swannies!)

Another busy 24 hours since last I wrote.

We started the day with breakfast downstairs. Lots of Americans on a tour of some sort. The owner of these apartments is from New York, so far all he seems to do is sit in the courtyard and chat with various shady looking guys. J and I call him the host with the most, because he's not. He barely makes eye contact when we walk through. Possibly we're of no interest to him because we're not here for a girl. Maybe I'm misjudging him, maybe not.

Anyway, then we booked a car, a taxi, to take us to the cemetary. We picked up mum's friend and her sister, our main hosts and tour guides for this trip, on the way. We went to the Jewish Cemetary where my grandfather on mum's side, her father, is buried.

I'm not a big fan of cemetaries in general (as opposed to all those people who are!) but this one is a good example of what is wrong with this place (i.e. the Ukraine). On the one hand you have these very elaborate headstones, huge slabs of polished granite with the deceased's face etched at the top (though this is apparently against Jewish custom), following by the dates and inscription. Some have a life size marble or stone statue erected next to the headstone as well. All have a little wrought iron fence around each grave site, mostly rusting and some collapsing. So the effect may sound pretty, at least quaint, at least interesting to the casual observer. The problem is there is apparently no maintenance of the cemetary grounds and the weeds and bushes have almost taken over. The grave sites are very close together and the paths which lead between them are very narrow anyway. So the weeds (I'm talking serious weeds here!) and the vines and the overhanging trees and bushes make it almost impossible to walk along a row to a particular grave site.

We met with a man who is like a private caretaker here. The big expensive headstones are apparently purchased by wealthy relatives who have made it overseas and come back to outdo each other with headstones to their deceased relatives. So many of them, while they are still alive and/or still care, pay private caretakers to clean and look after the headstones of their relatives. This man took us to my grandad's headstone. At least it was reasonably accessible though we stood amidst tall weeds. Mum talked to him about what she wanted fixed and we stood for a while.

I am unmoved by cemetaries (my thoughts on these places at another time) so I didn't feel very much standing there. I was interested in looking around, seeing other headstones, just absorbing the atmosphere. When we came back around to the front gates after walking around for a while we saw the gypsy part of the cemetary. Whoa baby, these people know how to do a headstone. Well not a headstone actually. More of a outrageously grotesque memorial. For example the huge slab of granite etched with the full size image of the deceased gyspy man, complete with real gold plate on his watch and his ring (mum joked that he should have been smiling so that his gold teeth would have been on display). Another tomb was surrounded by an iron fence, the stone itself was as big as a small stage and next to it was an outdoor table and chair setting. We were told the gypsies come and have huge drunken parties at the cemetary on various rememberance days, which is very upsetting to the Jewish people who share this cemetary with them.

At the front gates of the cemetary is a small building, the office. When we arrived 3 or 4 men were sitting outside this building and when we left they were still there. I was told one of them was the director. The question arises if these men are paid employees of the cemetary why the fuck are they sitting around doing sweet FA while the cemetary goes to ruin and turns to jungle. When I asked mum's friends about this they just said that's how it is.

We leave and decide to get the public bus to the prevoz (the market). The buses are old and bleak and after a few stops it gets very crowded but it's an experience and we get there safely. The prevoz is something else altogether. Wow! Mum says if you haven't been to the prevoz you don't know Odessa. This place is huge, with outdoor and indoor areas that seem to go on forever. There's the meat building where chunks of meat sit on the stone slabs, exposed. Dogs and cats roam around. This place is certainly not for the squeamish and dispells my long held belief that meat comes on styrofoam trays from the supermarket. This is the real deal and only one short step away from the abatoir.

Then there are areas where people sell cold meat, hams and salamis, stall after stall after stall. The dairy area where people sell cottage cheese, cream and sour cream, fetta cheese, stall after stall, etc. People walk around, take a taste of this and that. It's the way it's done here but I felt so bad. These are peasant people, most of them, making these goods in their homes on the city outskirts and hauling them in every day. Making a pittance on the tiny prices they charge and yet the locals walk around and take a taste of everything. A particular custom is to get a dollop of cream or sour cream on the top of your hand and to lick it off. I couldn't get into that custom.

Outside there are countless stalls, tiny ones, selling fruit and vegetables, sometimes no more than a few handfuls of this or that, a few herbs, a few tomatoes. Here too people ask to taste the produce and then bargain over the already low prices. There are clothes stalls, shoes and sunglasses, hardware, somewhat like our Paddy's Market.

We come away with some cottage cheese and sour cream, a smoked mackrel (mmm....) - a beautiful big fat juicy one for about AUS$3.50, some strawberries and cherries, a big slice of Napoleon Cake (a special childhood memory of mine).

We take the bus back to mum's friend's house. On the way a man hops onto the bus to sell newspapers. He tells the people all about his particular paper, an Odessa speciality. He is dry funny. The paper costs ONE GRIVNA (the local currency) which is about 15 cents. After I get off the bus I think that I should have bought one as a souvenir.

After sharing another long lunch with mum's friends we call for a car to take us back to our apartment. We were getting ready for the ballet. We walked down to the Odessa Opera Theatre, a beautifully restored building not far from our apartment. It is lovely and like old European royalty we sat on little velvet and gilt chairs on a tiny balcony. The ballet was lovely but I'm more of a So You Think You Can Dance type. The music was lovely, the dancers were gorgeous, everything was perfect, yet I kept nodding off, the last few days finally catching up with me. If only they could have installed a few Jason Recliners (Gold Class cinema style) I may have enjoyed it a little more.

We finished off the evening with a late-ish supper at the Ukranian restaurant where we ate on our first day here. Though the food was delicious I may be reaching my limit on pork fat products. The cafe downstairs from us was in apparent disco mode when we returned home but closing my window made my room soundproof and I slept very very soundly last night.

Now it's almost 9 am and we need to head down for breakfast. It's raining so our planned day at Arcadia Beach may not pan out. We'll see what happens. It rained yesterday but only for about 20 minutes and then it became humid and very warm.

Hope you're all well and happy, my friends. [Glad you're reading my blog now honey, love you!]

So time for a catch up.

The flights

Sydney to Hong Kong. The first flight is always easy(ier). I was still high on the this is really it energy so I coped with the 9 hours quite well. We got dinner (though it was about 4 pm Sydney time). I watched two movies (aha, now for the imporant stuff).

Movie One: Burn After Reading. The Coen Brothers almost at their vintage Raising Arizona-best. Great hammy performances from the big name cast (I always love Frances McDermond (sp?) and Brad Pitt, George Clooney and John Malcovich all took to their OTT roles with great gusto). Funny little movie.

Movie Two: Hellboy II: The Golden Army. Hmmm, I was really looking forward to seeing this. I'm a big fan of the first Hellboy which was an unexpected pleasure for me. This one suffers from a poor script (don't they all?). Everyone seems to be trying hard but you just can't save a stinking script. Not worth the time investment I'm afraid.

Then we land in Hong Kong at about 1:00 am Sydney time. It is fairly quiet, some people wear face masks. Mum and I want to eat something and end up ordering a hot dog and cup of tea each. The hot dogs were quite nice, though served with slices of cucumber and tomato in the roll with the sausage. The tea is undrinkable, something very wrong with the water, not to mention a huge cup which I could barely lift to my face with both hands.

Back on the plane for the final hard yards - 13.5 hours to London. No doubt about it this was tough. The thought of those hours stretching out in front of me as we boarded again was a little overwhelming. We were offered dinner (?) though it was around 2:30 am Sydney time at this point. Mum and I declined (having recently eaten a hot dog) and settled in for some quiet time. I dozed on and off for some time, not sure how long. There were bits of excitement like the older lady sitting across the aisle from us passing out and the man sitting next to her (who turned out to be a doctor) asking mum to call for an attendant and mum waking me because she couldn't figure out which button to press. So we're all awake, the poor woman gets taken out the back and mum has her head cranked into the aisle giving me blow by blow details of what's happening. "They're giving her oxygen", "she's laying on the floor with her legs sticking out".

After deciding any real sleep wasn't going to be possible I went back to the movie selection.

