Lockdown life – part 2

Lockdown Day 8 – I’m baaaaaack!

‘Fake it till you make it’ is one of life’s great mantras. It can be used in many settings and for many reasons. Today I’m adopting faking happy until the happy flows. This should be at 5pm coinciding with the flow of a glass of wine.

Last night we visited Australia, the country known for oversized things. Among others it’s home to the big banana, large lobster, massive merino, inflated cricket team, huge pineapple and colossal prawn (can you spot which one I slipped in there to irk my Australian friends?). Our menu last night fitted this theme, we had fucking enormous chicken parmy’s. A bit of a fail on my part. I should have sliced the breast in half and then pounded, instead I just pounded the breasts whole. I then dipped them in seasoned flour, egg wash and finally a panko and parmesan crumb. After frying till golden I put the massive mammaries in a baking dish, smothered them with passata and topped with every type of cheese in our fridge. We did not go hungry!

A couple of episodes of Modern Family helped to lift my mood as did a fairly good nights sleep. As I lounged in bed this morning dozing between the hours of 6am and 8.30am. I have discovered the pattern of my moods. With a sample day of one I realised that the day I spread my legs was the day I was happiest. I set off on my walk determined to safely spread my way back to my former happy state. I worked on my #spreadelfie (Spread/Selfie – I’m copyrighting it) technique which provided better results and less shots of cellulite. Leaving the shorts at home helped too.

I present to you my modern art piece, a tour of ‘Devonport Through My Legs’. Enjoy!

1/ The Esplanade Hotel 2/ Auckland skyline 3/ William C Daldy 4/ The best cricket club in NZ (North Shore) 5/ McHughs 6/ Rangitoto 7/ Iconic Cheltenham coloured flats (flats through flaps if you like)

Please reciprocate by posting a #spreadelfie of a site close to you so we can ‘spread’ the love.

I put in another solid 23 minutes of frenetic housework this afternoon and did some more work. Murray is in charge of dinner tonight. He’s taking us to America… One hour to go until I see if my faking it till I make it has paid off… tune in tomorrow…

Lockdown Day 9

Short and sweet today. We went to the USA last night with hamburgers, although, with their German roots I’m not so sure… Off for a walk this morning and for the rest of the day I’ve been on a virtual course about social media. My brain is very tired now! So less talking and more visual today. Photos of somewhere I don’t walk to often, Fort Takapuna.

Eat-Sleep-Repeat

Lockdown Day 10

The things that make you go hmmmm edition.

Last night we went to Greece with gyros on the menu. A bit more Modern Family and then a good night’s sleep. This morning started with the usual work then a walk. On my walk there were some things that made me go hmmmm.

The first was this work on the footpath.

This tree is a stunning protected tree. Its roots obviously need some more room to grow, hence the footpath being thinned. What made me go hmmmm was wondering how this was going to end? Are we going to have to walk onto the road one day in the future so the tree can keep growing? Hmmmm.

A quick #spreadelfie for health in front of the historic gas light on King Edward Parade.

The next thing that made me go hmmmmm was the playground being locked up but the lurid orange scooters being allowed to remain littering our footpaths. Hmmmmm.

I made a quick trip to the supermarket for a few essential items. Overall it was well stocked apart from a couple of exceptions. Flour and wine… It seems Devonport are all baking and boozing… hmmmmm…

Today I created my first ever Tik Tok account, this made me go hmmmm, and WTF. This account is for the cricket club and to connect with the kids. It’s been a busy I.T. day, I also had an hours mentoring session to help me with my website. There will be a big reveal when I have it sorted. Time to tune in for the 3pm announcement. No huge surprise that Auckland isn’t moving out of level 4 on Tuesday but the likely two more weeks, that made me go hmmmmm. TWO MORE WEEKS IN LOCKDOWN. There are 195 countries in the world but I’m not sure I’ll have the will to cook from all of them. Bummer!

Eat-Sleep-Repeat

Lockdown Day 11

Things that make you go ouch.

Last night we went to Japan with chicken katsu, delicious. Afterwards we had a heated game of Trivial Pursuit which ended in both victory and disaster. More on that later.

