Relief Not Shared In Squat Toilets


Ok, so maybe there were a few things about the marvelous spirit of adventure I was recapturing last week that I’d forgotten. Squat toilets would be one of them.

Although I remembered well the offensives on the nostrils and the eyes, my knees appeared to have forgotten the flexibility required to use them.

I was in the Vietnamese coastal resort town of Nha Trang about to go out to sea on a converted fishing boat which I suspected had little restroom comfort on offer. So, I jostled my way through the masses to the WC, a squat protected by a rickety wooden door. Not the flashest of loos I’ve come across, and it was certainly under a lot of pressure catering to a weekend crowd, but what the hell, I’d hunched down over worse.

I plunged in, swinging the door behind me, only to have it swung wide open again by a furiously squawking toilet attendant demanding money. Another thing I’d forgotten, a pee needs payment and it didn’t take much imagination to understand the tirade aimed at me when she thrust a sheet of toilet paper in my hand and snatched my money with the other.

I swung the door closed again, catching a glimpse of the crowd outside, this was going to have to be quick.  No problem, once a backpacker always a backpacker, I was a pro at peeing into a hole. Get down low, low enough to aim sure and straight, maintain position and fire, avoiding your shoes and the cuffs of your pants. Easy peasy. I didn’t think twice about it, until I started to bend.

What the …? Had they dug these holes deeper into the ground? Was I taller? Because instead of my bum hovering just centimeters  above the hole, it was suspended in animation only half way down. My obstinate knees were refusing to assist its journey any further south.

Reality hit me as ferociously as the rant from the toilet attendant. My knees were 30 years older and there was no way they were going to squat on demand, toilet emergency or not. They clearly had their limitations and weren’t going to cooperate.

I was in trouble. Peeing from a height of 30 centimeters wasn’t an attractive option, nor was sticking one’s hand out to offer balance on the ground, as anyone who’s used a squat can imagine. To add to my dilemma my rabid toilet attendant started screeching at me again through the door. The queue was building, time was money, and this dodgy westerner was taking too much of it.

But I was physically stuck. In a jam with no apparent solution. That is until toilet attendant woman started banging on the door with increasing fury. With visions of her bursting in Rambo style and exposing me with my pants half mast in a pathetic semi squat to the gathering crowd sheer fear triggered a surge of adrenalin  and ignoring the protests from my knees I fell into position. Yelling out ok I answered the call of nature.

Oh, one more thing I’d forgotten, never wear flowing pants on a squat. But, if you do, walk tall, and ignore the smirk of the woman who’s staring at your cuffs.

What’s your funniest experience overseas?

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Do something spontaneous!

When was the last time you did something spontaneous? Something a little bit off the wall, unexpected and unusual. Something which reminded you of other times – times in your life when spontaneity was as natural as breathing. You never knew from one day to the next how your day would pan out, and that’s exactly how you liked it. Life was lived on a wing and a prayer, all care no responsibility.
As you’re reading this I’m in Vietnam. I have no clue exactly where as I had to bash this column out before I left, but I’m either somewhere in a tunnel, on the back of a motor bike or snorkling in the South China Sea.
Ten days ago I had no plans to visit Vietnam, I had no plans to leave my daughter for 12 days (she’s counting) and definitely no plans to take any leave from work. Nup, none at all.
But here I am, wherever that is.
This random act of spontaneity came about with a single phone call from my old mate Savo. He was escorting a media group to Vietnam and Cambodia and a journalist had dropped out. Could I go? Don’t be ridiculous, I said, of course I couldn’t. But then the cogs started turning and something inside started to stir. The old Wendy would have gone, and yes that was before children, school fees and a mortgage, but where was that spirit, that sense of adventure? That “bugger it, life’s not a dress rehearsal!”, attitude.
And so the mental checklist began. Care for the teen? Grandpa of course and friends as backup. The pets? Tricky, there are a lot of them. But my neighbour Andrea seems to like Archie The Blunder Dog and Grandpa knows how to handle Princess Ashlee, the cat, and Charlie the Perfect Parrot. As for the fish and the guineapigs, they’re low maintenance, aren’t they? My job? Hmmm…. probably not a good time to be away in these uncertain times, but my boss said go for it (maybe she knows something I don’t), so I did.
It felt very weird because I haven’t done anything this spontaneous since before I was married, when I was an entire individual answerable to no one. I felt very naughty, like I was sneaking off to do something illicit. Although the teen goes overseas to see her dad twice a year, I’ve never left her behind anywhere. I’ve never gone on a holiday without her, basing my vacations instead on her interests and needs. How strange it felt to indulge my own.
I’ll be away with grown ups. I won’t have to worry about packing someone else’s bag, looking out for someone else, going to bed early or visiting the nearest fun park. I won’t have to share a bed, share my food, nor share my money.
As parents we often forget who we used to be, and it’s a pretty sure bet our children have no clue, nor appreciation, of the lives we may have lived without them. In their simple terms we are mum or dad, put on earth purely to love and raise them. Life got in the way of our previous journey and we were forced to think beyond the day and into the future.
Well not this week! I’m on an adventure, sniffing the air and remembering the spirit within and I’m sure I’m having a damn good time … wherever I am.
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Disabled people have feelings too

