Y is for Yatala Brewhouse

Remember that old joke about the man looking for a fiancee whose father owns a brewery? No? Me either but the brewery part of it was the clincher in sealing the deal as I recall and it made me appreciate the importance of beer in the male happiness equation.

So it was with this in mind that I decided that my last Alphabet Weekend contribution would be all about EGG--and true blue Aussie male that he is--it had to be about beer.

Brisbane has a lot of things going for it--lovely weather, lots of interesting things to do (just look how many we've found in the course of our Alphabet Weekends), nice hotels and restaurants, but most importantly it has two breweries and conveniently one of them begins with Y.

So on the hottest day of the year, EGG and I set off for a tour of the Yatala Brewhouse. To be fair the tour of the brew house was pretty low on my list of things I Want To Do In My Lifetime, but the lure of drinks at the end was always going to be enough to keep me happy and EGG--well he was thrilled.

But back to the brewery tour--we got on one of those road train thingies, drove around the brewery (very clean and hygienic), looked at big vats and things and watched lots of little bottles go round on conveyor belts. We found out how to make low carb beer and how all the beer by-products are recycled. We found that beer tasters have the best jobs in the world (have you ever seen that job advertised?)

I guess it might have been interesting, but I couldn't hear half of the commentary because of the devil children who were also on the tour. Just EGG's and my luck--any earlier we might have joined the buck's party. But no. Instead we got four boys juiced up on red cordial.

To be fair, the tour was a bit boring, but who takes kids on a brewery tour? For the future I am going to remind myself that no matter what an irresponsible mother I have been in the raising of SSS I have never taken her on a brewery tour--and then readjust my halo.

So tour over we went back to the pub bit of the brewery and downed a few refreshing ales in the comfort of air conditioning. EGG got to pour his beer from the tap (all those years of watching bar staff really paid off).

EGG was so enthused by the whole idea that he wants to go on the Castlemaine Brewery Tour next. Good little Queenslander that he is, he much prefers the taste of XXXX.

Y is for Yatala Brewhouse--cheers!!!

X is for Xtravagant

X sure was for xtravagant. It was also for xcellent, xciting, xtremely good and any other phonetically x sounding word you can think of. EGG took me to Palazzo Versace for our Alphabet Weekend and I now know the location of heaven--it's Seaworld Drive, Gold Coast.

Now just to explain. We really know that extravagant doesn't begin with X, but considering the fairly ordinary options available for X, I was prepared to cut EGG a bit of slack. And didn't it pay off in spades.

Now I'm a well-travelled girl, and I know my luxury hotels, but nothing I've been to compares to this place. From the moment we pulled up in front of the hotel, we were spoiled rotten. I've never really envied people with money, but now I do. I want to be rich so I can go to Versace every weekend.

The bedroom was beautiful with parquetry floors and Versace lions all over the place. There was even free perfume for me and aftershave for EGG. There were robes and slippers and all the usual things. There was a pillow menu, and confusingly there was something called a Bath Blitz as part of our package.

After much discussion EGG and I decided that it was probably one of those fizzy bathbomb things that you toss in the bath, but no it was so much more. But back to that later.

We had a luxurious afternoon lounging around the bedroom, drinking champagne and contemplating our dinner options. We finally settled on a seafood buffet and advised housekeeping what time we would be back for our Bath Blitz.

Dinner was delicious and we waddled back to our room for our Bath Blitz. This was no bath bomb--how wrong we were. There were about twenty tea-light candles lit around the bath which has been filled will marshmallow scented bubbles. There was a chocolate fondue pot accompanied by strawberries and marshmallows. To follow was a whole tub of marshmallow scented body lotion. It truly was extravagant.

So we wallowed in the tub scoffing chocolate dipped strawberries and marshmallows. Did I mention that I want to be rich?

We slept like babies on our personally selected pillows and rose early for the BREAKFAST BUFFET. I must confess that I was initially disappointed when I didn't see my all-time favourite hotel buffet breakfast food--Eggs Benedict. But I was not to be disappointed for long as the chef prepares them fresh for each customer. EGG had two omelettes. I had four flat white coffees. It was so good. Did I mention that I want to be rich?

Like all good things it came to an end. We waddled out to checkout before I remembered that I hadn't visited the Versace boutique. Such is the seductiveness of the place that I actually started to think that $2385 was a very reasonable price for a dress and that the darling little black heels to match were a steal at $1495. I really, really want to be rich.

Luckily EGG called me on the phone and told me the car was waiting so no hasty purchases were made.

As we drove away I turned back and looked toward heaven on earth. "I want to go back," I whined to EGG.

I'm currently buying Lotto tickets in my quest to be rich. I want to go to Versace every weekend.

X is for Xtravagant.

W is for Wine on the Wharf

I came up with a fabulous W for our Alphabet Weekend. Wine on the Wharf. It ticked all the boxes with two W's in its title. And didn't we make a job of it!

