Hieronymous the Anonymous

Everything leads to this

On Tuesday night I drove to Elwood with an excited Rigby next to me. We met with Cheeseboy in a beach side car park and went for a walk. We walked through the dark beside the wintry sea to Acland Street. We paused for a hot chocolate at San Churro, the Spanish chocolate place, and sat while passers-by stopped to give Rigby a pat and coo at his beauty. Then we walked back. It was all good.

Yesterday morning the phone rang at 8am. I saw it was my Dad's number and instinctively knew why he was calling. Sue had passed away during the night he told me. Though I had known this was why he was calling, and had known this call was coming at some point I still felt shocked. It seemed so sudden. Only a couple of weeks ago the worst prognosis had been confirmed, but there was hope - expectation - that she would gone on for a few months yet. I didn't know what to say. What do you say? I expressed my sorrow as his voice became ragged and he rang off.

I frantically organised myself yesterday morning. I booked a flight to Sydney to be with Dad. I rang around trying to organise a house-sitter to mind Rigby while I was away. Then I packed a bag and attended to a few bits and pieces, and finally took a cab to the airport. All the way I looked out the window barely seeing anything.

I'd been so busy that I hadn't stopped to eat anything so I checked into the Qantas club and hurriedly scoffed some cheese and biscuits and a glass of juice standing up. Then I boarded the plane.

Earlier I had discovered that most flights were fully booked and I'd had to settle for a more expensive fare. The plane was full of businessmen heading home or travelling up for a meeting. Once more I sat in the exit row squeezed between two men, an insolvency accountant from EY and an affable manager from the transport industry. As he said, we made up a fair front row, all of us tall men with burly builds. We exchanged desultory chatter before settling into the flight.

At Mascot I collected my bags and walked out to be picked up by dad. While I waited I spied an attractive woman about my age who appealed to me. She was slender and blonde. We exchanged a look and then dad drove up to me in his new car, flashed his lights and opened the boot for me.

I make note of all this because its times like these that you feel the texture of life more than most. Everything happens in a whirr, but at the same time you become conscious of everything happening against the context of the 'event' just passed. It is the marker around which everything else revolves, and brings things into sharp relief, which is why I think people always remember what they were doing when Kennedy was shot or the twin towers hit. For me it's important to record these little things and to be cognisant of them because they are part of the simple texture of my life. Mostly you overlook, or look by these things, and mostly you shouldn't.

As we drove away from the airport and exchanged small talk about the flight I looked ahead at a large, flat bottomed cloud that spread across the sky. It's underside was vividly lit by the pink light of the setting sun. It was spectacular to look at, and something about the sight reminded me of other times in Sydney. We continued to talk as I pondered that and I found myself a witness to the scene.

This is part of what I described before. These momentous events knock us out of our skin a little. The one self that goes about its ordinary daily business becomes fractured at these times, becoming multiple selves. You are the person doing those ordinary things - like catching a plane or looking at a sunset - and you also become the person observing the other self doing these things: this is me watching the sun set. That's my father commenting on the late arrival. This is me responding to him as I watch the sun set, and me observing it. Common place things become loaded with meaning, and so in the years following are vividly recalled as part of the total experience.

We drove through the streets and then back to the house. The house smelled of disinfectant. She, Sue, had died upstairs not more than 15 hours before. I looked around at the familiar space, noting the things that remained unchanged amongst those that had - a new TV, a coffee machine. My dad seemed much the same too, still fit looking, still looking years younger than his age, but, I noticed, with two lines running from the corners on his mouth to his chin. Was that different? I thought so.

We went out for dinner. We sat opposite each other and spoke of normal things and gradually circled around to the big topic. For the most part I was content to listen. I wasn't sure how much I could directly ask him, though I thought it would do him good to talk, and so occasionally I would prompt him with a question, then another.

He was happy to talk I think. He is a hard man in so many ways, but at heart he is a sentimental man. He was very much in love with Sue, and in so many ways they were a great couple. He was able to calmly relate to me the events of the last days, but at times he would begin to quaver with emotion. This was the case all night, and on each occasion he would pause and I would remain silent and look away. He did not seek to hide it, but nor did he seek sympathy - that is not his way. At one point later he actually apologised for his tears. We are very alike in that regard.

