Category Archives: Dogs

Budget living and bargains

You get what you pay for I thought as I walked into the Airbnb place I had booked in Torquay (my sister always thinks of Fawlty Towers when I mention Torquay but I am of course referring to the township at the start of the Great Ocean Road in Victoria, Australia).

After an almost constant stream of Airbnb guests since the first week of December and having started a new job the week before last, I was ready for a break, one where I was the guest. For $65 a night and dogs (Bertie) allowed, I guess I shouldn’t complain but it did look and sound nicer in the description and pictures. In fact, it was definitely more Fawlty than Five Star: the kitchenette and bathroom were more or less one and the same with the sliding door to the toilet and shower jammed at three quarters shut (I’m glad I was alone; I’m bladder shy at the best of times); the mini bar fridge froze my salad; and a laundry trough sink doubled up as the place to wash teeth, hands and dishes. It reminded me of a unit I rented in 1770 (the place not the year!) in Queensland where it was the same situation in reverse. I had to do the dishes in the hand basin. And in both places I had to unplug the kettle before I switched on the toaster. See what I mean about the Fawlty-ness?

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The bedroom was OK in a very no-frills way with views over the nondescript garden of scrubby grass and a Hills Hoist washing line. It was all rather cobwebby behind the bed, the cupboards in the same brown wood as the toilet door were also jammed, and a sad sedum with leggy roots sat in a glass bottle on the window sill. Never mind, I got to work and doctored the bed as I have a Princess and the Pea sensibility when it comes to mattresses. So I padded out the firm mattress with a spare duvet and the egg box foam topper I had brought from home.

Spot the sad sedum...

Spot the sad sedum…

You may laugh but there are legions of people out there who struggle with mattresses when travelling from home. I did a Google search on it and found my way to Tempur Pedic travel toppers that roll up into a handy bag. For a mere $599 plus shipping I could have one delivered to my door. That’s not financially feasible right now so the $15 egg box topper from Kmart was rather a steal.

Thanks to therapy in the form of the first episode of Series Five of Downton Abbey and a lighting a nice candle to brighten the place up – not to mention my homemade salad (before the minibar got to it) – I nevertheless felt like I was on holiday, albeit one more akin to camping.

Although the place lacked frills and finesse and had no views, it was a case of Location, Location, Location! It was situated right across the road from the beach. So the minute we arrived Bertie and I dashed down to the dog beach and both swam and lay in the sun. The next day the temperature dropped from the mid thirties to about sixteen degrees and we had thunder and lightning. Not to be defeated I headed to the op shop to hunt for an outfit to wear to a Studio 54 themed party. After a bit of rummaging I found a silk and satin LBD and a pair of fringed cowboy-type boots. I reckoned the boots in particular looked more 70s than noughties. Amazingly, they were in my size, brand new (with the original price tag still attached) and really comfortable.

The next morning – still cold, breezy and wet – I was walking Bertie on the beach and realised ‘we’ must have lost his ball the previous day. Not to worry Bertie, I said. We might well find an old ball somewhere. Minutes later we found an orange and blue ‘chuckit’ dog ball and thrower lying in the sand. I looked around but there was nobody to claim it so I picked it up, much to Bertie’s delight.

It felt like I was having mini lottery wins, and to celebrate I went for breakfast at Mobys, a most delightful cafe on the esplanade. Earthy, friendly and quirky with lots of different nooks and crannies, I sat on a sofa on the deck with Bertie by my feet, ordered a delicious egg and bacon sandwich and pot of English breakfast, and read my book. Bliss!

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By lunchtime that day I was visiting a friend in the next door township of Anglesea. After lunch at the General Store, we called in at the Baptist’s Second Store where I found a lamp for my guest room, a table runner and a coffee table all for $30. The coffee table is one of those varnished brown jobs. With a light sand and a few coats of chalk paint I plan to transform the LBJ just as I did the drop-leaf table that my neighbours passed on to me a few months ago. Then – yes there’s more – when I got back to Melbourne a friend told me that his daughter was having a garage sale on Saturday morning. He mentioned that there were bar stools for sale amongst other things so I was there by 8am. The bar stools look great in my kitchen. Possibly a wee bit high but I’m not tall so that suits me. Taller and broader guests will simply have to sit side saddle! Convinced I was on a winning streak I bought a lottery ticket on Saturday. Needless to say that didn’t come off – not yet! Better stick to the day job.

