Indulgence

This has nothing to do with traveling on the train but I thought I must tell you about the weekend we had in Bowral just before Christmas.
However I warn you, do not read further if you are adverse to reading about people succumbing to gluttony, participating in pressing of the flesh of the most mysterious kind, self indulgently wallowing in luxurious surroundings and, damn it, bragging about it!!!
My best friend and her husband took me and mine to Bowral, to a place called Milton Park for some much earned and looked forward to pampering. I had no idea what she had planned. This is my account:
.
Oh my Lord what a place, our garden rooms were adjoining and through the French doors we were treated to a view of the biggest fountain (aside from the one in Hyde Park) that I have seen in a while and manicured lawns, formal gardens and massive oak and pine trees. Our large rooms consisted of a king sized bed covered in about 20 pillows and white linen, a plasma TV, huge bath, and a couple of comfy lounge chairs looking out at the garden and fountain. We could throw open the doors and step out onto a little stone stoop, then have a leisurely stroll around the garden or have a cup of tea whilst sitting in a really comfy chair gazing nonchalantly at the pleasant surrounds and taking deep breaths of the softly scented country air (which I did do, twice).
AND once ensconced, who cares how much it costs – this is better than drugs (not that I would know of course, I’m just guessing).
At 2pm, after the four of us had been lolling all over the bed and drinking the champagne that I had thoughtfully provided; we got a phone call telling us that we had an appointment at the spa in ½ an hour. An eyebrow cocked at Mez got me nothing but an eyebrow cocked right back so I had to just sit there wondering what the hell she had cooked up for us.
A HOT ROCK MASSAGE!!!! Is what! You know, I never really thought about how unpampered I was until that first hot rock hit my solar plexus. Any coherent thought just passed out of my mind as I gave myself up to the utter decadence of a full body hot rock.
The worst nightmare of a 48 year old, unsophisticated, fat earth mother is baring the said 48 year old, unsophisticated, faaaaaaaaaat carcass to an unsuspecting masseuse. One expects them to recoil in horror and revulsion or worse apply a fixed smile on their chops and suffer through this insult to the aesthetic symmetry of the human body. I’m not sure what is worse really, them touching me or me looking at them touching me. Anyway, at first I was in seven kinds of humiliation lying on my back, naked but for a pair of paper knickers on a skinny little table, barely covered by a towel that, frankly, was hardly bigger than a hand towel, waiting for God knows what (because Mez didn’t tell me). In fact my imagination was running wild by this time and I was lying there thinking all kinds of self depreciating thoughts like: ‘I hope she doesn’t mind pummelling cottage cheese’ or ‘OMG both my boobs are under my armpits’ or ‘I hope she has a big enough egg slice on the fork lift that has to turn me over’ or ‘I’m overflowing off this darn ironing board’ or ‘ I hope this bloody ironing board has reinforced legs’ or ‘ I hope her workers comp insurance covers being struck blind by the corpulent, waxen body before her’. I was left alone with my thoughts for so long that I thought she had probably taken a fast butchers through a hidden peep hole and was on her way back to Germany quicker than I can put on 3 kilos.
Then Amanda walked in.
Amanda was not a small girl, in fact: she was almost as tall as Paul. So now I’m intimidated and humiliated and about as relaxed as a hungry cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting bird. I was fantasizing about the most painful death I could possibly inflict on Mez, when Amanda placed a piping hot towel over my feet, a moderately cooler one over my eyes and two hot rocks on my stomach and then proceeded to massage my right foot and leg with warm scented oil and a hot rock. By the time she got to my knee I was well and truly in seventh heaven and was profusely apologising mentally to my Best Friend. Some are not impressed by a hot rock massage but I was, I loved every agonisingly embarrassing moment of it. Throughout the whole procedure I had a lovely warm towel covering my eyes (so that I couldn’t see her pi**ing herself laughing and taking photos to upload onto the web with all the appropriate captions) which made the procedure a lot less personal and a lot more relaxing.
I wont even go into the hilariousness or hideousness of trying to roll over on a table about as wide as a fence paling or of the mounds of relaxed flesh flying all over the place as I settled back down on my stomach (think stone thrown in pool of still water).
The other side was even more pleasurable, especially my shoulders and neck. I actually fell asleep I know this because I woke myself up snoring twice (you know, once you are embarrassed enough it just doesn’t matter anymore)(although if I had farted I would have had to get the hell out of there).
After the massage, she gave me a facial – also a wonderful experience (warm green teabags on eyes mmmmmmmm). By the time it was all over and I was back out in the dressing room 2 ½ hours had passed and I was feelin’ mellow.
Mez came out at the same time as me and after we had both stopped laughing at each of our experiences and appearances we went out and waited for the boys.

