An unhappy coffee experience

You can be sure that Aussies have an unhappy relationship with the US when the issue of coffee is discussed on the National News in serious tones. But while we often hear about "that disgusting muck that passes for coffee in the US", or "a pale imitation of the real thing", and sometimes, "it's even worse than used dishwater", we rarely hear about what the Yanks think about the glorious beverage we treat with deep respect.

I was delighted when I attended a conference in Sydney recently, to discover that there wouldn't be urns of stale coffee waiting to be dispensed into ghastly styrene cups at break times, or even barely palatable ground and filtered coffee, which has often been sitting for hours and become bitter and decidedly unpleasant. No! The organisers clearly understood the needs of the group and had arranged for four high-tech, mobile coffee machines, staffed with keen-eyed and enthusiastic baristas, to wait on attendees. The beans were freshly roasted, then ground as needed, the milk (your choice of full cream, low fat or soy) heated and frothed as required, to become a welcome cappuccino. Yeehaaaaa!

Not quite conference coffee, but close enough!

At morning break, the situation on the coffee machines was as streamlined as humanly possible; one person writing the name and order on the plastic lid, one person working the coffee grinder and filter basket, (or hot water for those who wanted tea) and another frothing the milk. Very impressive!

However, not everyone was happy.

I was eagerly waiting for my order when I became aware of a tense, some might even say terse, exchange between a barista and a conference attendee, an American woman who clearly wasn't happy with the beverage she had been given.

"This isn't cawfee, I want regular cawfee."

"Yes, that's what I've made you."

"No it's not. I just want cawfee."

The look of complete confusion on the barista's face would have been amusing in a different place. You could see her thinking "You asked for coffee, we made you coffee - how could that be wrong?"

My attempt at explaining the differences in terminology, strength and taste were met with an icy chill - clearly the woman needed her kind of coffee NOW!

The cogs in the American woman's brain were apparently struggling with lack of caffein. She began a few sentences, then finally spluttered: "I want American cawfee".

A look of comprehension "Oh you mean a long black!"

Oh deary me - this was not going well.

The poor American couldn't bring herself to repeat the words, such is the power of cultural taboos and inappropriate language with its racist overtones. I'm not sure what she was visualising, but I doubt it was a cup of coffee.

By now her husband had joined her and taken his cup of coffee - aka cappuccino - with a look of disgust. It appears that they hadn't realised that simply ordering a "coffee" will lead to confusion and that in the hurly burly of the noisy morning break, and without further clarification, that a cappuccino would be produced with a professional flourish.

So, it goes both ways, it seems that on the subject of coffee, the differences in our expectations and tastes far outweigh the similarities and that many of us return home to our respective countries with tales of undrinkable coffee.

from: http://inspiredm.com/coffee-infographics/

In the interests of easing cross cultural coffee tension it might be an idea to study How to order coffee before leaving home ;-)

My previous spluttering post about the American excuse for coffee is here.

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A blessing or a millstone?

We realised we had more books in our home than most people, when the class assignment came home one afternoon. The instruction was to "Count the books in your house."

The assignment created quite a lot of stress in our household. Did the teacher of these grade 3 students really mean all the books?

Surely not!

Perhaps we'd misunderstood and what she really meant was all the books in one room, in one petite bookshelf. That would be reasonable! But all of them! Did she mean my son to include the ones teetering dangerously on the floor by the beds ready to succumb to gravity, those on the shelves in the toilet, as well as the ones secreted away in the wardrobes? Oh what a daunting task for a child (and parent).

We set to, if not with enthusiasm, at least with curiosity ... for a while ... at 500 we'd barely got through one modest bookcase of current titles. At 1000 we gave up. It was an overwhelming task. Sneezing took over the household as books, some long forgotten, but loved nonetheless, were un-wedged and opened, producing clouds of dust and unsettling the occasional silverfish which was promptly squashed.