On Monday morning as I was heading downstairs to go out for my walk I sprained a calf muscle. I wasn’t running. I wasn’t jumping. I wasn’t doing anything I don’t do 10 other times a day. My calf muscle just decided on this particular day that it would lose the will to contract without sending me into a spasm of pain. My children mocked me mercilessly about how old and pathetic I am. I defended myself to the best of my ability, that ability being limited as I couldn’t actually chase them to whack them. Back to last night’s Trivial Pursuit. We played in pairs. My partner seemed hell bent on us losing.

No matter how many times we got the sport question wrong he insisted that we try again, and again, and again, and again, and again. As we fell further and further behind. My team mate insisted that perseverance was the key. During this long, long, long time of landing on orange, being asked a question, getting it wrong, waiting for our turn, landing on orange etc… I decided to jump up to refill my drink.

I sprung off the floor like a supple 35 year old, bouncing to my feet and turning towards the kitchen in one seamless move. Here’s where things went slightly astray. Distracted by kicking the empty game box with my right foot I momentarily lost my bearings. My left foot, the toe next to the little toe specifically, connected solidly with the heavy leg of the couch. After swearing loudly I hobbled to the kitchen to complete my task.

By some miracle we got the next orange question right. We then hit somewhat of a run to eventually seal victory. The final question was a blinder of an answer by my team mate to correctly identify the first line of the national anthem of Swaziland. Are you smarter than a 16 year old? I’m not!

I headed off to bed content in our victory. Throughout the night the blanket hitting my toe would wake me up but this morning while my foot was sore I felt I could attempt a walk. I like to walk clean so I had a shower first. During the process of drying my feet, between the sore toe and the next toe, I heard a loud crack and felt a pain severe enough to bring tears to my eyes. So much so I aborted my walk and headed to the local medical centre instead.

Diagnosis… broken toe. Fuck! I’m now in a sexy shoe and taking drugs which I’ll supplement with gin later. In better news, the #spreadelfie is taking off.

Eat-Sleep-Repeat (apart from the breaking bones bit)

Lockdown Day 12

As I’m a bit confined to the house today it seemed a good day to do some work on my website, write my first blog post. Be kind, it’s the first website I’ve ever built! You can check it out HERE

Eat-Sleep-Repeat

Lockdown Day 13

Last night we visited South Africa with a bobotie. I’d never heard of it before I googled ‘what do South African’s cook with mince’ but it was delicious, if I do say so myself. It’s a curried cottage pie but with a savoury custard on the top instead of potato. This was the recipe I used if you’re looking for a fun way to jazz up your mince HERE

Cooking a dish from Africa took me on a trip down memory lane. After completing the summer of ’95 working for Contiki in their chateau in France, where we’d saved as many of our hard earned pounds as possible, Mo, Lisa, Bron and I had a bunch of jabs (although for one person not quite enough), loaded up our backpacks with antimalarial pills, water purifying tablets and mosquito nets and flew to Nairobi. We were blissfully unaware of the challenge that travelling Africa in an overland truck with a driver/guide called Dodgy Ron, would present but were youthful enough to roll with it and, somehow, survive it.

The members of the tour were split into teams of four and a roster created. Each team was rostered on to have a turn cooking. Cooking consisted of being in charge of building and maintaining the fire, sourcing food for the group from a fund collected at the beginning of the trip and cooking the meal. At one particular stop, in Malawi from memory, Lisa, Bron, Mo and I were in charge of cooking. Given that three of us had experience in cooking for much larger groups we felt confident in our ability to nail this.

We headed off into the area surrounding our camp to try and source food. One vendor said he had chicken. ‘CHICKEN!’ we exclaimed with excitement. It was quite hard to source meat so our diet was mainly vegetarian. How popular would we be if we provided a chicken feast? The vendor disappeared out of his rickety stall. When he returned he presented us with the chicken. It did not come out on a handy tray, wrapped in plastic and with a barcode. Instead it was held upside down by its feet flapping and squawking at the indignity. We politely declined the chicken and opted for carrots instead.