There were 450 wines on offer. EGG and I sampled 275 of them in 90 minutes.

Then we went home for a sleep. It was only midday.

W is for Wine on the Wharf--what a winner.

V is for (Shirley) Valentine

It's was off to the theatre for EGG and I for we had tickets to see Shirley Valentine, the V letter of our Alphabet Weekend.

It was a true testimony to EGG's commitment to Alphabet Weekends that he did this for Shirley Valentine is the stage equivalent of a chick-flick and he was only one of a handful of men at the theatre. Actually the mere presence of EGG and I lowered the average age of the crowd by about 20 years.

However, Shirley Valentine was wonderful. I thoroughly enjoyed it once I got my head around the fact that she was vicariously talking to the audience via the wall. EGG missed all that though because he slept through the whole thing. He actually snored, but Shirley was in mid-rant so I think I was the only one who heard.

I got a bit excited at the end though when Shirley left her horrible husband for a new life in the Greek Islands. Sounds like a great plan to me only I want to take EGG with me.

I'm trying to convince EGG that we should throw our jobs in and do the same. We could do Alphabet Countries. Now there's a plan.

V is for (Shirley) Valentine.

U is for U2 3D

EGG and I are finding this late part of the alphabet pretty hard going. So it was with great relief that I found our Alphabet Weekend U at the movie theater when we saw U2 3D.

We don't often go to concerts. It's not because we can't be bothered (though there is an element of that). No, it's because we usually never get around to booking until...oh, about two days before the concert, and then of course it's sold out and we get a bit stroppy.

I blame Harry Connick Jr for this of course. A few years ago when he came to the thriving metropolis of Brisbane, I decided, on the day of the concert, that I had a whim to see that fine young man. I rang up and low and behold they had some tickets, but they were in the press seats at the front and would that be ok? By golly gosh, was it ok!

EGG and I rocked up to the venue and walked all the way down the front (the last time we got to sit at the front of anything was when we sneaked down the the front of the theatre at intermission because our seats at the back were so crap we couldn't see anything).

So there we were, legitimately sitting right at the front, waiting for the lovely Harry to appear. And appear he did where he made special eye contact with me all night long. (I actually may have made that last bit up, but the rest is true).

So that whole episode sort of spoilt our future concert plans as we think that the same thing is going to happen again one day. We wait in hope.

Obviously we missed seeing U2 when they last came to town. I rang up two days before hand and enquired about the availability of seats, but the telephonist just laughed and hung up. Guess not!

But what we saw was nearly as good, in fact I'll say it was even better. It was just like being at a U2 concert, or what I imagine it would be like if I actually ever got to one.

And it was made even more spectacular because it was in 3D. Now the last time I went to a 3D movie we had to wear these dinky little glasses made of white cardboard with one green cellophane lens and one red one.

Well haven't these little numbers made some progress in the last 20 or so years. No more red and green cellophane--no now they are like Roy Orbison sun glasses. So much cooler than they used to be. I was so taken with mine that I carried them in my handbag for about a month showing them to everybody I met.

But back to the concert. There was heaps of great music, lots of crowd atmosphere (on the movie, the crowd in the theatre was a bit subdued). And aren't U2 such a considerate band to each other. No wonder they've stayed together so long--they are very good sharers. No one hogged the limelight (well Bono does a bit, but that really can't be helped) and they all take turns.

The 3D effects were spectacular. At one stage I was going to have a chat with the naughty children sitting in front of me who kept waving their hands in the air until I realised it was on the movie. Midway through the movie, Bono reached out to me (shades of Harry Connick Jr) and I was going to give him a high five until commonsense took over. How ridiculous would I have looked--high fiving the air, all the while wearing Roy Orbison sunglasses. Bad enough that I was waving my mobile about to fit in with the rest of the crowd.

EGG loved the movie and asked why we didn't go to more concerts when I reminded him about our sad ticket buying history.

"That was way better than going to the concerts," he said. "Why don't they all do that and save themselves the bother of touring?"

Hey concert promoters, he might just be on to something. But remember you read it here first.

U is for U2 3D.

T is for Toowong Cemetery Ghost Tour

Ever wondered where the good people of Brisbane like to spend their Saturday nights? Partying like it's 1994? Dancing in the streets? Celebrating? No, the people of Brisbane do not spend their nights recreating song hit titles from the 90's. The people of Brisbane go ghost hunting, or so it would seem after being part of the impressive number of people who turned up for the Toowong Cemetery Ghost Tour that was EGG's latest contribution to our Alphabet Weekend.