We returned to his home and sat at the kitchen bench drinking cask wine. I was tired. It was early still but I'd have happily gone to bed. Part I think was the mad rush that had come to rest. And partly, I think, was a kind of emotional exhaustion that comes with the shock of such news and the subsequent management of those emotions and, in my case, in walking the thin line in being there for dad.

As it turned out we sat there until after 1am. I just let him talk, and tried when I could to steer him towards happier memories. He shared a lot with me about her and their relationship and it was very nice and at times I was deeply moved. It prompted my own memories in these familiar surroundings, of other times happy and now seemingly ridiculously distant. How could they lead to this, after all? Yet everything leads to this.

24 hours before I had been happily walking the dog - now I was in another city, tending to my widowed father. Such is life.

The loose end

Cover of The Mystery Guest

Last week I was asked by a friend how I managed to get so many free movie tickets. I explained that generally I was invited to these films by various girl friends of mine who got free tickets from clients or through work or by being a member of this cinema or that. For reasons not immediately clear I recalled this conversation Saturday morning as I lay in bed reading The Mystery Guest by Gregoire Bouillier.

I read the book from cover to cover in a couple of hours. It was an intelligent, interesting, quirky book that seemed very French. I enjoyed it. Something in reading of this made me reflect on aspects of my own life, which is not terribly unusual - books do that. Reading the book I recognised much in the thought processes of the protagonist that were common to me also, though perhaps not so capriciously so in my case. Upon reflection I figured that it was probably true of pretty well everyone. Is there not a constant narrative going through your mind, whether it be about work or romance or even what you're going to have for lunch? I think so.

Somewhere in this as I continued to read something triggered that brief and innocuous conversation. I have a lot of female friends these days, maybe more than I do male at the moment. I am pretty close to most of them in one way or another, and our conversations are generally pretty candid in a way rarely managed with other men. Well, that's true enough I thought, but with each of them I have a different relationship.

I realised that there are big gaps in what I discuss with them. I know that some subjects and some people are best avoided in our conversations, though it varies from woman to woman. There are agendas which I have come to take for granted. As I'm not romantically linked with any of them my little adventures and passing romances are generally not to be discussed, though I am happy to encourage their stories. Even that varies from one to another - I'll be straight up with certain things with Fong (who is a harsh critic) or the yoga teacher that I won't mention to the publisher, and with Donna I'm more open about the side of my life that for pride I won't speak of to the others. And so on.

This went on in the background as I read. I felt quite French, my thought processes both indulgent and cerebral. When finally I got out of bed and left the house that state of mind continued as I walked up the road. In the background to all of this there was one the one subject I had been studiously avoided for over a week, though I had been tempted at times to have a peek at it.

I'm not about to reveal all now. Consider this blog as another one of those women that I am happy to share some things with, but not all. In fact this blog gets a better go of it than any of the women in my life. I am more open here, more inclined to expose my inner self, though at times I must force myself. Still, some things must be held back - and so I come at them obliquely.

I dreamt again the other week and woke feeling some sense of certitude about aspects of my life. I had dreamt simply about Jennie, how we met again and how she was both wary but welcoming. It was a good dream and true to life I expect, but I woke knowing that while I may hear from her again I would never again set eyes on her. Laying in bed I cast my mind back trying to find resolution to similar loose ends. One after another I was able to neatly tie up, but for one.

Mixed up in all this was an idea of how I wanted to live. The concrete details of that were filled in. I would do this for a while, but I would move towards that. Okay then.

There are things I want, things I didn't know I wanted. They get buried sometimes, in the day to day realities of living, and sometimes they get deliberately buried, or pushed away at least, common sense takes over, or perhaps it's just pragmatism. Doesn't really matter though, what you want is what you want. You can't rationalise it away because it's not something rational to start with. It's there whether you know it or not, and now I do.

I had that dream and it put everything in different boxes and what was left out was the one thing I wanted most I realised. I allowed my mind to dwell on it, to taste it in my mouth so to speak - was it really so sweet? It was, and that was scary - how was I to make it so? I didn't know, don't know, but trust if it's true we'll find a way. In the week since I first thought it I've put it to the back of my mind.