One thing we hadn’t factored into our confidence about cooking was the readily available and super cheap Malawi cobs. After sourcing the food for dinner we split into pairs for the afternoon and didn’t communicate. Each pair decided to partake in some of the local specialties (Malawi Cob). It wasn’t until the four of us reconvened to start the fire we realised that we were all equally narcotized. We eventually managed to get a dinner prepared but spent quite long periods of time hypnotically staring at the fire and laughing at absolutely nothing in the process.

The trip was epic. I think I’m one of the few people to leave Africa having gained a ton of weight after a month in Cape Town eating everything not tied down. This trip down memory lane also made me think about health. We encountered water contaminated with cholera, mosquitos carrying malaria were everywhere and food had to be washed thoroughly to avoid Hep A. The side effects of the malaria medication were fairly alarming. While some people had amazing dreams, my tent-mate dreamed of murdering people. I can’t blame her after I had a nasty bout of something gastric in Malawi and lost control of something you never want to lose control of in a sleeping bag, inside a tent, in 30 plus degrees. I’d have wanted to knock me off too. Despite best efforts one of our band who had unfortunately missed getting the Hep A shot caught the disease. She had to leave Cape Town early to head home and recover and lose her yellow tinge.

I wondered if my memories were correct. Here are a couple of comments some friends made on the post on FB that made me chortle. 26 years on we are all mature and responsible adults… promise.

Fabulous trip down memory lane Gillian. How we survived that trip is astonishing and survived a PADI diving course in Lake Malawi! Think your gastric issues struck in a wetsuit during that too. The dodgy as fuck ferry back from Zanzibar, the machetes coming out when Mo and I were shopping, the borders with guns and Ron chucking what the guards wanted on the ground, we were so high we could not even blink, but hey my memory might not be accurate, 🤣🤣🤣

Lisa 2021

The Best of Times – too high to blink indeed.. remember the trip towards (Namib?) border when we tried to get rid of as much evidence as we could as quickly as we could & then the bloody truck got another burst-out.., & when we all got out to change the tyre half of us could not even make it down the steps & the rest of us could only stare around us like zombies.

Craig 2021

This morning after taking an inside #spreadelfie at home I went out for a slow, short walk before hitting the keyboard to do some work and zoom meetings. I had an epiphany later in the day. What I need is a scooter. That way I can rest my sore foot on the scooter and scoot with my other foot so I can go a little further afield on my mental health walks. Thanks neighbours for the loan of the groovy coloured beast.

More work this afternoon in preparation for a board meeting tonight after we visit Germany for dinner.

Eat-Sleep-Repeat

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Lockdown life

Here in Auckland, New Zealand, we’ve been back in a lockdown for 21 days now. The only time we are supposed to leave the house (unless an essential worker) is for a walk, or to go to the supermarket.

I’ve been sharing on my personal Facebook page daily updates. Here’s some highlights… or lowlights… from the first seven days, you decide.

Day 1

Day one lockdown report from COVID ground zero – Dangerous Devonport.

The Devonport grapevine was in overdrive yesterday afternoon as word spread that one of our own was the new community COVID case (whoever you are I wish you a speedy recovery), it seemed a fait accompli by the time that Jacinda addressed the nation at 6pm last night that a lockdown was on its way. After a great sleep I woke to lockdown day 1. I sorted a few work logistics out then headed out for a walk.

My favourite shorts glared at me as I left them on the shelf in favour of leggings but the weather looked ominous… and I haven’t shaved my legs since May. Dark clouds were gathering, and it wasn’t just the mood of the covid deniers or lockdown protesters, it was actual dark clouds. I took a stroll past the new erections that have appeared at Narrow Neck. COVID testing tents, the line for which was long.

Settled back inside the house it was time for some writing. Book #3 is well on the way, filled with literary genius like this … ‘I feel another ball of gas rising from my stomach. I break contact with his lips, turning my head away again. I try to make it an erotic move. Arching my back, I toss my head backwards and to the side releasing the gas along with a dramatic erotic moan to detract from any burping noise. I try to blow the curry smell away at the same time.’ Shakespeare is literally turning in his grave.

