It seems that I'm not the only one who uses free websites for all my Latin translation needs

You'll understand later why I brought that up.

It's been a great week for news items that I should take seriously but I just can't.

I was particularly tickled by a sign outside my local newsagent will the day's headline from The Age, which proclaimed, in wonderfully large letters, "NIXON DUPED BY MR FIXIT".

Just for a moment, I thought that someone had discovered that Gigglewick's husband was involved in Watergate, but on closer reading it became obvious that this was as reference to Victoria's Chief Commissioner of Police and her thus far unsuccessful attempts to set up an anti-corruption section which is not entirely corrupt.

I will skip lightly over my own views of police corruption in this state. The point is I can't take this thing seriously, when the headlines produce a mental picture of our Chief Commissioner foolishly taking a clock to be repaired by a fox in a basball cap who accidentally causes it to sound like a bicycle bell instead of going cuckoo.

Hmmm, one too many viewings of Richard Scarry's "The Talking Bread" there, I suspect.


Meanwhile, since I know how you all love ancient language quizes, vero possumus means:


(a) We really are pretending to be dead


(b) We are a group of vigilantes hired by an insurance company


(c) Verily, Every Republican Organising Political Operations Should Surely Use More Unclear Slogans


(d) Yes we can

I really, really wish it wasn't (d), but it is.

I know that the decision that Americans will make concerning their next president is important. Citizens of Iraq, for example, would no doubt be somewhat disappointed that one of the current candidates didn't get significantly further a couple of elections back. But when the presumptive Democratic nominee, who leads the other guy by up to 15 points according to some recent polls, appears at an official event with a faux presidential seal saying vero possumus stuck to the front of the podium, it really it a little bit difficult to take this whole thing seriously.

Barack Obama seems to be a reasonably bright guy and I like his policies. However, he has been accused of being an elitist, partly because of his poor ten pin bowling skills and his disinclination to eat a Philadelphian cheesesteak, and partly because Hillary Clinton said so enough times that people seemed to forget that it wasn't actually true.

Well, when you're up against a straight talking war hero, what better way to shake that elitist tag once and for all than to translate your own campaign slogan into Latin.

The seal, complete with slogan, made just one appearance, but surely it was clear to all involved that this was one too many. At the risk of actually agreeing with a Republican about something other than not wantingo stand too close to George W Bush, the McCain campaign summed it up pretty well when they described the seal as "laughable, ridiculous, preposterous and revealing all at the same time".

Or, as they say in the classics:

Serio dude. Vos went stolidus

I can see you, your poorly concreted driveway shining in the sun

I suppose that, as soon as my sister told me that the house we grew up in was up for sale and therefore open for inspection, that it was inevitable that I would be unable to resist checking it out. And it was as weird as I should, perhaps, have expected.



To set the scene, up until 1997 I lived in a house that looked pretty much like this:





Or, indeed, exactly like that. I'll spare you to interior pictures, which are very tragic indeed.


It had been a very long time since I set foot in that house. It was before my boys were born, and before I met and married the love of my life, and therefore at a time when my life was pretty close to as different from now as it could conceivably be.


Honey Bear like the idea of seeing where I grew up, and suggested that we should take this opportunity to make out in my old bedroom. This lead me to the depressing realisation that I had, in fact, never kissed anyone in that room. This is not a record to be proud of, considering that I lived there until I was 24. Sadly, we forgot to actually carry out this excellent plan, so my perfect record remains intact.

I was probably distracted by how little the place had changed in 11 years. And oh the little things that I had forgotten that came flooding back because they were still there. The bathroom where we inexplicably had 40 plain tiles and 12 with a pattern on them, and the tiler decided to use 6 of the patterned ones as a feature, and then to scatter the other 6 randomly around the wall. The wall in the laundry where my parents created a blackboard by the simple means of painting half a wall black. The tiny electric stove that was there when we bought the place in 1978 and probably still doesn't work well. The awful kitchen cupboards. And, most pleasingly, the basketball backboard and ring that my dad and I built together and secured by the highly sophisticated means of digging a hole and sticking a really big post in it.


I'm surprised that no-one thought to take it down. I'm even more surprised that it hasn't fallen on someone yet.

The one thing that was new was the sattelite dish concreted into the back yard which was of sufficient size to have me looking around for Sam Neill and Tom Long. There was another, smaller, one on the roof and a spare one in the space between the garage and the fence, presumably just in case.

Bundle and Cherub enjoyed seeing where I grew up, although they were disappointed by the absence of toys in the back yard. Fortunately, the frankly dangerous rope swing had disappeared at some point. The boys had a fabulous time running up and down the driveway with their cousins (my sister brought her husband and daughters for the tour as well) and seemed entertained by seeing the bedroom window that I used to jump out of when I was over it.


