Delight and Disappointment on the Indian Pacific (but no murders)

Click here for a Photo Album of the trip


Day 1 (Perth to Kalgoorlie)

I will season the inevitable food photos with people observations.

Off to a roaring start on both counts on the first night with Grilled Haloumi in a Field Mushroom (the menu description was more explanatory but I forget the content) then Grilled Barramundi with Stuff (ditto). Both outstandingly delish.

I managed to forego the Belgian Chocolate Mousse in order to feel saintly.

Now for the people. 

Opposite me was Mr Yama-something - the quintessential middle-aged Japanese tourist full of bows and charming smiles but no Engish whatsoever. However I managed to discover this trip is a long held dream - marvellous.
The others were a prosperous Perth couple in their 60's who immediately enthralled me. She started polishing all their cutlery, glasses and plates as soon as they sat down, while he turned to Mr Y with the menu and said loudly and slowly "No noodles eh!". I have full value for my ticket already!


Day 2 (mainly the Nullarbor)

Less successful in the culinary department - took a punt on some unfamiliar things like this poached peach, vanilla yoghurt and quandong compote for breakfast - very pretty but just, well weird, so I had a full English Breakfast to take the taste away. 

Poor choice for dinner too - the Beef Cheeks with This and That were lovely and tender but too reminiscent of boarding school stew to be yummy, and decidedly unphotogenic, so here's dessert instead - sautéed apple slices on puff pastry with vanilla bean ice cream and butterscotch sauce. Luckily both pretty *and* yummy.

And now the people stories. As the 3rd youngest on the train I was the only woman not creating something for grandchildren, but I was lucky enough to meet an old guy who was a farmer, a miner and then a cray fisherman, so we had a chat about Dalwallinu and other Wheatbelt beauty spots before he discovered I'd driven a big tractor in Canada, and then we were off the conversational starting blocks! 

We ended up at the same table for dinner as the delightful Mr Y from the previous night, who was full of beans and happy laughter. In fact his English was a bit better than he'd been willing to share with the Pompous Perthites, and he kept diving into his satchel to show us photos of his grandchildren, his dog (a "Fawencha Boowadogga"), a postcard of a Japanese train, and other charming memorabilia. Of course I showed him my screensaver of my own dogs and he literally shrieked with laughter. He made my trip. :-)

At one point we found ourselves trying to discuss the history of the train, which included the fact that it used to be steam powered. It was only later that I delightedly recalled the spectacle of two oldish adults both making enthusiastic choo choo-choo noises and, yes, I'm proud to say we simultaneously did the siren hand gesture and went woooo-wooooo. Not surprisingly this brought more shrieks of 

delighted understanding from Mr Y. 

I felt very proud of our international communication skills.

Day 3 (Adelaide to Broken Hill)

On the 3rd night I was once again randomly allocated to a table with Mr Y (whom I now suspect of being cannily perceptive about his companions) and a rather severe older lady called "Irene, and please pronounce the final E".

 After introductions she turned to Mr Y and asked the standard train questions (where you got on, where you'll get off, is it your first trip etc). Mr Y kept turning to me with the classic hands-together entreaty, so I "translated" the questions into a more familiar form and he was able to answer.

After a few of these exchanges Ireneee said rather sharply to me "Please stop helping him - I'm certain he speaks much better English than you seem to think." Even worse than the Great Noodle Incident of the first night! I was aghast, but Mr Y did not react except to withdraw into silence as Ireneee explained she'd taught English in Japan for 4 years many years ago, and never met anyone with Mr Y's apparent limitations. 

Remember he was still sitting beside her!!

As she went on to espouse her religious views concerning the afterlife (I'm not kidding) my attention was easily drawn to Mr Y who was apparently nodding off and in imminent danger of falling asleep on her shoulder. He kept opening his eyes and straightening up, but soon began tipping towards her again. She was by then in full flight about arguments she had had with atheist friends, so I was terribly disappointed when our meals arrived and he woke up. 

I watched carefully for a conspiratorial wink when he left, but even without it I will happily believe he did it on purpose. Onya Mr Y. :-)


Day 4 (into Sydney)

Forget the food!

Well that's obviously ridiculous but it's an arresting opening line considering previous paragraphs.

The Big Buzz the last morning was that the train had been attacked by bushrangers overnight! Or at the very least armed miscreants who attacked us in our beds! 

Well, we were in our beds when it happened, which is near enough for narrative purposes, but as you insist on quibbling I'll be forced to show you my post-traumatic breakfast. 

Grilled sourdough with eggs and smoked Tasmanian trout, as you ask. 

And Now For the Disappointments

Here is part of a letter I sent to Great Southern Railways on my return (minus the photos I included to illustrate my points):

Safety Concerns on the Indian Pacific

1. Throughout the whole journey, many of the exit doors were blocked with heavy and/or hard to move items which would dangerously impede exit in an emergency. In some cases both exit doors at the end of a carriage were blocked [with] baggage, walking aids, wheelchairs, ramps, bags of laundry and boxes of supplies. 

2. The shower and toilet facilities in the Single Sleeper carriage were very cramped, with an inward-opening door for the toilet. If a passenger collapsed or suffered some other emergency while inside, there would be no way of reaching them without somehow removing the door. 