Some are works of art in themselves, with leather covers and wafer thin pages. They are a window into the past when the writing was flowery and long winded. They echo a slower pace of life which relaxes into the rhythm of our old clock - tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

I feel myself slowing to a happier pace as I write this, and what had seemed like a burden of history, memories and inheritance shifts gradually from being a millstone, to a link with ancestors both known and unknown - and I'm grateful I kept some of these books that so often feel like they're weighing me down.

Some of the thousands that have gone to fetes and op-shops might have been a bad decision, but the quantity was overwhelming. But I often wonder what happened to the stacks of "Popular Science" and "Popular Mechanics" I'm sure I could have made space for them ;)

Oh, and the teacher's comment when my son confessed we hadn't counted all the books. "Perhaps it's time to get rid of some of them."

So, the question is, should they stay, or should they go?
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Redundancy relived at Bushrangers Bay

Uneven sandy steps, well sheltered by dense tee tree hide the descent into Bushrangers Bay. I emerge suddenly onto rocks and the cold, yellow, gritty sand of the exposed beach.

Ozone is force fed into my stale air-conditioned lungs, stultified by recent work in gloomy buildings with sorrowful folk, the blustery wind whistles through my gold hoop earrings to energise my sludgy brain. Turbulent green waves crash, screaming their objection, obliterating all other noise and sending salt spray onto the washed out tussocky grass that clings precariously to the cliff edge, now battered by the increasingly steady wind.

Shadows cluster and obstruct the sun, which minutes before had been so welcoming, sapping the meagre warmth. T-shirt and shorts had seemed so sensible earlier; now, goose bumps are my body’s response to the afternoon chill. Seaweed, dried crispy brown, tumbles down the sand dune, gathers momentum, skitters, then flies back into the ocean to be pummelled relentlessly and finally disintegrate.

An hour or so respite, focusing on the senses, helps release the grip of fragmented snippets of conversation circling around my brain*.

Relive hearing deep male voices, tight with stress, unnaturally quiet for big blokes who work with steel and fire and water.

Confused voices, in pain; lost in a tangle of raw emotions they barely understand: grief, sorrow, loss, frustration and barely controlled anger and fear.

Redundancy is rarely nice - may evolve over time to something good, but I can’t help but think of the families in my community desperately trying to make sense of, and come to terms with their new reality.

270 people made redundant from a major local employer. I wonder how this will this play out over time for the men, their families and my community, and am grateful for the dramatic beauty and refuge of Bushrangers Bay.


*I'm assisting with the services provided to employees of BlueScope Steel (link) Hastings who have recently been made redundant.

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on acupuncture

Like an echidna I lie,
sprouting carefully placed, quill-like needles,
quivering with minute electrical impulses.
---
Dirty brown coal, heavily polluting and subsidised obscenely,
originates from open-cut mine,  powering generators in far off LoyYang.
Its product travels across the state in lethal, ropey wires -
would annihilate anyone coming into contact
by accident
or design.

Channelled into ever-smaller increments to be used here for nurturing and healing.

Alligator clips attached to fine needles settle into my tense, troubled muscles.
Delicate, rhythmic pulsing lulls me to sleep.
Enfolded in tender warmth, muscles gratefully absorb this strange experience,
to be refreshed and healed -
painlessly.


* A Drabble is a story told in 100 words. No more, no less.

**Thanks to giftlog.com for the photo. They also have other free photos of a variety of Australian animals. Link here.
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Peace shattered

Unfathomable act of dreadful violence sends shock waves ricocheting around the globe

to settle in a far off land. Grieving, loving, thoughts are sent back,
helpless to do otherwise but be with you in spirit.

This vicious act rips at the face of fragile, precious peace. Beauty and young lives violated, a chilling nightmare for all concerned and all watching; horrified, sickened, repulsed.

---

No knee-jerk reaction.
Shaken and shattered - yes, but wise counsel still; calm and measured. A way to respond to terror without resort to heated passion and vengeance.

A beacon of hope in this troubled world.

Thankyou Norway.