What is it you want? You want to share all the things in your life with one person, not piecemeal with several. You want to be, just be, to feel everything move in you as if it is all natural and easy, knowing that all you feel and all you hope for is safe is all you ever asked for.

So, everything combines. How I want to live, and with whom.

Northern tipple's

Took the day off yesterday and drove up to Heathcote. It was a last minute thing, Whisky rang the day before and suggested it might be good. I had nothing on and after thinking about it for about 5 minutes decided to do it.

Whisky is living in Rose Street now, in Fitzroy, and I drove first thing, parked the car, then wandered down the road with him to Brunswick where we sat down to a cooked breakfast at Don Vincenzo. Back in the day when I worked around the corner I would often get into work early - before 8 - check my email, and then amble down to Don Vincenzo's for breakfast. It was a very enjoyable way to begin the working day.

We drove north, up the Hume Highway and turning off at the Northern Highway heading towards Bendigo. It was a cool day yesterday, and in the sky at different times were arrayed brooding clouds that promised rain that never arrived, and patches of clear blue where the sun would brightly spear like shafts of gold.

We drove through the countryside of low hills and lush green fields. We were surprised at how green it looked. In patches on the hills and along the side of the road gums grew in straggly clumps. The road was quiet but for the odd car and once, an APC from the nearby Army base at Puckapunyal. There was an altogether different feel to be doing this midweek, a mellow, unhurried sense of enjoying life for its own sake rather than needing to this thing, or that.

In Heathcote we stopped in the local information office and grabbed some maps and chatted to the volunteers there about the local attractions. Accordingly we drove to the lookout, passing by a bunch of tame kangaroos, and looked out over the town; then drove to the nearby 'pink cliffs', which were not particularly pink, nor where they cliffs, however...

The major reason we visited that it is a major wine producing area. Neither of us could think of any number of wineries there as quite are quite small, but there are a lot of them - 87 and and counting one person told us yesterday. They're best known for their Shiraz, of which there are some great examples - the Heathcote winery Mail Coach for example, but many others too.

In town we stopped at the wine centre, tasted some wines, and had a plate of cheese and cold meats. We chatted to the women there, very helpful and friendly people who were happy to stop and take the quiet on a quiet Thursday. While there we checked out the local Tempranillo that had recently been rated the 3rd best in the world. We walked up the road, tasted some more wines, bought some local produce.

It was getting on past mid-afternoon and we had not properly eaten and so we got in the car and started back the way we had come. We stopped at the Tooborac hotel brewery, a small settlement by the road about 20k's south of Heathcote. We struck out on any food - the cook had gone home -  but happily had a glass of the local brew, which was good. It seemed typical of many country pubs I've dropped by over the years. It was cosy and warm, an open fireplace faced the pool table in the adjoining room, on the wall pictures of the local football team over the years, and behind the bar little knick-knacks and mementoes acquired over a period pinned or stuck to the wall. The bartender was a friendly blonde who was probably a local fixture, and the clientele locals come in after working on the land or on the road. There was even one guy who had been out prospecting who spilled on the bar a couple of small nuggets he had dug up, gnarled pieces of dull gold that between them were just over 2 ozs - a couple of thousand dollars worth at today's prices.

We popped around the corner then and stopped at Shelmerdine winery. There we tasted a few more wines and had a coffee. We had an outstanding Rielsing - a variety I am very fussy about - and a Viognier, a variety I don't normally drink at all. We both bought a bottle each. What was really outstanding was the Merindoc Shiraz.

We headed home then, taking the Lancefield road this time. While we compared gossip we passed through this beautiful and strange landscape, rolling hills dotted for kilometres by a scattering of rocky outcrops. Some of these were huge boulders sitting atop each other or clustered together. More often the rocks seemed to grow from the ground without any apparent reason. They broke up the pattern of the ground, and made you wonder how they had come to be there.

All in all it was a very satisfying day. It was good to do something random like that, doubly so to do it during the week. There is a food and wine festival in Heathcote in October which sounds pretty good. We're thinking of booking a romantic B&B and driving up with the women of the moment to have an indulgent and fun weekend.