No, you haven’t missed book #2. It’s nearly finished and will be flying off the shelves in a couple of months hopefully. We’ve slipped back into lockdown routine, tuning in for the 1pm update and then turning thoughts quickly to dinner. We’ve planned for the week. If we can’t actually travel we will travel with food. We’ve even paired each meal with a drink. I’d like to say each with a fine wine but they seem mostly to be beer or dodgy cocktails. Ole! Although shouting at the neighbours is off the cards I hereby declare 5pm is still the time to start drinking…. roll on day 2.

Lockdown Day 2 – Covid Ground Zero

This post is going to be full of gratitude. It’s going to spew gratefulness. It will be so sweet and sickly your teeth might actually dissolve. Brace yourself.

Last night we started our ‘eating around the world’. I’m so grateful you no longer die from eating pork which is slightly rare, as I think mine was. Or it could have been perfectly moist. You’d think with the amount of Masterchef I watch I would know AND be able to cook pork better. 50% of the family enjoyed the wheaty beer that was paired with it. I’m grateful for half a happy family, even if I am in the 50%.

Today I spent most of the day on a course. I’m super thankful that I was accepted onto the course that is helping creatives to build a sustainable business. This was the 5th one day course of 6 (spread over weeks). Oh so grateful that the course provider was able to pivot quickly and put the course on zoom. I do though, at the risk of bringing down my grateful score, fucking hate zoom. The ‘quick’ group introductions took an hour so I knew the day was going to be a test of my concentration and perseverance. Creatives can be chatty. I’m grateful that zoom has a mute function and that I purchased a 0.29c camera cover for my laptop so I could engage with the learning without my brain being overloaded with having to remember not to do something embarrassing like picking my nose or burping loudly and that the other participants were spared from boy child’s hour long shower accompanied by rap music. My brain is now filled to bursting with new information that I’m grateful for and I met some fascinating new creatives to connect with. #blessed

After the course I went for a walk. I could not be more grateful for the two beaches I can stroll on. Today the eastern one was like a Pacific island summer paradise while the western was a wintery blowy Armageddon much like the current situation in Auckland. I strolled down a road I don’t often and came across a stunning tree that had the most tuis I’ve ever seen in one place. I’m so grateful for tuis. They fly like lazy drunks but sing like angels.

After putting out my menu for the week I received some critique about my lack of effort on tonight’s drink selection and told to up my game from beer to margaritas… grateful for the feedback. I’m hoping the universe is providing tequila to solve this massive error on my part shortly. Rest assured I will try harder. Will be really grateful for tequila. No time for writing, editing or painting today. Nearly time to have an ‘I survived the day’ drink and start preparing dinner, go to bed and repeat tomorrow.

Lockdown day 3 – Covid Ground Zero

I think I need to change that moniker. After the original case being identified in Devonport, fuck all has happened down this way. I think the fact that we have zero nightlife of interest to twenty-somethings may have let us off lightly. The epicentre is now past Horrific Hauraki beyond Terrible Takapuna and over the ocean at Awful Auckland. This is the ungrateful edition.

Night two of our around the world dinners was a trip to Mexico. The universe provided tequila just in time for me to whip up a jug of frozen grapefruit margaritas to go with enchiladas, Mexican chicken wings and a Mexican salad. After the universe delivered me tequila I found a perfect margarita sized amount in the back of the booze cupboard, ungrateful to the booze cupboard. Boy child snap-chat messaged me first thing yesterday with the sad news that comedian Sean Lock had passed away. As a tribute we decided to watch an episode of 8 out of 10 Cats Does Countdown. The boy child decided audience participation and a little wager on the winner would add to the send off. I think he spotted a chance to fleece his old, slow parents. He wasn’t wrong. At the end of the episode he had a whopping 28 points. I secured the CRUCIAL Countdown conundrum to sneak into second place at the last minute. It certainly helped that Murray had never watched Countdown before (not sure why I married him). Anyone who has read my debut novel, What Goes On Tour (available on Amazon – shameless plug), will know that Countdown has provided much inspiration. Ungrateful to the universe for taking funny comedians too young and to nature for dulling my grey matter response time.

