Dream That Dream ...

I heard this little gem on Triple J's 'Dr Karl Show' this morning while driving around glorious suburban Karratha. The wording isn't 100% correct, but it's as near as I can remember:

Announcer: OK, Dr Karl, now we've got Boyd on the line. He has a question about fossilisation. Isn't that right, Karl?

Boyd: Yes. I want to be fossilised after I die and I was hoping you could say something about the best procedure for going about it. I want to be encased in mortar or something porous like that and buried near the reef in Cairns. Or maybe just buried in the ground with a big block of lime on top.

Dr Karl: Tell me, Boyd, why do you want to be fossilised?

Boyd: For the entertainment value, mainly. But I also think it would be great to still be around in thousands of years time. I look at present-day fossils and they're really interesting, so I thought, why not?

Announcer: So are you wanting to be found, say, 30,000 years into the future?

Boyd: Yeah, I think it would be pretty cool.

Dr Karl: Do you have children, Boyd? Or is there someone in your life to practise binary fission with, thereby producing children at a future time?

Boyd: Yeah, but only when I'm ready and the time is right.

Dr Karl: I ask because I, too, was very interested in this sort of thing before I became a father. (Goes into long, protracted story about giving hair clippings to a friend who was stationed in Antarctica and who was going to bury them along with some of his own sperm in the ice or something while listening to Led Zeppelin at top volume. Your Correspondent missed most of this due to a pressing need to stop at a service station and purchase cigarettes.)

Dr Karl: ... that would work. Or you could do what the ancient Egyptians did. They'd insert a sharp bone into the nasal cavity, pull out all the brains, remove the vital organs and pack the body in salt.

Announcer: There you go, Boyd. That's something else you could try. They got a pretty good result, too. Looked fairly OK.

Boyd: But that's mummification. That's not fossilisation.

Dr Karl: Mummification, yes.

(Someone -- either Dr Karl himself or the Announcer -- asks what fossilisation actually is.)

Boyd: It's when something like lime leaches through porous rock at very high pressure and turns any organic matter underneath the rock into stone.

Announcer: Ah. So you want to be a rock?

Boyd: Yeah. Anyway, mummification's only good for a few thou. I wanna be around forever.

Dr Karl: I think we'd need to bring a geologist in on this one.

Announcer: Or a paleontologist?

Dr Karl: A paleontologist would be good. Maybe a paleontologist who used to be a geologist ...

If there's anyone reading this who thinks that they, too, would like to be a fossil, a copy of Boyd's question and Dr Karl's answer can be found here. Good luck.

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I've been thinking a lot lately about spending more time on my 'serious' writing. That is to say, the depressing, so-called 'literary' shite I occasionally churn out which provides me with about as much income as this blog (ie none), but better satisfies my deep-seated need to be pretentious.

The problem is that the creative juices don't seem to be exactly gushing forth at the moment. In fact, serious rehydration is needed in the old juice department. My font of literary inspiration has dried up and is now home only to a few dead leaves and a couple of spiders. But even they're starting to get bored.

I decided last night that something needed to be done to get me back into 'literary' mode. It was time to employ one of those creative writing 'techniques' I'd once learned about and subsequently forgotten and then struggled to remember while peeling potatoes and cursing vigorously. Yep, I was going to start jotting down all my thoughts immediately after waking in the morning. It was the logical exercise to try. Not only does it utilise a time that's supposed to be one of optimum creativity, but you get to do it in bed. Bonus!

So at 5.15 this morning, while waiting to see if the Dreamboat was going to hit the snooze button a fourth time, I lay in bed and made a conscious effort to 'watch' my thoughts. Not to bully or censor them, mind you, but simply to encourage them to meander as they would. I smiled at them. I invited them to wander around and leave little droppings of inspiration to fertilise the barren garden of my creativity. Crap away at will, tiny mental murmurings! I encouraged. Drink prune juice if necessary! Do some sparkly wee-wees in my fountain! Don't worry about the spiders, they were leaving anyway.

And would you believe it, things started to happen. The seeds of an idea began to germinate in amongst the long-dead remnants of a neglected novel. This could be it! A new short story. No, not a short story ... a novel! Words, phrases, concepts were now burgeoning in an imagination that had been inactive for far too long. This could finally be my ticket to a Booker Prize!

I jumped out of bed, ran into the living room, plonked myself down on the couch next to the Dreamboat and recorded the following. Apart from the headings, this is pretty much as it came out:

Setting: Sometime in the near-ish future -- 150-200 years? Society is obsessed with environmental issues. Weird diseases rampant. People who die as a result of them no longer permitted burial because of potential danger to local ecosystems. Tip acid over them instead.

Protagonist: Male, mid 30s. Club foot or something.

Name: Ficus Carbine (born in a time when it was fashionable to name kids after potted plants).

Occupation: Former astrophysicist turned pastry chef, called upon to save the world when people's thoughts start to physically manifest in front of them and everything goes horribly wrong.

Quirks: Best and only friend is a human skull (female) he found one day while hiking. Loves the skull's perfect teeth and fantasises about its previous owner. (Make it come back to life?)