Rigby and Me

Image by mstephens7 via Flickr

For the last little while people keep asking me, have you seen Marley and Me yet? And when I answer no they say, well, you should. Well, last night I did.

In fact Rigby and me watched it together. For much of that time he was slouched on the floor chewing on a pig hoof, or laying beside me with his head in my lap, or worrying at my fingers nibbling at them or licking them and then having a go at my face. All pretty normal really.

I found so many parallels between Marley and Rigby. For a start they are both high spirited and energetic and their behaviours are near identical. Rigby may be a little better behaved, though it's strange to think that. Rigby now responds to most commands after a fashion, but you can see the conflict between obeying his beloved master and giving into temptation. Temptation wins sometimes.

Rigby has a distinct personality and can be challenging in nice ways. Often he'll jump up while I'm working with his paws perched on my arm and look at me intensely, his ears notched, challenging me to respond. More often than not he will suddenly lurch forward, trying to lick my face and engage me in some play. Other times he'll gaze upon me like that and then methodically, as if my body is a ladder to climb to get to my head, he will work himself up closer to my head by all possible means. He's pretty insistent.

There is a good deal of craziness in him, something which I gather chocolate labs are particularly known for. He never tires sometimes of chasing his tail. He'll bound up and down on furniture and under chairs as if he is competing in a frantic, wacky race. There are times when I pretend to be Frankenstein that really sets him off. His eyes widen and he gets on his haunches with his muscles tensed, before exploding into a mini leap and a confused but excited yelp. I'll desist, but for the next 10 minutes he does his own crazy thing.

My relationship with Rigby is similar to the relationship Marley has with Grogan in the movie. I talk to him all the time, which may indicate some instability on my part, but it seems natural. I explain to him the things going on as if he should know, I randomly philosophise to him and even tried to teach him English once. For the most part he looks at me quizzically as I'm doing this as if he's trying to understand, his head occasionally tilting to one side or another as if that side-on perspective makes my words all the more clearer. Between you and me I don't think he understands a word I'm saying.

We have got into particular habits with each other. Like most dogs, and certainly Marley, he likes to pick up things and carry them away. This can be a variety of objects within reach: a pen, a piece of paper I'm using as a bookmark, a loose shoe, a cap hanging from the door handle, and so on - my mobile phone is a favourite. Often the first moment you'll be aware of this is when he abruptly exits the room with a surreptitious air, his tail stiff like a flagpole. He knows he's not meant to do it, but gee it's fun.

Undies and socks are two of his favourites. In answer to the age old question about the washing, the odd socks don't disappear in some black hole in the washing machine - they've been squirreled away somewhere by the dog. I'm forever washing odd socks these days and hoping for their partner to turn up.

It is perhaps unwise but Rigby and I have made a little game of this. It's amazing how quickly dogs recognise routines, and respond to them. Each night when I'm undressing for bed I'll take my sock halfway off, at which Rigby, with great excitement, will seize hold of the loose end with his teeth and wrestle it off. Then we'll repeat the process for the other. This is great pleasure for him, and often causes me to laugh aloud.

Then when I'm about to climb into bed he becomes very alert and at the last moment will try and grab at my foot with his little paws and his mouth before it slips under the covers. I don't know where this came from, or why, but it has become a little game between us.

He generally settles down at that point and will lay beside the bed while I read, before trotting out to sleep on the expensive and comfy Persian rug in the hallway, or on the futon in the study.

Each morning around 6.45 he rouses himself and returns to the bedroom. He stands by the bed just looking at me in the darkness until I respond to him. Normally I'll just say to him "gotosleep", a phrase he recognises, and he'll wander out again to return 20 minutes later. At some point, against my best intentions, I'll give in to him and he'll leap up on the bed to join me.

This is great pleasure for him - less so for me. I think it's a bit like the kids wanting to climb into bed with mum and dad - well this is pretty much the same. He snuggles into me, ensuring that his body is in contact with mine through the covers and often positioned so that the bulk of his weight is leaning against me. I've woken sometimes to find he has sidled closer to me and put his head on the pillow next to mine.

This is all his own doing. It's almost as if he's thought to himself that H needs his sleep and I shouldn't disturb him, but that from 7am he's fair game. It's a habit I'm trying to break him of, but I don't think it's going to happen for a while.