East Side Gallery. Berlin.

a Drabble is a story told in 100 words. No more no less.
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The End Of The World !s Nigh!

I've been quite perplexed about the seriousness with which some people seem to have taken the end of the world predictions. Perhaps that's overstating it though, as I had no idea anything out of the ordinary was expected to happen last weekend and I've only more or less caught up with the whole kerfuffle this week.

I read something on FB about people wondering which time zone something they referred to as Rapture was referring to ... New Zealand? Eastern Australian time? or where the prediction was coming from which seemed to be the USA. My friends seemed to be idly wondering which calendar was being used for the prediction as well. there are quite a few in use after all - it was all a little perplexing.  If I'd spent more than 2 seconds thinking about the so-called prediction, I would have come to the conclusion that it was all a bit sus.*

Anyhow, it was my hubby's birthday and we were going to celebrate, end of the world or not!

You may wonder why I am so sanguine about THE END OF THE WORLD which I'm sure will be accompanied by dramatic and extremely atmospheric organ music.

My mother was born in 1916 and used to tell the following story.

As a little girl she remembered being dressed in a new white frilly Sunday Best dress. Except it wasn't Sunday, and she wasn't used to having new clothes. Mostly her clothes were hand-me-downs from her older sister. She was absolutely delighted and wanted to twirl and dance, but the atmosphere was sombre. Her older sister helped her with her new socks and shoes, brushed her hair till it shone, then tied it with a bow.

The whole family, sisters, parents, aunts and uncles, grandmas and grandpas, many neighbours, farm workers and mill hands all dressed with extra care. Those who could afford it were wearing new clothes. They then proceeded with great solemnity to trek to the highest point of the highest hill near their small village in Norfolk, England.

Hymn sheets were passed around, prayers said, absolution made. Then they raised their voices to heaven and waited for the light of Jesus to carry them to heaven.

They raised their voices to heaven again and waited   and waited   and waited

I often think they must have felt a little awkward when they finally came to the realisation that nothing was going to happen and they'd need to pick up the hymn sheets, go home and get dinner for the no doubt confused and possibly squabbling children.

Some people had apparently sold all their belongings including houses and all their goods and chattles. I wonder what happened to them? Did the preacher apologise, put them up, feed them and help them find their feet again afterwards? I don't understand the motivation other than an abnormally greedy desire for power and the enjoyment of having gullible people fawning over your empty words.

I remember my mother saying that their particular preacher continued to change the dates and claim that the next time was the right date. Some parishioners believed him, but there were less and less as time went on.

My mother's family never went up to the top of the hill again. They emigrated to Australia instead. I think they were right to be skeptical after being duped once, and I'm confident mum would have smiled at the latest doomsday preacher.

A good spot to hang out and wait for the end of the world.

* suspect or suspicious

A mouse plague

"Normally when theres heavy mouse numbers I see at least one in the house. This time I actually fried one in the toaster. I was half way through a slice when it dawned on me what the odd singed smell could be..." more here

Feeling squeamish? Needless to say I'm so glad it wasn't me!

The worst we've had was mice eating wires in the dishwasher, then getting fried. The dishwasher stopped mid cycle, and the finale was an oozing, nauseating, sickly smell. The repairman wasn't at all surprised. Apparently it's a common problem; mice eat the wires and get electrocuted and short out the electrics. He cheerfully presented me with the carcasses; proof that he wasn't making the story up. I suppose repairmen are gearing up for some robust business given the prevalence of mice across the country. The Department of Primary Industries is predicting the worst plague in decades.

So, not only has nature thrown some crappy events at us this year, but has topped it off with creating perfect conditions for a mouse plague. Whoopie.

I came face to whiskers with one IN the dishwasher one day which was a little unsettling - I'm not sure who was more surprised. I think we both stopped and stared before reacting with either a squawk (me) or a twitch of the whiskers and a scamper through the little vent (the mouse).  I wouldn't have believed an adult could squeeze through an opening 1 cm (three eighths of an inch) wide until I saw it happen. We've since strung a piece of wire around the inlet nozzle to prevent it happening again. The thought of the mouse not being quick enough to escape before being caught in the swishing water and being spun around the dishes like a tiny furry dish mop doesn't bear thinking about.