Research: 1) Conductivity levels of the earth's atmosphere and what would increase these permanently. 2) Viruses. Invent a couple that have good effects rather than bad.

There are a couple of things in there that I could probably do something with, but it's unlikely they'd be 'serious' and they certainly wouldn't be 'literary'. The moral of today's post is that if you ask for crap, crap is pretty much what you'll get.

I don't think I'll be bothering to write down my waking thoughts any more.

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Lessons Learned in a Small Town: an Occasional Series

Lesson #447: Not everyone watches the same movies as you.
On Saturday night, the Dreamboat and I attended a communal birthday party. "Communal" in the sense that our friend Colleen and two of her mates have birthdays that fall within a few days of each other, so for years they've celebrated together with one big bash.

This year's effort was special, because one of the afore-mentioned mates turned 40. There was a band. There was a PA system. There were lots of lights. There was a karaoke machine. My particular favourite out of All the Things There Were was a watermelon containing the contents of a bottle of vodka and a bottle of tequila, complete with the requisite home-rigged tube arrangement for anyone who felt inclined to have a suck or seven. And the party was fancy-dress.

The theme was "famous couples", second only to the Underwater Cocktail Party in its vast range and scope for inventiveness. The Dreamboat and I were in the mood to be a little inventive, flushed and euphoric as we were from having just quaffed half a dozen cans of Kilkenny while cheering the All Blacks on to victory over the Wallabies.

After discarding the initial idea of rocking up as Brad and Janet from Rocky Horror due to the outside chill factor, we decided on Tyler Durden and Marla Singer from Fight Club. The Dreamboat fished out some poster paint and set about giving himself some very realistic-looking blood spatters. I locked myself in the bathroom and emerged two hours later, looking like a reasonable facsimile of Helena Bonham Carter as she might appear after just emerging from a train wreck on a bad hair day. Which is to say, I got it pretty much spot-on.

We were pleased with ourselves, oh yes we were. We bet no-one else would choose to be the particular couple that we were in a million years. And we were right, mainly because three-quarters of the people we met at the party had never seen Fight Club and didn't have a clue who we were supposed to be portraying. Even the guy in the bottle-store where we stopped on the way had to be reassured by the Dreamboat that the giant bruise on his forehead and the assorted bleeding cuts on his torso were fake.

So we greeted Robin Hood and Maid Marion, Captain Hook and Tinkerbell, and John Lennon and Yoko Ono. We chatted to Posh and Becks, smiled over at Sonny and Cher and discoursed at length with a very impressive Shrek and his consort, Princess Fiona. We sympathised with Bonnie after hearing Clyde was a bit under the weather and had gone home early. Bill Clinton (complete with outsize cigar) and Monica Lewinski (wearing a skirt sporting a highly suspicious white stain) ambled over to chew the fat. And the Dreamboat and I? Well, Tyler Durden spent most of the night reassuring concerned female guests that his battered appearance was nothing to worry about, and Your Correspondent Marla was told she made a "bloody terrific prostitute". Twice.

They were the nicest bunch of people I've ever met at a single gathering and we had a great time, but there are obviously some serious gaps in the cinematic experiences of Karratha's viewing population. Which I guess rules out Harold and Maude for the next "famous couples" fancy-dress party ...

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The day we visited the prehistoric cave paintings at Pech Merle was the day Your Correspondent resolved to have a conversation. In French. With a real French person.

I'd studied French for six years at school but was too fiscally-challenged to visit any places in the region where it was spoken (New Caledonia or Vanuatu). The only opportunity for me to 'practise the tongue' back then in Christchurch, New Zealand, presented itself in the form of French kissing. And I was already quite proficient at that, thank you very much.

So there we were at Pech Merle with half an hour to kill before the ticket office opened. Your Correspondent was simply gagging for the chance to talk to someone and feeling very confident that she'd be able to pull it off, having had great success over the previous couple of days with complex French sentences like, "Bonjour", "Merci", "Ici" (here), "Moi aussi" (me too) and "Cette assiette est sale" (this plate is dirty). I have to admit I didn't actually have the nerve to say that last one to the waitress at the restaurant in question, and told the Dreamboat instead. But the point is, I informed him in French.

The only other people in the Pech Merle car park were a middle-aged couple with a dog. They were walking towards us and Your Correspondent realised that there wasn't time to try to work out how to say, "Excuse me. Do you mind if I pat your dog?", so got around it all by addressing the dog directly with a nicely-executed, "Bonjour, chien!"

Of course, the woman was then forced to stop, because it is a universal truth that no dog owners on the planet (or parents of young children, for that matter) can resist another human being making a fuss of their charges.

I started off well. I was able to establish that the dog (a magnificent labrador) was male, his name was Romeo, he was two years old and yes, his owners were going to vist the caves once they'd locked poor old Romeo in the car. Things kind of went downhill from this point. The woman started chatting away and I realised it's one thing to fancy oneself fluent in a language when there's plenty of time to figure out what you're going to say, but it's quite another when the person you're talking to has the cheek to answer back and actually converse. After "We are here with his family to celebrate his father's birthday" came out as "Your family happy birthday", I had to admit to the woman that my French wasn't very good (she kindly responded with "pas mal" -- not bad) and enlist the services of the Dreamboat as translator.