Top Dogs and Holistic Hounds

It was a relief to get up and find that my home-made flea trap had taken no hostages overnight. Not that I thought we had pests in the house, but I wanted to be doubly sure. After all, a female flea lays up to 50 eggs in a day. And adult fleas tuck themselves into a cocoon and lurk in your carpet or in between your floorboards for months – years if necessary – until the conditions are right for hatching. Yuk!

It all started when I sat down to read one of my Christmas presents: Top Dog by Kate Bendix. Bendix is a dog lover who got fed up with (and I quote the blurb) “the multinational gravy train that is the global pet market” and decided to find a more holistic way of looking after her dog. Top Dog is all about prevention rather than cure and looks at ways you can improve your dog’s diet and health. She attributes most canine health problems to a poor (over-processed) diet and other contributory factors such as lack or exercise or stimulation.
top dog

Like a convert to a new religion I devoured the book and was soon baking special biscuits with oat flour, bananas, peanut butter, mint, parsley and egg (they soon went mouldy as I forgot to put them in the fridge), stocking up on anti-bacterial colloidal silver to clean Bertie’s ears and scouring the internet for herbal flea prevention treatments. All good fun for those of us who would do ANYTHING for our pets. “Filtered water for Bertie?” asked my brother incredulously. “He’s a dog for God’s sake!” “Precisely”, I said, “he’s an organic, living being like us so why bombard him with chlorinated water when I have a filter tap on my sink?” I mean, hello…

And that’s one of the key points of the book. Dogs, like us, are sensitive to chemicals, pesticides, additives and food laden with sugar and salt (read the list of ingredients in some of your dog foods and you’ll be horrified). They can get yeast infections, allergies, depression, dental decay, arthritis, dermatitis and more.

Anyway, back to fleas – are you itching yet?! When I first got Bertie I used a liquid flea-killing preparation which you smear between the shoulder blades. It stinks, is poisonous, full of heavy duty chemicals and enough to give anyone an asthma attack. Bertie hated it and would writhe around on the floor trying to rub it off. Now I give him a pill as the lesser of two evils; it does the same thing from the inside out, but is still full of pesticides. Top Dog recommends a herbal flea treatment available in the UK called Billy No Mates , but I couldn’t find anything similar here and don’t fancy concocting my own remedy with neem oil (which she seems to recommend for just about every complaint) fenugreek, seaweed and other smelly substances.

Making the flea trap, however, was easy. You simply fill a shallow dish with water and liquid detergent, swish the water around and then leave the dish under a night light before you go to bed. Fleas will be drawn to the light and will hop in the water and drown. Thankfully, I only caught a small fly.

The chapter on what to feed your dog is excellent. She outlines the pros and cons of dry and wet foods, home-made and raw, or various combinations thereof. In our 20 months together Bertie has been through intestinal parasites, tummy upsets and a vicious virus which caused projectile ‘emissions’. After much experimentation, we’re now going well (meaning perfect poos) on a diet based on kibble which I supplement variously with soaked oats, raw carrot, some cooked veggies or a bit of kangaroo mince. When he starts devouring large chunks of grass in the park or gobbles up the pansies in my courtyard, I know I need to step up the green stuff in his diet. After reading the book, I also changed the brand of food he was on. Instead of the big name American product with an ingredient list that started with fillers like soy, corn, beet pulp and animal derivatives, he’s now on an all Australian product, which has a much more wholesome list of ingredients such as chicken, brown rice and oats. AND it happens to be cheaper.

Bertie also gets a raw chicken wing several times a week. He’s an exceptionally greedy dog and swallows his kibble without chewing. So the chicken wings give his jaws a work-out and help to remove plaque. I also give him dried kangaroo tendons (all natural) to chew on and tartar control biscuits containing bicarbonate of soda at bedtime. Anything to avoid cleaning his teeth with an old sock soaked in colloidal silver and/or doggie toothpaste.

It’s enough of a battle trying to groom him. That’s because he thinks he’s top dog. He doesn’t just think it, he knows it. “What was that about discipline?” he seems to ask, sitting regally on my bed, forelock flopped forward, eyes pleading and paw strategically placed over one of my slippers.

