Only in

Two o'clock on Sunday afternoon: a man in a motorized wheelchair rolls loudly down the highway. He's singing Elvis into a microphone, the lousy, over-bassed loudspeaker reverberating directionally across four lanes of traffic.
I wonder out loud if he's crazy. M, always the kinder of us two, suggests he's a traveling busker. I concede that's possible, if he's blind and indifferent to the lack of pedestrians this side of frankston. Perhaps he's warming up, building his confidence. He has a loudspeaker. That alone would seem to point to a certain level of comfort. Weird, we shrug, and carry on, watching the navy bastion of the Aussie flag flap behind him as he chugs along the deserted pavement crooning to the seagulls.

Beginning.

On Saturday I received an email from a woman whose daughter I used to teach. It's been five-six years since I last heard from her. I taught her daughter for two or three years (to the end of Book 1), and they ended their time with me by 'trying out' another teacher, asking for a Sunday morning lesson time and generally being the kind of nightmare student you dream of losing.

Her email mentions her now four-year-old twins and requests a lesson time, tells me that the older child still plays and attends a private school on a scholarship. I don't think this family is a good fit for Suzuki, and I can't in good conscience take on another student - I won't be able to continue their lessons when they begin school and there is no way in hell that I will teach Sunday morning, given that the other six days of the week are all working ones.

My dilemma is this: Do I refer her to a colleague beginning her Suzuki studio or simply give a polite refusal? Do I brief my colleague or stay quiet and let her deal with the parent on her own terms? I realise a lot can change in five years, and Mum may be seeking a Suzuki teacher because her older child has progressed so slowly through the traditional system (she's up to AMEB Grade three). Dilemma.

No.

Today is the type of day for crawling into bed and watching old black-and-white movies. Or drinking tea from my teapot for one, book in front and notepad beside. I'm stuck in a creative hiatus; ideas but inadequate time to execute; desire without the means to reach out and take. I have the feeling next year will be about paring back and (ohgod, how indulgent) making space. A little more saying no and perhaps, instead of yes, sure, absolutely.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not unhappy withe the current state of my life, but I am feeling a lot of time is spent doing instead of being. When a white space of time suddenly opens up I hurry to fill it because I've forgotten how to spend it. I'm a little addicted to the adrenalin rushes of my life instead of a slow endorphin burn. (Pleasure junkie, hand up.)

I read the other day that the accepted response to "how are you?" is an apologetic, slightly flustered "So busy!" and that we seem to equate stress to success. I'd like to become more successful at balance. So I can choose to say yes and reply "So busy!" knowing damn well my busy will end in a week, or that next month is much calmer - and that I will not accept more impositions on my time simply because it's not yet assigned to another purpose. How to start saying no?

oops.

Just a quickie; an apology for my absence from the interwebs. The reasons are many: a husband recently returned to the country, a new term with multiple concerts, a new baby (not mine!) and a little artistic collaboration of a photographic nature. Soon I might have images to share. Until life settles just a little, enjoy the sidebar. We will return to usual ranting programming shortly.

Hello term 4.

Wow. The year's evaporated and there are only ten weeks standing between me and a summer of being broke and filling up my backyard wading pool.

Time to start walking the pug (in her posh new puppia harness, courtesy of a generous friend) and maybe even to changer her collar from a glow-in-the-dark spiky to a flattering floral on black (same friend) which will complement my summer wardrobe... I'm so not that kind of person.

Time to stash a litre of sunblock next to the neutrogena MIRACLE hand-cream which is slowly restoring my cuticles.

Time, perhaps, to start plotting what will occupy my brain when I don't have quite so many classes bouncing around it. (The boy seems to be plugging MTG shamelessly; if I get asked to look at his DECK one more time I'm going to do something else to his... something else. Yes. Fill in the blank. I dare you.)

Yum yum

For today's delectation allow me to present the chicken and leak pie. Yup. Only three dollars. I've just about accepted that my battle with the misused and abused apostrophe is lost, but since when did spelling become the new leprosy?

Now with added soot!

I have a mild haloumi addiction which may lead to a parting of the ways. My husband is considering the purchase of his own jaffle maker. His n' hers: can you imagine? Imagine: me, pottering about in my kitchen, happily assembling a tasty jaffle (they're a complete meal, shut up) with a side of super-tasty haloumi.

Well, I already have a smoking hot grill surface at the ready; why use a frypan for a measly two slices of the cheese equivalent of crack cocaine? EXACTLY. Besides, residual haloumi grease? BLISS on the exterior of your gourmet toastie.

So I prepare, amble away, and am completely dumbfounded when husband extracts paper towel from cupboard and starts to scrub away at our well-used little jaffler. You all heard my screech of dismay, admit it. I mean, there goes all the FLAVOR (he called it carcinogenic soot, but I beg to differ).

Fast forward to tonight: he offers to make me the sandwich (in the shiny new thingamajig he scrubbed clean), possibly so I can't grubby it up with my greasy cheese. I graciously accept. Little does he know that I will covertly (actually, not at all covertly) chop a few chunks of cheese and grill them in the (well, it's still hot. Shame to waste that heat) jaffle iron.

Sizzle, sizzle.
"What are you cooking now?"
"Nothing..." (shifty eyes)
"But I can hear it sizzling!"
"It's a special type of nothing that sizzles?" (Yeah, I'm SO good at thinking on my feet.)

He shakes his head sorrowfully over the new encrustations of grease.
"Do you really want me to leave it like this?"
Nod vigorously.
"Really? Don't clean it?"
Shake vigorously.

Kindly, he puts it away. Memo to self: only grill haloumi on the left side.