They were from Marseille and told us they come to the Dordogne region this time every year to get away from the tourists at home. "Too many Germans," was how the man put it. Which may explain why most of the tourists wandering around the places we visited were French.

Eventually, the Dreamboat's sister, brother-in-law and three nephews arrived, we said goodbye to Romeo and his owners and I have to admit I felt relieved. Talking had never been so much hard work.


In Which Your Correspondent Suffers the Deepest Form of Humiliation it's Possible to Experience Below Ground

It was all due to my fucking sandals. They have rubber soles. Anyone who owns rubber-soled footwear will know that after a certain period of time, they start to get a bit whiffy. Scrubbing them with disinfectant only makes them worse. And when you've spent a couple of days getting out of a heavily-chlorinated swimming pool and slipping your wet feet into your rubber-soled sandals on a regular basis, the chemicals start reacting with the rubber and the sandals move out of the 'whiffy' category and into the 'ripe'.

This isn't too much of a problem when you're outside and there's a bit of air movement around your feet. But when you find yourself walking around in a cave where the air is perfectly still and your feet are warming up from the exercise and the rubber starts giving off a smell reminiscent of blue cheese microwaved with a plate of rotten broccoli, the situation becomes a little dire.

I would love to be able to give you an articulate account of just how incredible it was to be in the caves at Pech Merle, viewing paintings that are 25,000 years old and looking at the footprints of a teenage boy made at least 10,000 years ago, but I can't. The whole tour began to take on a nightmarish quality as Your Correspondent slipped further and further towards the back in the hope that no-one would equate that stinking miasma hanging in the air with her.

That hope proved to be in vain, because at one point the tour guide instructed everyone to get down on their knees to peer up at a painting on the bottom of a ledge. Your Correspondent was hemmed in on all sides by other people and had no option but to obey. I hunkered down so I was sitting on my heels and prayed that the pressure of my body would somehow seal in the aroma. No such luck.

The next few minutes passed in a blur of misery as the entire party experienced the full force of my noxious vapours at close proximity. Two little French kids on one side of me whispered something to each other, got up and moved. I shifted position. Another rank whiff assailed my nostrils. Don't be so paranoid, I told myself. It probably isn't as bad as you think. You're just more conscious of it because you're right on top of it. But then, after we'd risen to our feet and resumed walking down the track, the Dreamboat drew up next to me and whispered, "Jeeze, babe. Your sandals really stink, do you know that?"

After we'd left the stench-filled caves and looked around the museum for a while, Your Correspondent made her way to the dunnies. Who should be coming out as I was entering but the middle-aged lady we'd been talking to earlier. She asked me what I thought of the caves. I told her they were magnificent. She launched into a long speech, of which I understood just one word: manger (to eat). I looked at her blankly, wondering what the hell she was talking about. For all I knew, we'd just been invited to lunch and my helpless nods and smiles had been taken for an assent. Maybe she's still sitting in a nearby cafe with her hubby and the gorgeous Romeo, waiting for us to show up.

If my spirit hadn't been broken by my obvious inability to communicate and the curse of the Death Sandals From Hades, I would've asked her to come with me and then requested a translation from the Dreamboat, but I was too far gone. Let this be a lesson to you, kiddies. Six years spent learning another language a long time ago does not an adequate conversationalist make. And never, ever go into caves with other people unless you are absolutely certain your footwear is hermetically sealed.

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If you want to get the attention of men in France, wear red.

At least, that's how it appeared on the day we visited Gouffre de Padirac (Flash needed for this link), which is a chasm plunging 75 metres into the ground, leading to incredible limestone caves.

Once you've forked out the appropriate amount of euros, there are two ways of reaching the bottom of the pit: elevator and stairs. Our party of five took the stairs. We were stupid. Three of us also used the stairs to get back up again. We were fucking insane. Your Correspondent's legs didn't work properly for two days after that little piece of foolhardiness.

Upon reaching the bottom, you pause for a moment in a vain attempt to quell the tremors in les jambes and then totter down a dimly-lit path until it ends at an underground river.

There are signs everywhere prohibiting the use of cameras and exhorting people not to touch anything. "That means you," warned the Dreamboat, who is familiar with Your Correspondent's penchant for touching everything she isn't supposed to and sneaking off to try the handles of locked doors. So, out of respect for everybody's wishes, I reined myself in and only touched things when no-one was looking.

The temperature in the caves is a constant 13degC. Your Correspondent, with her zero tolerance for cold, had brought along a bright red fleecy top. This, when worn with boardshorts of a matching hue, tends to make one somewhat conspicuous.

At the river bank we were herded on to one of a collection of barge-type things, each one seating around twelve, and met our bluff, middle-aged tour guide. He poled us down the river Venetian style and kept up a constant commentary in French, of which I understood roughly one word in fifty-eight.

Now, I was brought up to be polite. I was raised to not touch things I wasn't supposed to, and to be seen and not heard. So OK, my upbringing wasn't a total success, but two things that did stick were the bits about not having your back turned to someone while they're speaking and at least pretending to take an interest in what they're saying.