Movie Three: Wow, it's awesome what you get when an amazing script meets a great director and an ensemble of actors at the top of their game. I saw the play a few years ago so I was familiar with Doubt but I wasn't sure how such a "small" story would come across on the screen. It was wonderful. A real example of the actor's craft. Strong feelings expressed so very beautifully, subtly, forcefully, perfectly. It was also visually a gorgoeus film, winter in New York so beautifully present as the background to each scene. I loved it.

Movie Four: Now for something completely different. Role Models. Not sure why I even watched this one, possibly I wanted something lighter after Doubt and I have a soft spot for Paul Rudd. This is one of the funniest movies I've seen in a while. I know, I'm a sad human. I really enjoyed it. Top points go for creative use of Kiss music in a movie, worth the price of admission on this point alone. However if you're not comfortable watching small children use mo-fo type language (which I do have to say makes me a tad uncomfortable) I wouldn't bother.

We didn't get offered another meal for NINE FUCKING HOURS so by the time breakfast came around mum and I were climbing the walls. Luckily I had bought a few snacks at Hong Kong airport so we were able to munch some delicious maple syrup flavoured cookies which looked somewhat like rolls of pork crackling. I was going to give them to J but we were too hungry and they were too delicious to save.

After another, unknown, medical emergency which resulted in a man being taken off the plane into a waiting ambulance at Heathrow, we landed safely in the land of fish and chips and Kate Moss. It wasn't even 5 am London time (2 pm Sydney time). Luckily the airport was very quiet and we got out very quickly. After finding our appropriate Hotel Hoppa and finding a working ticket machine we arrived at the Novotel about 6:30 am.

Because we were feeling up (adrenalin only at this point I suspect) we decided to freshen up and head into town for some aimless wandering around before meeting my siser at Soho for lunch. After another round of Hotel Hoppa and the tube we emerged at Covent Garden in time for a much needed coffee and pastry. It's at this moment I was able to go aaaahhhhh, Im in London... wow.

Mum and I wondered around for a few hours, checking out some shops (a few purchases waiting for me there upon our return), using the loos at Marks & Spencers in Oxford Street. Maybe there's a global financial crisis but we saw plenty of people shopping and eating out. Finally met with JB who ushered us through the crowds to her favourite lunch place, which happened to be closed for electrical repairs. Hmmm, bummer. There are so few places to eat in Soho (??!!) it took all of 20 seconds to decide where else to go. The French style bistro across the road beckoned. It was lovely and we all enjoyed our lunches very much, especially J's mussles and french fries, and the gorgeous creme brulee we shared for dessert.

Originally we had planed to stay in the city and wait for J to finish work and head back to the hotel with her but we were starting to hit the wall so we decided to go back to the hotel and she would get a cab back to meet us after work. It seemed to take hours to get back to the hotel but we finally arrived and collapsed into bed for a short time. It was impossible to really sleep. By the time J arrived and we headed down to (a very average hotel dinner) we were really falling apart. The thought of the 3 am wake up call loomed ahead and it was very scary.

Whenever I know I have to get up early I can't sleep fully. There's a part of me which stays awake thinking "don't fall asleep, you'll miss the alarm and everything will be ruined". So even though I was dead tired I kept opening an eye every hour or so and checking the clock. At 2:45 am I thought "bugger it" and got up for a shower. So there we were at 3:45 am in a cab heading to Heathrow. I was surprisingly awake and alert. Go figure.

The next two flights: Heathrow to Vienna, Vienna to Odessa were fine. Great really. After speculating that we would get fed almost nothing on each flight we had steadied ourselves with coffees and danishes at Heathrow. However, a yummy-ish breakfast was served on the first leg, followed by a very nice meal-sized snack on the Ukranian flight. The only memorable event was the stewerdess teling me off for painting my nails on the flight (what else was I supposed to do with the freebie nailpolish my sister got with her InStyle magazine?).

Back up a little. When we woke that morning, mum gave us both a lecture on how horrible it was flying into the Ukraine. Not only were the planes shit but so was the service; not only that but we were going to be potentially treated badly at the airport and that we were to pretend not to speak Russian and let mum deal with the crooks working at Customs. Having survived numerous airports around the world (including Guatemala and Colombia) I was reasonablly relaxed about the whole thing.

We didn't have a glimpse of a problem the whole way. The plane trip on Ukranian Airlines was fine. The airport experience was one of the easiest I've ever had. There was hardly anyone at Odessa airport (which was the size of a large shed with facilities probably not dissimilar to say a small regional Australian airport - in the 1960s). We were stamped, with luggage in tow and out the gates in less than 20 minutes.

Waiting for us on the other side was not only the nice young girl from the apartments we were staying at but a gaggle of mum's old school friends, yelling and waving flowers. It was wonderful. Odessa people are loud. That's an important point to make. They yell and talk over the top of each other and tell each other to shut up and laugh and do it all over again.

After deciding who was going where and with whom we went off with our nice young girl and a couple of mum's friends. Luckily we all fitted into our mini bus and headed off for the Odessa Executive Apartments. I wasn't sure what to expect. Odessa doesn't have nice, safe, homogonised hotel chains like we are used to. The Novotels, Radissons and Intercontinentals, the McDonalds of the hotel world. We had to look at various scary looking hotels and equally worrying looking apartments before we found this one. It's main selling point was the close proximity to the main part of the city (sort of like staying on George Street in Sydney) and that we could have a two bedroom apartment for the price of a small hotel room.

So we arrive. Our building is in a cul-de-sac and it has a courtyard at the front with a cafe of sorts. The building is old, they are all old. It looks nice, there are trees in the cobblestone courtyard and the sun shines down through the leaves onto the tables and chairs and umbrellas. It is a pretty scene. Our apartment is two flights up (no lift). It is quite big with a kitchen/dining/living room area and a large bathroom and two bedrooms. Plenty of room for us. Everything is in decent condition, not quite what we would expect but certainly very nice.

We freshen up and head out to explore. I think it is about 2 pm local time at that point. Our apartment is in a lane way which comes off one of the main streets of Odessa. We come out into the world. There is a McDonalds to one side and the street is full of restaurants and cafes. Also street sellers of various things; food, souvenirs. There is a tiny old woman begging. I realise I have no local currency. We walk around.

The buildings are mainly old and frankly falling apart, literally. I'll talk more later about how badly decrepid the city is. But some are being restored or have already been so (at least partially). For example, a restaurant on the ground floor may have been restored quite well, but the floors above are a bomb site. Many buildings are covered in scaffolding and have building works happening. Construction is not what we exepect. Men in casual clothes, wearing sneakers or sandals, manhandle construction supplies, climbing ladders with very long bits of timber tucked under their arm. What my sister would call amateur hour. WorkCover at home would lay an egg. I wouldn't be at all surprised to have a brick land on my head as we stroll around the city.

As I said the buildings are old and most of them are very beautiful, or at least they were. It is a very European style city. There are little courtyards in front of most buildings. There are little parks here and there. Many have pretty little cafes where people sit and have a coffee in the dappled sunlight. The pavements are in a terrible state. If you don't watch where you are going you could easily snap an ankle.

We walk a little bit and end up in a traditional Ukranian restaurant for a late lunch. This one I would guess is designed for tourists; the staff wear full Ukranian costumes (which are very pretty, especialy the girls with their big floral headpieces) and every part of the restaurant is heavily decorated with Ukranian nick-nacks. Mum and her friends start ordering from the huge menu and J and I laugh at the translations (I want to sneak a menu out but they are so huge I can't figure out how to do so and forget to ask if I could buy one to take home).

I wouldn't describe it as a figure-friendly diet. First come little balls of lard with garlic which you smear on the gorgeous black bread. Then some get borscht (I'm not a huge fan, though mum does make a good one) which comes with these puffy little bread things drenched in garlic butter. Then a plate of pork fat, yes it's like the fat on bacon but about an inch thick, cut into thin slices each with a slice of raw garlic on top. Yummy. Then these famous little dumplings (varenychki) some filled with veal and onions, potato and onions and my favourite, sour cherry. Then the fish which mum says you can only get in the Ukraine, similar to flounder. It's really good. I am struggling to breath at this point. Also to stay awake.