By now you've probably gathered that I can be a wee bit judgmental, so quite frankly I was expecting to be part of a group of whackos. Who spends their Saturday nights traipsing around a cemetery? Well EGG and I, but at least we had an excuse--we were up to T and EGG got in big trouble off me for suggesting Ten Pin Bowling. As for the rest of the group--and I wasn't expecting too many--well, they had to be just plain weird. But they weren't weird, they were more like Bob an Cheryl from the corner shop, and there were about 24 Bob and Cheryls of varying ages. Who knew?

Now I happen to know a lot about cemeteries because I have spent hours of my time watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. In fact I have often fancied myself as Buffy, but as you know I am useless at the physical stuff and the world would have been taken over by any number of demons and bad guys if I really were Buffy. But I do have an encylopaedic knowledge about repelling demons, ghosts and vampires in cemeteries (or anywhere else for that matter). Of course I didn't trot out with garlic or holy water--that would have been stupid. I even forgot my crucifix, but as I sat outside the cemetery gates waiting for the rest of the group to arrive, I did find a little stick which I sharpened to a point and surreptitiously planted in the back pocket of my jeans. Who's weird now, I hear you ask.

And, it's lucky I did, because Toowong Cemetery has a vampire. Now you may think that my little sharpened stick was not going to do much harm in a vampire-related incident, but you would be wrong. You would be wrong because the Toowong Cemetery vampire is called Lily. A vampire called Lily! It's like calling a rotweiller Mopsy. I reckoned that if Lily got cranky then I could fell her with one poke of my sharpened stick. She was obviously a wuzzy vampire.

As it turned out I didn't need my little stick because Lily didn't appear. Nor did any other ghosts, but then I don't think any one really expected them too. The tour guide tried hard to build up some atmosphere. He did have us all a bit worried at one stage when he had us all stand in a circle, holding hands while he chanted something about asking some ghost to appear. I think the ghost might have got a bit annoyed and decided not to show when someone deadpanned "Ohhh, I'm so scared." We stood there holding hands with each other for ages though because the guide told us that a lady who broke the circle had a car accident on the big roundabout outside the cemetery and that roundabout was the only way out of the cemetery and no one was going to risk it.

There was a bit of excitement when someone reckoned they saw something and it turned out they were right, but it was only a man walking his dog! In the middle of the night. In a cemetery. Now there's the whacko I was looking for.

That was the high spot for excitement on the night but we did learn a lot about Brisbane's very interesting history.

EGG and I went home and I found Buffy on Foxtel to show him what really happens in cemeteries.

I should have taken that stick out of my pocket before I sat down, though.

T is for Toowong Cemetery Ghost Tour.

S is for Sexpo

I had a wide variety of things to choose from for our S alphabet weekend. There was a Storey Bridge climb or a surf school, but the chicken heart in me (all that potential for falling) caved in to peer pressure from EGG and chose S is for for Sexpo.

And what an experience that turned out to be.

Sexpo conjures up darkened corners and silhouettes doing something your Auntie Nora would never dream of. Sexpo means an Amsterdam shop window right in the middle of Brisbane--or so you would think. Sorry to say but Sexpo was a bit desperate.

EGG thought he was in for a bumper day when he walked in a saw a topless woman, but let's just say that was as raunchy as it got. Me, I was going for the oh I'm so open-minded and there's nothing here that can shock me thing, and well, I didn't have to pretend because it was tame, tame, tame.

Sure there were little booths with lots of sex toys. There was a strip poker arena with fully clothed men looking desperately for someone to strip off other than the Freds sitting across the table from them. There was a big lineup for the Love Train, but as EGG and I make it a rule to never ever line up for anything, well that wasn't going to happen. There was also a lineup for meet the pornstar and even EGG scoffed at that. No one wants to talk to a porn star, they just want them to rip their gear off and get on what they're good at and that's sure not scintillating converstation.

There were lots of glass penises in display cases. Now this is where I am a bit confused. Are they for decoration? Do you polish them up with the Windex and leave them on display in the good china cabinet or do you actually use them because if you do you would need to be mighty careful. You could do yourself a lot of damage if you got carried away.

I was also amazed by the number of men with Sexpo showbags. Surely you are making yourself redundent boys if you trot home with that bag of goodies for the girls. (And ladies I would be very careful of that stuff, it's probably from China and you remember the lead paint scare.) Those boys who didn't have goodie bags had blow up doll girl friends with little puckered mouths (and probably puckered up other bits). Saddest show of the day however was the man wondering around with the inflatable pig. Now that's how to win on to the girl of your dreams, pull out your pig.

There was a fashion show however and lovely little items on display that came in sizes 8 to 24 (yes the Britney school girl outfit comes in size 24).

So we did the rounds of Sexpo twice thinking it would get better, but it didn't. The best bit of all was Pricasso who painted portraits (and they were very good) with his penis dipped into a palette. Oh the poor man must have some calluses--and the clean up. Did he have to use turps on it? Oh the pain of art.