Which is what I did with our tour guide. I turned to face him. I nodded. I smiled. I refrained from kicking the Dreamboat who, upon noticing all this and knowing damn well I didn't have a clue what was being said, asked, "What're you nodding for?" Well brought-up, you see. I was being polite.

The guide, under the erroneous impression that I was fully cognisant of his no-doubt witty and informative commentary, addressed the rest of his talk directly to me. And when it was time to disembark, he extended a hand to help me off. I thanked him. He smiled and said, "Merci, la petite personne en rouge!" (Thank you, little person in red.)

Another guide took us further into the caves. I trotted along behind him, dutifully nodding at everything he said like one of those little toy dogs you still occasionally see in the back windows of cars. It didn't matter that I couldn't understand him either, because the caverns were breathtakingly beautiful with their enormous limestone stalactites and stalagmites. Even the icy water dripping from the ceilings onto our heads was sort of cute.

The guide stopped at one point and said something in a torrent of French, before nodding at me and saying something about 'sportif'. According to the Dreamboat, he was telling people that there was a bit of a climb ahead and he hoped we were fit. Then there was something about not thinking I'd have any trouble with it because I was 'sporty'.

I wanted to think that my Antipodean allure, my beautiful inner radiance, my obvious zest for life and new experiences had a lot to do with all this attention I was getting, but then the Dreamboat informed me of the French practice of tipping tour guides.

On the way back in the boat, we were instructed to smile. A flash went off in a booth overhead. For a reasonably large sum of euros we had the opportunity of purchasing the result. The Dreamboat's brother bought one. And there I was, a couple of rows back, grinning at the camera in my bright red top and looking for all the world like an inflamed zit with a face.

To make up for not being able to post any photos of the caves, I thought you might like to see this other work of art in stone instead. We spotted it a couple of days later in the town of Carennac while walking with the Dreamboat's folks. It was sculpted from part of a large rock about a metre and a half high, set into the pavement. A young couple were having their wedding photos shot in the vicinity. The photographer wanted them to pose next to the sculpture. The bride refused. Her wedding-day sensibilities just wouldn't allow it. She'd been well brought-up, you see. She was being polite.

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Happy Birthday to my brother Steve

For eleven years you were the quiet, dreamy, sweet-natured one sandwiched between two stroppy, precocious sisters who did better than you at school. Then Ciaran came along and evened out the gender balance. It didn't take long for everyone to see that all the easy-going genes in our family ended up exclusively in the guys.

I've always thought of you as the person in the family most likely to end up surprising everyone. Like that time when you shaved off all the hair on one side of your head and dyed what was left three different colours. That was rather surprising. Then, not content to rest on your laurels as the offspring who came closest to giving the Dowager Empress a heart-attack, you shaved off your eyebrows as well. That was a little unexpected, even in those heady, freakish days of the early 1980s.

We all inherited a weird sense of humour, but I've always loved yours the most ... the way you used to push your way to the front of night-club queues in the style of a tv doctor, saying, "Let me through, please. There's an emergency. Excuse me. Let me past. It's alright, everything's under control -- I'm a bricklayer." You usually got away with it, too.

I still crack up when I remember my first trip home for Christmas after moving to Australia. How, on Christmas Day, you, your girlfriend Jane, Ciaran, the Dowager Empress and I packed up our entire Christmas dinner (turkey included) and carted it out to Kaituna Valley for a picnic. It was stinking hot and you, Jane and I busied ourselves making a large dent in the beer and wine stash until Ciaran produced the hacky sack. I'll never forget that -- how he was all young, earnest team-player and you pretended you didn't know what hacky sack was so you could wind him up.

Steve: What the hell's that?
Ciaran: It's a hacky sack.
Steve: A what? What do you do with it?
Ciaran: Hacky sack. It's a game. You stand around in a circle ... come on. (Steve rises unsteadily to feet). You too, Jane. Come on, Nik. And then you hit it around to each other and see how long you can keep it going without it touching the ground. It's a cool game. You can use any part of your body and ...
Steve: Who wins?
Ciaran: Nobody wins. It's not that sort of game. I guess you could say that for as long as the hacky sack doesn't touch the ground, everybody wins.
Steve: What do you mean, there's no winner? What about the person who lets it drop? Are they the loser?
Ciaran: No, there aren't any losers either.
Steve: Oh god, this is one of those Generation X things you do, isn't it? No winners, no losers ... so what's the bloody point?
Ciaran: It's about skill. It's about teamwork. Here ... I'll pass it to you and then you pass it on to Jane. (hits hacky sack to Steve who stands still and watches it fall to the ground)
Steve: Well, that was boring. What a dumb game.
Ciaran: No, you're supposed to hit it on to Jane. But that was good for a first attempt. That was a practice run, OK? Let's try again. (hits hacky sack to Steve, who makes a wild, exaggerated kick, loses balance -- unintentionally -- and falls over)
Steve: Ha ha, Jane. You missed. You're the loser.
Ciaran: No, Steve, there aren't any losers in this game. But that was better. I'll hit it to Nik this time and we'll see if we can get it all the way around the circle. (hits hacky sack to Niki who is laughing too hard to move)
Niki: Sorry.
Steve: This is a stupid game. Why can't we play something where there's a winner?
Ciaran: It's a great game, honestly. Once you get a rhythm going it's excellent. It just takes a while. Come on, let's give it another shot.
Steve: But there's no point. Stuff the hippie team-work crap, I wanna win ...