3. In addition, the Call buttons in the shower and toilet were high up and completely unreachable if someone was on the floor.  

Cleanliness Concerns on the Indian Pacific

The following examples of a very poor standard of cleanliness are not what I would expect for a $2000 fare in "Gold" class. 

1. Unwashed windows 

My primary interest on this trip was photography, but the windows in my allocated cabin were too streaked and dirty (on the outside) to focus through. At my request I was moved to a cabin on the other side of the train where the windows were a little cleaner, but I soon found they were still too dirty for photographs.
I mentioned this to the Train Manager, who kindly came and cleaned the internal surfaces, but this made only a marginal improvement. At his suggestion I checked all the windows in the Lounge and Dining cars, but they were also too dirty. I was not the only passenger to complain about the dirty windows - people with compact cameras were completely unable to focus through the grime.
I wish to stress that the windows were dirty right from the start - while the train was still in Perth. ... In order to take reasonable photos I was obliged to stand in the exits, because the single-glass windows in those doors had been cleaned. As I did this for several hours over the course of the journey, I felt very irritated that I could not even sit down to take photos with a steadier hand. 

2. Toilets 

On previous journeys the single cabins had their own toilet, but now the 18 Single Cabin passengers share two toilets, one of which became blocked every morning, reducing us to one for most of the trip. Each morning this rapidly became unsanitary with splashed urine, inadequately flushed waste, and toilet paper littering the floor. It appeared to be cleaned only once or twice a day, whereas it really needed cleaning at least every 2 hours.  

3. Shower Cubicle 

Again, there are two for the 18 Single Cabin passengers, and as with the toilets, these were in very poor condition. The nylon curtains reached only halfway to the floor, meaning that any clothes brought in got wet from the shower. The curtains were also missing several of their runners, making them hard to pull around the shower. The shower head was very calcified, leading to an erratic spray which easily got past the short flimsy curtain.
There was no exhaust fan, and the light was half full of dirt/dead insects, making the tiny room very dim. There was no rail and only one hook for towel and robe, and these fell off very easily onto the wet floor, which drained very poorly so that there was always standing water. The walls and floor were stained and the soap containers were empty. 

4. Single Sleeping Compartments 

My cabin had been inadequately cleaned in Perth, without the wash unit being wiped down, [and] The seat did not appear to have been vacuumed properly, because I found a used tissue down the side.
... I feel that the Single Cabin carriages are long overdue for refurbishment, and that they do not offer the value for money, comfort and amenity that one is entitled to expect from "Gold Class". 

I noticed that none of the Single cabins or facilities are featured on your website, and now I know why.

At the time of writing, I have received only a brief acknowledgement of my concerns, with a promise to "pass them on". I have asked for them to let me know when they've been addressed.

2013 Balance Sheet

Credits

• Having my oldest friend assure me (apropos of nothing) that she believes in me. 
• Having another friend still be here, when a year ago it seemed that another Easter would be impossible, let alone another Christmas.
• Seeing another medical student mentoree graduate as a doctor with a very bright future.
• Watching former medical students progress in their careers with confidence and aptitude.
• Having 3 new dogs come into my life, even though one lasted only six weeks (RIP dear Wynny - see below). 
• Finding out what it's like to take on rescued dogs - a lot to learn on both sides, but immensely rewarding.
• Discovering the joys of training a receptive and very entertaining puppy (daughter of my Mukela RIP - see below).
• Finding the perfect new home for "Lurlene", my treasured 1957 Holden car.
• Receiving heartfelt and treasured support from unexpected quarters during a time of great personal distress.
• Having a UK artist ask to use a photo of my rescued racer Rosie for her portfolio/gallery of oil paintings. And who could blame her - what a picture of serenity:

Debits

• Losing yet another friend (after the two last year), but in this case her death was what she wanted. RIP Julie - forever "DJ" in my thoughts.
• Losing two more dogs (after Thika's death in 2012). My dear old boy Mukela died a month or so after his daughter came to join us, and my first foster greyhound Wynny died just 6 weeks into a normal life after her racing career, as a result of the drugs given to keep her winning. Pictures of those precious six weeks and her unforgivable end can be seen on her site: Drughound Racing. This banner was kindly made by an overseas Greyhound Rescue site:
  
• Missing out on the chance to teach medical students - one of my most favourite jobs ever.
• Being knocked off my feet for months by a completely unexpected personal attack which destroyed my self-confidence and sense of worth in an activity I had loved for more than 20 years.
• Finding out (like countless other naive people before me) that some people will always prefer rumours to truth, even at the expense of friendship and loyalty.
• Discovering that getting through a truly awful year does not mean there'll be a better one ahead. My hopes for 2014 are therefore very conservative: 
  

Racing Greyhounds - You Bet They Die

NB All credit for the sadly clever title goes to a number of greyhound advocacy sites such as Greyhound Action International. Another group very kindly made this wonderful "postcard".

With my elderly Rhodesian Ridgeback still mourning the death of his lifetime companion, as recounted in my end-of-2012 "balance sheet", I faced the choice of getting another dog to help his loneliness, or a dogless house once he passed on.
I decided on a whim to take the short-term option of fostering a rescue dog, and applied to an adoption agency for ex-racing Greyhounds. Soon afterwards, Wynny arrived, straight from the trainer's kennels.