I was sick of it all by then and redeemed the day by finding a nearby cocktail bar--a fitting way to end the day.

S is for Sexpo.

R is for Rifle Shooting

EGG told me a big fat lie. He told me we couldn't go pistol shooting a couple of weeks ago because of Australian gun laws and that is not true. We didn't go pistol shooting because he was too lazy to organise it. (Oh and there was whole Sopranos violence issue I had going on at the time).

But he came good because for this week's Alphabet Weekend he took me Rifle Shooting and it was excellent.

Did you know lots of people go rifle shooting? It was 8:45am on a Sunday morning and the rifle range was packed. It didn't actually start off well for me because everytime someone shot their rifle I jumped. I was twitching around the place and starting to get a big headache and then I remembered the earplugs I'd brought. I put them in--problem solved.

I got me my big gun, my bullets, got some instruction and guess what--I can shoot--straight.

I am so relieved because over the past year of doing these Alphabet Weekends I had come to a horrific conclusion (and you probably have too). I am totally and utterly useless at doing anything physical. I drive slowly, have no balance and absolutely hate anything to do with physical exertion.

I has been with a heavy heart that I have realised that if the world is going to end and it is up to me to save the hero by stopping him from falling off a window saved only by my strong hand grip or that a car chase through the streets of the city will stop the evil poison from falling into the hands of the bad guy set to dominate the world then the world is doomed. Until I took up shooting. I can save the world with my dead straight aim. What a relief. (You can probably tell from the above that I watch far too much TV, but it really had me worried me).

A very nice man showed me how to load and unload my rifle. Did you know that rifle shooters are amongst the nicest people I've encountered while doing Alphabet Weekends? I must say I was surprised. I was expecting a lot of people called Bubba who spoke with slow American accents, wore baseball caps and had facial hair (again that TV thing). But no, they're nothing like this. There was even a lady there wearing pearls who looked more likely to be going to high tea than the rifle range. Just goes to show that you (maybe I) shouldn't judge.

EGG of course got a great big gun and great big bullets. But I was happy with my nice little 22 and shot happily away, hitting my target and generally showing off. EGG reckons I was lucky and that his target was much further away and that I had to stop making fun of him. I might give him a few pointers next time so he doesn't pout so much.

See the picture of my target here and my rifle set up. Very pro. Obviously EGG doesn't want anyone to see his target.

If anyone needs me to save the world you know where to find me.

R is for Rifle Shooting.

Q is for Queensland Roar

EGG and I have been together for a very long time and mostly it has been a happy time, except for one glaring little fault that EGG has (and it drives me mad)--he's a fair weather fan. Now he loves his sport, any sport, but he has been known to jump on the bandwagon of whatever sport we are doing well with.

Now we can mean anything--it can be an Australian team, a Queensland team, a Brisbane team, a worldwide team with a single Australian member (even if they only lived here for two weeks of their entire life)--it doesn't matter, just so long as we are winning. The Olympics sends him into a frenzy--he's an expert on judo, badminton and the high jump--any sport that might win us a medal. What he doesn't know about water polo since the Sydney Olympics? To his credit he sticks with his new team and its sport for a long time, but the thing that sends me crackers is that he never watched, read about, discussed that sport until we started doing well at it.

So it was a no-brainer really when I took him off to Q is for Queensland Roar because we are in the finals. Yes, Queensland with a long and lengthy history of two years in the comp, was in the finals. EGG had been talking about it all week and about how well we we doing.

So off we went with SSS in tow (she like her mother is not adverse to watching good looking boys run around a field for 80 minutes). But alas it almost fell through as a massive thunderstorm struck a half hour before kickoff and it looked like the Alphabet Family was going to be enjoying Q is for Queensland Rail for that is where we spent the first hour of our outing--stranded at Milton train station.

But it cleared and we joined the massive crowd for the kickoff. The atmosphere was tense, the crowd was cheering the home team and booing the opposition--gosh it was exciting, for about five minutes. I'm sorry, I just don't get soccer. I kept asking EGG why no one defended anyone and he tried to explain but then he gave up. The game must have been a bit too much for some of the players because they kept getting injured and then lay down on the ground trying to get the referee to wave around a piece of yellow paper. In fact that piece of yellow paper should have been an Academy Award considering all the acting that was going on. They called it injury, the fans called it milking a penalty, but me, I think they were just tired and needed a rest.

And why does the referee write all the bad things that the players do down in the little notebook he carries. It's 2008, surely they should use a Blackberry, or a PDA or at least a dictophone. Why don't they just look at the video replay?

Don't get me wrong though--I learned a lot. I learned a really cool chant that goes "North, south, east, west--this ref is dumb and deaf." I learned that when the goalkeeper from Queensland has the ball everyone chants gooooalllllkeeeeeper in a deep voice but when the opposition goalkeeper has the ball everyone yells "throw the ball you Sydney wanker". I learned that one from the delightful 9 year old fishwife sitting behind me. She's going to make some man very happy one day.