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But that’s all about to change. We’ve just had the most brilliant training session – mostly focused on leadership, space access and boundaries. Dogs need to know the rules and where they stand. If you want a dog in tip top condition, he needs to know that you are Top Dog.

Two in a bed and a lampshade on the head

It’s been a while since I shared a bed but here we were… If only he would stop tossing and turning and go to sleep. I kept ending up with my left side exposed as he (unintentionally I’m sure) hogged the bed covers, which, incidentally, are white and so were covered with his chest hairs by the morning. I think I got about four hours’ sleep. I guess it would’ve been easier if he hadn’t been wearing a lampshade on his head.

You see, I was sharing a bed with Bertie, my dog, a novelty for us both. His normal bedroom is in the laundry, and he is quite happy there. But on this occasion he was agitated, restless and a bit out of sorts. You can hardly blame him; he’d had the snip that morning and was clearly feeling the after-effects of the anaesthetic and the drugs, not to mention losing part of his anatomy.

How long do I have to wear this ridiculous Jane Austen bonnet on my head, Mum?

How long do I have to wear this ridiculous Jane Austen bonnet on my head, Mum?

I’d had him scheduled for castration last Christmas when he was nine months old. But, on doing my research, I learnt that testosterone is very beneficial for the bones, joints and muscles when a dog is developing and growing. So I cancelled at the last minute. The big drive to de-sex a male dog at six months is all about population control. But that’s not such an issue where I live: my courtyard is escape-proof but he’s anyway unlikely to pick up the scent of a female on heat as 99.9% of them have been spayed.

This Christmas – he’s now 20-months-old – I decided it was time to make my mind up for once and for all. And I decided to take the plunge. However small the risk, there’s now definitely no chance of Bertie hooking up with a girl and making babies, no chance of him getting testicular cancer later in life, less likelihood of him developing prostrate problems and some chance of him calming down a bit. Plus – and this was a bonus, not the deciding factor – the annual council registration fee reduces dramatically. A win-win, you could say.

So I was all ready to do the deed and to take this manhood-stripping decision on behalf of my beloved boy when I bumped into three dog owners sitting firmly in the non-castration camp the day before. Did I really need to get Bertie done, they asked? He didn’t seem to be displaying any of the troublesome testosterone-driven behaviours. They’d all been so glad they had left their dogs intact…. Just what I didn’t need! I wavered right up until the moment we walked into the vet’s at 8am the next morning.

Wavered and wept in fact! It’s scary handing your dog over to the surgeon’s knife. What if he didn’t pull through? What if he changed character and lost his mojo? What if? What if?! As it was he nearly pulled me over when I went to collect him that afternoon and walked him to the car. Even though he was agitated that first night, he was still up for chasing possums and rushing around whacking the walls (and my legs) with his Elizabethan collar. I’m still sporting some impressive bruises!

He was possibly a bit quieter those first few post-surgery days and we had to content ourselves with geriatric on-leash walks around the block, but I knew he was his old self when, even when encumbered by the plastic lampshade, he managed to pick up and steal my socks and run around the house until I chased him. Eight days later we had our first off-leash walk and Bertie ran around like a mad thing. Then at the weekend we went for a celebratory romp and swim on the beach.

But yesterday was our biggest adventure of all. I had arranged to have coffee with a lovely Italian friend (we met just recently when she stayed at my house with her sister as Airbnb guests) at one of the cafes in Fed Square. Now Cinzia knows I am devoted to my dog; she gave me a delightful blue mug “My Dog is my Best Friend” with pictures of paw prints and bones. So she thought it was a great idea to take Bertie for his first trip into the city and include him in on our catch-up.
He did bark at a wheelie suitcase on the train (perhaps it seemed like some kind of UFO to him) and then at the sparrows in Fed Square, but otherwise he behaved impeccably. Long may you live Bertie, my Bestie.

My first train trip

My first train trip

Watching for sparrows in Fed Square

Watching for sparrows in Fed Square

HAPPY CHRISTMAS ONE AND ALL!
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17890 kms from Sydney

On Sunday I was standing at the top of hill inside a modern spiral-shaped sculpture made of huge rocks called The Coldstone Cut in the heart of the Yorkshire dales. Buffeted about by the wind, we looked out from the viewing platform over the only remaining working aggregate quarry in Nidderdale. The information boards cited distances to various locations in the UK and around the world. When I read we were 17890 kmss from Sydney, that well-known song I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) by the Proclaimers came to mind! And then it stuck in my head for the rest of the day. ..