After some work I went out for a nice stroll. Masks, both grateful and ungrateful for them. Walking was a bit like the drive from Nice to Florence. Except it’s not sunglasses going up and down, it’s masks. On my walk I became fixated on the number of annoyingly beautiful pink magnolias there are out, and flowers in general. So… much… pollen. Pollen + Gill = Sneezing. Sneezing in a pandemic is not the best look. I visited my new favourite tree. Not only was it laden with tuis, it was also humming with bee life.

I had a productive book afternoon. What Goes On Tour Too is now, pretty much, ready to go. Given that I swore less than 12 months ago that I’d never write another book I’m pretty impressed with myself that I’ve now written two more! I was so excited I thought about doing some manic cleaning. Thankfully that feeling passed quickly. Dust… WTF is your point. I have no gratitude for dust. Time to start thinking again about food. It’s Italian night – Pizza and Prosecco. Eat-Sleep-Repeat.

Lockdown Day 4 – don’t read further if you don’t like swearing…

seriously stop now… I don’t want any moaning.

Three words.Can’t. Be. Fucking. Arsed.

Before you ask, yes I did pass school certificate math. I got 47% by answering all the multi-guess questions in 57 minutes of the three hour exam and getting out of there at the earliest allowed time, the 60 minute mark. The other 4% I achieved to get my final mark of 51% was due to 50% of every other 15/16 year old, who hadn’t already left school, in NZ in 1985 being thicker than me. These were tough times. You didn’t get all year to make up credits so if you have a bad day, week, or even month. This was the cut-throat world of the 1980’s. Winner takes all. One shot for victory. If I do say so myself… I timed my effort to perfection.

Also… I don’t really consider Fucking to be a word. It’s more of a way of living, a life force, an expression of existence. Last night we went to Italy for dinner. One member of the family already couldn’t be fucking arsed and didn’t bother showing up (they were still in the house, don’t worry about any lockdown breaches). The rest of us enjoyed some pizza. No I didn’t use any of the 15 or so kilos of fucking flour I still have to make pizza bases… I couldn’t be fucking arsed. We used pre-made store-bought bases which we decorated with various pieces of cured meat, tomatoes, spinach etc… and cheese. We washed it down with a rose prosecco. Saluti.

I was awake for a while during the night, not unusual for me, so I started watching a new show On Demand, called Dr Death. I’d recommend it. It’s about a Dr who can’t be fucking arsed operating properly.

If you’re not aware, it’s now the weekend so a short lie in was in order. After, I did a solid 23 minutes of frenetic house cleaning then I went out for a stroll. The weather also couldn’t be fucking arsed. The sun couldn’t be bothered coming out, but the rain didn’t really put in an effort either. Low clouds hung over everything, very much like my mood, and the sky has just kind of leaked on and off all day. I did spend most of my walk talking to a friend (on the phone). I’ve got some major literary issues to solve (like using too many Brad’s) and chatting to her helped. I took a photo of this tree fern. At the time it struck me that there is probably some great symbolism in it’s form about new shoots or something but can’t be arsed fleshing that thought out any further.

I had planned to do some art today. I felt like the process of actually doing something with my hands rather than on a laptop might actually be good for my mental health. It’s 2.51pm and I haven’t been arsed yet. I had a soak in the spa pool. After I couldn’t be arsed getting dressed again so I got into my Oodie. This is the perfect ‘can’t be fucking bothered attire’. Before you ask, no, I don’t think 3.20pm is too early to be in PJ’s. I did a quick watercolour painting. Now have to try and be arsed to cook Indian.

Eat-Sleep-Repeat

Lockdown Day 5

It’s just a little prick.

Sure, I’ve heard that line before. The best one was, ‘it’s just a little prick but there’s 16 stone pushing it in.’ Hard to refuse that offer, but I digress.

The person who gave me ‘just a little prick’ today was nowhere near 16 stone. They said I wouldn’t feel a thing, they were wrong. I felt a lot of things. I felt hope, that this virus can be stomped down to manageable levels so that we can get on with life. I also felt hopeful about the possibility of travelling freely again. I love you NZ but I can’t wait to get out… and then come back and then get out… and then come back. I felt grateful for science… thank fuck for science.