And on it went for another twenty minutes.

So Happy Birthday, Steve. I miss you. See you this Christmas, I hope, and maybe we'll play Poker instead.

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I can now see what all the fuss is about with regard to France. I can understand why people fall head over heels in love with the place and then go home, sell up, come back and try to start a new life there without knowing a word of the language. France does things to people. It certainly did things to me. It did things to the Dreamboat as well. With the result that things were being done all over the place and very good things they were too, but I'll spare you the details.

Alexander Pope, in An Essay on Man, has a line, "Die of a rose in aromatic pain ..." and that's pretty much how I felt for five days, except I'd paraphrase it to read, "Die of France in a surfeit of gorgeousness". The place is just so beautiful. Between us, the Dreamboat and I spent most of our holiday viewing everything through a camera because around every corner there was something so picturesque it felt like a crime not to record it.

Take this, for instance. This is where we stayed -- a converted 19th-century stone farmhouse called Pech Meja, situated on a hill above a tiny village called Frayssinhes, nine kilometres from the town of St Céré in the Lot region.

Never mind that the roof line is a bit wobbly; this is France. Never mind that there were ants in the dishwasher and three separate sightings on as many nights of a field-mouse scuttling over the kitchen floor; this is France. Never mind that we arrived in the middle of a heat-wave (temperatures were in the high 30s and one day the mercury soared over the 40 degree mark) and those beautiful stone walls absorbed all the heat during the day and released it at night and there was no air-con or ceiling fans or indoor cooling devices of any description; this is France!

Besides, there was a swimming pool.

Never mind that on the second day we awoke to discover we had no water supply and there were twelve people unable to shower or flush toilets or wash dishes; this is France. Never mind that after two phone calls to the property's owner in Paris, a visit to the local mairie (mayor) and a couple of phone calls to the Water Board we still didn't know why we had no running eau; this is France. And never mind that a Water Board guy rocked up in the middle of the following day and checked the property water mains which were further up the hill on an adjoining farm and discovered they'd been turned off by the use of a special key which the farmer had somehow acquired illegally; this is France!

I have visions of this infuriated farmer, driven insane by our shrieks of joy in a swimming pool that he hated because there was a drought on and his maize crop could've done with the irrigation, sneaking up the hill to the water mains in the dead of night. Maybe his name was Jean-Luc. He probably didn't wear a beret but perhaps his sturdy famer-type legs were encased in trousers of a coarse cloth and held up with braces. He might've eaten a baguette, a good brie and some locally-grown walnuts for lunch. He quite possibly could've had secret names for all his cows.

He looks around, reaches dans sa poche and pulls out a key. It is a magic key. It is his Anti-Tourist Key. He smiles at it and then sets to work by the light of a gibbous moon, all the time muttering, "Zat will teach you to swim around wizout a care, you 'orrible 'olidaymaker-type per-sons. Now you will have no more wat-ter. Go back to where you came from, you gratt big steaming piles of merde!"

Never mind that it probably wasn't like that and a few rather dour folk in the world could probably accuse me of reinforcing a racial stereotype for the sake of a less-than-skilful attempt at parody; the fact remains that the naughty pirate still deliberately turned off our water. And besides ... this is France!

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I'm not sure why anyone trying to access hot water over a three-hour period this morning was automatically redirected to Father Jim's site Dappled Things, but it's obviously fixed now.

I'm sorry for any hassle it caused, but at least you were sent to a site named from one of my favourite poems and whose author appreciates Baroque music and pasta with red wine. It could've been far, far worse.

Now if only the damned commenting facility would get its act together ...

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Air Travel as Anthropological Study

If you ever want a crash-course in cultural differences, you can't beat flying half-way around the world with two different airlines whose staff speak English as a second language, to a destination where English is hardly spoken at all.

We flew Malaysian Airlines and KLM (Royal Dutch Airlines), with stop-overs in Kuala Lumpur and Amsterdam. (Both, incidentally, were very good, although Malaysian wins out because of the seat-back TVs and foot-rests in 'cattle' class.) And, of course, we were also treated to the French way of doing things at Toulouse airport, so I was able to conduct plenty of research into the contrasts. Here are a few examples:

1. When Boarding the Plane
Malaysian: Hello. (broad smile, checks boarding pass) You are in seat 38F. Please go to the other aisle. Thank you.
KLM: Hello. (smile optional, glances at boarding pass) You know the number of your seat? Go there.

2. In-Flight Announcements
KLM prior to take-off: Royal Dutch Airlines welcomes you on this flight to Toulouse. You must not unfasten your seat belt when you are seated. You are not allowed to smoke. You are not permitted to use electronic equipment. (pause) Have a nice flight.
Malaysian prior to landing: On behalf of the captain and crew, I want to thank you for choosing to fly with us, and would like to welcome all visitors to beautiful Malaysia. If you are a Malaysian resident, welcome home. (pause) There is a mandatory death sentence in Malaysia for drug smuggling.