Of course the complicating factor with all this is when I have a guest overnight. He always loves new people being around, and generally they love him. For him it's pretty much double the pleasure, and if he modifies his behaviour at all it is to switch his attention to the novelty on the other side of the bed - good for me, but not always completely appreciated otherwise.

The other thing about him is how he communicates with me. He yawns loudly, extravagantly, like a man rousing from a deep and satisfying sleep stretching his arms. Well Rigby will often do it as he wakes, but he does it so much more often when he's wide awake. Generally it seems intended to get my attention, something he can never have too much of. Sometimes I'll respond in kind and occasionally we'll exchange them as if we're in competition with each other.

Watching the movie last night reminded me of Rigby, and it also reminded me of the golden Lab I grew up with, Benji (a name WE made popular). Gee I loved him, and watching last night was reminded of him by the relationship between Marley and the kids. We used to on walks together, him trotting by my side happily, surreptitiously looking out for me. He was a beautiful looking dog, Golden Chariot was his pedigree name. The day he died was one of the saddest of my childhood. He had been a Christmas present to my sister and me, and he died 13 years later on Christmas day. I cried and cried, and last night as I watched Marley die that all came back to me.We shared a moment.

When losing is not such a bad thing

Image via Wikipedia

I dislike losing more than most I think. Back in the day when I was still play footy I would be gutted whenever the final siren found us behind. I have a few abiding memories of playing, but the most vivid - more so than the goals I kicked or the screamers I took - is my reaction to losing. I dare say I never reacted the same way twice, I probably shook the hand of my opponent and sloped off the ground more often than not. That's not what I remember. I remember slumping to the ground and lying there looking up at the sky above and feeling emptied out. All that effort for nought, all that ambition and hope come to nothing. It was a bitter experience that I have never forgotten.

In the years since my actual participation in competitive sport has been erratic and has wrung a variety of responses from me. I played cricket when younger and was handy at it, and perhaps should have put more effort into it. I was a swimmer too when younger, a freestyle sprinter. Though I had years of lessons and training it was something I was naturally good at.

Later on I played socially in a mixed netball league that was very competitive. I played goalkeeper and was proud to be very good at it, and as a team we played for keeps - the guys did anyway. I played golf and was sometimes good and sometimes awful, and the sense of competition was more with myself and the course than with anyone else. I played tennis occasionally too. I was an athletic but very ordinary player. In some ways my effort on the tennis court summed up my attitude towards sport and competition. One of my friends, a seasoned club pro, likened me to a red setter. I charged around the court and chased down every ball. I may not have played with a lot of science, but I put my heart and soul into it.

Despite my efforts I lost more tennis matches than I won, but that did not worry me as much as you might think. I remember ,any times grinding my teeth and committing myself to win the next point, the next game, the next set, but there was also an acceptance that tennis was not my game. I was beaten by people superior to me in skill, not effort. It was the contest that was important, the striving to be better, to do better, to test and occasionally to triumph. I was not silly enough to believe that effort was enough, but I knew it was essential.

Being a spectator is an entirely different experience because as an individual you have no influence on the outcome. God knows how many times I've had to restrain myself from jumping the fence and grabbing the ball. I've had to be content to cheer on from the sidelines.

Being a fan of a team or an individual gives you some sense of proprietary ownership over them. They become an extension of your own aspirations, the de facto representative of your own thwarted ambitions. In a strange way we fans we feel as if that gives us the right to criticise those who can do things we can only dream of doing.

In my case my two great sporting loves have been the Australian cricket team and Essendon football club. I've followed plenty of other teams and individuals, and barrack hard for anything Australia is representative in, but they are my two great loves. I've been lucky, as both teams have a long history of almost uninterrupted success.

Has that bred complacency? Maybe, but there's no doubt it's created a sense of expectation. I expect the Australian cricket team to win - and when they haven't, by and large, I have felt it bitterly, much as I experienced it personally when I played footy.

It's slightly different with Essendon. I've witnessed them win 4 premierships in my time, and seen them dominate like few clubs in history. There is a little arrogance that comes with that territory, and I've very happily assumed that for myself without being blinded by it. As in all sports there are cycles, and while I continue to support them when they're down my immediate expectations of them are less, just as my expectations of them beyond that are as grand as ever.