After lunch we walk. What feels like about 20 kms. We walk around the city, to the famous Odessa Opera House. It is pretty in the European style. Having grown up with the Sydeny Opera House it is a little difficult to get truly excited about it. We go into the box office to get tickets for tonight's performance of the ballet Giselle. Mum's friend is trying to tell her to buy the cheap tickets and then sneak into the good ones as there'll be hardly anyone there. Mum shoos her away. The really good tickets are about AUS$15 (tickets for Will's school production of The Lizard of Oz cost more that!). It is difficult for my mum's friends to grasp how easily we spend money. The lunch, for example, with drinks for 7 people cost less than AUS$150 - a bargain for us. Some of mum's friends have a pension of about US$90 per MONTH.

We buy our tickets and keep walking. We go down to the waterfront. It is strange. There are beautiful old buildings, falling down. There is a giant modern hotel built right out in front of the water, sort of on it's own little island. It is quite ugly as it blocks the view of the water. There are cranes and containers and industrial looking stuff on both sides of the small harbour. I wouldn't call it picturesque. There is a park running along the waterfront. It is pretty, with large trees creating a canopy on both sides. People walk, in couples, with their dogs, with babies in prams. There are lots of young, pretty girls pushing babies and toddlers in prams. Mum says walking around the city, along the waterfront, in parks, is a very Odessa thing to do. She points out places she walked with me as a baby.

It's funny, I don't feel anything about this city. I want to feel some connection, a tiny one, but I don't. It is interesting but nothing to do with me.

At some point I start to loose the will to live. I am so exhausted I could lay down in the filthy street and go to sleep. We say our goodbyes and head back. Showers and bed. Bliss. The end of our first day.

Yesterday, I woke up early, feeling good, rested. Try to get the internet to work but can't. We go down to breakfast in the little cafe downstairs (we get breakfast included, a bonus). There are almost no customers but a lot of staff. The young man waiting on us is very polite and very helpful, almost painfully so. All the service is like that here. You can almost feel how hard they are trying, hoping so badly for a good tip. We enjoy our breakfast. I almost murder my mother. A man comes in and sits near us. Mum makes "conversation". She asks where he's from. Canada he says. Where in Canada, mum asks. Near Calgary, he says. Are you here to get a girl? mum asks. You can here a pin drop. J and I look at mum in horror. We are too shocked to laugh. We laugh nervously. What? she says. I'm just asking, she says. Hmmmmm.

After breakfast we go to where my grandma Ada used to live. I struggle to find the words for this bit. I've been to third world countries but I've never seen anything like this. Until now we have seen buildings from the outside, yes they are old and in bad nick, but nothing, nothing prepares you for how people actually live. The building has gates with a coded security system (?) but the man sitting outside on a stool tells us a code and we get into the courtyard. We walk into the building and it is almost like something from a post-Apocolyptic movie. It is crumbling, there are wires (power, phone) literally dozens of them running along the ceiling and walls. We climb the stairs and the lump in my throat gets bigger and bigger.

We knock on what I think is the door to grandma's old apartment. Mum knocks and knocks. Finally a little woman, middle aged opens. Mum introduces herself and the woman says she knew grandma Ada well. She is glad to see us. She asks us in. We go in but this isn't an apartment it is a hallway of sorts from which other doors lead to rooms/apartments. It is awful, so awful here. My heart breaks. Everything is rotting, disintegrating. Everything is made of other things. The walls are bits of "stuff": wood, old doors, bits of old cupboards or other things I can't work out. They are sort of cobbled together to make a wall here, a partition. We walk through this dim gothic darkness to the woman's apartment. I am too scared to see. It's not too bad inside because the woman has made an effort to decore it somewhat, make it hers, make it cosy. But it is hard to disguise how bad it is. The floors sag and run in different directions, though they seem solid there is also a feeling the whole thing could just collapse at any moment. The walls are patched and ruined. [When I was a punk in my teens we would hang out in a derelict house in Fitzroy Street in Surry Hills and that house seemed like an architercural marvel compared to this place.]

There appear to be two rooms, a living room and a bedroom. A balcony comes out onto the sunny street. I can't see any sign of a bathroom or kitchen. Possibly I missed the kitchen, which may have been behind a curtain. The bathroom undoubtedly is a communal one in the hallway, later we see a young-ish man stumble out of a nearby door and head to another door with a key. I dread, dread, dread to think of what that bathroom may be like.

The woman is kind (though her eyes are hard) and talks to us about grandma. She remembers her fondly. It is sad and also wonderful. She takes us to the door next door. An old lady lives here who knew grandma. She is old and sick and apparently doesn't leave her room. Her room is more of the same awfulness. Whereas the other lady made an effort and her place was homey, this room is dirty and sad. Mum and the ladies exchange memories, J and I listen and try to hold it together. I want to cry but I'm scared if I start I won't stop. The sadness of this reality is too much to bear. We smile politely. I want to stop seeing what I am seeing; if I can block it from my mind I'll feel better. I feel bad about feeling this way. Shit.

Mum leaves the old lady 200 of the local currency. It is maybe AUS$30. The old woman cries and says no, no but this is a lot of money and mum tells her to use it to buy medecine which she can probably not afford. I want mum to give the other lady some money too (I want to give them all some money) but I can't communicate it to her quietly. On the street she says she wanted to but felt uncomfortable.

I walk on feeling totally shell shocked. I was so naive about this reality. It is so much worse than I expected. I don't know what to think, what to feel, how to reconcile my feelings. I feel sick about how I live. I feel so so grateful that I don't live here. I hate myself for feeling this because it could so very easily be me here. I turn that thought around in my head. I could be living here, I could be living in an apartment, in a building like that. It makes me feel dead inside. But obviously people do live here and they do live like this and they make the best of life.

We walk to a church up the road and meet up with some of mum's friends. Two sisters. They are wonderful people. They are funny and so happy to see us and be with us. We walk and they tell us about the city, about the buildings. It is fascinating. It is a beautiful day. I am enthralled but I can't get the thoughts of those apartments out of my head. I start to build up a fear inside. We are going to one of these's ladies' homes for a party tonight. What if her home is like the ones we've just seen? It's too horrible to think about.

We walk for miles and miles, feels like forever. Later in the afternoon we stop for lunch at another traditional Ukranian restaurant. J and I order Chicken Kiev. It is a famous Ukranian dish and one that mum makes very very well (but not very often because it is fidly and time consuming). It is nice but not as good as mums. We love the pickled vegetable plate we share. I could eat those gorgeous pickled cucumbers and tomatoes all day.

We come back to our apartment and collect the presents mum has brought. We get a taxi to her friend's house. She has an apartment with two bedrooms, a seperate kitchen and her own bathroom. It is grim but not as awful as what we've seen today. Again everything is terribly old and collapsing. The toilet cubicle is "self made", a tiny seperated bit of the kitchen. The bathroom with the bath and handbasin has exposed pipes and hoses. Despite all this the hospitality is wonderful, a million little dishes. Everyone who comes brings something and the table is groaning with food.

These people are wonderful. They are loud and funny. They make toasts every five minutes, toasting our arrival, life and a everything else. They are happy to be alive and they make the best of what they have. Their sense of commraderie is not something (or at least it's different to what) we have at home. I can sense a sadness there but also a determination to live life, enjoy. They seem to take care of each other. I don't know how you could get by without that mutual support in this harsh place.

We walk home close to midnight. I am so exhausted I collapse into bed. Luckily I am too tired to think about the day because I know if I start to dwell I will never get to sleep.

Now it's early morning on our third day. I woke early, feeling refreshed. I've been typing this for about two hours. I need to shower and get ready for the day. We are going to the cemetary today to see my granddad's grave. Tonight is the ballet. I'm sure we'll be able to squeeze in another delicious meal or two along the way.

I have been taking photos on my phone but of course I've forgotten my phone to pc cord so I can't download the pics until I get home. You'll have to wait for the pictures until I return home.

Hope all is well back home in the land down under. I was homesick at first but now I'm too emotionally busy here to miss home. I hope everyone at home is well and happy and enjoying the wonderful, beautiful life you are blessed with. Seriously, I plan to never complain about anything ever again. (Well, I'm going to try so hard...)

It's 4 pm London time. I'm writing this from the lobby of the Novotel at Heathrow Airport.

I am really really tired. Mum and I have just come back from Soho where we had lunch with Jules. It was great to see her but to be honest I am too tired to appreciate anything much right now.