Disabled people have feelings too

No parent should have to bury their child. But that was the reality for Katrina and Rob Young when they said good bye to their seven-year-old daughter Amelia at Frenchs Forest Bushland Cemetery just over a week ago. Amelia had succumbed to double pneumonia, a complication of Rett syndrome, a hideous genetic disorder she shared with her identical twin Hannah. The twins at 12 months were happy, healthy girls until Rett syndrome took hold just months later, trapping them in a world where they could no longer talk nor walk nor feed themselves.

Watching Hannah at her sister’s funeral I wondered how much she understood.

“Everything,” her family told me. “Absolutely everything.”

Which is why I want to share with you an extract from a poem read at the service. 

I am the child

(author unknown)

I am the child who cannot talk.
You often pity me, I see it in your eyes.
You wonder how much I am aware of—I see that as well.
I am aware of much, whether you are happy or sad or fearful,
patient or impatient, full of love and desire,
or if you are just doing your duty by me.
I marvel at your frustration, knowing mine to be far greater,
for I cannot express myself or my needs as you do.

You cannot conceive my isolation, so complete it is at times.
I do not gift you with clever conversation, cute remarks to be laughed over and repeated.
I do not give you answers to your everyday questions,
responses over my well-being, sharing my needs,
or comments about the world about me.

I do not give you rewards as defined by the world’s standards—great strides in development that you can credit yourself;
  I do not give you understanding as you know it.
What I give you is so much more valuable—I give you instead opportunities.

Opportunities to discover the depth of your character, not mine;
the depth of your love, your commitment, your patience, your abilities;
the opportunity to explore your spirit more deeply than you imagined possible.
I drive you further than you would ever go on your own, working harder, seeking answers to your many questions with no answers.
I am the child who cannot talk.

I am the child who cannot walk.
The world seems to pass me by.
You see the longing in my eyes to get out of this chair, to run and play like other children.
There is much you take for granted.
I want the toys on the shelf, I need to go to the bathroom, oh I’ve dropped my fork again.
I am dependent on you in these ways.
My gift to you is to make you more aware of your great fortune,
your healthy back and legs, your ability to do for yourself.
Sometimes people appear not to notice me; I always notice them.
I feel not so much envy as desire, desire to stand upright,
to put one foot in front of the other, to be independent.
I give you awareness.
I am the child who cannot walk.

I am the child who is mentally impaired.
I don’t learn easily, if you judge me by the world’s measuring stick,
what I do know is infinite joy in simple things.
I am not burdened as you are with the strife’s and conflicts of a more complicated life.
My gift to you is to grant you the freedom to enjoy things as a child,
to teach you how much your arms around me mean, to give you love.
I give you the gift of simplicity.
I am the child who is mentally impaired.

I am the disabled child.
I am your teacher. If you allow me, I will teach you what is really important in life.
I will give you and teach you unconditional love.
I teach you about how precious this life is and about not taking things for granted.  

I am the disabled child.

Next time you see a disabled child, or adult, stop, smile and say hello.

They will notice. 

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Gays should marry

I grew up in Wahroonga on the upper North Shore in Sydney. Nothing much happened in Wahroonga. Divorce was rare, abuse not seen, nor talked about and drugs and alcohol were other people’s problems occurring over the bridge or on the beaches. In reality, we weren’t immune to any of this, but like many things ‘north shore’, scandal was kept well-hidden behind closed doors.

It was the 70s and the Wahroonga shops were a very village affair comprised of friendly small businesses and supplies enough to meet our needs and encourage loyalty. There was a curious buzz when an Indian curry joint opened. Chinese was about as exotic as people from Wahroonga went in those days, Indian was foreign.