This highlights the two qualifications I have on competitive success. It is the effort that counts. There are days you will be beaten by the better, more skilled opponent. That must be accepted. All I ask is that there is honest effort, and the ambition to be better, do better, next time. The other qualification is closely related to that.

As I write this my football team is on the edges of finals qualification. I hope they make it, but will not be devastated if they don't. The reason for this equanimity is that they are a developing team. They are young still,the youngest team in the comp, they are still developing physically, still learning the caper. I am happy that they put in the effort, and content to know that they are improving all the time. I am certain that within a year or two they will be a serious contender, but perhaps they need to feel a little of that pain in order to get there.

Sport is all about the contest I always say. The great and spectacular feats of athleticism and skill are wonderful to behold, but ultimately it comes down to will - the will to become that good, the will then to exercise that skill and athleticism, to go that extra yard, against an opponent just as skilled, just as athletic. The contest.

Getting to that point is the journey that compels we sporting enthusiasts to jump on board. Where's the satisfaction, the exhilaration, in simply turning up to make it happen? The beauty in sport is in overcoming more than just rival teams, it's in the building of that team, in the slow march forward to the prize that everyone has its eyes fixed upon. The attainment of that prize, should it happen, is the vindication for all that work. It gives meaning to the journey, it is will made tangible.

All this is a lengthy preamble to the unexpected reaction I had when Australia lost the second test last night.

They went down fighting, but I still expected to be devastated. I expected the ugly and extravagant celebrations of the English press would be enough to make me bitter. This was not the case.

I have pondered on it since, and my little thesis above is my way of explaining to myself. I wish Australia had won, more particularly because of the record they were striving to break. It was not to be though and I was good with it.

I know had Australia won the series would be dead. The English would have gone, oh no, they've done it again, and once more turned on their own. The boost to the Australian team would have been enormous, the devastation for the English team almost complete. I doubt they could have recovered from it.

The Australian team is different. You can bet right now they're plotting how to turn the tables. Such is the pride and history of success that they will not rest until they have squared the ledger. Had Australia won it would have been a fantastic achievement, but in the ongoing battle between these two teams it would have been ho-hum. Now we have a contest though. Now there is something for Australia to overcome, a challenge to meet. Now there is a journey to be completed.

They don't call these contests test matches for nothing. This is a test. This is the challenge. England will be hard to beat from here because they have their tales up - and that's the beauty of it. If I know the Australian cricket team though it is a challenge they cannot resist. It makes for great cricket and likely an epic series, and hopefully another compelling chapter in the history of the game.

A mountain too high

Image via Wikipedia

About 2 minutes ago I cried out as the last Australian wicket went down, and quickly switched channels as the English players ran to celebrate. Knew it was a tall order, and in the end we ran out of oxygen a few hundred metres from the top. No complaints though, like I said. They fought it out, and the bonus on the last day was that Johnson played a very good innings which hopefully will translate into his bowling for the next match. Should do him good.

For the English, hats off to Andrew Flintoff. He has to be one of my favourite cricketers. Love the man, as a lot of Aussies do. He's a classic Lancashire lad but there is something in his uncomplicated manner that appeals to us. Of course he is idolised by the Brits, and why not? He has great spirit, as well as being a very fine cricketer. And I think he is a great sport, the very model of of the best type - hard at it, competitive, untiring, but always with a ready smile and a laugh. It's a rare combination. Remember back in 2005 how he, as an opponent, comforted Brett Lee after his brave effort to win the match fell just short? He has a mighty heart, and though I fear him as an Australian supporter I love watching him.

He's one guy I'd love to have a beer with. Can't think of many others in the English team I could say that about.

So, one down going into the Edgbaston test. So be it. I expect - and hope - that changes are made, a bowler in for a batsman. The Ashes are there to be won.

209 more for history

For the last 4 days I've been keenly following the 2nd test match against Lords. After my mini-diatribe against the English cricket team I thought it almost certain that they would bounce back and make a fool of me. By and large those fears proved to be well justified.