Things will only be worse tomorrow when we get a 3 am wake up call and a 3:45 am taxi to the airport for flight to Odessa via Vienna. Mum's story about her previous flight with Ukranian Airlines does not inspire great confidence in me. Wish us luck!

I hope to be feeling better on day two in Odessa and to have some internet time so I can do a full update on the trip so far.

Come back in a couple of days.

Just a quick note to say this will be my last one before I post (hopefully) from London.

Tomorrow is Marianna's birthday party which will keep my occupied and then exhausted.

Sunday morning I'll pack before heading to the airport around noon. Mum and I fly out at 2:35pm on a Virgin Altantic flight bound for London via Bangkok.

We arrive in London at some horrific hour (about 6:00 am) on Monday (London time) morning. If we're not too wrecked we'll spend the day in the city, meeting up with Jules for lunch and then all of us heading to the Airport Novotel for dinner and an early night before our flight to Odessa, via Vienna, very early Tuesday morning.

I will keep posting here because I am too damned lazy to set up a new travel blog and I don't want to use the old one I set up for the Colombia trip.

See ya!

My baby girl turned FOUR on the 26th.

Here she is in November 2005 in Medellin, Colombia when we first met.

How far we've all come in the past 3 1/2 years.

She has gone from being Will's punching bag (of sorts) to a co-conspiritor, the leader of their little gang of two. It is Marianna who is likely to be the brains behind their naughty little escapades. The tiny evil mastermind leading her innocent big brother astray.

She is strong-willed, smart, outgoing and a very quick learner. She picks things up so quickly it takes my breath away. She is loving when she wants to be, everything on her terms only. Her way or the highway. If she chooses to use her powers for good instead of evil the possibilities for the future are limitless.

Happy birthday, my sweetheart.

Dear Ryan O'Keefe,

I'm not sure how to approach this.

It's not you, it's me.

You know how much you have meant to me over the years. There is no denying that I have loved you deeply. Your marks, your tackles, your kicks, your tricky little ball recoveries. Each holds a special place in my heart.

But this year things have changed. You're a little slower, a little less agressive, a little less high flying. Sure your bum still looks great in those tight shorts. Maybe it's because you're married now; we all know married life takes it out of you. Maybe it's because you're no spring chicken any more; 28 is veteran territory in the AFL.

Let's be honest here. There's someone else. I've had my eye on Jesse White since the beginning of the season and today I just knew. He's the one. Just 21, fresh, fast and, oh, those high flying marks really set my heart a-flutter.

I hope we can be mature about this. Let's remain friends; say "hello" should we bump into each on the street. I'd like that.

Good luck with your future relationships. I'll always cherish our special memories.

Goodbye. Kathy

P.S. Awesome game today.

I bought a jacket for $149 at Myer yesterday. It must have been the only item in the entire place which wasn't discounted. I feel a little sick about it.

It's gorgeous and perfect and obviously made for me. But I still don't feel good about the spend. I much prefer a bargain; the problem being many of my bargains aren't that great and end up being "hang in the back of the wardrobe for years before being donated to the Salvos without ever being worn sort of bargains". At least I know this will be a worn to death sort of non-bargain.

Did I mention it was Pistachio pretend suede? I know what you're thinking. But I swear you're going to love it.

After driving everyone around me nuts (story of my life) discussing the pros and cons of sending Marianna to school next year I have ... drum roll please ... picked up her enrolment forms from the school.

Honestly, I've felt like a pendulum in a clock these last few months. Yes, I'm definitely sending her. No, I'm definitely not sending her. Well obviously we're currently in the "yes we're sending her" camp right now.

With a late May birthday she will be one of the youngest (if not the youngest in the class) which doesn't make me very happy. But every indicator tells us she'll be ready. The reverse side is leaving her at day care for another year and I know for a fact she'll be bored out of her brain and I think her behaviour will go downhill if she's left in a room with a whole lot of 3 year olds to bully. She needs to be challenged as she learns quickly and we think only school will offer her that opportunity.

Hopefully this will be the right decision. Time will tell.

So it's two weeks until the BIG TRIP. I'm getting excited now. I'm too busy day to day to think about it that much but once in a while it sneaks up on me and I think "WOW, I'm going overseas by myself in [now less than] TWO WEEKS! Holy Shit!". I think it's the by myself part which is most exciting and most frightening.

The thought of sitting on a plane with only adult company and only having to worry about my own meal and my own toileting needs and being able to choose and watch an entire movie (or two) of my own choosing is enough to blow my mind. But I also know that I'm going to miss by babies and Big Jay so much. Absence makes the heart grown fonder and all that, it's SO true.

It's going to be an adventure and I can't wait to see my gorgeous sister and spend some quality time with my mum and see for myself the place I was born. Did I mention eat at a Gordon Ramsay restaurant and see a play with some famous people in it (whose names escape me right now - help me out JB) in London?

I'm not sure if I'll set up a seperate blog or just keep blogging here so stay tuned for that tantalising bit of non-information. I fly out on Sunday 31 May.

You know what the absolute worst part of menopause is? The hot flushes. I wouldn't actually describe them as hot flushes. It's more like my body has forgotten how to regulate its own temperature. It's sort of like having a bad fever. Hot, cold, hot, cold.

I have to layer my clothes every day because I can never know if I'm going to be boiling hot (i.e. sweating) or freezing cold (i.e. shivering) from one minute to the other. External factors have little to do with it. I can feel cold or hot inside or outside, no matter what the actual thermometer might say.

It may not be the worst problem in the world but it absoluely drives me batty. I'm hoping my natural menaopause pills will soon kick in because this has been pretty bad for the past month or so, since I've gone off the hormone patches.

Why don't men have these problems?

I am trying to come to grips with this NRL sex scandal thing. It's only of any interest to me because of Matty Johns. Yes, I have always liked him (or at least the image he presents on The Footy Show, which is really how I "know" him). Sex scandals are a dime a dozen in the Rugby League world. I shouldn't be surprised, and I'm not in general. Again, it's the Matty Johns factor which befuddles me. I have misjudged his perceived character by a huge, mile-wide, long shot.



It's not the sex, or even the group sex, part which is offensive. After all I am a liberal in that regard. People should be able to have sex with any number of animals, vegetables and/or minerals they choose. Not up to me to judge or even consider in great detail. We are all entitled to our own personal depravities as long as all parties are consenting (in the real sense of that word).



It's the awfulness of the described situation. The inhumanity of it. How can a decent person want to subject another person to that sort of degredation? To me it shows a deep-rooted corruption of a person's character. It's not sexy or exciting. It's just ugly and filthy. In his case Matthew Johns can't even claim being young and stupid. He was THIRTY at the time. Surely well and truly past the stage where peer pressure and poor decision making can be claimed as a valid defence.



The whole thing makes me sick. I'd happily weild the sharp implements should a public castration be in order.

According to SingStar ABBA I'm tone deaf. That's probably no surprise to anyone but myself. In my own mind I'm a very good singer. Apparently my dear husband Big Jay is lead singer material.

I think there is something terribly wrong with our PlayStation 3.

Last night I went to see Ghosts of Girlfriends Past with my friend M. Yep, it was another freebie from Kidspot Movie Mums Group. That's THREE MOVIES I've seen this week. Crazy! I probably haven't seen three movies at the cinema in the whole of the past year.

Here's the review I posted. [I'm starting to think the nice people over at Kidspot must think I'm a cranky old cow... and how right they'd be!]

When the film finished my friend asked "what did you think?". I said "it was better than dropping a brick on my toe, but not by much". That just about sums up my feelings about Ghosts of Girlfriends Past.

It is your very typical cliched romantic comedy. Not a single original line in the entire movie. I like a bit of wit in a script but this movie was devoid of any, just join-the-numbers dialogue, wooden acting and not an original thought from go to whoa.

I have to admit to hating Matthew McConaughey, he's too arrogant to be sexy, and Michael Douglas plain makes my skin crawl. Jennifer Garner is sweet and most of the rest of the supporting cast do a reasonable job with what they have to work with, which isn't much.

There are a few funny bits but not enough to redeem this piece of schlock. It certainly isn't the worst film ever made but there are plenty of better, smarter, funnier romantic comedies out there - PS I Love You and Dan in Real Life - are two from the past year which come to mind.