It's unsettling to realise that perfectly hygienic storage of grain is an impossibility (though when I think about it, not unreasonable) and that at least in the USA, hygiene regulations allow "up to two fecal pellets per pint of grain" (Bryson. 'At Home') I doubt Australia would be much different.

I'm not sure how much enjoyment I'll get from my wholegrain and seed bread in the future. Perhaps It's best to just pretend that all the little seeds really are linseed.

And if we have trouble in the home, how do restaurants and cafes manage? Is it "out of sight, out of mind"? "If you can't see it, it doesn't exist?" Ergh.

I was listening in horror earlier today to a farmer describing mice up to a foot deep near the farm sheds, and found this youtube delight to share. It's exactly how the farmer described the situation in central New South Wales. But be warned, PLEASE don't look if you're about to prepare any food or have just eaten ...  or are thinking of eating any time in the near future. Viewing this video could lead to nausea or sudden, unplanned dieting.

Do as I say, don't...

do as I do...

I know it’s not fashionable but I love my laptop and I also like watching Eurovision. Whilst my laptop is sleek, and has elegant lines that are soothing to the eye and touch, Eurovision on the other hand can be brash, loud and fun. Chalk and cheese in fact.

pic from here

On Saturday night they were due to meet and be companionable, with me as the lynchpin. Laptop, meet Eurovision; Eurovision, meet laptop.

The Plan (cue here dramatic music) was for some friends and I to watch Eurovision while chatting on Facebook about the songs, clothing, hairstyles and all the glitz and glamour that makes up the annual feast of wacky, weird and wonderful entertainment. My lovely laptop was vital for this to work smoothly.

My appetite for an entertaining evening was well and truly whetted. I’d watched the excellent SBS documentary ‘Secret History of Eurovision’ which tracked Eurovision through many social and political events with wonderful archival footage tracing its rich and fascinating history.

I’d been educated, now to have fun!

So, from the comfort of our respective loungerooms we were about to share the awesomeness (cough, cough) that is Eurovision. Whilst others around Australia were indulging in themed parties and drinking games we were to have a Claytons party.*

The brilliant Julia Zemiro and Sam Pang had been in fine form the previous two nights. The patter was prepared, along with interviews and general dagging around from their broadcasting shoebox in Dusseldorf, so I was confident we were in for a great evening. (For the record, I was disappointed that Belgium and Norway didn't make it to the finals.)

Now, we all know Blogger had a hissy fit last week, so I’d assumed the general malaise surrounding my reliable laptop was some odd residue from that and somehow mysteriously related.

My luscious laptop and I have travelled happily together through thick and thin for years. Part security guards, through airport x-rays, ever reliable and helpful, ready to do my beckoning at the tap of a key or swish of finger. I’d slip her into a little black leather satchel for safe-keeping, and sashay off to whatever destination was necessary.

”I might just check to see if there are any system updates before settling down” thinks I.

Then nothing. Nil, zilch, zip, zero response. "Oh crap".

I used to say I’m not a gambler, and I’m well known for insisting that students BACK EVERYTHING UP. Maybe I'll have to revisit that assessment of my gambling status?

Confession: "Do as I say, don’t do as I do…" oh crap.

ALL my files, ALL my photos…oh crap. Big time stuff up. And what about the Eurovision Party? I felt like I was all dressed up with nowhere to go. It wouldn’t be the same without sharing and giggling and oohing and aaahing with my FB mates.

Many, many stomach churning hours later, fingernails nibbled, results broadcast – Europe voted for Azerbaijan (safe and bland we thought) and Australia voted for Ireland (lively and fun) – Wonder Son (my techno savvy son) walked me through the process of nurturing lovely laptop back to health. But not before some gut wrenching moments of thinking she’d have to go to a Wizard, and even they may not be able to retrieve any data.