After sneaking away with a draw in Cardiff (ridiculously hailed as a kind of Dunkirkian victory by the English press), England then proceeded to dominate in the next match.

Winning the toss they batted and made a good score, though once more there was the inkling that Australia had somehow done well to keep them to something manageable. All out 425 after 0-197 at one stage.

Australia's batting coincided with a change in the weather - bright sunshine became overcast and cloudy, perfect for swing bowling. The conditions, some good bowling by Anderson and some atrocious batting by Australia saw us all out for 215.

Once more it was fine when England batted. Once more Mitchell Johnson, hero of South Africa and our spearhead, was terrible. His mum has been making some noise in the media and that can't be helping much, and maybe he hasn't adapted to English conditions, but he has been wayward and loose and pretty well a handicap to the team. His failure in the first two matches has been a major loss for the team.

In any case England managed to declare for 6-311, setting Australia 522 to win over 2 days. That's a world record target by over a hundred runs. Naturally the English, in their inimitable way, were cock-a-hoop. One of their players was quoted as saying they had their foot on our throat. The press loudly celebrated what they saw as a certain victory and the end of Australian dominance. (I'll say this for the English - they're great frontrunners. If they think they're safe they sink the slipper with glee; fail and they turn on their own. It's a destructive culture.)

Australia, of course, set out to win. There wasn't really much choice in this. They had to bat out 2 full days just to draw. If they manage to do that then the runs will look after themselves. It is typical though of the way we play. Win, lose or draw it is go forward, to play attacking, spirited cricket, and never concede anything.

In large part that is exactly what my diatribe last week was all about. Australia may lose this match, and the odds are that they will. I'll be disappointed, but I'll happily accept that if they lose fighting. Yesterday I was afraid that my words would come back to haunt me. Facing that huge challenge ahead of them it might have been easy to succumb, to give it all away as too hard. That's not what I expect from the Australian cricket team though (or any Australian team), and, more importantly, it's not what they expect from themselves either.

As I write there is still a day to go and the game is a lot more even than it was 24 hours ago. It was a mountain then, but they have since managed to climb more than half the distance with enough left in reserve to suggest they may go all the way.

Personally I feel vindicated, and proud of a team that proves to be so reliably spirited as to never give in. They're looking at a world record chase in foreign conditions watched by a crowd baying for their blood and against a gifted bowling attack looking to put an end to Australian pretensions. On top of that they've had to deal with some shocking umpiring decisions - 3 of the 5 men given out so far were demonstrably not out by the rules of the game. Never mind, worry about what you can control and get on with the game...

I read this morning an English player quoted as believing the game is now evenly poised. I don't agree with that, but it's revealing that he should think that. England should be strong favourites still - one more wicket and they're in the tail, and still 215 runs to get. Still, it is a lot closer now than it was before, and once more the English players, public and press are reminded that they have to fight every inch of the way if they mean to beat Australia. They know it - it's why they hate us so, why they fear us, and ultimately why they respect us so much.

That's all I ever ask - that nothing is left on the table. Now, let's win this match.

PS One other, small consideration. Australia have not lost at Lords for 75 years - a remarkable statistic away from home - and I guess we don't want to start now...

Getting back to normal

Image via Wikipedia

I finally feel like I'm getting back to the level of fitness I expect of myself. It's been a tough year for my health. The blood clot left me unable to do strenuous exercise, and when that finally cleared up my foot was giving me problems. I could barely hobble around the block and with instructions to stay off it wherever possible my fitness further declined. At about this time my lower back began to seriously play up, leaving me feeling very stiff and inflexible when not in pain. A curious aspect of this what I felt crooked. When I walked down the street I felt as if I walked leading with one side, as if I had not put my pants on straight.

The resolution to all this came when I finally decided to see an osteopath. My initial opinion was confirmed when the osteo told me I had twisted my spine. She also told me that my left leg - where most of my problems are - is about a centimetre longer than my right. Over several weeks of treatment including acupuncture we delved into my ailments searching for a cause.

About 13 months ago I went to a physio with similar complaints - stiff, sore, shooting pains through my buttock down into the back of my left leg, and so on. Treatment at that time was inconclusive and it was not long after that I was diagnosed with DVT in my left calf. At the time I didn't connect them, but with the passage of time and subsequent events I began to wonder if in fact there was cause and effect in this sequence of events.