I'm a little worried about this story regarding Jon and Kate (plus 8). Why does everything have to come down to cheating? I'm hoping it's bullshit but still I really like these people (you know, these people who "I know" from watching them on tv) and I don't want this cheap and tawdry stuff to be part of their lives.

Sheesh!

I've become one of those mums. It's awful. I don't know how it's come to this.

I'm almost too mortified to actually write it down.

OK, here it goes. I forgot it was Mufti Day at Will's school yesterday and sent him in his uniform.

To be honest I didn't even know it was Mufti Day. They've stopped giving us a paper copy of the school newsletter (which is great - it was a terrible waste of resources) but the online edition isn't as easy to read and I've only glanced at it once (rather than re-reading the paper version a few times before surrundering it to the recycling bin). Obviously I missed the bit about the Mufti Day. DOH!

When Will started school I remember seeing the odd child wearing their uniform on Mufti Day and thinking: oh HOW could they?! those awful parents! Now I'm one of THEM. Oh, the shame.

Happily Will is an easy going kid. He didn't bat an eyelid. When I picked him up from school I couldn't apologise enough. He just said "oh, yeah" and got on with it. Something tells me if this horrible situation was to involve my dear daughter the fall out would be much, much bigger.

Am I mad? Does anyone really believe this carbon trading bullshit actually means something? Do people really think it's some sort of magic pill which will fix the alleged climate change problems?

If the problems are as bad as we're being told (and you may have guessed I don't buy any of it) than arguing over 5% or 10%, this year or next year, etc is just a whole lot of hot air. Surely such semantics are a big waste of time if we really are hurtling towards oblivion.

I simply can't believe how seriously this is being discussed. As if it really matters one way or the other in the big scheme of things. We're a funny bunch, us humans. So self important and pathetic.

The pressure cooker and I continue our love affair. It's a wonderful thing.

Last week I made this gorgeous pork braise. So easy and delicious:

Brown 1kg of pork neck (or similar meat) which has been diced into 2 cm cubes. Take out of pan and cook some diced onion, carrot, celery and mushrooms with some garlic in the pan until starting to soften and get a little caramelisation happening. Stir through a couple of tablespoons of tomato paste and cook for a minute or two. Add back the pork with some chopped zucchini, tin of tomatoes, stock powder (I like to use Vegeta), a dash of water, seasoning. Put pressure cooker lid on and bring to low pressure over high heat. Stabilise and cook for 35 minutes. I served with pasta but it would be just as nice with rice or just in a bowl with a bit of crusy bread.

Then last night I made a mild lamb curry. Again easy and delicious:

Put 1kg of diced lamb in the pan with a tin of tomatoes, a large sweet potato diced into 2cm cubes, a diced onion, a couple of cloves crushed garlic, cup of water, a teaspoon each of garam marsala, ground cumin, ground corriander, tumeric, paprika, a few splashes of soy sauce, a tablespoon of honey. Put pressure cooker lid on and bring to los pressure over high heat. Stabilise and cook for 25-30 minutes. Serve with yummy basmati rice. [The seasonings and "heat" can obviously be adjusted - I tend to make these things very much on the mild side because both my kids scream blue murder if anything is even vaguely "spicy".]

Just call me Nigella.

My baby boy turned TEN on Saturday.






















It's a bit hard to believe. Sometimes it seems like only yesterday we got THE CALL to say there was a little baby boy waiting for us in Guatemala City (what an exotic place that seemed at the time). He waited and waited, sixteen months to be precise. We waited eleven months from the time we got the call to the day we first held him in our arms.

What a tiny little thing he was. More like a six month old than a sixteen month old. Everything was new to him and for us. What a huge adventure we've been on together these past eight and a half years!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, my gorgeous brave big boy. I wish for you a full life full of love and friends and wonderful experiences.

I've joined the Movie Group on the Social site on Kidspot.com.au. Basically I can get free movie tickets if I review the movie. Sounds good to me.

The first movie was Tenderness and I went to see it last night with my friend C. We were the only people in the cinema which is kind of sad since I quite liked this film. Here's what I wrote for Kidspot:

You could say Tenderness is a love story about a girl who wants to die and a boy who wants to kill. But I don't really think it's a love story, just a story about people trying to connect.

It's a thriller in the real sense of the word; you just don't know what's going to happen next and it kept me on the edge of my seat. The relationship between the two young characters is beautifully played out, the tension building and building.

Tenderness touches on many of the dark parts of the human condition and at first I wondered what the title was referring to. But later it came to me that there are many small moments of tenderness throughout this film, not only the tenderness sought by the killer during the murder (as discussed by Crowe's Detectice Cristofuoro towards the end of the film). The tenderness between the Detective and his sick wife, between Lori and her dysfunctional mother, between Eric and his aunt. The small tender gestures which are the glue of life.

This is not an "entertaining" film as such. It is slow and dark but it is beautifully written, directed and acted. It is a "small" film in the best sense of that word. A film that wants to tell a story without all the usual cliched storytelling which tends to come out of Hollywood.

I probably wouldn't recommend you run out to see it at the cinemas but I would certainly recommend it as a DVD rental later in the year. It is well worth watching.

They are saying that no actual swine have developed the Swine Flu. Which makes me wonder why it would be called the Swine Flu.

Then it came to me. Obviously Mel Gibson was the first person to get it and it was named in his honour.

I hate being blase about tragedy but what's with this Swine Flu?

We were all going to die from the Bird Flu and SARS. Now we're all going to die from Swine Flu?

Really?

This morning on the news they said the first person, sadly a little child, has died in the US of this flu. However, they also qiuetly mentioned that in a normal year 36,000 people die of flu in the US. That's a lot of people and the rabid newsreaders don't usually scream about it year in, year out.

I'm just confused about the rise and fall of these "super" flus. They seem to bugger up already struggling economies (previously in Asia, now Mexico). But in the end they never end up being all that bad, in comparison to what normally goes on with flu every winter around the world.

So what's up? Is it just a case of distracting us from what is really happening in the world? Is it just poor media coverage/journalism (I know that one would be a big surprise for everyone!)? Is it just another round of social/health panic which seems to sweep us all up every few years?

Any ideas?

So I've signed up to Facebook. Buggered if I know why really. Growing feeling I'm missing something. However now that I'm on I'm fairly sure I'm not missing anything.

People seem to have lots of stuff on their pages but I can't figure out how to put up anything except for the basic info -books, films, blah blah.

So what's the secret? What's the magic [insert jazz hands here]?

Those in the know, please explain!

You know I had a soft spot for Mel Gibson about a gazillion years ago. I remember him as the sweet young man/boy in Tim (an Aussie film which doesn't even seem to warrant a mention on IMDB.com). He went on to play the lovable crazy rogue bent on revenge in the Mad Max films and the lovable crazy rogue bent on revenge in the Lethal Weapon films... a theme developing?

Then I lost interest all together. Until The Passion of the Christ when I started to realise he was actually a real crazy but not so lovable nutter. Of course the rant against Jews and the drink driving incident followed.

Despite my growing dislike in the back of my mind there was still a little voice which said "at least he's a decent family man, no matter what his external behaviour is". WRONG AGAIN!

I hate to gloat when an overtly religious person (such as Mel, who built a church for his super strict Catholic congregation) finally shows himself for the moral fraud that he is but gloating I am. What a morally corrupt slimebag has Mel turned out to be? Seriously!

Some people don't surprise you when their mortal sins are laid bare to the world. But pious shits like Mel make me sick. All these years he's been seen as the righteous family man, happily married with 8 children, living a moral life under the Catholic faith. WHAT A LOAD OF BULLSHIT!

This morning I see him parading himself and his slaggy little (most probably pregnant) girlfriend less than 3 weeks after splitting from his wife. Gee, I'm no biblical scholar but where is this sort of behaviour condoned in the Bible?

Arsehole.

My recent post answering a meme about motherhood provoked some thoughts on a related topic which often visits my thoughts: education. I find this is a subject which often comes up amongst friends with children. With Will having learning difficulties and developmental delay I have had education-related thoughts going on since he first joined our family.


The main question remains the same: which path is best to help him reach his potential (whatever that may be)? How long is a piece of string? A similar question and just as easy to answer. At the beginning I was fairly certain about what I thought he needed. As time has gone on I have found, as with everything in life, things are a lot more complex than they first appear.