The parting comment: “You were really lucky. You’ve dodged the bullet this time, you might not be so lucky next time. BACK IT UP MUM!”

I have. It is done, and I plan (more coughing) to stick to a backing up schedule in the future. It really wasn’t a fun experience.

Surely I'm not alone? What have you done, or not done with your techie toys equipment?

* the Party you have when you’re not having a party

The end of a Fairy Penguin

I was going to write about something fun and random, but keep thinking about the gorgeous Fairy Penguin that was entertaining the crowds at Easter.

I read in a local paper yesterday that he was killed by some youths. Now I know why he'd disappeared after I wrote the P - Penguin drabble here.

A tiny part of me wants to be understanding and is saying things like "the youths probably have tough lives and are marginalised and unhappy", "they're angry with the world and taking it out on a defenseless creature".

The bigger part of me wants to be unkind and is entertaining mean and extremely uncharitable thoughts towards them. After all Fairy Penguins are a protected animal, and this one was a delight. Hundreds and hundreds of mums and dads, grandmas and grandpas, different ethnic groups and children of all ages had enjoyed his swooping and darting antics. He wasn't hurting anybody, he wasn't a threat, (I guess that was why he was targeted, he couldn't fight back.)

This event brought back the sorrow I felt a couple of years ago when there had been a large sting ray at the same pier. It was there for months, and it was possible to hand feed it if you were game, and there at the right time. Those who fed it knew to keep clear of the barbed tail. It was wonderful to be able to see it up close in its natural habitat, gliding effortlessly through the water and watch the wing-tips glide past boat hulls, flexing ever so gently to avoid making contact.

Then it wasn't there any more. It'd been hacked to pieces by some teenagers.

I'm feeling disgruntled and ill at ease. Locally this has happened, statewide things aren't so great, nation wide ditto, worldwide - not so good either.

For me, little glimpses into the natural world provide a haven from the violence humans choose to do to other humans. It's a form of escapism and helps me find a balance from all the crap out there.

I know the animal kingdom leads to untimely death, is full of the need to eat or trying to escape from being eaten. I think the difference is that it's not killing for pleasure, it's not done because the killer is miffed with something out of kilter in their own life, or for jealousy, or revenge or lust for scarce resources.

So much for these posts being light and whimsical ... perhaps it's time to get to work on my other blog and focus on the healing process after having been bullied!

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Z. Zero

Zac was a zealous student, interested in Zionism and Zoroastrianism. Sadly he could remember zilch, zip and zero about spelling. The last letter of the Western alphabet; a metaphor for his life: a big fat Z. He longed for the sizzling zing of success. But he zipped his mouth with this score.

Zac wanted to zoom into oblivion. He felt like a zombie, totally zonked.

He belonged in a zoo for freaks, had no zest for life. He’d have to zig-zag out of the school yard zone to avoid the zap of the bullies who had zero tolerance for difference.

A Drabble is a story told in 100 words. No more, no less.

Cheers!  :D

I'll be back Monday to wrap up with Lee at Tossing it Out who has generously devoted so much time to hosting the A-Z Blogging Challenge this April.

Over at traverselife, I've spent the month looking at different aspects of bullying.
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X. Dr Xing

It could be a bit extreme, but I suspect Doctor Xing will be prescribing more Xanax to treat depression in Gen X. Many of that generation are exhausted by tying to learn to play the xylophone; some even wanted to travel to Xanadu for extra lessons! Most people would just use the Xerox to copy the instructions rather than travel exhausting amounts of kilometres to somewhere on the map where “x” marks the spot. That’s a bit exaggerated don’t you think?

Just between you and me, Doctor Xing is a little strange, he signs his prescriptions with an inexact ‘x’.

A Drabble is a story told in 100 words. No more, no less.
This Drabble in no way represents any person I know and I trust that anyone with a similar name will accept the words in a lighthearted way. I had to find something to fit with X and am scraping the bottom of my brain barrel here - I have a deep and long lasting respect for my Chinese friends, workmates and neighbours.