Next: a swim in the pool. A heated indoor pool no less. Set in a pavilion ringed by massive trees and ferns, tiled to within an inch of its life, big fluffy soft white towels on tap and the pool – oh the pool. Warm, all of us creating an oil slick from the massage oil (heeee sorry Mr pool cleaner) but then, that kept us afloat, no need to work at staying on top of the water.

A hot shower and a rest was in order as we were exhausted from all our exertions, hmmmmm lying on king sized monster soft bed. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

We were awakened at 6.30pm by a reminder that we had a dinner reservation in the restaurant. Thank goodness I had packed glad rags.
Dinner was a gastronomical delight although the dinner plates were a little disconcerting. I noticed that the plates were one and the same as the slate tiles that they were re-doing the roof on the main building with. Not a bad concept actually, I just hope they washed them properly. Each course was accentuated by a small intervention of sorbet or soup or smoked salmon with a lemon infusion or petit fours or a superb local wine. Just add that to the blubber would you – thanks so much.

We went back to our rooms after dinner, had a cuppa and fell into a deep dreamless sleep until about 7am when we backed up for a full breakfast. I can never get my Bircher Muesli to taste that good. And the eggs, bacon, tomatoes…………….

The clincher to all this was, of course, that Mez and Chris paid for the whole thing. I still cant sleep properly when I think how much it would have cost them and it outshone a picnic by 100,000 watts. We tried to pay for our bit but Mez had beaten us to the post by pre paying for everything before we had even set foot on the premises. I can’t tell you how much it meant to us that Mez and Chris had planned our whole weekend, every detail was attended too, so much thought had gone into it.
We had such a good time that all four of us have decided to go back again this year, same time, same rooms and please God, same massage.

Boooooooooooooooooring !!!!!!!

Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhhhh, there are two 30 something women sitting right in front of me talking to each other about their children. Is there anything more boring than having to listen to a couple of wanna be’s talk about how gifted and special their brats are?
Both have a son in a private school, both sons are about the same age. Both are on their respective school’s debating team, both excel at sport, both are the top of their class in all their subjects, both play the guitar just like Jimmy Hendrix, both do so much charity work that Mother Teresa herself would be impressed, both are learning to drive and, surprise surprise, Peter Brock couldn’t be a better driver. And are so loving and considerate and grateful of their Mother. These two are on drugs.
Honestly, it’s like listening to two men talk about their weekend fishing trip. I had no idea that being the mother of a 16 year old boy could be so competitive. I wish I had some kind of award to give these two for Bullshitter of the year.
Judging by the accolades their mother’s are giving them these two young fellows will be Rhodes Scholars, brain surgeons, nuclear physicists, Prime Minister and will save the world from hunger, poverty, earth hour and bad breath all by the time they are 20.
I hope they are writing all these porkys down, there is no way they will be able to remember all that fairy dust.
It’s interesting to watch this actually, each one is so caught up in bragging about her gifted little soul that the other one can’t get a word in. So they talk over the top of each other.AND they are boring the pants of each other (and the rest of the carriage). Thank goodness they don’t have photo’s, we would have to kill ourselves

Split Lip

There is a girl of about 25 sitting opposite me this morning who has the worst fat lip I have ever seen. She has two stitches (that I can see) in it plus quite a bit of bruising around the lower jaw, her lip is so swollen that it could almost be as big as a cricket ball. She is nursing her face like it is very tender and sore, if it feels anything like it looks it must be excruciating.
She looks like she has done a couple of rounds with a Cronulla front row forward.
I’m trying not to stare but it looks so bad I can’t help it.
I wonder what happened. Does she have a violent boyfriend? Did she go out on the weekend and get drunk and fall over or get too close to someone who was fighting? Did she get too close to a door handle?
Her friend just got on and sat down next to her and of course exclaimed loudly and wanted to know what happened to her.
Apparently she was at a wedding on the weekend and she lined up with all the other single girls for the throwing of the bouquet. She caught the flowers and was promptly beaten up by a couple of her rivals.
Obviously catching the bouquet these days is much more important than it used to be, maybe there is gold bars attached or money tucked up under the petals or diamonds threaded through the leaves.
You hear about girls who are involved more and more in violent episodes, but at a wedding? And over some poxy flowers?
I have been a witness to an altercation over the garter belt when the boys have been a little too exuberant in their efforts to catch it. No one has come to blows and it isn’t an arena you would enter light heartedly, but I have never seen a full on brawl. After all you are a guest at a wedding not a blow-in at the pub.
How classy, their parents must be so proud.
I’m sure some of the male guests had a lovely night, free grog and a bitch fight, how much more entertaining can it be.
The thing that bothers me the most is that she is proud of her injury and proud of her part in the incident.
I’m sure she doesn’t care that a total stranger or two is looking at her as if she is lower than pond scum, seriously though, is it ok to behave like that?