We have followed some dead ends, started things which seemed helpful and worthwhile and have found them not to be, have found other things which are helpful and worthwhile and yet the effort needed to pursue them fully are beyond my capabilities. There is no approach which is perfect.

One thing which I find really amazing about other parents is a certain confident attitude towards education. Especially amongst those who choose private education for their children. They seem so certain that this is the "best" for their child. I've heard a recent interview with Alain de Botton where he states that his super wealthy parents didn't leave him any inheritance (??) but they did pay for the very best private school education which is the best thing any parent can do for their child. An old boyfriend of mine (a pathetic, spineless mummy's boy) was one of four sons, his mother (a hideous Mrs Bucket-type) worked a full-time job simply to put her four boys through a prestigious Sydney private school. At the time I knew him one brother was long-term unemployed, one drove a bottled water delivery truck, one was a fireman with the airforce (the nicest boy/man) and my dickhead boyfriend was a graphic designer with a degree from a third rate university. The question arises: was this educational money well spent? Was her labour and, presumably, sacrifice worthwhile in the broadest sense?

The only thing I've really learnt since I've been grappling with Will's educational needs is I am certain of less and less as the years go on. I am fairly sure there is no such thing as a "good school". Numerous friends have sent their children to such establishments only to be personally very disappointed for various reasons. I am learning that each child's educational experience is completely individual and can change from week to week and year to year. Teachers come and go, as do princpals. A teacher may work wonderfully for child A and clash horribly with child B; a right-on-the-money teacher in Year 1 may be replaced with a brain-dead time watcher in Year 2. A dynamic principal may be replaced with a facile bureaucrat. Such things are just as possible in a private school charging $12,000 per year as in the local public school.

As the mother of a child with extra educational needs I worry about what the future holds but I have no confidence that any school on the face of this planet has all the answers for him. Sure the school he attends is often lacking in specific areas which I could pinpoint but I am realistic enough to understand that they can not possibly deal with each individual child's needs. They teach somewhere to the average and make tokenistic gestures to show they care about the kids on the fringes. I don't blame them. What children like Will need is difficult to deliver. Schools and teachers are overloaded as it is.

In my roundabout way I am making the point that I truly think education, in the instituional sense, is overrated for some children. I think we hang a lot of hopes on education because we fear the potential difficulties of the life our children will face and we think education will be a guarantee of a successful future. But the hardest thing to accept is that there is no guarantee of anything, for tomorrow or next year and certainly not for 10 or 20 years down the track. We all want a rosy future for our children but nothing we can do now will make that a certainty. I wish that wasn't so.

Sometimes I think Will might struggle in life but Marianna probably won't. As soon as I think it I realise the folly of such a simplistic idea. Being intelligent is obviously an asset in life but again no guarantee of success. Life success is such a complex and mysterious chemistry. Two children can go through life with an identical upbriging and school experience and come out very diffirent individuals in adult life. Judging by their superficial intelligence at this point in their childhood I can not predict with even a small amount of certainty what the future will hold for my kids. Where they might succeed or fail, where life may pull the rug out from under them or hand them a bouquet of roses. Education is part of the equation but not enough a part of it to make me put any great faith in it.

Like with religion I sometimes wish I had faith because there is a part of me which craves certainty. I hate this post-modern nothingness which is my brain. There is nothing wrong with a little innocent delusion and I wouldn't mind some of that comfort when the vast abyss of the unknown future yawns in front of me.

I've been memed by Kath. It all started here.

I'm a little vague and sore-throaty today so I'm just going to wing it. I think the point is to write 5 things I love (or not) about being a mother. This is dangerous territory but I'm going to give it a go.

1) Becoming a mother wasn't easy for me. My children are adopted. My body let me down, nothing to be done about that. I prefer not to dwell on negatives. My children's birth mothers couldn't care for them; I couldn't have a baby. Somehow, through the mysterious workings of the universe, DoCS and the court system in both Guatemala and Colombia, I became their mother. The sadness, regret and pain of both of these situations live within me always. They are tiny atoms fused within my heart. 99.9999% of the time I don't think about them or feel them. But occasionally something will happen to make me re-focus on their existence. The weight of these moments is more than I can bear, but I have to, and soon the moments pass. I don't want to think that these atoms affect my parenting but I fear that they do. I can not articulate these fears, I just feel them fluttering there, under my heart, sometimes.

2) Because of point (1) there is some part of me which still can't accept that I am actually a mother. Someone has surely made a mistake. I like to turn these strange sensations into a positive. I live by the idea that my children are only lent to my by the universe, I do not own them, just as no parent "owns" their child. I felt "owned" as a child and I do not want that for my children. I want to walk side by side with them, guide them where I can, aware that I know so little, that I can not foresee or control their path. These ideas free me and trouble me. I see other parents sharing a more intense, more intertwined relationship with their children and wonder if there is something wrong with me; am I missing some maternal spark.

3) I find the day to day of parenting a heavy weight to carry. It is not just the fact that there is not enough hours in the day to fit in the children's needs, housework, paid work, other family issues, hobbies, friends, etc, etc. Though this is a significant fact. It's that I am selfish. There is a strong internal faction inside me which demands "me" time, whether it's to write this blog, or go to a mums' dinner, or simply plop in front of the tv in peace and quiet to watch some reality tv trash which I sadly find entertaining. Mothers want to be with their children all the time, right? Shouldn't I want that too. Maybe it's that my children won't be compartmentalised, they won't stick to the rules that exist in my mind. Play when I want to play with you, eat when I want you to eat, go away and play quietly when I want you to do so. They do normal annoying child-like things and sometimes that is hard for me to cope with.

4) So far it seems that there is nothing I love about being a mum. I guess that's just my processing. It's funny because I so love almost everything about being a mum; a mum to two beautiful wonderful little people who I am so priviliged to be able to parent. It is almost like the emotional part and the physical/mental part of parenting are two very different things. How can I describe the joy of snuggling in bed at night next to Will as he settles into sleep, listening to his comments and questions about the day past and the day ahead? He is my fragile little man, the baby who eight years ago lived with the possibility of never walking or talking, now almost ten years old, robust, happy, friendly and loving. My heart swells to bursting with admiration and awe at how far we have all come together since the day we first held him in our arms in Guatemala City in September 2000.

5) Then there is Marianna, our dynamic diva. Whereas parenting Will has meant living with the fear and joy of a dependant child, parenting Marianna has come with all the opposite fears and joys. She is so independant it is strictly her lack of disposable income which prevents her from moving out and living life as she sees fit right now at the tender age of almost four. I adore her and I fear her; I know she is capable of bringing immense happiness or possibly causing terrible pain. I am sometimes scared at what the future may hold for her and us. Anything is possible for my bright, beautiful, strong-minded princess.

Well, as usual, I've meandered into a whole lot of useless navel gazing. Barely touched on the theme at hand. I am much better at the basic memes, as opposed to these more DAM ones. Bugger it.

If you ever get the impulse to take your family to the Sydney Easter Show here is my advice: Take $300, place in nearest garbage bin, stay at home.

Honestly I hate it more and more each year. Last year wasn't too bad actually, as the Show was held out of school holidays and it was quite a nice day without the crowds when we went on Kids Day. It's the little things but I especially enjoyed getting the Women's Weekly showbag at half price.

Yesterday, on the other hand, was HELL. It was busy, it rained, the two for one rides thing didn't seem to work very well, the kids whinged, the showbags were outrageously crap and even more outrageously overpriced. I hated almost every minute. I should have known it was bad news when the sign out the front said that the WW showbag was sold out. Big Jay got free tickets from work so at least we didn't have to pay the ridiculous entry fee.

But the kids had fun.

If nothing else I answered the question "what are people doing with their $900 stimulus package?" They are spending it on SHIT at the Easter Show. Bloody hell, I've never seen so many bad haircuts and tracksuit pants in one place. The theme shouldn't be the country comes to town, it should be the Bogans come to Homebush Bay.

Don't be jealous now. This big hunk of man is all mine!

Look how much joy a hug from a giant baby swan provides for my little munchkins! Cyggy is very much loved by the junior members of our family.

If I do say so myself tonight's chicken, zuchini and tomato risotto cooked in my new pressure cooker was absolutely gorgeous! I would go so far as to say it was the best risotto I've ever made (and possibly ever tasted).