Back to last night…Cooking in an Oodie is challenging. I was worried, often, that I’d go up in flames. But I managed to avoid disaster and prepare a meal from India, complete with Kingfisher beer. It was the end of the can’t be fucking arsed day, so it wasn’t very exciting. An early night and a couple of episodes of Dr Death to draw a line under the feeling of funk.

Today WILL be more positive. I woke up feeling chirpy after a Sunday lay in. The sun was shining on my walk. People were out and about strolling, biking, running and enjoying their day. On my amble I headed up main street snapping a few photos in the village of things that took my fancy. As I was out walking I remembered one very positive thing about lockdown. It has saved me from further public humiliation.

After being part of a team that won a national award earlier this year for female cricket participation I seem to have become some kind of local beacon of hope for getting middle aged women playing sport. I’ve had a few sports contact me to brainstorm their ideas, or ask me to join them, the latest being squash. I have known for about 45 years that I am okay with hand-eye-ball sports, netball, volleyball, touch rugby etc… but, put a racket in my hand… I’m fucking hopeless. Put a cricket bat in my hand and I’m fucking hopeless but I suffer that indignity because I know it’s only for 12 balls and I can go straight to the bar afterwards to erase it from my memory with alcohol.

When I agreed to give squash a try I forgot about my decades of being hopeless and thought that maybe, just maybe, I’d be okay at it as I supported an initiative to get women away from Masterchef and onto a squash court. It started badly. I was 25 minutes late. I was 5 minutes early for the time I thought it started, my usual standard. I had the time wrong. Once I’d answered the question about my level of experience, absolutely zero, I was led to a court that contained a male instructor and four other women. One was near my age, the other three were mere foetus’s. Not a grey hair among them, no stretch marks, no double chins, no saggy boobs. I should have walked out then… but I didn’t.

I joined in with the air squash exercises. I was quite good at that. I could step and swing forehand, step the other way and swing backhand. Nailed it. Then the instructor added the piece of equipment that was sent to make me fail. The ball. While all the ‘barely out of high school’ women whacked the tiny piece of black rubber this way and that, I continued to excel at air squash as the ball fell underneath my racket thingy onto the floor as I spun in pirouettes. It was bad enough that I couldn’t hit it, what really stung was the overly nice support from the youngin’s. Reminded me of the way I used to speak to my Nana. So, thanks lockdown. I have a valid reason to NOT have to play squash again. Also, i didn’t see any bar.

Nearly time to try and cook something from Thailand and a bucket of alcohol. Roll on tomorrow. Eat-Sleep-Repeat.

Lockdown Day 6

*Contains sexual content.

*Reader discretion advised.

Sawadee Ka from Thailand. Land of satay and buckets, what’s not to love.

When we were last in Thailand, yes I feel like a wanker typing that, the kids, friends and I did a Thai cooking class. We learned heaps and made 7 delicious dishes each. Could I remember anything from that experience? No. Still, 10 points for effort.

Yesterday during the daily address to the nation, Chris Hipkins, our minister for education for those not in NZ, made an amusing malapropism. Instead of telling people to safely stretch their legs, he sternly advised the country to safely ‘spread their legs’. Always wanting to do my bit for the country I have, obviously, taken this on as my mission for the day.

I started spreading as I had my breakfast this morning. After nailing some work and ordering some alcohol to be delivered I set off for my stroll. After being ignored for days, I decided this was the day to take my shorts for an outing.

I could see Girl child was doing an exercise regime outside, she was putting one leg behind the other and dipping down. Great stretch, I thought, I’ll try that. I’d only moved my right ankle slightly behind my left when my hip clicked and my back went into a spasm. Warm up aborted.

The first outdoor spread of my legs took place on Arawa Ave, a short, quiet street that leads down to Cheltenham beach. I looked around furtively to make sure the coast was clear. I turned my phone camera on. I turned my back to the beach, bent over and took a photo through my legs. A few things sprang to mind immediately.

1/ it’s really hard to get a good spread leg perspective from this angle, and

2/ camera is really close, catching all the cellulite.

As I righted myself I spotted a woman walking towards me, who then swerved into the road to avoid me. I had to explain, shouting from a distance, that I wasn’t actually taking a photo of my undercarriage. Great start.