Anyway Queensland won 2-nil. EGG was beside himself. We'd won.

Q is for Queensland Roar--soccer is so boring.

P is for Psychic

EGG was apologetic when he announced that P was for Psychic. But I wasn't disappointed, no I was very excited given the fact that I really hate surprises and now I was going to know my future and be prepared for anything life was going to throw my way.

EGG's apology however, sprang from the fact that his original P selection was a no-goer. He'd really wanted to take me P for Pistol Shooting. Wow! How good would that have been? But those pesky little things called the Australian gun laws ensured that wasn't going to happen. Normally EGG and I are great supporters of the anti-gun lobby, but of late we are becoming a product of our environment.

It all began on Christmas Day when SSS presented EGG with the first season DVD of The Sopranos. EGG and I had missed the whole Sopranos shebang six years ago because it was on so late, and Channel 9 kept changing the times so we gave it a miss. Well didn't we lose out. So since Boxing Day EGG and I have watched the entire Sopranos series--all 86 episodes.

We watched so much of it that we were referring to the FBI as the bad guys. We watched so much of it that phrases like "stop breaking my balls" and "enough already" started creeping into our everyday speech. We watched so much of it that we were starting to understand why Tony Soprano had so many good looking goomahs (that's a mistress for all you non-fans--see we really have got the lingo). We watched so much of it that we started thinking Carmella had a sense of fashion. We watched so much of it that when we greeted people we went in for the big double kiss-hug combination. We were so addicted that we stopped going out, other than to visit the video store to get our fix. So you can see how pistol shooting was a natural progression. We had been exposed to so much gratuitous violence that a gun in our hand was the next step. Thank you Australian gun laws for saving us from ourselves.

So we tore ourselves away from the DVD player and a-psychic hunting we went. And where is the mecca for psychics in Brisbane? Why South Bank Markets of course. So $90 poorer we found out that EGG and I have the world's most wonderful relationship which means that we'll stay together long enough to at least work our way through the rest of the letters of our Alphabet Weekends. We found out that we're going to travel, have interesting careers and that SSS will be a constant joy to us both. Sound just like a Disney film, doesn't it?

That's all I can remember because even though she was talking about one of my favourite subjects--me--I sort of tuned out and nodded sagely at appropriate times. She did however point out that I was a drama queen. Moi--I was shocked. EGG fell around the place laughing until I told him to "stop breaking my balls". You see how bad the whole Sopranos thing had got.

So EGG and I now have a big Sopranoless void in our predicted happy lives. We're not sure how life will be without Tony, Patsy, Syl, Christopher and the gang. OK, we know they're psychopathic killers and that it's only a TV show but.... Anyway there's another series called Deadwood that might be right up our alley--lots of violence, cursing and killing. SSS suggests we watch Bambi instead.

I'm off to the video shop--well the pyschic said that I would make a journey.

P is for psychic.

O is for Outdoor Cinema

Does anyone out there remember the movie The Wedding Planner? No surprises if you don't (it was pretty forgettable), but there is one scene in it that really stuck with me. Jennifer Lopez met up with Matthew McConaughey at the open air cinema in Central Park. It was a beautiful scene, with people reclining on blankets under the stars while a black and white Audrey Hepburn film played on the screen. So now you have my chick flick inspiration for dragging EGG off to the outdoor cinema for our O weekend.

The evening didn't start well. We traipsed from our far and distant carpark to the venue only to find we'd left our money behind. Well EGG left the money behind, but I said not a thing (my happy face glued in place), even when he came back much later and the movie had already begun.

The venue for this outdoor cinema was New Farm Park, a really lovely setting by the river in the middle of Brisbane. Despite the drought there are beautiful trees and vast lawns. Except for bit where the outdoor cinema is located. They must have called in thirty rugby teams to play on that patch of grass because it was the roughest, most decrepit bit of lawn in Brisbane. The "grass" expanse was surrounded by high wire fencing so the setting was actually more prison exercise yard than romantic movie venue. The only thing missing was the razor wire.

My Jennifer/Matthew moment was but a memory by now as we tried to get comfortable on the grass. Quite possibly the only thing that might have saved the evening was a decent slug of wine, but no that wasn't going to happen either because they closed the bar when the movie started--and we were late.

I was a bit devastated because I had the good/bad conscience wrestle about whether or not I should sneak some wine in and unfortunately good (and consequently sober) won. It's such a shame because a friend of mine had given me the best strategy. She told me that she smuggles her sauv blanc in via her children's waterbottles. She has even trained them to slug a mouthful back without flinching should an overzealous security guard try to examine the contents. I love this woman because she always gets her wine, but mostly because she is a very, very bad mother which makes me look like a very, very good one.