Umbrella etiquette

I know I go on about being considerate of other people and their space, but really, what is wrong with thinking about your impact upon another person’s space?
Umbrellas (or more accurately, the persons welding them) are notorious for intruding upon this, not only are they long and sharp but on some occasions they are wet and on rare occasions (in our droughty little world down here0 they are drenched and dripping with enough water to fill a small swimming hole.
Take this morning for example. It is absolutely pouring with rain, when the door of the train opens the rain pours into the vestibule area soaking anyone foolish enough to stand there. Instead of putting their umbrella down before they enter and just getting on the train with a little more speed than normal, people are getting on and then turning around to put their umbrella down. The people standing behind waiting to get onto the train are then pushed back by a big wet umbrella, not only that, they are then wet by the said umbrella as the water cascades off. When everyone is finally on they then either put the brolly on the seat as they fiddle around in their bag or adjust their coif or they lean it onto the back of the seat to balance precariously against the leg of the person next to them.
If you are unlucky enough to get a reader as well just say goodbye to being dry from the waist down as they will become so engrossed in their reading material that they will be oblivious to any subtle protestations that you might have as to the close proximity of a wet storm stick.
This morning I walked out from under the cover of the platform roof into the rain just as the train was pulling in. I had my umbrella down and I stepped straight on. Admittedly I got a little wet but nothing too drastic. I then sat there watching the 10 or so idiots with umbrellas all trying to get onto the train without getting a drop of water on themselves, which didn’t happen because the mêlée ensured that they all drenched each other. Consequently there were lots of filthy looks and quite a few cranky and wet little vegemites.
Then there is the extra squirming around trying to tie the brolly with the Velcro tab, all the while trying not to wet themselves but completely ignoring the fact that they are spraying water in a 10’ arc in the process.
As the train fills, people have to stand as there are no seats left. So why would you stand in the aisle of a train with a bag or briefcase, a wet umbrella hanging by a cord around the wrist, and, on this occasion a coat over your arm and then decide it’s a good thing to read a book as well? This is the type of inconsiderate moron we have to live with. Thankfully I was over by the window as I can say right here and now if it had been me that was getting smacked on the shoulder with a wet umbrella every time the train moved there would have been an incident.
I could tell the passenger wasn’t happy but he didn’t say anything. He did push the brolly away a couple of times but the woman reading just ignored it. I was getting angry just watching it. His shoulder was soaked by the time we pulled into Central Station.
I have found my umbrella to be a useful tool against other, more aggressive umbrella handlers. You have the short person with a large umbrella who refuses to raise the brolly to enable them to see past their own feet. I find that keeping my brolly on an angle to the side deflects their brolly; if you left it you could lose an eye.
There is the tall man in a suit with an oversized umbrella who charges through the crowd with no regard for anyone, I put my brolly down in this case, if he sees that you are willing to belt him one he keeps clear.
The shake off of excess water all over the people behind you is another one. Or shake it all over the floor of the foyer of your building so someone can slip on it. Twirl your umbrella in the lift? No worries. Why don’t you just go and get a bucket of water and when the doors open, shot it in.
Is it windy? Put your umbrella up and use the crowd in Martin Place as bumpers, no one will mind a wind driven umbrella spike in the back. Better still use the brolly as a wind sail, that way when you belt someone with it they won’t be able to catch you.
We are licensed to drive a car, why not to use an umbrella? We are regulated about everything else.
I declare war on all inconsiderate, moronic umbrella users.
Stay tuned I may be writing this from a gaol cell in the future.