A mere 7 weeks later, after a harrowing few days and nights for all three of us, she died from long-standing liver disease - yet another victim of the Greyhound racing industry.

A great many people followed her album/story on social media while she was with me, so I made a tribute site for everyone to see the personal story of one lovely Greyhound, together with some sobering facts about the abusive and greedy industry which killed her. In order to raise awareness, I've also included links to adoption, welfare and advocacy groups around the world.

RIP Wynny, dear dog.

I hope "Drughound Racing" can save even one of your fellow victims.

Cyber-bullying - the new bowls or bingo?

We all know that some people use the internet to harass and intimidate people, and the results can be tragic, such as when the victim takes his or her life as a result of the attacks.

Cyber-bullying has obvious similarities to the bullying that goes on in so many schools, workplaces, and organisations, I wrote about institutional bullying 3 years ago, in "Leadership, Loutism or Blatant Bullying", with a follow-up post a few months later when I unexpectedly (and briefly) found myself in the role of victim.

But cyber-bullying has other "real-life" antecedents, including vicious and usually anonymous "poison pen" letters, where the perpetrator often hides behind a pseudonym to add an extra level of fear and uncertainty to their actions, which usually involve third parties to whom malicious insinuations are made.

An even less sophisticated form of harassment is hate-mail (or email), consisting of

"... invective and potentially intimidating or threatening comments towards the recipient. Hate mail often contains exceptionally abusive, foul or otherwise hurtful language. " [Wikipedia]

When researching this topic, I was wryly amused to find that bloggers should not consider themselves to have "arrived" in the blogosphere until they start getting insulting, spiteful, or just plain crazy comments. So I'm therefore delighted to announce that I've recently received my first hate-mail comments!
Let's see why they qualify:

• Personally insulting? ..... tick
• Randomly capitalised? ..... tick
• Poorly spelled and lacking sentence structure? .... tick
• Threatening? .... tick
• Malicious? .... tick
• Liberal use of expletives? ... tick

But in a bizarre twist which speaks volumes for the unstable mind of their author, both comments were completely unrelated to the posts where they appeared. One of the (I hope) random choices was so shocking as to be almost a parody of malign intent - a viciously rabid but irrelevant comment was left on the eulogy I wrote for the funeral of a dear friend! Of course if that were a deliberate ploy to increase my distress, it failed due to sheer transparency.

So why have I entitled this post "Cyber-bullying - the new bowls or bingo?"?

Until recently I had more or less assumed that the majority of cyber-bullies were poorly socialised, probably unsuccessful in life, possibly with untreated psychological problems, with an infinite capacity for resentment and jealousy, and who found an outlet for their inadequacies by tormenting people they saw as vulnerable.  Certainly my previous personal experience with cyber-bullying supported this view.
However, my recent attacker, although of course posting here as "Anonymous", was sufficiently careless to use another (identifiable) account to send his vituperations as emails!

Thanks to this (almost) amusing oversight, I now know that cyber-bullies come in all forms, including urbane, amusing, well-educated and successful people in their 60's. I have known Robin Courtney for almost 30 years, although I met him only a few times, as he was a cousin of a family I knew well. I was always impressed by what I heard of his sense of humour, love of life, and wide range of interests, having transitioned from geology to semi-retirement as an accountant and finally to full retirement in New Zealand. After many years of no contact, he suddenly wrote to me in such an overwrought fashion, with words in red capitals, full of hate and personal bitterness, and all to someone he barely knows ... it is indeed disturbing, although not for the reasons he obviously intended.

The message: bullying and intimidation are always unacceptable, no matter who does it, nor how old or  otherwise respectable they are.

Bullies only win when we let them.

Life Balance Sheet for 2012

Credits

• the unexpected recovery of a friend from a near-terminal illness
• the graduation of all the medical students I taught 3 years ago - a very proud moment
• taking the first steps towards a relationship with long-lost nieces
• the discovery that casual acquaintances with similar interests can provide even more comfort in times of  great sadness than friends with different interests

Debits

• the unexpected deaths of one dear dog and two dear friends
• the unexpected and abrupt termination of a 30-year close friendship
• the end of an immensely satisfying 4 years of teaching medical students
• the discovery that unsolicited appreciation seems to be out of style

Outlook for 2013

• an essential change of direction in personal life and employment
• details as yet unknown, but hopes are high for a far better year all round, and a full box of crayons ...

I'll be watching this space.

Farewell My Friend

Bye-bye Thika. You didn't quite make it to 12 years of age, but you gave me many times more than 12 years of love, laughter and loyalty. Not to mention a life-long battle of wills.

Thank you for sharing my life, my bed, my walks, my couch, my dinner, my tears and my joys. Thank you for being hilariously imperious and being able to give A Look which even non-dog people could recognise.

Thank you for bringing joy to others with your dear puppies, and for giving Mukela an everlasting hope that you might come back into season one day.

You will meet many relatives at the Rainbow Bridge, including your sister who went just a couple of days ago.

But the biggest, loudest, most joyful reunion will be with your great-grandma Mzuri - your teacher, your pal, your puppy-washer and so often your pillow. How much, how very very much do I hope to see you together again.