The Coldstone Cut

At the top of the Coldstone Cut

I was with my elder brother Charlie, his wife Pam, my niece Anna and her boyfriend Joe plus the two dogs Poppy and Rio on a day out in North Yorkshire. We drove from Knaresborough through Nidderdale and Pateley Bridge to the Moors. On the way we passed through Scotton where Guy Fawkes was born (I’m hoping to see some bonfire and firework action – if only through the window at Mum’s on 5th November) and followed the Tour de France route with painted bikes and bunting still adorning many a facade, garage forecourt and shop window.

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We parked at Hebdon and walked past ancient stone walls clad in thick layers of lush green moss and then followed the ghyll ( or beck) as it carved its way through the valley. It’s an ancient landscape that feels untouched by time, the water in the beck/stream peaty brown, the grass soft and spongy and carpeted in autumnal rust-coloured bracken. While much of the UK is dense and over-crowded, here there’s space, wilderness, birds and plenty of pure air. But this area wasn’t always a walk in the park – derelict buildings and workings date back to the mid 1800s when lead was mined here. Further along there’s a lime kiln that used to produce mortar and fertiliser. In those days conditions were harsh, health and safety minimal and child labour common.

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Walking up the ghyll with Poppy

Family Group

Charlie, Pam, Me and Anna – Joe took the piture

We were too pumped up on fresh air to dwell too much on the past and, tapping into our inner child, Joe, Anna and I ran, slid and slipped our way to the top of a hill from where we got magnificent views.

Anna and I

Anna and I at the top of the hail

All that exercise gave us good appetites and we went to the Red Lion at nearby Burnsall for lunch. Coincidentally, I had a mini break with Mum at the Red Lion in summer 2011. It’s an old building with lead-mullioned windows and well-worn, narrow, creaking steps up to the bedrooms. I recall being rather spooked by the information folder in the bedroom which advised that the pub had a resident ghost. Obligingly they supply guests with a sign to hang on the door saying – ‘ghost don’t stop here’. Whether this was a leg pull or not I will never know, but I hung up the sign and left the light on all night almost daring the spectre to appear. This time, I am happy to report, we had a spirit-free lunch apart from my vodka and tonic. What’s more I went the whole hog and had haggis served with pureed parsnip and carrot. Rather delicious and definitely not something I would get at my local cafe in Melbourne.

Giving My House an Airing

One of the reasons I renovated was to make my house more guest-friendly; that’s why I made a second bathroom out of a laundry cupboard and a ‘powder room,’ and created an ensuite bathroom to my room. Having two bathrooms avoids awkward nocturnal meetings in the corridor or having to queue up in your own house to brush your teeth. It’s nice to have left all that behind along with exams, backpacking and dormitories.

I’m now getting my house ship-shape for the Airbnb photo shoot, a free service offered by the hugely successful online accommodation business, which connects travellers with people in over 190 countries who have a spare room or entire property to rent out. Airbnb launched in 2008 and by 2012 had reached five million bookings. In 2014 Airbnb was valued at $10 billion, making it worth more than the worldwide portfolio of Hyatt Hotels. Impressive stuff! According to the webinar I tuned into, it’s all about building ‘virality’ (not to be confused with virility) into the DNA of your product. But that’s another story.

My Airbnb symbol - spot the beach huts!

My Airbnb symbol – spot the beach huts!

What I love about Airbnb is that you can escape the stuffy sameness of hotel accommodation and find a place that has character, is homely and enables you to meet and share stories with local residents. In December 2012 I stayed in a spacious and stylish flat in a trendy district of Copenhagen. Although I didn’t see her much (she had just met a new man), I got on really well with my host, a freelance photographer. She was great fun, helped me with my onward travel arrangements, offered me home-made marinated herring (you can’t go to Denmark and NOT try herring) on my last night and let me cuddle her pet rabbit. Although I fancy myself as something of an animal whisperer, (not counting the belligerent donkey in Greece who deliberately nudged a boulder in my direction), the rabbit took fright and shot into its burrow-like enclosure. Never mind.