Then Bruce moved into the shopping village. He was a florist working in the flower shop for my mum’s friend Lydia. He was also the partner of Steve, an airline steward. Yes, Bruce and Steve, a florist and a steward, perfect gay stereotypes moving into our tight-knit, ultra -conservative community, and more foreign than Indian.

My mum was one of those ultra-conservative residents. Each week she visited the village to do her shopping, have her hair done and pop in for a chat with Lydia. That’s how she met Bruce and Steve. Having grown up in Charleville and then worked as a nurse in northern Queensland, mum’s previous encounters with gays were limited to whispers and speculation in hospital corridors. Through Bruce and Steve her world opened up, as did her heart, as a firm friendship grew. I remember being shocked at hearing Bruce and Steve had been together nearly 20 years, just like my parents, I thought. My blokey, bloke dad was more bemused than threatened by them, but the more he got to know Bruce and Steve, the more unremarkable they became. And that probably says it all.

During the 80s while working in a holiday resort in Mexico I became great mates with Noly, an eccentric Cuban who insisted he knew he was gay from the age of five. Young and uncommitted, his liaisons were mostly with married men on holidays with their families. I used to watch these men dining at night with their wives and wonder how their marriages survived such enormous deceit.

Ever since marriage became a legal union, men and women have married for reasons other than love and commitment. They’ve married for money, for sex, for children, for publicity, for passports, for family honour, or married just for the hell of it. The argument that marriage is an exclusive union used solely to recognise the love between a man and a woman is rubbish.

Yet, when confronted by gay couples who do want to use marriage as a legal and binding contract to celebrate their love, they are denied.

Yes, we can argue rules are rules and they shouldn’t be bent to satisfy a minority, but these rules are broken often when couples marry for the wrong reasons, just because they can. Why can’t gays marry for the right reasons?

I have friends who fight the concept, others who don’t care and gay mates for whom marriage is very important. I’ve heard it all.

And still I ask, why can’t gays marry?

And always that question leads me to another.

Why on earth not?

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Runaway mum

I ran away from home last weekend.

Yep, I threw a massive tanty and walked out. It’s not the first time I’ve run away. I fled a couple of years ago and spent half an hour listening to the radio in my car. This time I was determined to stay away longer. Teach HER (that would be my 13-year-old daughter) a lesson.

“What are you, four?” my stunned colleague asked as I described the scenario.

Yes, perhaps my actions were a little childish, but as a single mum of one child with an ex living overseas, there’s no other adult, nor sibling on hand to help diffuse and escalating situation for either of us. And when confronted with one of those ridiculous arguments whith no end, the best thing for me at the time was to leave. So I did.

On a bitterly cold, torrential rain-filled evening I stopmed out the door, only to stomp back inside again when i realised I had no car keys. Then, back in the car inspecting my “not for public viewing outfit”, I realied I couldn’t reallly go anywhere. A book. Yes, I’ll read a book. So, I stomped back inside, completely aware of the eyes of the teen, the dog and the cat, boring into my back as I stomped upstairs.

OK, so my third dramatic exit was a bit lame, but as I drove down the hill I felt empowered. I’ll show HER that mum shan’t be taken for granted. Not wanting to to go far from home, after all it was dark, wet and cold, I drove a few streets away to park, turned on the inner light and happily read while the rain battered the windscreen outside.

After 15 minutes and aware of my dodgy battery I turned over the engine before returning to my book. Another 15 minutes passed, it was getting cold and my temper had also cooled, time to go home. I turned the ignition ready to return and enact the ”all is forgiven” scenario, but the car wouldn’t start. The battery was dead.

Yep, I was stuck, half a kilometre from home in the pouring rain on a Sunday night of a long weekend. Instinct told me the NRMA wouldn’t be waiting around the corner and I was warned of a 90 minute wait, so I bunkered down. Then the phone rang. It was grandpa. The worried teen had rung him. I told him of my dilemma. He thought it was hilarious, as did the NRMA man who arrived just 20 minutes later.