The movie, No Reservations, was really, really bad. Do not under any circumstances see this movie, don't even rent it on dvd. I have a gauge for assessing the shockingness of movies and that is the pillow fight scene. Any movie that has a pillow fight scene is automatically a dud. Don't know why, but they all are. Scriptwriters out there take note of my advice--if you want your movie to sink faster than the Titanic, then include a pillow fight. Don't say you haven't been warned.

EGG actually groaned when at the pillow fight scene. He'd had enough by this time and whined about how much longer we had to stay there. They haven't broken up yet, I whispered to him. Oh yeah, and the kid's got to run away, he replied. Keep in mind that neither of us had seen this load of rubbish before, it was just such a predictable movie. So within about half an hour they split up and the kid ran away. Surprise, surprise they got back together and (this is the bit you probably didn't see coming) they lived happily ever after.

We started packing up before the last big pash filled the screen.

I hope they use some of that $14 entry fee to buy some fertiliser for the grass.

O is for Outdoor Cinema.

N is for Nature Walk

There are a few things that I'm not overly fussed on. One of those is tripe--nasty stuff, smells bad, tastes worse, enough said. Another is warm champagne--no need to explain that one, it's a sin. But the one thing I think is vastly over-rated, and guaranteed not to make my heart jump, is nature. I can't stand nature, give me a five-star hotel any day of the week. Oh, it's a stunning sunset, I hear you say. But so is the new David Jones cosmetic section. Are those bird calls I hear? I'd rather listen to city traffic at 8am in the middle of the week.

So it was with a distinct lack of enthusiasm that I greeted EGG's proposal to go Nature Walking for our Alphabet Weekend. I'll cut him some slack here though, because it is a really hard letter, and I said he couldn't do his original choice which was n is for nothing.

I can't tell you how excited I was the night before our walk when it absolutely pelted rain. But of course it dawned a beautiful day and there was no escape for me. So off we went to Mt Glorious--oh joy.

Of course the first thing that greeted us was the sound of birds. Now I have a pathological hatred and fear of birds. I think they are going to attack me and peck me. A bit silly you may think, but this has actually happened to me. It was a vicious rainbow lorrikeet that gored me--it was about the size of a turkey (I may be exaggerating--slightly). It flew in through an open window, headed straight for me and got tangled up in my hair. Then (and this is true) it pecked me on the ear. It was truly terrible.

Of course, as luck would have it, that weekend they screened the movie The Birds, where poor Tippi Hedren got attacked by vicious birds (I know they looked as realistic as the shark in Jaws, but there was no reasoning with me). I knew just how poor Tippi felt and my relationship with all bird-like creatures was forever ruined.

EGG distracted me from the impending marauding birds by telling me to be careful on the muddy track. He had good reason for this because once I fell down a mountain. Are the pieces falling into place now as to why I hate nature? Actually it was a ravine, but as I fell all five metres, it certainly felt like a mountain to me. Fortunately only my pride was hurt, but I wasn't taking any chances this time.

So I tread my way carefully up the path as we headed to Greenes Falls. I tried really hard to appreciate nature. I pointed out that the bush turkey nest looked just like SSS's bedroom. EGG helped by pointing out that the area looked just like the place in Wolf Creek where the backpackers were murdered. Nature--bring it on.

We eventually arrived at Greenes Falls and frankly I felt a bit dudded. It was a pathetic little waterfall, but that didn't stop the professional bushwalkers (and I don't mean EGG and I) from revelling in it. They were literally sitting in the waterfall--with cups of coffee and trail mix, you know that chocolate and dried fruit stuff that keeps you going for hours and hours when you are a bushwalking pro even though it only took 30 minutes to get there.

The bushwalkers had backpacks and really serious boots with thick socks bunched up around the top of them. Actually I wish I had some of those boots because I was worried about getting mud on my runners which I wanted to wear them to the gym the next day.

EGG and I took a photo of each other and left the professionals to enjoy the sad waterfall.

All in all it wasn't a bad little outing. It hasn't made me appreciate nature any more, but as we moved to the car park I noticed a group of people that had been there an hour before we set off on our walk still examining the foliage of the same tree.

Now that would have been really boring.

N is for nature.

M is for Meditation

I'm a bit keen on all things based on middle eastern philosophies. Love yoga(I can stand on my head--showing off, I know), briefly subscribed to feng shui (I'm still looking for my wealth corner) and have given tai chi a whirl, but never meditation. EGG on the other hand subscribes to the philosophy of scotch and tv.
I'll just go to sleep he said when I told he what we were doing--he'd had a long week. Well he was in for a surprise wasn't he!

I had a few pre-conceived ideas about meditation--all wrong as it turns out. What do you think of when you think of meditation? Dimmed lighting, a lot of people sitting cross-legged saying ommm, a sense of serenity?