There's something about the pressure cooker which forces the flavours together beautifully. It was just right, creamy with just a bit of firmness in the rice itself. The savoury chicken flavour was beautiful.

I have now made three things in the cooker and I am learning that the recipes need to have about an extra 5 or 10 minutes of cooking time added to them. The lamb shanks I made on Sunday were nice but definitely not falling off the bone, which is how they should be. I think an extra 10 minutes would have made a big difference.

At this rate I may never need my other pots and pans again. There is almost nothing I can't make in this thing. [Obviously I still need my wok and my big pot for cooking pasta, but everything else can go.]

Luckily I have made it back to the gym as of this morning because all this hearty winter cooking is going to be tough on the waist measurement.

I am not generally a violent person.

Why do I have an overwhelming urge to smack Penny Wong over and over again with a dead mackrel? Jeez that woman shits me in a very major way!

Is Twitter the stupidest thing you've ever heard of? I mean who has the fucking time?

I can't believe people are taking the time out of their day to say: "I'm on the loo." "Waiting at the doctor's surgery." "Picking the lint out of my bellybutton."

Is this information crucial for the wellbeing of the universe? Do people really need to know and, more importantly, do any of them really care?

On the first screen you see when you go to www.twitter.com [I am not promoting this tripe btw]there is a quote from someone or something called Wired "Incredibly useful". Really! How?

I am the first to admit that blogging is a silly indulgence and of no particular use to the world but Twitter is in a universe of useless triviality all of its own.

Also, am I the only person to never have looked at Facebook?

HERE IT IS.

My first effort in my brand new pressure cooker. Beef Goulash, made with gravy beef, onions, mushrooms, paprika, tomato paste, stock and sour cream to finish.

The photo doesn't do it justice. It was delicious and tender and full of flavour. Prep time: 15 minutes. Cooking time: 25 minutes + 5 minutes to thicken sauce.

I did struggle a little to get the lid on properly to start with but I guess it's a technique I'll need to master. I was skeptical that it would turn out. After all gravy beef normally requires 2+ hours to reach a tenderness suitable for eating. When I finally lifted the lid I wasn't sure what to expect but it was just as promised.

I am suitably impressed at this point. Sunday I'm doing lamb shanks so that will be Big Test #2. Report to follow.

EASTER 2009

Another wonderful weekend away with our good friends. I didn't sleep (almost at all) so I gradually became grumpier and grumpier. Luckily no-one could tell the difference.

We stayed on a small hobby farm in the Yarramalong Valley on the Central Coast. It was a lovely little property with free roaming chickens (right through the house), horses, a pony, cows, goats and alpacas. Plenty of fauna to keep our city children entertained. Fresh eggs from under the chickens' bottoms every morning.

A few pictorial memories...

So I've ordered a pressure cooker and I'm excited. Yes, I know the words "pressure cooker" entice images of exploding casseroles and steam burns but I am assured the new, second generation cookers available today are a much safer, easier and overall better appliance than the thin aluminium relic from the 50s and 60s which most of us have in mind.

The selling point for me is slow cooked meals in half an hour. For me one of the best things about the cooler months is using my slow cooker to do scrumptious lamb shanks (and lamb shank and barely soup), rich beef casseroles and tomato and mushroom chicken (such as the one we enjoyed last night). However these dishes take hours and hours to cook so usually I have them going on the weekends and then freeze the results. With our weekends being what they are this scenario doesn't happen all that often.

So now I have a better option. Apparently in my new pressure cooker I'll be able to cook the same meal but in half an hour or so. Magic.

I am armed with my Pressure Cooker Cookbook by Suzanne Gibb (that's Margaret Fulton's daughter) and awaiting my delivery of aforementioned pressure cooker and a large box of top quality meat from ButcherMan.com.au. Mmmmmmm.

Stay tuned. Reviews forthcoming.

I know that knocking the banks is like shooting fish in the proverbial barrel.

However, it must be noted that the banks are utter utter bastards.

Not passing on (or only partially so) the latest rate cut is pure bastardry. No two ways about it.

I'm fairly sure when the Reserve Bank decided to cut the base interest rate it was thinking "we'll put the money back into people's pockets, encouraging spending, encouraging small business investment, maybe save a few jobs, maybe allow people to hang onto their homes in these difficult times, etc". I'm quite certain they weren't thinking "we'll do something nice to improve the big banks' profit margins. Poor dears are only looking at a $6 billion profit this financial year. Obviously they need all the help they can get".

FUCKERS!

OH!!!!!!!!

MY!!!!!

GOD!!!!!

[Blogger just don't offer a dramatic enough font size for this.]

THE SPECIALS ARE COMING TO SYDNEY FOR A 30TH ANNIVERSARY TOUR.

TUESDAY, 28 JULY @ THE ENMORE.

THE HOLY GRAIL.

AND YES I DID HAVE TO SHOUT!

Sadly I am likely to go on my own as I can think of no other Specials fans right now. Those people are all in my dim dark past.

As you were.

So here I am living life in red and white.

What do you think? Is it a look which could take off?

Personally I'm just happy that the Swans won. We didn't just win, we beat Hawthorn, last year's champions. We didn't just scrape through, we won by a very respectable 38 points. That's as close to a miracle as I am likely to see.

I was a very happy little Medusa-head on Saturday night.

So the early rush of tv shows for 2009 has finished. It's been a mad rush of taping and IQing a gazillion shows and then trying to find bits of time watch them. Sheesh, the pressure I am under, I can't tell you!

Anyway, Dexter is finished and I have to say Season 3 a little disappointing. Of course I would watch any program featuring Michael C Hall, even if it was an hour of him sitting on a stool whistling Dixie, but this season just didn't cut it for me. On the other hand I know that such a unique idea can not be sustained for three seasons without loosing some integrity. I can now live in fear/anticipation of Season 4 which is apparently on it's way.

City Homicide also concluded for the season with a very unexpected and terrible ending. Got to give it to the writers for having the balls to end it like that. That show continues to hold our attention.

Underbelly is a dog's breakfast but it's fun and stupid and a little worrying. I don't mind the bums and tits, nothing I don't see in the bathroom every day of my life (sure their's are a little firmer and perkier). I do hate it when they break for Easter though; I mean, does anyone NOT have a VCR and/or some other much more technologically advanced recording device these days?

Packed to the Rafters has been enjoyable (especially with the guest appearance of our dear friend Dina) but I am a tad disappointed with the super cliche, a late in life pregnancy. Gosh, who could have seen that one coming? Overall still a good Tuesday night show which provides a reasonable dose of entertainment without wasting too many brain cells.

Now that regular shows are taking a break I can catch up on True Blood, the entire series of which I have IQ'd but not watched. I do love a vampire tale but I'm not sure what to expect with this strange little series. Also Big Jay and I can finish watching that damn addictive Come Dine With Me which we've been stockpiling on the IQ, mainly because those 20 minute episodes are just right when we want to fill in a bit of time or when we're just too bloody tired to contemplate an entire 90-120 minute movie (which, let's face it, is most of the time).

There's also a new series (praise the ????) of Jon and Kate plus Eight starting at the end of the month. How I've missed those crazy cats and their eight gorgeous offspring. Will I give the new season of Australia's Next Top Model a go? Perhaps now that Sarah O'Hare/Murdoch is hosting I'll give it another try. It's no Big Brother but it does give me a certain dose of shock/horror/yell at the teev type reality entertainment I've been missing.

I was listening to one of Ricky Gervais' podcasts (on Desert Island Discs) yesterday. I really recommend you looking up his podcasts on iTunes or on his website if you're a fan. Very very funny!

Anyway, it's an interview show but they also ask the interviewee about their favourite bits of music. Blow me down if his first choice isn't Bob Dylan's If You See Her Say Hello which is a song I love dearly (at least Jeff Buckley's version). He also talked about the effect songs have on him, especially songs about regret, about nostalgia, and I was [internally] yelling YES YES YES.

Who knew Ricky and I were so similar, like on an emotional level, man.

So I know you've all been hanging out for my review of Paul Blart: Mall Cop... come on, admit it.

Wait no longer dear readers.