It was a lovely day for a stroll and I tried my best to spread my legs Chris, honestly. But my legs just don’t spread far, it looks a bit odd in public and at one point I lay on the grass, spread my legs and seagulls landed at my feet staring hungrily up my shorts. I don’t want to be seagull food. Legs successfully spread, I returned home for more work. I did a spot of weeding and now waiting to tune in for the 4pm announcement…. Seems we need another 7 countries to cook… suggestions welcome of both countries and cuisine and drinks to go with them please. Eat-Sleep-Repeat

Lockdown Day 7 – warning: devoid of humour

Lockdown brain fade is well and truly setting in. I had a zoom chat meet scheduled for 2.30pm yesterday. It was only at 4pm when I sat down, post weeding, that I realised I’d missed it and the reason why. I’d set my alarm for 2.30am.

Last night we stayed local – Kiwi fare was on the menu. Fish ‘n’ chips, coleslaw and tartar sauce, washed down with a vodka cruiser. The drink gave one member of the family some dodgy flashbacks, rum is the drink that does that to me. After a big night underage drinking rum and coke in Kulim Park, circa 1985, that might explain the school C math result, I really can’t look rum or coke in the face.

I had a shit night’s sleep but it did give me some time to get into Modern Family which gave me a giggle. This morning I wondered what all that loud truck noise was outside during lockdown. It was only as I saw the truck pulling away from our house I realised it was the rubbish truck and therefore today must be Tuesday. Fuck.

I’m sure you can relate that Lockdown is a rollercoaster, or as a friend said, a coronacoaster. One day you’re low and can’t be fucking arsed, next you’re on a high and legspreading all over your neigbhourhood. The roller coaster dips again and you’re thrown around the phases of grief like a sock in a tumble dryer (I don’t know why that was the first metaphor that came to mind).

The 7 stages of lockdown grief:

1 – Shock and denial – are we really going into fucking lockdown again??!! AGAIN??!!

2 – Pain and guilt – I wish I’d scanned in more often, tidied my desk, had that fucking massage I’ve been meaning to book in for months

3 – Anger and bargaining – FUCKING LOCKDOWN – I’ll scan more often, just let me out

4 – Depression – Can’t. Be. Fucking. Arsed.

5 – The upward turn – We might get out! Let’s turn on the TV and see…

6 – Reconstruction and working through – I still have flour, I can order in alcohol

7 – Acceptance and hope – It’s okay, I’m okay, my family are okay, this will end…Today my grief as gone 7 – 2 – 3 – 7 – 6 – 1 – 4 – 7

I didn’t go for a walk today. I’ve done some work, some book editing and a tiny, and I mean tiny amount of housework. It’s now time to get to work on dinner. Tonight we are going to Australia. No walk so no photos…

Where it began

People have asked me where I get ideas for some of the crazy situations Shaz, the protagonist in What Goes On Tour, gets herself into. This may give you an insight.

Picture this… It’s the summer of 1995 and I’m working as Head Cook at a French château. This château sleeps 150 people a night. During their two night stay they are fed two breakfasts, two dinners and a picnic lunch. This is where I come in. I’m in charge of making sure that all happens. My role involves ordering the food from the local butcher, baker, fresh produce supplier and supermarket, many of whom speak no English. I take weekly stock takes, doing the accounts for the kitchen and actually cooking the food along with two assistant cooks both who have less experience than me.

My experience heading into this role? Virtually none. I spent three months the summer before working as the fourth staff member in a campsite in Venice. I did a lot of cleaning cabins and chopped a few tons of onions. Previous to that I’d been working in New Zealand for the Inland Revenue. I actually wanted to train to be a tour manager in the summer of 1995 but the office had other ideas. They decided throwing me in to the deep end of a running massive kitchen operation was the place for me.

For the most part I think I did okay. No one died, as far as I know, and people mostly got fed edible food and on time. There was one unfortunate incident with a suicidal mouse.

The building had been mostly empty over the winter as it was being redecorated. This, and some food supplies left behind from the previous summer, had led to a population explosion of tiny rodents. While we had laid lots of bait and got the local exterminator in, some determined little devils remained. One busy evening tour passengers assigned to help with dinner service were trailing through the kitchen collecting plates, kitchen staff and road crew were serving food while I was hard at work at the deep fat fryer keeping a steady chain of piping hot pomme noisettes coming.