“Why didn’t you go to the pub?” he asked. Well, DER! I wasn’t dressed for a social occasion. One can’t stop and change into something decent when one is running away from one’s teenage daughter” Chuckling away, he asked what the argument was about. So, as he replaced my over-worn battery, I stood in the rain and offloaded. And that was all I needed, just someone to listen. He laughed at my ridiciculous situation which made me laugh too. And that’s how I was when I walked back in the door and hugged my daughter, laughing. Sometimes mums do act like four-year-olds. But hey, looking back on it, it was a pretty impressive effort. I’d run away, got a flat battery, scored a visit form the NRMA and spent $193. Oh, and the kitchen was cleaned up when I returned home.

All in just over an hour. Not bad for a great escape

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Winners are sometimes losers

Sure, you came last, but guess what? You still get a ribbon darling! And yes, you can’t sing, but hey, you get to be in the choir anyway. And who cares if you’ve got two left feet, of course you can dance … as long as you think you can. We’ll even put you in the front row so you feel better.

You’re a star!

It’s the golden age of “everyone’s a winner”, when everybody gets a prize just for turning up. Isn’t life grand! Well, maybe at the moment, but what about later? What happens when these overly adored munchkins are told NO! for the first time in their lives. When they realise that sometimes they won’t get a prize, because they totally suck at things and there are others better than them. How will they know how to lose and cop it on the chin

Remember Pass The Parcel? That game we played at children’s parties when every time the music stopped a layer was unwrapped. We held our breath to see if it was the last layer, because we knew that was where the prize was hidden. Not so these days. Oh no, we can’t have anyone missing out, so each layer reveals a prize with the layers matched to the number of children participating. No tears, no tantrums, everyone is happy. Phew!

Melbourne psychologist Professor Helen McGrath said last week that all this excessive focus on self esteem has given children overinflated ideas of themselves. She believes our constant reassurance to our children that everything they do is wonderful, and protecting them from negative situations which may upset them, may give them high self esteem, but it doesn’t teach them self worth.

Her observations come to mind as I read about the increasing number of appeals being made by Australian athletes dumped from Olympic selection. Triathlete Emma Snowsill is an example. The Beijing-gold Olympian and three-time world champion has been the most dominant female triathlete of the past decade. That is until Emma Jackson flew up the ranks. Jackson, 20, has beaten Snowsill, 30, in four out of the five events they’ve raced. In a selection process the athletes described as brutal, the selectors were left agonising over their decision to bump the popular Snowsill.

But that’s sport. Indeed, that’s life. Not everyone can win. But instead of copping it sweet, Snowsill is challenging the decision. She said it was “a matter of importance that I take all avenues available to me to achieve my dream of competing at a second Olympic Games.” Oh, so it’s not about who’s the better athlete, it’s about Snowsill achieving her dream. (Think screaming toddler whose dream of getting the prize was shattered in Pass The Parcel.)

Clearly I don’t know what it’s like to aspire to be in the Olympics, my disappointments in life probably pale in comparison. But Snowsill, no matter how good she has been, nor how promising she may be again, has been knocked out by someone faster. It’s as simple as that.

After all, you are only as good as your last race and it appears Ms Snowsill’s race wasn’t good enough.

Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. It’s important we learn to do both with dignity.


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Roughing it Gen Z style

She didn’t even make it to the car before her dramatic revelation was blurted out.
“Mum, we had to poo and pee in the bush!”
Indeed. And how did that work for you darling?

I’d just picked madam up from camp. I use the word `camp’ loosely because camp was in the Southern Highlands, comprising one night in a lodge, and the second night “in the bush”. She and her Year 8 mates were hardly roughing it out yonder in the boonies huddling in a cave. However, having in the past witnessed she and some of her friends carry on like pork chops at the mere suggestion of peeing beside the road instead of detouring off to the nearest servo, I wasn’t surprised my teen considered her 60 hour `camp’ to be in the same league as a two-week trek around an Everest base camp.

Particularly when, heaven forbid, they weren’t allowed to take their mobiles.

For some it was like the end of the natural world as they knew it. There was panic at being cut off from friends, although that flew in the face of absurdity considering they were camping away with most of them. I think it was the withdrawal from sharing their every thought instantly with their hundreds of besties on Skype and Facebook which caused the greatest concern. What if they missed out on something? One savvy teacher assured them their phone screens would freeze if they took them. But this only resulted in a flurry of activity on Google to see if it was true. Of course it wasn’t, but I had to admire his crack at trying to fool them. It would have worked a decade ago.

Thinking back to my backpacking days around some far flung, flea-bitten joints where the only communication was ringing reverse charges from some desolate post office in the nearest town hundreds of miles away, I wonder how I ever survived. I wonder how the hell my parents survived too without hearing from me every day. They were lucky to get a letter every three weeks.