Thika (L) as a youngster with Mzuri (R)

Another Slice of Life on the Midland Train

More glimpses into another world, thanks to the Midland train.

Tonight's journey was a feast for the senses ... and the soul.

A few seats away, a rather inebriated middle-aged man was playing unidentifiable but mournful-sounding tunes on his guitar, accompanying them in a loud, unintelligible warble, while his more sober friend sat cross-legged on the floor opposite, swaying to the music and performing yoga-like moves with his arms and upper body.

Next to me, a large and unkempt young man was hunched forward, muttering to himself and sloshing his can of soft drink over our feet as the train lurched. Every now and then he would undertake a vigorous exploration of an ear or nostril, wiping any discoveries on the leg of his liberally stained tracksuit pants. Even more memorably, he would lean heavily against me or his other neighbour every few minutes to lift a buttock and allow a very fragrant fart to escape. I'm at a loss to explain why the other passenger didn't move, or why nobody commented. It would have seemed "rude", I guess.

My reason for staying put was on my other side.

A young and heavily pregnant woman had struggled aboard with a young child in a stroller and holding another by the hand, and I'm glad to say they were offered the Priority Seats. Their clothes, shoes and the stroller itself were very well-worn but clean, and the mobile child remained fairly quiet and seated during the journey, in wonderful contrast to many passengers of his age who are allowed to swing on the poles, run around, climb on the seats, shout and generally do what they like. The boy in the stroller looked older than his brother, but it soon became clear that he had a major disability, with his head constantly lolling forwards and his hands picking aimlessly at his clothes.
But the image that will stay with me is of his mother gently stroking his hair away from his face every time he slumped forward, causing him to raise his head and flash a wide, delighted smile at her and the world in general. It simultaneously warmed and broke my heart.

So I could not possibly have moved from my malodorous neighbour without appearing to be moving away from this Aboriginal family, and I would have been deeply ashamed to appear so offensive.

It does us all good to suffer a little transient discomfort while being reminded of the infinitely more difficult path others follow every hour of their lives.

More Slices of Life on the Midland Train

About 6 months ago I wrote about some of my experiences on one of the suburban train lines here in Perth. I explained that this particular line  "runs from Midland, in the east, through the city to Fremantle, on the coast. It takes about an hour, with many stops, and along the way passes through suburbs covering a very wide range of socio-economic levels."

It continues to be a valuable source of learning about other lives ... and my own.

Firstly, a potential fairy tale.

There has to be a story here. I understand why someone might wear fluffy pink slippers to the station on a cold morning, but wouldn't you notice that one had come off?
Perhaps this is a Midland version of Cinderella. 

Back on the train:

     One day there was a disheveled middle aged person (common), 

                  of indeterminate gender (uncommon), 

                             muttering constantly (common), 

                                        and frequently spraying a powerful deodorant all over him/herself and nearby passengers (unique).

Another day, the train was in entertainment overdrive. 

• A very large man opposite (wearing only a vest and shorts) was listening to his very loud portable radio tuned to the racing. I bravely asked if he had earphones. Guess. 
• So I moved away, only to get hit on the leg by a ball being thrown back and forth between 2 very loud children standing on the seats. Apology from them or their mother (yelling angrily into her phone)? Guess. 
• My ears and temper were both suffering by now, so it was just as well a very loud evangelist was marching up and down, up and down, shouting that redemption was nigh. I could only hope.

And another fairy tale to finish ...

I was on the last train to make it through before a fire closed the line, so I knew nothing about it and went to work as usual. 

Many hours later, on the way home, I arrived at a darkened station with no-one in sight, but as I stood there wondering what was happening, a train pulled in to the platform, so I got on. 

In fact it was the first passenger train to get through in the whole day, so I had my own private carriage for the 40 minutes to Midland, even though it stopped conscientiously at all the intervening (and completely empty) stations.

I confess that I narrowly resisted the temptation to move to a different seat every 30 secs, or to swing my way along the hand rails, and contented myself with waving regally to the non-existent bystanders, a bit like this:

Wendy Walking Wednesdays

Another friend has been taken by cancer. Too suddenly for us, but thankfully quickly for her. It is still too soon for me to do more than copy what I will say at her funeral next week:

"Hello

For those who don't know me, my name is Amanda, and Id like to share with you a few stories from my friendship with Wendy. 

We met about 7 years ago in an aquarobics class at our local physiotherapy centre, and for a long time the only two things I knew about Wendy were that she played the violin in a local orchestra and missed her husband a lot when he was away. That might sound odd, but I can remember exactly when the physio mentioned that, because up to then most of the women I'd known didn't much mind at all when their husbands were away! Later I saw for myself how close Wendy and Arthur were, because she often used to arrange an outing or come around for company when he was away, even for just a long day. They also managed to spend months together in the same car, travelling around Australia, and still be speaking nicely to each other when they got back. A eye-opener for me, and completely wonderful.