Here tomorrow: Yolanda's yacht

Over at traverselife, I'm spending the month looking at different aspects of bullying.
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T. Tense

It’s trying to work in a tacky company when you want to throw a *tanty because of the trickery of twisted managers.

If you’re truthful, articulate and value integrity and have tried to temper your retorts but failed, you might need to troubleshoot or you’ll appear totally tactless and truculent. Your job may be terminated - not temporarily!

If you’ve tallied up too many tempests and transformed from 'team player' to 'turned-off', bullies may tell that they were targeted and tasted your terse tongue.

They may then testify this left them **totalled by your terrible taunts and call it truculent behaviour.

Isle of Skye.

***
*tanty = tantrum

**a slang expression usually applied to cars eg “He totalled his car when he hit the tree” = the car is bent beyond repair. In this case the person who is totalled had been hurt irreparably.

A Drabble is a story told in 100 words. No more, no less.

Here tomorrow: Unwanted attention


Here for how to make a clicky signature.

Over at traverselife, I'm spending the month looking at different aspects of bullying.

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O. Outrageous!

Based on a true story:
***
“Outrageous! His assignment on ‘onomatopoeia’ is overdue. I don’t care he’s off-colour. I allowed him an overnight extension. His output is atrocious, I’ll make him pay”.*

Aggressive ogre. This teacher couldn’t know my charge’s awful origins. My lips were sealed.

The child’s serial abuser had been outed on the news. Confidentiality essential. I was obliged to pour oil on her spluttering objections, to speak calmly and objectively. It was a tall order.

I negotiated, omitting identifying details. It was all one way. I offered an olive branch - the work would be on her overfull desk by morning.

Outrageous? Indeed.

Some teachers like to intimidate.
Berlin 2009.

***
*A teacher used those last four words about a disadvantaged teenager I was working with.

A Drabble is a story told in 100 words No more, no less.

Here tomorrow: Penguins


Click here to find out how to do a hyperlink signature.

Over at traverselife, I'm spending the month looking at different aspects of bullying.
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N. Nincompoop & napalm

I'd like to thank San over at Informed Sharing for her perceptive review of my blogs. I am not only honoured, but humbled that the information I share at traverselife and the fun I have with words at JumpingAground has been acknowledged so thoughtfully and generously. Thankyou San.
***

Chimney near East Side Gallery

Noooooooooooooooo! There’s a naughty nincompoop nodding under the bed, it’s making me scared of the night. I feel nauseous when I see its navel.

NASA took a neat photo of it but Nana said it wasn’t nice even though it’s a native of Norway. I prefer nasturtiums; they don’t make noise unlike the nasty nincompoop, Nathan. It goes “Nnrgh Nnrgh” and tries to nip the nape of my neck.

Could its neuroses be caused by *napalm? The Vets said "NO" to its use. Some never recovered and need a nightlight. They won’t talk about it even if you ask nicely.**
***

* I'm aware that Napalm and Agent Orange are different chemical concoctions, and that Agent Orange was used extensively in Vietnam, whereas Napalm was an earlier era weapon. But I needed a word that started with N.  I also wanted to acknowledge the dreadful damage done to our Vietnam Veterans, and the people of Vietnam by its use.

**I'm also aware that this drabble doesn't make any sense at all. It's Saturday, we're half way through the challenge. I'm tired. It is what it is.

Apologes to all my Norwegian friends - you know I think you're marvellous.

East Side Gallery is in Berlin. For some reason today I can't add any more words and keep the formatting.

A Drabble is a story told in 100 words No more, no less. (I hope it counts even if it doesn't make sense)

Here tomorrow: Oh darn, I'm stuck for ideas ... it'll be a surprise!

Over at traverselife, I'm spending the month looking at different aspects of bullying.

K. Knowledge

“My wife doesn’t need to work” a man bragged recently. Sadly he came across as a bit of a know-all, you know the kind?