Suddenly the fat fryer started bubbling and spitting for no obvious reason. I looked closer into the furiously bubbling oil and floating balls of potato to see what had caused this sudden flurry of oil activity. A kamikaze mouse had scampered across the top of the industrial stoves and took its final plunge into the boiling oil. The awkward thing was I couldn’t fish it out as there were so many people in the kitchen, so there it stayed until the end of service. Aside from that, the kitchen ran, mostly smoothly.

First experience of snails for sale in a supermarket. Admire the 90’s double denim.
The kitchen

Staff and road dishing up food for clients to collect and serve to their travel mates

It was a very busy job with very few days off. If you were lucky enough to get a couple of rostered days off in a row one of the preferred things to do was to jump on the next coach leaving the stopover and have a few days in another European city. When I had time this is exactly what I did. The coach I was on headed to Barcelona. I had a couple of nights there and then convinced Gary, who worked there, to jump on the next coach with me and head to the next stop for a couple of nights. Our plan was that we’d then travel together back to my work site and he’d get another coach back from there to Barcelona. What could possibly go wrong?

We stocked up on a case of cava (Spanish champagne) for me to give to my work colleagues when I returned, as a thank you for covering for me while I had a break and jumped on a coach headed to Antibes.

The next day on the French Riviera we heard through the grapevine that there was a coach leaving from Fragonard’s Perfumery in Eze tomorrow morning heading to Lyon, the closest city to my place of work. Keep in mind this was 1995. Cell phones were still only something that Maxwell Smart had in his shoe. We couldn’t check this information but we figured that the cost of a taxi for the 45 minute trip from Antibes to Eze to get a free ride to Lyon would be cheaper than each paying for a local train to Nice then a regional train to Lyon. Plan in place we hit the campsite bar for a night of celebrating nothing in particular.

The next morning we dusted ourselves off, got the campsite to call a taxi and loaded into it our small amount of luggage and our large case of champagne. The plan was working out great as we enjoyed the scenery along the coastline and the views as we climbed above Nice towards Monaco. It was still going well as we drove down the steep driveway of the perfumery and said goodbye to our taxi driver after handing him a fistful of francs. It was only when we found the road crew to let them know we’d be joining them that the plan fell foul.

The coach that we had made our way to was not in fact heading to Lyon. It was going to Lucerne, or somewhere equally far away and useless for our needs. We had to think fast. I was due to be starting work in the kitchen later that afternoon and we were now further away from Nice train station than we had been when we woke up. While I guarded the champagne Gary chatted to the various coaches parked at the perfumery until he found one that was heading back down the hill to Nice. We bartered a ride with a couple of bottles of cava and we were soon inside Nice train station looking at the vast board for the quickest and cheapest train to Lyon.

It was with huge relief when me, Gary, our small amount of luggage and our now ten bottles of cava were on a train moving out of Nice train station. That feeling of relief though was short-lived.

Now geography isn’t my strong point but I knew that Lyon was north and west of Nice. What became quickly obvious was that this train was heading due south, not north nor west. The Mediterranean sparkled out the window on our left as we hurtled back past Antibes and through Cannes. It looked like we were heading back to Barcelona!

Deciding we needed help we tried in our, very limited French, to ask some of our fellow travellers if this train was heading to Lyon? Oui, they assured us. We weren’t convinced. To ease our mounting anxiety we decided the only thing for it was to drink cava. If we were going to be lost we may as well be lost AND drunk. Our area of the train was like a magnet as thirsty travellers joined us to share in the international language of cheap fizzy wine.

We did eventually make it to the Château nearly in time for me to start work, but by then I was in no fit state to be in charge of knives or flames so I was dispatched to my room to sleep it off.

All’s well that ends well. It’s travel tales like this, and generous friends who also have tales to share, that have given me some ideas to include in my books.

Lost on a train – somewhere in France – 1995. Thanks Gary for sharing the photo.

Did our friendship survive? Sure did, here we are (with other former staff) at a reunion last year before the world went mad.