During a year or so of aquarobics classes I got to know Wendy a bit better, and eventually I asked her if she wanted to join me on some of my regular bushwalks. She was only free on one morning a week, and so began a tradition that lasted for several years - the Wendy Walking Wednesdays. We covered an awful lot of ground, on various bush tracks in Kalamunda, Gooseberry Hill and Lesmurdie. For the first year or two their dog Digger often came along, as did my girl Thika, and it was a sad day when Digger was no longer around. As I huffed and puffed my way up the hills, Wendy would teach me about wildflowers and tell me about various adventures and exploits during her active Guiding years. It was always hard to picture her abseiling down a cliff, because from the beginning to the end of our walks, she looked neat, well-ironed, and above all, clean and perspiration-free - all in stark contrast to myself!

 

For many years she carried a sort of small woven dillybag over her shoulder on our walks. She must have been very attached to it, because she kept using it despite the fact that stuff often fell out, including her keys (which on one occasion were lost forever). We once found a half-dead long-necked tortoise miles from water at the top of a hill, and she put it in that bag so we could try to get it down to Piesse Brook. It must have felt better by the time we reached the top of Hummerston Road, because it climbed out and fell onto the road with a thud. She put it back in the bag and held the top closed from then on, but we were hugely relieved when we finally reached the water and it swam off.

Our most exciting walk was about a year after we'd met, when I slipped down a gravel slope and landed awkwardly. I still feel bad about the very rude word I uttered, because I don't think Wendy ever swore, but I assured her that I'd just twisted my knee. I said I wouldn't be able to walk all the way back up the scarp, so Wendy went on ahead until she could get a phone signal and call someone to meet us at the road, about 2 kms away. I somehow managed to hobble along behind, but I wasn't game to tell her until almost 2 weeks later that in fact I knew at the time that a bone in my lower leg was broken! By then I'd been trapped in my house for 10 days, unable to get my wheelchair through the front door, so Wendy came around with a picnic lunch and managed to get the wheelchair out onto the verandah. I will never forget the completely marvellous feeling of being outdoors and in the fresh air again. 

I have so many stories about Wendy's kindness and understanding, including the time she took me clothes shopping (which I loathe with a passion). She told the shop assistant "I won't be able to keep her in the shop for more than about 10 minutes, so get cracking!" The assistant wisely did so, and I left with my first new clothes for years. 

But I'll finish with her contributions to my 50th birthday. The year before that, on one of our walks, I mentioned a trip I had heard about which went to Iran, and I felt this might finally be my chance to see Persepolis, a lifelong dream. It was a scary prospect, and very expensive, but Wendy solved my dilemma with a simple question: "Will you always wish you'd gone?'. So I went, and it was absolutely, 100% worth it. I might have missed it but for Wendy. 

 

Two days after I got back it was my birthday, and Wendy made me a cake decorated with the most beautiful and life-like WA wildflowers made from icing. They are an exquisite reminder of her talent, her love of nature, and above all her friendship to me. I am now giving them back as my tribute to her, and I hope you get the chance to admire them too. In order to display these flowers today, I've had to use my non-existent craft skills, but I know that despite the amateurish results, Wendy would have made me feel I'd done a great job. That was another of her gifts.
Thank you, Wendy, and thank you to her family for giving me this chance to share part of a friendship which changed my life in so many positive ways."

Vale, dear Wendy. 

Memoria ligna

Translation: "memory trees".

I took these photos on a walk this morning, but I pass these and similar trees every day. They are types of eucalyptus, and their bark is always evocative, for me.

About 15 years ago I lost a very dear friend to cancer while she was in her early 40's. She was a shining star in my life, and taught me far more about living life to the full than I can ever hope to put into practice.

For many years a noted breeder of both Great Danes and Rhodesian Ridgebacks, her house was arranged for both these space-occupying breeds, with stable doors between all the rooms so that the dogs could see what was happening while being prevented from drooling all over guests, each of whom was offered a small towel, just in case.

Her rambling garden was open to the public because of her imaginative interlacing of David Austin heritage rose bushes with Australian native plants. She also had a Welsh Mountain Pony who could hold a beer can in her lips and drink from it with noisy satisfaction.

Sue was a breathtakingly talented artist, whose works sold out in the few exhibitions she bothered to attend. I cherish the one painting of hers that I bought, but her charcoal sketch of my own dogs is one of my most prized possessions.

She was an immensely memorable hostess, and I have admittedly hazy recollections of a number of long afternoons under her garden trees, with an assortment of friends and a succession of bottles and plates of food appearing from nowhere.

We all have faults, and hers was an inability to finish a conversation. A trademark departure involved her husband Bob sitting in the car tooting the horn half an hour after they had both said their "final" farewells.

She also had the enviable knack of instantly understanding what someone really thought about an issue. This could be a little unnerving, because we like to think our less charitable thoughts are private. Case in point: my brother is a terribly successful corporate lawyer who has a very unfortunate tendency to condescension. When I graduated as a doctor, Sue's comment was "Well he can look down his nose all he likes, but he'll never be DOCTOR Anybody". Indeed.
In the same vein, she famously asserted that I only became a doctor to annoy a particularly cliquey dog club of which we were both members at the time. Almost true.

I miss her a lot.

Not long before she died, she said how much she wanted to visit my bush property and paint the wonderful bark of the Wandoo eucalyptus trees. She never made it, so every time I marvel at their patterns, I remember my friend.

Vale, dear Sue.