I discussed it with the osteo. I told her how the year before last I had gone travelling through North Africa hoisting a heavy pack. My pack at times was near 30 kilograms, and though the weight did not trouble me overmuch I wondered later if my lazy habit of slinging it over my right shoulder had created my problems. That's a fair amount of weight unevenly spread, requiring the body to adjust and adapt.

My speculations led me to wonder if this had not caused my spine to twist, which placed pressure on my back and my entire left side and had then somehow resulted in the DVT developing, and the further complications after which seem, in retrospect, like dominos tumbling in a line.

The osteo could not confirm or deny this postulation, and suggested I speak to a doctor about it. It's not terribly relevant anymore - the horse has bolted - and so I haven't bothered to do anything as yet. In the meantime her treatment, combined with the exercises she set me, has freed me up substantially.

A little over a month ago I couldn't touch my toes. I couldn't get within 6 inches of them, very poor considering that not so long ago I could touch the ground with my clenched fists. I still can't manage that, but I can touch my toes again.

All this has meant that I can exercise again. I lost a lot of muscle tone throughout this and put on about 7 kilos, and was pretty well helpless to do anything about it. I have now been exercising more freely and am feeling the benefits. I'm still a long way short of where I want to be, but I feel stronger and look more toned. I expect to improve substantially more.

My brother in law over the weekend tapped his belly and indicated he was at the age now when it was ok to spread a little. I don't share that view. I hate being sloppy in any way. I am proud and have standards I need conform too, and can't help but think that begin compromising on some then the rest will follow. And I'm vain - I don't like looking out of shape, no matter how old I get. I guess the most compelling reason is my health - I need to maintain a certain level of fitness for my ongoing quality of life.

I expect within a couple of months to fit into last years suits without an issue, and for things to be back to normal.

The Hollowmen

Last few weeks I've been catching up with The Hollowmen on pay TV. I missed most of it the first time around, but one of the great things about cable is that everything makes to the small screen again. And again, and again...

The Hollowmen is a cynical, very funny, often whimsical satire on the political process. It's based in the Prime Ministers office and the behind the scenes advisors and bureaucrats there trying to make the PM look good and to advance his political aspirations. There is nothing that can't be exploited for political gain - national security, global warming, big spending, and so on.

It's really very cleverly written as you've come to expect from the Working Dog team (The Castle, The Dish, Frontline), but the real beauty of it is in the diversity of characters each representing a different perspective - the earnest, the innocent, the honest, the blindly cynical, the loyal footsoldier, the oblivious, and so on - and all perfectly cast.

I don't know much it actually reflects political reality, but I doubt it's meant to be a literal representation - it is a comedy after all - but rather the comedic exaggeration of a much smaller reality we all believe to be true. I hope there's a second series coming.

It reminds me of another very funny Australian satire I watched re-runs of earlier in the year. The title of The Games refers to the Sydney Olympics in 2000, and was actually made in advance of that. It takes the form of a documentary on the remarkably small organising committee and the government minister they deal with. It details the variety of challenges and controversies they have to overcome, not to mention the political shenanigans they have to manage, not dissimilar to what is represented in The Hollowmen.

John Clarke, who doesn't do near enough TV, heads a stellar cast - Brian Dawe and Gina Riley join him. It's very funny, very clever program which may seem dated with the Sydney Olympics fading into the distant past, and in truth the ripping, brilliantly organised success the games became turned a lot of the program on its head. Funny is funny though, and just as good watching now years after as it was when the games were ahead of us, an unrealised hope we all keenly awaited.

Transformers ho hum

Image by nicogenin via Flickr

Yeah, saw Transformers 2 last week. Not much to say really, diverting enough but very forgettable. Too many flash special effects, too much CGI, not enough on a purely human scale. Megan Fox is good to look at Shia La Beouf is fun, and one of the baddie transformers (Isabel Lucas) is very sexy, but not much to really to engage with.

By far the highlight of the night came before, some very good European beers at Murmur and then a pizza at Portello Rosso washed down with a decent Tempranillo.