3. Turbulence
Malaysian will turn on the seat-belt sign and instruct cabin staff to sit down as soon as there is any hint of turbulence. If this means you miss out on your second meal, so be it.
KLM leave it up to you to decide about the whole seat-belt thing. Cabin staff continue to serve in stoic fashion regardless.

4. Food
Malaysia is an Islamic country, so all of its airline food is halal (prepared according to Islamic law) and you won't get any bacon or pork. One of the most surreal experiences of the entire trip was being woken up at around 3am somewhere over Afghanistan to be given a pot of 2-minute noodles.
KLM food was good, although slices of bright green cake have a surrealistic value all of their own. Dutch scrambled eggs resemble cut-up omelettes and contain things like onion, mushrooms and capsicum ... not what I'm used to, but rather damned yummy all the same.

Anyone who has flown long-distance will be familiar with the screened maps showing progress of the flight and info on air speed, distance travelled, distance to destination etc. If you're ever flying Malaysian and can't work out what that white plane with the directional arrow and kilometre reading is all about, fear not. The Dreamboat worked it out. It's showing the direction and distance to Mecca.

So, on to airports. You've gotta love 'em -- queues, dramas, tears, reunions, the gamut of human emotion -- and here, me darlin's, I'm only talking about what goes on in the dunnies. But if you set aside the fact that they all sell the same over-priced designer crap lovingly crafted in third-world sweatshops with the only real difference being the currency you're asked to hand over, there's still ample opportunity to research cultural contrasts. Here are a few I noticed:

1. Kuala Lumpur
The most visually stunning airport I've ever seen. Also the cleanest (every second sign leads you to a pristine dunny block with your choice of Asian hole-in-the-floor models or Western sit-down-and-take-a-load-off types), and the quietest. It may have been the jet-lag, but I don't recall hearing a single broadcast announcement. If it wasn't for the shops and the sleeping bodies spread over the seats you'd be tempted to think you were in some sort of futuristic church. For around ten Aussie bucks you can buy yourself a fifteen-minute neck and shoulder massage. And if you're a dirty, filthy smoker with no will-power like me, KL airport provides you with a Smoking Room - a glass-walled horror of a space, designed to make you decide forthwith that you'll drop the habit for good. The only consolation is that the extractor fans work better than those in the smoking rooms in Bangkok airport. Don't ever be tempted to patronise the latter, no matter how great your nicotine addiction. They're vile.

2. Amsterdam
The Dreamboat informed me this is the busiest airport in Europe after Heathrow and I believe him. There were hordes of people in every nook and cranny of the place. It was also the friendliest airport we spent time in. Not only can you get the neck-and-shoulder massage treatment, but they also offer Reiki sessions and an 'international meditation room', which is probably the only place you can catch a snooze in peace. Along with the constant broadcast announcements regarding flights, gate changes etc, there are regular warnings not to leave baggage unattended. Whenever some poor jet-lagged bastards decide they can't face the 20 minute walk to their next departure gate and elect to jump on the conveyor belt instead, it automatically instructs them to, 'Mind your step. Mind your step. Mind your step,' in a metallic female voice straight out of Blade Runner. And for all the smokers in da house, the news is good. No fish-bowls of shame here. Despite frequently announcing that smoking is not allowed in the terminal, Amsterdam airport has thoughtfully provided little stand-up coffee bars complete with ash-trays where one can puff away with impunity and watch the human tide surge past.

3. Toulouse
Similar to Amsterdam but smaller. As you'd expect, all announcements are in French first, English second. There was nothing so warm and fuzzy as massages or meditation rooms on offer, but the same relaxed attitude to the consumption of tobacco products. There are the standard announcements about leaving baggage unattended, but the French take it all a step further. They warn that any they find will be destroyed by the police, and they're as good as their word. The Dreamboat's brother and sister-in-law were stuck there for a few hours on the way home and heard an announcement that someone's luggage was about to be sent to a higher place. A couple of minutes later there was a god-almighty bang. Presumably, dozens of pairs of halo-wearing undies with little wings are now floating around in the ether strumming harps.

If you've read this far, congratulations. France and photos will enter the equation shortly.

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I've spent the last couple of days trying to decide what to say about our trip to la belle France and how it should be presented.

Since starting this blog I've always kept a hand-written journal while travelling, but on this occasion I didn't. I think that deep down I wanted a break from writing. Plus, I was too busy being a tourist, catching up with the Dreamboat's family, eating vast quantities of cheese, getting squiffy on a daily basis, mangling the French language in attempts to converse with locals, taking crap photos and chasing the Dreamboat's nephews around in the swimming pool with an inflatable shark on my head to be bothered putting pen to paper.

But I promised to entertain y'all with amusing anecdotes and penetrating insights into Gallic culture, so how to approach it?