Well we must have gone to a different meditation because this one was in a concrete hall, smack in the middle of one of Brisbane's busiest suburbs. There was Indian music, rows of plastic chairs, a photo of an Indian woman with a huge bindi and a TV. What's this TV all about, I thought, don't they eschew the technological values of our consumer-driven society?

So we sat on the orange plastic chairs and waited to meditate. We waited a while because a man, who looked more like Barry from the hardware shop than a spiritual leader, welcomed us and started his spiel all the while staring directly at EGG who squirmed in his chair. Barry (let's call him that because he didn't introduce himself--perhaps politeness is not spiritual) must have thought EGG needed some special guidance because he didn't let EGG out of his sight range for the whole patter which must have lasted for at least 10 minutes.

Barry finished up with a pointed stare at EGG, who by this time was eying off the open door in hopes of a speedy escape. But then Mike, the computer programmer, well he looked like one and he didn't introduce himself either, got us started on meditation.

We had to close our eyes and hold our hand on various parts of our bodies while silently chanting to mother (whoever she was). The chants were so long and complicated that I forgot how they went and I started getting stressed --I don't think I'm very good at meditation. But finally I got into the swing of it, focussing on my thoughts all the while ignoring the police chase and car alarm that drifted in through the open door, when bang--it was over.

You may think time flew but no, we only got to meditate for five minute because we had to watch a video of the Indian lady who kept talking about Asmet. I later found out that she was talking about asthma, that's how much sense it made.

I tried to catch EGG's eye but he wouldn't look at me. Surely he didn't think I was trying to make him laugh. But then, bonus, it was time to meditate again and then Mike muttered something about workshops.

So we meditated happily until Mike walked up behind EGG and asked him what he could feel. Ummm, I've got tingling in my hands he said. Big liar, he felt nothing, he just said that so that Mike would leave him alone, I know him too well. But this is the good bit, Mike decided to workshop him. By this time I couldn't help myself so I peered throught half open eyes and looked at the shadow (should've been a spy). Mike was standing behind EGG flicking his wrists, making circles above his head and clicking his fingers like a puppet on broken strings for oh about, TEN minutes. EGG is so lucky. His aura must be as clean as whistle.

Then it was time to wake up. Mike and Barry asked us to stay back and discuss our experiences, but, by this time, EGG had hold of my hand and was dragging me to the door.

Do you think EGG might like to make this meditation a weekly thing?

M is for meditation---oommmm!

L is for Lennon Brother's Circus

EGG and I ran away to join the circus this weekend. After initially thinking that a visit to the circus was l for lame, I have to admit that I was wrong (and I don't do that too often). The circus was brilliant (I can't think of a sufficiently glowing l word to describe it). And the best bit--all we had to do was sit there and be entertained--no singing, no dancing, no death defying feats. Aaah bliss.

However things were not as they seemed, and it was before the performance began that EGG admitted how truly traumatic it was for him to be there at the circus. Holding my hand he revealed the story.

Years ago, when he was only a tiny boy in a tiny Queensland outback town, he had gone to the circus with his family. He was chosen at random from the crowd to be harnessed up to ride the Shetland pony. He galloped around the ring on the pony's back, and no he didn't fall off. It was much, much worse. The horse galloped out of the ring and little EGG was left dangling in the harness. And then it happened. A clown raced over and pulled down poor little EGG's pants. Oh the shame and humiliation that an act like that can do to a four year old EGG's confidence.

I patted his back in sympathy, holding back my tears of laughter while vowing mutual and eternal hatred of all clowns.

Actually I do hate clowns. They wear awful clothes, too much makeup, have stupid haircuts and sing really bad songs. Oh goodness, it sounds like I'm talking about that poor mite Britney Spears, but I'm not. And why do clowns always do that stupid water joke where they throw the bucket of paper into the crowd? And why do people always flinch--like they don't know it isn't water. This is Queensland people. We don't have water to waste, not to mention the circus company's potential dry cleaning bill.

But anyway back to the acts. There were trapeze artists, the wheel of death, a twisty girl and a pole dancer. I've attached her picture. EGG wants me to practice the pose. That is not going to happen.

They had lions (which I didn't like--I actually hoped the cranky boy lion would bite the cranky boy lion tamer). They had a great dog show, alpacas and geese. It must have been a bit of a comedown for Mr Liontamer to be taming the geese, but I've heard they can be ornery little devils.

The audience was tough. They wouldn't clap. EGG and I had red hands trying to make up the deficit. We didn't clap the clowns though. EGG kept muttering that he reckoned the fat clown was the one who pulled his pants down and he was going to get him.

We left right after the show finished. I didn't want EGG calling the clown outside to settle unfinished business.

L is for Lennon Brother's Circus.