Laugh, run free, enjoy your departed dogs, and have some chilled strawberry champagne ready for me when I get there.

Are you like your house?

It's an old saying the some people look like their dogs, but I wonder how many people are like their houses?

I recently noticed how well my house reflects me - in summary, it is colourful and interesting, but often a bit messy.

Like me, it has a rather unusual history, despite looking pretty ordinary on the outside. It also has some entertaining quirks which are apparent only on closer acquaintance, and it has an unquestionably broad outlook.

But ... also like me, some areas are best ignored, it would certainly benefit from a lot more organisation, and there is always a long list of things which need fixing or improving, a list which never seems to get any shorter. Similarly, as with my own experiences, people either like it or scorn it, but they usually remember it.

On the other hand:

I know tidy, compact people who have houses with the same characteristics. Both they and their houses are neat, orderly, well-organised, clean, and well-maintained.

Other people and their houses are larger, rambling, slightly dishevelled, but comfortable and welcoming. They often have children all over the place.

Some houses and their owners are luxuriously appointed, with every modern accessory and convenience. Perhaps a little ostentatious in proclaiming their success, but frequently admired and envied.

Dark and mysterious houses often have similar owners - a bit threatening and possibly even dangerous. Forbidding appearances, largely hidden activities, often with lots of highly-visible protection.

Down-on-their-luck houses and owners frequently look unkempt, don't care about appearances, let everything just hang out, don't clean up, and are often a source of great annoyance for those nearby.

Houses and owners with aspirations to a better life often try too hard. Everything is just a little too well thought out, a bit false, somewhat incongruous. Perhaps even a little jarring or grating, even if we don't quite know why. They make us feel a bit uncomfortable, as if we are seeing more than they might wish.

A (thankfully) few people and their houses are so flamboyant, boastful and generally over-the-top that it is impossible to admire them, and very easy to ridicule. I'm sure they know and hate that, but too bad.

And finally, there's the reassuringly ordinary house and owner. One with no pretensions, no surprises, no fancy ideas - just solid, dependable, familiar, and safe. They don't make us feel inadequate or judgemental. They are just there, comfortable and welcoming, whenever we feel like visiting. If we know such people and houses, we are lucky.

Everybody Needs a Cubby

I'm not sure how well the term translates outside Australia, so first let me explain that a cubby house can be any sort of fully enclosed, private play area for a child, usually involving make-believe games.

It can be as simple as a large cardboard box or an assortment of blankets draped over a table and chairs, although some parents buy astonishingly elaborate constructions which serve exactly the same purpose.

Unfortunately, as we grow older and more cynical, many simple pleasures lose their magic, and the humble (or even grandiose) cubby house usually stops being special.

I think that's a great shame.

A cubby provides you with a  private, safe and secure place in which to play, relax, plan, daydream, and spend time alone or with friends (real or imaginary). Doesn't that sound appealing?
In fact it is so appealing a concept that we have devised all sorts of more sophisticated substitutes.

• Some of us find physical seclusion in places like the "man cave", the study, the sewing room, the garden or the workshop.
• Others look for metaphysical seclusion through prayer, meditation, yoga, music, books or exercise.

I am lucky enough to have a mobile cubby. 

It was bought many years ago with the intention of taking joint holidays into remote areas, but after only a couple of such trips (although not because of them), my co-traveller became a less significant part of my life, and the idea of solitary camping was a bit daunting. However, last week on my birthday I decided to celebrate by undertaking a very non-adventurous (but therefore non-stressful) expedition ... to a coastal town less than an hour's drive away.

Feeling unjustifiably intrepid, I loaded the dogs and a very few supplies into the car and set off with my cubby in tow. To my immense personal satisfaction I managed the drive, the reversing into the caravan park site, and the setting up without too much difficulty, despite the wind and rain. Yes, of course it was wet and windy - we seasoned campers expect such tribulations.

After an afternoon dodging showers to walk along the beach (a rare pleasure for those of us who don't live near the sea), I prepared my birthday feast: fish 'n' chips 'n' champagne. The entertainment was provided by a UK crime show played on my laptop, the canvas proved entirely waterproof, and to put it simply, I was as happy as a clam.

Get a cubby, or if you already have one, whatever form it takes - use it.

It's good for the soul.

Slices of Life on the Midland Train

One of the cross-town passenger rail services in Perth runs from Midland, in the east, through the city to Fremantle, on the coast. It takes about an hour, with many stops, and along the way passes through suburbs covering a very wide range of socio-economic levels. In addition, the train itself sometimes serves as temporary accommodation for the disenfranchised, who somehow manage to avoid the ticket inspectors and stay on the train for many hours. Finally, in common with all public transport services, the train carries its fair share of the drunk, the drugged and the disturbed.

As a result of these factors, there is frequently something noteworthy to be seen or heard on a journey to or from work, and I have gathered a selection here. I have tried to maintain a non-judgemental tone, to avoid giving offence, but if I have failed in that, please accept my apologies.  Everything that follows is true and unembellished, and all happened in daylight hours in moderately crowded carriages.