And yet here’s my teen who has perfected the art of texting, often, to the point where I’m never left wondering about her whereabouts. Having just signed her to a plan with unlimited texts, she obviously feels compelled to make the most of it and develop her skills to Olympic standards. The other day she took her texting to new heights when after confirming that Grandpa was meeting her at iceskating after school, she texted through her order for afternoon tea. I don’t know which horrified me more, the order, or the fact that Grandpa met her at the train station armed with tuna sushi and a peach iced tea.

Meanwhile, back at the camp site, the teen, whose idea of a walk is to the corner shop and back, was required to carry the tent into the bush.
“Two kilometres, mum!”
Which wasn’t as bad apparently as Meagan’s job. She had to carry the poo shovel. This was when my ears did prick up. Poo? Shovel? Were they really shovelling s**t?
“We had to dig a trench to poo in,” she explained.

Aaaaah. One can only imagine how that worked for a young lady accustomed to afternoon tea deliveries at the railway station. But at least it explained the frantic dash for the loo when the car pulled up at home.

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Wow! Thrills keep on coming.

When was the last time you experienced a ”wow!” moment? You know, a real ”oh, my gosh!” instant.

There’s no doubt that as we get older our ”wow!’ moments diminish.
As children, they were many, our days filled with ”wows!”. Learning to ride a bike, the thrill of catching a lizard, our first trip to the Easter Show, the first time we caught a wave. Everything was exciting and new and wonderful.
Everything was ”wow!’.

The wows continued into our teens as we tasted delicious moments of freedom for the first time. Remember the first time you kicked over the ignition without a parent in the car? Or when we stayed out past midnight kissing boys we knew our fathers wouldn’t like? And what about that first holiday away with our mats, no adults, just endless days of summer fun.
Down the track our ”wow!” moments became more life changing – our first job, settling with a life partner and having a baby among them. It’s when we head into our 40s and 50s that these magical moments become few and far between, not because life is boring, but because it is filled with routine and responsbility rather than dreams of adventure.

That was until I went to Canberra. Yes, I repeat, Canberra. That sterile, dull place where people choose to work rather than live. Definitely the last place I expected to go ”wow!”.
Of course I knew the War Memorial would blow me away, that Parliament House would be splendid and the Portrait Gallery inspirational, but they weren’t the triggers to the butterflies I experienced.
My thrill came from Shash and Tanzi, two magnificent cheetahs I spent 15 minutes with at The National Zoo and Aquarium. They were collected from Africa in 2002 by carnivore keeper Ryan Brill when they were just five weeks old.
Ryan’s father Richard Tindale bought the zoo in 1998 when it was an aquarium, his vision to support the conservation of endangered species. An encounter with the cheetahs is just one of several offered with various animals at the zoo.

Ryan led me into their spacious and grassy home with clear instructions. As much as I had envisioned frolicking with them and sharing meaningful cuddles, that was not an option. These were wild, alert animals with sharp instincts and their instincts when I popped in to to bond were to avoid me.

I patiently followed them at a distance while they lazily strolled about nudging and flirting with Ryan. It was clear they were his girls, and I was just an annoying interloper. Tanzi wasn’t having a bar of me, but eventually Shasha settled and apparently her low rumbling of contentment was an invitation for met to join her.

I reached out and stroked her. her fur was soft and silky, the end of her tail stiff and bristly (yes, she let me touch it). Her purring was deep and guttural, her manner regal and tolerant. Then she rolled, just like a cat, I mean really, just like the pussy cats you have at home.
I was captivated. I went ”wow!”

Shasha and I sharing our ‘wow!’ moment.

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Embarrassing the teenagers

Okay, so maybe waving the bra around the kitchen was a little over the top.

But carrying an umbrella?

Each day I manage to unwittingly contribute an action or a comment which triggers my teen’s latest and favourite mantra.
“Don’t mum, it’s embarrassing!”

The bra incident was a reflex action when I found the undergarment sopping wet in the laundry. Knowing she only has to wear an item of clothing for five minutes before she renders it dirty, I did what any mother would do.

I walked into the kitchen brandishing it, asking if it was dirty, or just wet, from the water pistol fights she’d been having with the neighbours.

It was as if I’d walked into the room naked with a cherry on top.