Honey Bear's reaction, apart from the stunned silence at some of the excesses of decor, was to comment, perhaps more than once, that this answered an awful lot of her questions about me.


My sister and I finished the tour with a photo out the front of the house, which is surely the last time we will be able to do that before someone knocks the place down and builds at least three units on the quite sizeable block. And finally it was time to say farewell, one last time.


I don't have any particularly profound insights to share about this little experience, although I will say that I was pleased not to be at any risk of being overwhelmed by nostalgia. Life was very different when I lived there, and perhaps even somewhat less complicated, but I wouldn't trade it for where I am now. This is not just because I now live in a much nicer house, although that is undoutably true. It's because Ilive in a much nicer house with a hot babe and two adorable kids and I have no desire to return to any other life thank you very much.

I should add that it did get me thinking about what makes a a building into a home, and how to make the house I'm in now as good a place to grow up in for my boys as that poorly decorated bleached brick place was for me.

So, in closing, for no particular reason other than that it's quite a pretty song, here a complete set of the lyrics to Amy Grant's "If these walls could speak":

If these old walls,If these old walls could speak
Of the things that they remember well,
Stories and faces dearly held,
A couple in love living week to week,
Rooms full of laughter,
If these walls could speak.

If these old halls,If hallowed halls could talk,
These would have a tale to tell
Of sun goin’ down and dinner bells,
And children playing at hide and seek
From floor to rafter,
If these halls could speak.

They would tell you that I’m sorry
For bein’ cold and blind and weak.
They would tell you that it’s only
That I have a stubborn streak,
If these walls could speak.

If these old fashioned window panes were eyes,
I guess they would have seen it all
Each little tear and sigh and footfall,
And every dream that we came to seek
Or followed after,
If these walls could speak.

They would tell you that I owe you
More than I could ever pay.
Here’s someone who really loves you;
Don’t ever go away.
That’s what these walls would say,
That's what these walls would say.

Old people say the darndest...

My church has been undergoing renovations.

Wow, an opening line like that just grabs your attention and won't let go, right?

Anyway, the current effect of the renovations is that we have no carpark. Honey Bear was working this morning and the prospect of parking at the school way up the road and transporting two small children a great distance by pram was unattractive. Happily, our good friends BT & Cruz invited me to park at their house and walk to church with them and their three gorgeous children.

We made it all the way to church and most of the way home without any more serious incident than a malfunctioning waterbottle*

Things only got weird at the top of the last hill. A very nice lady walking the other way up the street smiled as we passed and apparently felt the need to comment.

There are, I'm sure, any number of things that one could say when confronted with the sight of three adults and five children, all under the age of four, out for a walk together.

Many of them are even quite innocuous and sane.

In this case, however, what we got was:

"Wow, this looks an orphanage out for a day trip"




I like to think that I'm reasonably good with words, but I've been thinking about it for ten hours and I still have no idea what I should have said in response.

None at all.








* Not a metaphor

I want some down time, so call me when you can and I'll be fine

Okay, sure, this is not the most original concept ever, but this blog is badly in need of some light relief and so, inspired by the existence of such excellent Facebook groups as "Don't Blame Me, I voted for Bartlet" and "I judge you when you use poor grammar", here's a few of the groups I'll be setting up whenever I next have way too much spare time:


1. I don't know which way up to put this label on my A4 envelope and I don't think anyone else does either


2. We all just happened to join the Celestine Prophecies appreciation society


3. I bet I could find 1,000,000 people who don't use Facebook (if I looked somewhere else)


4. All my Egyptian friends walk exactly the same way as I do


5. None of my friends have a secret crush on me. Stop it


6. I still have the Schokomod'l my neighbours gave me for Christmas and I don't know what to do about it


7. There are three types of people in the world. Those who can count and those who can't


8. If there was an award for excellence in disorganisation... we'd all be late for the ceremony


9. I just watched Momento. Apparently.


Anyone who wants to actually start any of these groups should rush to do so now. And then tell me so I can join.

I'm going away to be alone, I'm coming back with answers (ah ah, ah ah)

I am not a doctor.

I suspect, however, that a list of symptoms that includes shortness of breath, heartburn, insomnia, elevated heart rate and shooting pains in the chest area may not be grounds for me to make proclamations to the effect of "My excellent health, let me show you it" any time soon.

If I had to guess, I would probably venture the suggestion that my stress levels might be a little bit high.

I'm not sure what exactly to do in this situation, but the approach I took this afternoon may not have been worlds best practice, unless the best cure for stress is to have another really strong cup of coffee and keep working.

So, this evening will be spent drinking gin and listening to Holidays on Ice. This is probably a better plan.

I think I should probably avoid any hit singles by Faker for a week or two, also.

Any other suggestions as to how I might make it to the end of the financial year without introducing myself to the back of an ambulance may be left in the comments section below kthxbye.