1st Slice
A loudly drunk man (mid 30's) boarded the train, accompanied by two women of similar age, and 4 young children under 10. He proceeded to walk up and down the aisle near them, yelling obscenities and repeatedly threatening the women with the most disturbing physical and extreme sexual violence, all described in graphic detail. Upsetting though this was to watch and listen to, the passivity of the women and the complete disinterest of the children was even more shocking. Obviously the whole scene was very familiar to them, and the fact that it was happening in public did not seem to bother any of them.

2nd Slice
A teenage girl sitting opposite me was yapping loudly on her mobile phone about another friend of hers who had recently "lost her virginity" (I didn't even know that phrase still existed), and who had subsequently posted all the details of the occasion on Facebook. I instantly realised I needed more interesting (or at least indiscreet) Facebook friends.

3rd Slice

Two dishevelled men in their late 30's boarded the train and sat down together, obviously knowing each other, but not speaking. One of them had the wild-eyed appearance of someone suffering from a mental disorder or substance abuse, and he had a zipped-up sports bag which he placed carefully between his feet. In common with most regular train users, I try to avoid eye contact with anyone looking a bit "disturbed", but when he unzipped the bag a few inches and a small dog stuck its nose out, I must have looked a bit surprised, because he leaned over to talk to me. He told me that everything he owned was in the bag, and the dog was his constant companion. He was usually homeless, unless his friend (the fellow next to him) happened to be living somewhere with enough room for him. He could not stay in any of the city's homeless shelters because they didn't allow dogs, and he could not leave her. Fascinated despite myself, I asked how old the dog was, and how she coped with life in a bag. He said he'd found her on the street several years ago, and she didn't seem to mind being zipped up in the bag for most of the day. Certainly she looked to be in no distress, gazing about her with interest for a few minutes and then quietly withdrawing into the bag again. I can't imagine what their life is like, but I guess at least they have each other.

4th Slice
Sitting opposite me was a mid-20s man with a toddler. He chatted amiably to a younger man next to me, comparing notes on various prisons they'd recently been in. Both of them had 2 young children, all under 5, and they agreed that's the worst thing about getting caught. (!!) The fellow opposite was taking his daughter to visit an uncle who was dying in hospital after hanging himself the previous day - "they're deciding whether or not to pull the plug".

5th Slice
Simultaneously confronting sights: an approximately 6 months pregnant woman who smelt strongly of alcohol (mid-afternoon) and had her cigarette lighter ready to light up as soon as she got off the train, and a 20ish man in an electric wheelchair, with extremely stunted arms and legs. He managed fine, but after sitting next to the expectant "mother" for 30 minutes, I felt so sad that he had done nothing to contribute to his condition, whereas ...

6th Slice

Midland Train Station

A sad and ugly scene at Midland train station. Following the aggressive robbery of an elderly passenger on the platform, the young offender was pursued by two policemen. The police finally caught the boy, but it was very disturbing to see many people yelling encouragement to the boy and very crude abuse at the police. Obviously, none of these onlookers spared a thought for the bruised, frightened and badly shaken victim.

7th Slice brings a smile
Something you don't often see on the train: a middle-aged man in tight lycra bike shorts (eww) with a racing bike ... and carrying an electric guitar. Good for him!

And finally, a crumb of comfort to reassure me that all is not lost
After an hour on the train, I arrived at my destination to find myself without my wallet, which meant I had left it on Midland station. From the above accounts you can guess how sure I was that by this time my credit card would have been put to excellent use. But no, someone getting off the train I boarded had noticed the purse and handed it in to the station guard, all intact. They did not leave their name, but I thanked them through the local paper, and the episode still gives me comfort every time I witness something distressing on the train. There are many good people.

Patriotism, or "Caaarn Straya!" (1)

I've never considered myself to be truly patriotic, but every now and then I feel a surge of national pride. Never during sporting events like the World Cup (which sort of football is that again?) or the Olympics, but usually in the context of a shared characteristic with other Australians.

The following list was one of the very very few email circulars to make it through my filters, but it really struck a chord, so I thought I'd pass it on with annotations to help those for whom some of the references are particularly obscure. I hope that few Australian readers will need these explanations, but it might help them to explain some of their own characteristics to others. Unfortunately I can't give due credit for the list, because it was as anonymous as all such compilations, and is doubtless the work of many people along the way. To each of them I say "Thenk smite!"

[UPDATE 26 January 2012, appropriately enough: the original list is by Aussie journalist and author Richard Glover, and can be found on his website, where he encourages readers to share it. Apologies to him for not knowing this before, and for making small amendments and additions to his already comprehensive work!]

You know you're Australian if ...

* You believe that something looking like cooked-down axle grease makes a fantastic spread. You've squeezed it through Vita Wheats to make little Vegemite worms ...
and you can sing the song.
[In fact I bet you sang along to that video, didn't you. Just like I did.]

* You believe that stubbies can be either drunk or worn.

* You think Woolloomooloo, Mooloolaba, Koolyanobbing, and Goonoo Goonoo are perfectly reasonable names for places.

* Speaking of place names, you can recognise most of the towns in the original version of "I've Been Everywhere Man".

* You're secretly proud of our killer wildlife.

* You understand that "Wagga Wagga" can be abbreviated to "Wagga", but "Woy Woy" could never be called "Woy", and "Bong Bong" can't be "Bong". That would just be silly.