I had this idea of doing an 'A to Z of our Holiday' thing. I also considered setting everything down chronologically. Neither felt right. So over the next few days I think I'll do a little of both, chuck in a few random snapshot-type observations and if it all gets a little messy, c'est la vie. (That's French for "what the hell".) But as I have to start somewhere, I may as well pass on some life lessons learned before we even left the country:

1. When Transporting Cat to New Home
It is rather naive to think that a feline who has just lost his testicles will willingly trot into the very same cage that only the day before transported him to the evil place of amputation and later carted him out again, a few grams lighter. He will probably run under the bed and refuse to budge. It could very well take quarter of an hour to get him into the car, in which time it's likely he'll leave a claw embedded in the carpet, burst a stitch or two, bleed over anything he comes into contact with, and scratch anyone who approaches.

Upon reaching his new home, he may be somewhat reluctant to leave the car and it could take anything up to five minutes to persuade him otherwise. Yelling 'He's a bit upset!' to the new owner as you sprint past her into her house while carrying a thrashing, bleeding cat should be considered an unnecessary statement of the obvious. Bursting into tears when you leave doesn't do anybody any good.

2. When at Karratha Airport
There's always a chance you'll run into your boss and it's a good idea to smile graciously when she and a fellow member of management inform you and your partner that your presence in the office has been 'a breath of fresh air'. If your partner turns to you following their departure and says in a low voice, 'How do you do that? You were hardly there in the last two weeks and they still love you', shrug helplessly and continue to smile.

3. On the Flight from Karratha to Perth
It is a waste of time to conjecture on whether that hungover, constantly farting guy seated in front of you is a construction worker on R&R or an oil-rig worker on R&R. They all smell the same after a big Friday night on the sauce.

4. When in Perth
If your personal trainer and her partner happen to be in the city as well and consent to meeting up for dinner, it is wise to exercise restraint when it comes to alcohol, particularly if the party proceeds to the casino afterwards. Three or four pints of Stella Artois and a couple of bottles of red wine could be considered excessive by some. The consumption of Cocksucking Cowboys and Long Island Iced Teas as chasers is ill-advised. And no, the four, forty-something guys at the bar trying to engage you in conversation, the croupier at the Blackjack table and the old Scottish man telling you his life story in the smokers' room are not your new best friends.

5. At the Check-In Counter at Perth Airport's International Terminal
Sometimes, being hung-over is a good thing. For example, if the check-in person informs you and your partner that, according to her records, only one of you has seats booked on all your flights, you will lack the strength to do too much damage.

6. At the Immigration Counter
It is advisable to inquire of your partner why he is presenting his British passport instead of his NZ passport before you're both hauled off to one side and he is acccused of being an over-stayer rather than after. When everything has been sorted out and you are given permission to proceed to the departure lounge, try to find something a bit more supportive to say than: 'It's an omen. It's a bloody omen. We're not meant to fly at all, I just know it. I have a bad feeling about this ...'

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Excerpt from a Telephone Conversation with the Dowager Empress, my Mother:

Niki: Y'know, as I was flying back to Karratha today, I looked out the window at the huge expanse of red desert, with nothing around for hundreds of miles except the occasional isolated little town, and I thought to myself, 'Who needs ugly, boring old France when you can come home to a place of wonder and joy like this?' I don't think I could ever bear to leave Karratha again.

Dowager Empress: Really?

Niki: Er, no, Mum. I was being sarcastic.

Dowager Empress: Oh, you weren't! And there I was believing you.

Niki: Don't ever believe anything a jet-lagged person tells you. Especially if they presume to use the words 'France' and 'Karratha' in the same sentence.

Dowager Empress: Och, you're awful.

Niki: I know.

We've been back ten hours. I was supposed to go to bed six hours ago, but never quite made it. Janet, my wonder neighbour from over the road, knocked on the door just as the Dreamboat and I were about to retire. She had a glass of bourbon in one hand and all our mail in the other and it seemed the neighbourly thing to invite her in. Beer was consumed. The last two weeks' episodes of Buffy were watched. Nothing was unpacked. We have no food.

In our absence, the police were called in to break up a brawl raging in our other neighbour's front yard. The labour crew at the Dreamboat's work went out on strike and won't be going back until Saturday. It didn't rain.

Yep, we're well and truly home, alright.

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Greetings from Amsterdam!

In exactly quarter of an hour we'll be leaving the Dutch bordello version of the Holiday Inn where we spent last night getting drunk, and will catch the shuttle to the airport. Once there, we'll look tired, sad and kind of pasty in the hope that Malaysian Airlines will give us an upgrade to Business Class. Then I'll board the plane, squeeze the Dreamboat's hand every time the plane moves at any speed in any direction, and watch my ankles expanding once more. Ah, the joys of long-distance travel.

I have much to tell you about, mes enfants. Think spiteful French farmers, think restaurants where you can't have the next course until you're made to eat your beans, think flirtatious tour guides, think Europe and gorgeousness and you'll know what to expect.

Til later in the week ...