When we saw the shorts for this film Big Jay and I turned to each other and said "Will is going to LOVE THIS!". This is the kind of slapstick physical humour Will loves (and let me just say, so do I).

This is worth seeing if only for the magnificent Segway transporter action. I seriously love these things. There are a few around the Olympic Park precinct where we live that are used for tours. Every time I see one zipping around I dream of owning one. To be honest I think that would be a total disaster because my lack of balancing prowess is well documented so I'm sure I would crash the thing into a tree within 20 seconds.

But I digress. Mall Cop was really just a fun and funny family film of the old fashioned variety. I enjoyed every minute. Marianna was a bit restless (not enough Wiggles and/or mermaids for her liking) but Will giggled all the way through.

Also this is probably a good time to confess a soft spot for Kevin James. Sure, he's no Robbie Williams, but he does appeal to the significant part of me which likes big cuddly slightly dopey blokes.

I'm in love with my new iPod Classic (and yes, I would marry it if the laws of this state allowed such unions!). From the meditation music which helps me relax at bedtime to the Ricky Gervais podcasts which keep me laughing on car trips I love everything about it. It is one clever little technological gadget.

What I particularly like is the ability to download ONE song for a modest cost. I haven't bought actual singles for a decade or more. Born with a tail (by a Kiwi band I can't remember the name of right now) was probably the last one I actually purchased.

Yesterday I downloaded the semi-new Ben Folds with Regina Spektor song You Don't Know Me. What a fine bit of pop song that is. I want to listen it to it over and over.

I have also purchased the new Ben Lee CD The Rebirth of Venus and, as with his previous offerings, it is music which makes me happy. I think I like Ben Lee so much because he is an annoying optimist like me. He isn't the best singer in the world, nor the best musician or songwriter. But he does put together a catchy pop song and the sentiments are very much up my alley. Life can suck, things can be shit but it's all we've got so cheer up and be happy, enjoy, live life, get stuck in, be kind to each other, be kind to yourself. What more can one want from life and/or a pop song?

My almost 90 year old grandmother moved into a retirement home a few weeks ago. It was inevitable and a couple of years overdue. I won't go into the boring family saga behind this move.

It has been interesting to watch Will's reaction to our visits to the home. Whereas before, when he was much younger and we would visit my other grandmother at the nursing home, he would simply be bored and uncomfortable. Now he is thinking about the meaning of this place; a place filled with old people. "Why are there so many old people here?" he constantly asks.

I can feel his brain working things out. He has asked if he'll be living in a place like this one day. As a parent it is difficult and confronting to discuss such things with a 9 year old. I believe in simple honesty with children. Not too much information but small facts and the truth about not knowing what the future holds.

I don't want to fear old age and death; they are a natural part of life. The alternative is dying young and that isn't any better. When I talk to Will about old age and sickness and death I want to give him a simple version of my beliefs without making it sound scary. Sometimes I feel the words weighing heavy as they leave my mouth and I wonder what he makes of them. But I am never tempted to shy away from the truth or to sugar coat it for him (too much).

Possibly believing in God and a Bible-inspired afterlife may make such conversations easier but I don't have that crutch to lean on. I don't wish for that support structure in my life (though I do have moments of envy for people who have it).

My dad said he admires that I take the children to visit my grandmother and talk to them about aging and death. He says when he was a child (and even when I was) adults kept such things away from children, afraid of superstitions and jinxes, tempting fate, etc. I simply can not see the point of shying away from what is an inescapable part of life, though I do see it would be easier for me not take the children to the old people's home, not to talk to them about such sad things. But happiness and sadness are all part of a rich life; like day and night and Summer and Winter.

I wonder whether us weird and wonderful human beings would treasure life quite so much if we were immortal, if the end point of death was not in the equation. I think not. I hope for my children a love of life, an enjoyment of the everyday and an acceptance of the brief and temporary nature of our individual existence.

Here's another sweet family anecdote to add to my Mother of the Year nomination application.

A couple of weeks ago Marianna woke up and came into the kitchen where I was fiddling with Will's school lunch.

"I want to give my daddy a hug," was her opening line.

"He went to work early this morning sweetie, you'll have to wait until he get's home this evening," I said.

"NOOO, I have to give my daddy a hug NOW," she retorted.

"Well, daddy isn't here. If you want we can call him on the phone and say 'good morning'. Otherwise you can give me a hug or wait until tonight."

She was quite for a few moments. Then (in case I had misunderstood her previous requests):

"I WANT TO GIVE MY DADDY A HUG NOOOOWWWWW ... [significant and ominous pause] ... YOU SHIT!"

Look, it's hard to shift blame for my angelic little cherub knowing such words. She would certainly have heard me uttering the odd "shit" here and there. But in my defence I should say that it isn't my fault that the roads are so heavily populated by moronic arsehole shitheads who so obviously found their driver's licences in Corn Flakes packets.

I do need to give her points for using it so well and in proper context. Despite the initial shock I was suitably impressed.

A moment any mother would be proud of.

I've finally finished Stieg Larsson's second Millennium instalment, The Girl Who Played With Fire. After reading The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo I couldn't wait to get into the second book but time has been against me. I just couldn't get around to it and I didn't want to read it in 5 minute incriments.

So I took it up to the Gold Coast with me and spent my evenings reading big chunks at a time. Then last Friday night I finished the final 150+ pages.

I had it on good authority that this second book was better than the first and it's so true. Like the first book this one starts off kinda slow and builds up to the point where you can't get your eyes across the words and across the lines fast enough. Never mind a page turner, this book was a bloody runaway Mack truck and I was strapped in for a huge ride.

This book gives us much more background on our heroine Lisbeth Salander and she keeps being an oddly endearing and totally fascinating character. So good to have a fantastic, strong, take-no-prisoners female character.

The ending left me satisfied but certainly hanging for the next book (which won't be released until early 2010). I can only hope that the third book ties things up at least a bit and doesn't leave us in suspense like this one because sadly there won't be any more.

As Will would say Lisbeth Salander ROCKS!

Some photos from our anniversary day lunch back in January which I thought were worth sharing...

As a birthday treat mum looked after the kids last night and Big Jay and I went to a Gold Class* session of He's Just Not That Into You. Just the cinema experience was wonderful: comfy recliner armchairs; nachos and a giant Coke in a chilled glass brought to our little table by a polite waiter. Heaven. Better still we were lucky enough to share the cinema with a group of quiet, well behaved patrons who were there to actually watch a movie and not make mobile phone calls, chat to their friend and/or rustle wrappers and/or cough constantly.

The movie itself was average. Reasonable bit of entertainment but without anything much to make it memorable.

The best thing about it was Ginnifer Goodwin. I have to admit to having a good, old-fashioned girl crush on her. She is too cute for human comprehension. She first caught my attention in Big Love and she is even more adorable in HJNTIY.

Now what are my chances of seeing Confessions of a Shopaholic while it's still at the cinema?

Tomorrow is my 41st birthday and I've treated myself to a shiny, new iPod Classic. It suddenly occured to me that I really, really needed one.

It's a great little toy with amazing technological features. Mind boggling really for a Gen-Xer like me.

I spent last night fiddling with it.

What does it say about me that my first two purchases from the iTunes Store were:

1) The Cure: Greatest Hits

2) Meditation and Relaxation Music

I wasn't going to write about my trip to the Gold Coast last weekend at all. My first reaction to the trip, upon getting home on Wednesday night, was to curl up in the foetal position in the corner and rock myself in a self-comforting manner. A few days later and some perspective has returned. After all, I have survived with some semblence of sanity, so all is well.

There is absolutely no need to go into details. I went to the Gold Coast for 3 nights and 4 [horrificially long] days with mum and the kids while Jason was at a work-related (sort of) golfing trip to Coffs Harbour. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It wasn't. I'll stick with the positive. Sea World was great fun and I would recommend it to anyone, especially those with younger children. George's Greek Restaurant at Sanctuary Cove is great. Good food, great value. When was the last time you paid $14 for a whole dozen oysters at a restaurant? (Some thieving scumbags are charging $35 here in the Emerald City.)

Lesson learnt: Do not go on holidays with the children without the physical and mental presence of their father. It won't end well.

Here are a couple of pics to capture the happy memories...

Doesn't look like the human incarnation of Lucifer on earth, does she?!

Two's company, three's a pain in the backside...