K is for Karaoke

I've long suspected that the way to be a successful singer is simply to add alcohol. Brittany, Lindsay, Robbie--I think I've made my point. So it was with well-lubricated vocal cords that EGG and I set off on our K adventure--Karaoke (and there was a $500 prize).

Can't we go kayaking? EGG whimpered, but I've put my foot down on adventure letters after all my recent disasters, and by god, we were going to sing! Or so I thought.

It is not easy to get a song at our near neighbourhood pub, because there exists a karaoke clique. I thought cliques were all about high school, but no, they lurk in a karaoke pub near you. It works this way (its ingenuity is in its simplicity)--if you're not a member of the clique, you don't get to sing.

I was reliably informed of this by my new Polish friend who I met at the karaoke pub. Clique members also carry a bit of padding around the middle, have had a long pre-karaoke session with the hair straightener and wear clothes a couple of sizes too small for them. They are also clued up as to all the songs that don't have high notes which makes Funky Cold Medina a big hit. This is all true, but maybe my bitterness is making me a wee bit judgmental.

I laughed when Polish Man told me all this. Surely they would be begging for people to sing--I mean is it up there on your Top Five things to do on a Saturday night? No, didn't think so, but as our night started to drag into the second hour, I was starting to believe him.

We waited for TWO hours to sing. The members of the clique sang one, two, three songs each, and I was starting to get a little cross (I was also starting to get a little drunk). But Polish Man to the rescue. He stormed up to Mr Music and demanded I be allowed to sing, and sing I did.
It's a little daggy (OK a lot daggy) but I sang Lipstick on Your Collar off key, wriggled my hips and did a lot of finger pointing (maybe I was more than a little drunk). Then it was EGG's turn. He sang Start Me Up and it was as if Mick Jagger appeared. He waved his arm around his head and then strutted around the front like a little rooster. He couldn't sing, but he got ten out of ten for attitude.

Meanwhile, I was dancing with Polish Man who spent a lot of time grooving up to Mr Music, comparing him to people involved in World War 2, all the while waving his middle fingers while saying a word that starts with and means the same as fornication but is much more effective for expressing your feelings.

Lovely and helpful though Polish Man was we thought we had best cut short our brief association and EGG and I called it a night.

I wonder if we won the 500 bucks?

K is for Karaoke.

J is for Journey

Guess where EGG and I are off to this week? Europe, yes Europe for a whole month so this weekend's activity consisted of us both maniacally running around the place getting reading for our European adventure.

You know for just a minute there I almost nailed Posh Spice--oh we're off to Europe; for a month; should be fab--but this is where Posh and I part ways. Yes it's the journey and for Posh it's the private jet, but for poor lil old me it's good old economy. But I live in hope that a check in person is going to be overwhelmed by my sparkling personality and upgrade me to first class (but I'll settle for business--I'm not fussy, hear).

You know I have a little confession to make. I was once upgraded to business class for a trip to Singapore. It was my first big overseas trip and EGG and I got upgraded. It was heaven. I practically crash tackled the lovely little attendant as she handed out all that free booze. I luxuriated in that great big seat and I scoffed down every meal off lovely china plates--ooh it was good. But it ruined me. I mistakenly thought all international flights were like that but no. On the return journey home, EGG and I turned right instead of left at the door and my glamorous international jet setting career was over. I sobbed into my seat all the way back to Australia casting furtive glances around my seat and down the aisle where my former comrades laid back in the luxury I knew was there. That was my first and last tilt at the high life but I live in hope.

EGG on the other hand gets upgraded all the time. Once, they upgraded him as he turned right. They grabbed him by the arm and steered him left, all the way to first class. You know SSS and I half suspected that he was making it up, but no he brings home all those cool little toiletries bags that SSS and I pathetically squabble over. Pre-terrorism he actually got to sit in the cockpit.

EGG actually wanted to fly separately to me because he thought he might be a chance of being upgraded if he was solo. He might also be a chance of being divorced if this were to happen.

I was allocated a good seat last year when I flew to Europe. It was right near the exit. Of course this was the only row where the television didn't work, but I didn't mind because lots of people thought it would be a great place to do their anti DVT exercises. Who needs TV when you can get a free sideshow of big bums and sweaty armpits and all that scintillating conversation. Needless to say I was happy to sit elsewhere on the return home.

EGG has brilliant plans for our time away. Can you believe he wants to ride a scooter around the Amalfi Coast, with me on the back, me who falls off everything. He wants to climb the Eiffel Tower, he wants to hire a boat at Lake Como, he wants to take me in a gondola in Venice. I'll probably plumment off the Eiffel Tower, sink the boat at Como and what are the odds I'll fall out of that gondola into the stinky canal.

I, on the other hand, will be quite content to stroll around museums, take long luxurious drinks in cafes, eat everything in sight and guzzle French wine till my heart's content.

I can't wait. This is my last post for a month or so.

Au revoir and ciao.

J is for journey.