The neighbourhood kids, three younger girls, and her opponents in the water pistol game, froze. My teen opened her mouth like a floundering goldfish, no sound coming out.
“What?” I asked holding the bra aloft.
“I just want to know if it needs a wash.”

That’s when the giggles started. You know, the stifled giggles of little girls who find something either outrageously funny, or extremely awkward.
One of them, Sas, broke the silence.
“If my mum had done that,” she declared, “I would never speak to her again.” And Sas is three years younger than the teen. Clearly, her embarrassment radar is very finely tuned.
The teen nodded in affirmation, glaring at me with a “We’ll talk about this later” look.

Well, s-o-o-reeee!

It appears I didn’t get the `Never Talk About Bras In Public In Front Of Your 13-year-old Daughter’ memo. Just as I never received the `It’s No Longer Cool To Carry An Umbrella’ note.
The offending accessory is a little mauve, fold-up number which lives in the boot of the car ready for emergencies. It’s proved a very handy little thing, but is now apparently an insult to all things fashionably decent.
“Oh no, don’t take that, it’s embarrassing,” the teen gasped when I grabbed it the other day to walk around the dog park. “You look so dysfunctional.”

Dysfunctional? My sparky little umbrella, which she chose I may add, now shrieks that I’m dysfunctional. As does my natty little nylon backpack which I’ve had for years. In fact, I remember her begging me for one exactly the same to add to her backpack collection of assorted colours, shapes and sizes.

But I also remember her as a tweenie, when she thought everything I did and said was marvelous. As a tween, she became a little more sceptical, but certainly never employed any sort of censorship, except for dancing in public – I was not so much as allowed to tap a toe. Now, as a teen, it’s a whole different ball game, with the goalposts moved every day.

What she used to think was hilarious, she now finds embarrassing. What she used to think of as normal is now dysfunctional, while quirky behaviour she previously thought of as cute, is now certifiable.

Embarrassing, dysfunctional and certifiable … phew! Good to know I’m right on track and a totally normal mother of a teenage girl.

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Stepping out … oddly.

I wore odd shoes to work the other day.
They weren’t odd in colour, but definitely odd in style.

When I arrived at the office and noticed them for the first time, I was more bemused than embarrassed, thinking there was no real cause for concern. Reactions however to my wardrobe malfunction were mixed.
Some laughed, others were confused. Then there were those who gave me `the look’. You know, the look that beggars belief that you could do something so stupid.

So I’ve decided there are two types of people in the world, those who wear odd shoes to work and those who don’t.
In my world, it was quite a simple and mistake to make. I have several pairs of black shoes and having recently tidied my bedroom and lined them up in my cupboard like snags on a barbie, I dived in and slipped on a couple without noticing they didn’t match.
They were black, that’s all I needed to know.

Later, when I was laughing about this to my friend Mes, I was forced to stop mid sentence because she had `the look’. Clearly, a never-wear-odd-shoes person, she was completely puzzled at how I couldn’t complete the simple task of matching my footwear. In her world, shoes were matched, no excuse.
I was just as perplexed at why she thought it was such a big deal. Obviously, I lamely offered, I do know which shoe goes with which.
“Then why didn’t you match them?” she snorted.

Trying to explain that it was dark in the cupboard and that I was in a hurry, just didn’t cut it.
“Thank god you’ve got blonde hair, or you’d have no excuse,” was her retort.

In fairness to Mes, I had form. Just a few months before, I sort of forgot her address. I say `sort of’ because I know very well how to get Mes’s house. My ex however, who was visiting from England and dropping our daughter off for a play, had no idea. He had even less after my instructions. Although I had armed him with clear directions, the flaw in my plan lay in the actual destination because I told him the wrong street name.
Thank goodness, I thought, our daughter was on the ball and convinced him it was the right house despite the street name. Thank goodness, I’m sure he thought, he was no longer married to such an airhead.
I figure that people who wear odd shoes also lose their cars in car parks very easily.
I did that after a huge concert at Allphones Arena. At midnight I was still wondering aimlessly from floor to floor looking for my car when I arrived at ground and asked the very nice security guard if he could help me. I was very relieved when he didn’t seem at all surprised, people must do it all the time. But then he gave me `the look’. Lifting one brow, he pointed behind me to my car, about 50m away. How could I not remember entering the car park on the ground floor?

One thing I do remember clearly though after my four laps of the car park, is the pair of black heels dangling from my wrist.
They were a perfect match.

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