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Things I was Supposed to do Tonight:
1. Pack
2. Clean house

Things I Actually Did Tonight:
1. Visited local watering hole, where the following conversation took place with one of the Dreamboat's colleagues:

C: So, Nik, you're a bit nervous about the old flying, eh?
Niki: 'Nervous' is something of an understatement, but yeah.
C: I hate it too.
Niki: (relieved that someone understands and won't treat her to any horror stories) Really?
C: Yeah. It's the take-offs that I hate most.
Niki: They're always scary because once you take off, you're committed.
C: It's more to do with something I saw on TV once. This plane was taking off and it suddenly flipped backwards. You know, upside down. But don't think about that tomorrow when you're on the plane to Perth, OK?
Niki: Yeah, right. Sure thing.
C: Once I'm in the air I'm fine. I don't mind landing too much either. Unless the wheels don't come down, or something. There's always that to worry about.
Niki: ...
(enter Dreamboat with drinks)
C: I was just telling Niki about this plane I once saw that flipped backwards when it was taking off.
DB: (very pointedly) Thanks a lot, C.
C: Oh, it's OK. I told her not to worry about it. She'll be right, won't you, Nik?
Niki: ...

2. Drank beer
3. Ate pizza
4. Fell asleep on couch for four hours
5. Cleaned up cat vomit from bedroom floor. Resident feline now views the world with a jaundiced eye after waking up this afternoon to discover his testicles had vanished. Of course, he now also hates the agent of his misfortune -- Your Correspondent -- and takes every opportunity to give her long, accusing stares with eyes full of suffering and deep betrayal.

Things I Need to Do Before Midday Tomorrow:
1. Get more than three hours' sleep
2. Pack
3. Clean house
4. Give up smoking
5. Deliver feline to new owner
6. Draw up a Will in the event of back-flips during take-off
7. Buy loose-fitting trousers to hide après flight swollen lower limbs from Dreamboat's family and French populace in general

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Catching Up On Correspondence:

Dear Brain,
Look, I already bought the aspirin, ok? I'm going to take it, ok? This means that any and all fluids in our extremities will not solidify during the long international flights ahead and we will not die of Deep Vein Thrombosis, ok? Therefore it is totally unnecessary to keep me awake until 5am while you worry about the exact fucking dosage. Capiche?
Get a grip already,
Niki

Dear Mofo,
You might have noticed that certain cherished objects in your nether regions are still intact. Due to unforseen circumstances involving sleep deprivation, they've been given a 24 hour reprieve from the vet's ministrations. I recommend licking them lovingly at every opportunity because ... well, tomorrow is another day.
Smooches,
Niki

Dear Everyone I Owe Emails To,
Sorry. You know it's not likely to happen before I go away, right? And even when I get back it's still not certain. I'll do my best but an element of the erratic always characterises a gifted nature. Or maybe I'm just too damn disorganised.
Love anyway,
Niki

Dear Anouska,
OK, so you were first to be booted out of the British Big Brother house and then you were bundled onto a plane and sent into Da House over here, promising to be some sort of beautiful and exotic shit-stirrer. That still doesn't make you a star.
Telling it like it is,
Niki

Dear Channel 7 Programmers,
If I get back and find you deviated from your recent strategy of playing Buffy re-runs to screen the Real Deal in my absence, I will be extremely pissed off. Yes, I'll set the video, but that's no reason to push your luck.
Rather unpleasant when irked,
Niki

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About a month ago I visited someone's blog at random. It contained a series of questions, a bit like those Friday Five things that people complete. I read through them and promptly forgot all save one: "If you could choose any director to film the story of your life, who would it be?"

I'm not sure why this stuck in my head, but I gave it a lot of thought and eventually came up with five possibles. So here they are, in order ... for posterity, or something:

1. Terry Gilliam
2. The Coen Brothers
3. Jane Campion
4. Spike Jonze
5. Kevin Smith

The Dreamboat's choice? Ridley Scott, which is what you'd expect, given that Blade Runner is his favourite film of all time. (Info on any and all of these directors can be found here.)

Although I haven't consulted with His Furriness Lord Mofo on the matter, I've also chosen Terry Gilliam to direct the story of his life. I'd like to think that tomorrow morning, when said cat is lying on an operating table at the vet's being unceremoniously divested of his jewels, he can enjoy a chemically-induced fantasy scene where he floats through never-ending catnip fields to the strains of a lush waltz.

Which is a damn sight nicer than imagining how Ridley Scott would treat the whole business.

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In Which Your Correspondent Tries Taking a More Proactive Approach to her Impending Travel

Example: Asking the Dreamboat if the power adaptor we bought last time we went overseas would be suitable for France.
Purpose: To demonstate a commendable level of foresight and preparedness.
Real Purpose: To learn in a roundabout way if my hair dryer will work over there.

Example: Studying a map of France.
Purpose: To become familiar with the geography of a truly fascinating and diverse country.
Real Purpose: To stop resorting to answers like, "Buggered if I know. Somewhere in the middle, near the bottom ... I think," whenever anyone asks me where we'll be staying.

Example: Boning up on conversational French.
Purpose: To facilitate communication with friendly locals.
Real Purpose: To ensure that "I need to drink lots of red wine. Now!" doesn't come out sounding like, "I will never drink lots of red wine again. Ever!"

Example: Pulling out every item of clothing I possess and then trying everything on.
Purpose: To narrow down the selection process and guarantee economy in packing.
Real Purpose: To make sure that nothing is left behind.

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