* You believe all famous Kiwis are actually Australian, unless they stuff up, at which point they become Kiwis again.

* Beetroot with your hamburger ... Of course.

* You know that certain words must, by law, be shouted by the whole audience during any rendition of "Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again" and "Living Next Door to Alice".

* You're liable to burst out laughing whenever you hear of Americans "rooting" for something.

* You can translate: "Dazza and Blue went with Wozza to see Acca Dacca."


* You have at some time worn ugg boots outside the house.

* You understand that the phrase "women wearing black thongs" is less alluring than it sounds.

* You know how to pronounce "Mel-bun" properly.

* You're less likely to get caught making a bong with your garden hose than for using it illegally to water the garden.

* You believe it makes perfect sense for a nation to decorate its highways with large fibreglass fruit, penguins, prawns and sheep.

* You believe that most of the really important discoveries in the world were made by an Australian but then sold off to the Yanks for a pittance.

* You believe that the more you shorten someone's name the more you like them.

* You say "no worries" quite often, whether you realise it or not, and you understand what "no wuckers" means (without having to click on that link).





* And you have drunk your tea/coffee/Milo through a Tim Tam. Ohhh yesss.


To be continued ...

Dog Obedience 3

This is the third in a series of articles written for the Malaysian Kennel Association, who asked for some comments on the principles of dog obedience training from a judge's perspective. Most of each article is directed at people who are simply interested in having a better behaved dog, but I hope there may also be something to interest the experienced handler and competitor.

"Why won't my dog heel properly?"

There is an old joke which goes "I called my dog Herpes because he never heels". Yes I know that's pretty corny, but teaching your dog to walk nicely on the lead seems to be something a great many owners have trouble with.
I don't know what the Dog Laws are like in Malaysia, but they are very strict in Australia, and there are depressingly few places where dogs are allowed to run freely. So most people have to walk their dogs on a lead, and everywhere you look there are owners being dragged along, even by very small dogs.
Not only must it be very tiring for the owner to walk like that, and uncomfortable for the dog, but it also means there is almost no control over what their dog does at the other end of the lead. It might suddenly lunge at another dog, or try to snatch a child's carelessly waved ice-cream or hamburger, or step suddenly onto the road, or walk right in front of a cyclist, or wrap the lead around a light pole, or someone else's legs, pram, or walking stick.

All of these possibilities detract greatly from the enjoyment of going out with your dog, and it is for this reason that it is so important to teach your dog the basics of heeling.
It is not the place of this article to tell you how to do that - there are many ways of doing so, and your local dog obedience club is probably the best place to start. Failing that, there are instructional videos on the internet, and countless books on the subject.


Walking "nicely" on the lead
There is a difference between this and the sort of "heeling" expected in Obedience activities. I think it is unrealistic to expect a dog to be working and concentrating every time you go out for a walk together, so even while you are training your dog, it is important to allow time for him to look around, sniff things, and walk along casually. This is something that all dog owners can achieve with just a little time and practice.
The key principle here is that the lead should be loose, even if the dog is walking a little ahead or behind or out to one side.
Consider it from the dog's viewpoint: A dog straining ahead on a tight lead cannot move any faster than one on a loose lead, so there is no advantage to the dog at all, and he can enjoy his outing even more when he is not continually being jerked here and there by an owner using the lead as a brake.
From the owner's point of view, his arm and hand do not get tired or sore, and he can relax, without constantly having to watch what his dog is doing way ahead at the end of the lead. He knows that his dog is walking close to him, and that any change in speed or direction will be noticed by the dog without the owner having to haul on the lead.
And for other people walking nearby (with or without dogs), there is the peace of mind that comes from seeing a dog properly under control, walking calmly along on a loose lead. A very reassuring sight, because they realise that the owner has put some effort into training the dog to behave well, and they are far less likely to have their own progress interrupted by a wayward dog.


Formal heel-work
By this I mean having the dog walking in the position considered optimal in Obedience work: with his shoulder about level with your left leg, close but not touching it, matching his pace to yours, and remaining in this position through turns in all directions. Needless to say, if he is on a lead, this must be completely loose and not used to keep the dog in that position or to "steer" him around corners!
Obviously, this requires considerably more training than the casual walking described above, and as I mentioned, it is impractical to require this sort of behaviour every time you go for a walk together. But well-trained dogs should be able to adopt this walking position whenever their owner chooses, such as when passing other people or dogs. It is also a primary component of Obedience work, as well as many other dog sports such as Heeling to Music, Jumping, and Agility.
Again, the best place for you and your dog to learn this skill is at a reputable Obedience Club, using positive training methods. The "old" method of constantly correcting the dog by sharp jerks on the lead, or through the use of "training collars", has been conclusively shown to be far less effective than positive methods like "clicker" or reward-based training. These methods teach the dog to enjoy doing the right thing, instead of fearing doing the wrong thing - a very important distinction which leads to a much better relationship between owner and dog.

So I encourage all dog owners to spend time teaching their dogs to at least walk nicely on the lead, even if you don't go on to do any more Obedience training. That simple skill (as well as the automatic sit covered in the previous article) will make walking together a pleasure for you both, and it will avoid detracting from the enjoyment of others. Happy Dog-walking!