His wife had kept the knot of distress hidden, she knew how it felt to be kicked in the gut. She was keen to share her extensive knowledge and kindness with kids who had a crappy life at home. She felt they were kindred spirits and wanted to kindle a love of learning, instead knowledge was seeping away.

It was a bit of a knotty problem for her to learn not to kow-tow to her husband.

A Drabble is a story told in 100 words No more, no less.

Here tomorrow: Lighten up! and a CELEBRATION


How to make a hyperlink signature here

Over at traverselife, I'm spending the month looking at different aspects of bullying.
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Forest track to somewhere lovely

I had a cruddy day today,
working people about to be made redundant.
The people are great, it's the politics that gets me.

Found a striking photo of a tree
and managed to make it sound miserable as well.

Removed the photo
and inserted this more soothing one instead.

Nothing jarring, smooth track, no one about.
Inviting...
That's where I want to be.

breathe.......
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The Goanna

.

gloomy, grey and humid

thunder rumbling ominously

Cyclone Yasi's affects 

felt thousands of kilometers away

a Summer of destruction all over my land

I search for a photo

to remind me of happier seasons.

A decent sized goanna

does the trick

that's how Summer should be!

and now a close up

(relatively speaking)

My brain's gone to sludge

my get up and go, got up and went

It's time to get out in the bush

smell the eucalypts and humus

load the panniers

escape for a while

Clear the cobwebs!

Stretch the limbs!

And avoid close encounters with the wildlife.

Definitely alive, but moving too slowly for my liking.
But in the right direction!

*

A Drabble is a story told in 100 words. No more, no less.

Photos taken on The East Gippsland Rail Trail.

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Flooding rains.

.
Floodwaters, destructive as lava oozing from a seeping volcano, obliterating everything in its slowly advancing path, drowning farm-land and properties for hundreds of kilometers.

The inexorable advance of this insatiable monster unable to be halted by levee or prayer. (Though many have tried.)

Almost a footnote on the news, no dramatic footage like Katoomba or the Lockyer Valley. Premier Baillieu appears as a rabbit caught in the headlights not knowing what to do or say, looks indecisive, confused, lashes out with inane comments at the media.

Meanwhile, hundreds of communities suffer the relentless deluge, hope we’ll remember … fear we’ll forget.

*
A Drabble is a story told in 100 words. No more, no less.

aros. The small wooden box

.

Who am I kidding when I say 

"I can't"

when the honest answer is

"I choose not to?"

*

Forced into a box
wooden
pine

Too small for me

Watching with disbelief image after image:
me standing, then forced to crouch, later kneel.
Resisting the relentless force, succumbing, energy waning,
exhausted
fighting the inevitable.

Finally wrestled into a tiny, hurt, painfully, uncomfortable thing.

Lid slammed on.
Nails hammered, angry and final.
The unseen force deaf to my weak pleas
now whispered from the suffocating dark.

My dream pinpoints with clarity
a forceful wakeup call to the mental anguish experienced in my workplace,
professional skills stifled constantly.

The choice to leave not easy
the healthful, long overdue decision is tough.


A Drabble is a story told in 100 words. No more, no less.

A river of stones is a project started by Fiona &Kaspa to encourage people to engage with the world through writing. In 2011 they invited people to join them in writing a small stone each day during January. 

aros. ShShSu #140. Beach essentials.

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A flutter of stress -
few shadows this week

Where is that fun beach shot
taken weeks ago for such a time?
Notebook and pen ready
in case inspiration strikes!

Filing a shambles.

Lost.

Flutter of stress is now an insistent gnaw of panic.

Frustrated, I walk 10ks.

Look again -

it was where it should have been all along

Sometimes I can't see for looking.

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A river of stones is a project started by Fiona &Kaspa to encourage people to engage with the world through writing. In 2011 they invited people to join them in writing a small stone each day during January. 


Shadow Shot Sunday is hosted by Hey Harriet. 
Participating has encouraged me to look at the world differently. It's fun!
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