That’s why I’ve decided to ask the Airbnb photographers to include a picture of Bertie in one of the shots, so prospective visitors know that this house has a resident hound, one who loves to be part of the action. I was initially worried that Bertie’s excitable nature was going to make it difficult with guests coming and going. But, thanks to a recent one on one training session, the boy is beginning to understand that jumping up is not cool but that sitting down definitely is, and earns him a few edible treats. He does still bark in tandem with the neighbours’ dogs (they don’t seem to understand that dogs, especially those designed to herd sheep need regular exercise, ARGH!) but if I catch him and shake the jar of coins before he flies out the laundry door flap and barks up a storm, he stays by my side ever hopeful that a biscuit will magically drop out of my pocket. I never go anywhere nowadays without dog poo bags and treats…

He does still bark furiously at the possums and gets so worked up that he tries to climb the fence, so I only let him out a couple of times before bed. I’m hoping that my guests will be so enchanted by Australia’s nocturnal native animals that they will overlook the occasionally canine cacophony. I can always offer earplugs as part of the package.

Barking at possums - who me?!

Barking at possums – who me?!

I’ve had a win!

I am very excited to share that my short story ‘A Brief Encounter’- adapted from my book Slowing in the Fast Lane: From Adventure to Zen and Everything in Between has been published on the Radio National website as part of their ‘Pocketdocs’ competition. The guidelines were that it had to be a story on the theme “I met a stranger” and be less than 500 words. The story I sent in was adapted from my D is for Dogs chapter, and, like all the stories in my humorous, memoir-style collection, is true and unembellished in any way.

You can read it here:

http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/360/projects/pocketdocs-2014/5768322

Like many writers I spend hours tapping away into the silence, into the void, racked with self-doubt so successes like this really encourage me to keep going and to honour my voice and way of writing. The RN editor commented on my strong voice.

What’s more, a good fried of mine, Felicity, herself a published author (mentioned in an earlier post on bee-keeping), recently read my book from beginning to end and really loved it. Armed with these two pieces of positive feedback, I am inspired to have another go at getting it published or to self-publish. Watch this space!

Talk to the animals

Further to my last blog about bees, I’m staying with the theme of the natural world. Incidentally, Felicity and Marc, my Surf Coast bee-keeping friends, returned home from holiday at the weekend to find their bees had swarmed. Although they only got in at two in the morning due to a delayed flight, they were up at five thirty to catch the bees and get them safely into a new hive. Interestingly, bees are at their most tame when they swarm. Basically, they are too drunk on honey to bother with us homo sapiens; they swarm either because all is well, the hive is overflowing and they need more room, or the queen is old or in poor health and needs replacing. In this case it was the former reason and a normal spring occurrence.

I find the interaction between humans and the natural world endlessly fascinating. How can we understand animals better and avoid the ‘them’ and ‘us’ dynamic where we impose our will on them and deny them their wisdom and role in maintaining a healthy planet? I sometimes get emails advertising animal communication courses and have been tempted to sign up and find out how to talk to the animals. Imagine how much it would help when training Bertie if I could reason with him without resorting to liver treats, a training leash, the occasional spray of a water pistol, hand signals and verbal commands. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could get into a still and meditative space and communicate energetically?

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If you think that sounds a bit airy fairy, then take a look at this wonderful documentary featuring the work of South African animal communicator Anna Breytenbach.

http://vimeo.com/94709579

Here is a synopsis of what it’s all about:

“Anna Breytenbach has dedicated her life to what she calls interspecies communication. She sends detailed messages to animals through pictures and thoughts. She then receives messages of remarkable clarity back from the animals.Anna can feel the scars hidden under a monkeys fur, she can understand the detailed story that is causing a bird’s trauma, she transforms a deadly snarling leopard into a relaxed content cat – the whole animal kingdom comes alive in a way never seen before – wild birds land on her shoulders, fish gather around her when she swims, and wild unfamiliar baboons lie on her body as if she is one of their own.
This is the first full length documentary film on the art of animal communication.”

At just under an hour long, this is not something to watch at your desk. But I urge you to grab your tablet or laptop and watch it at home one evening. It’s not only incredibly moving – I was in tears (of wonder) by the end but also really interesting. It looks at the origins of animal communication in animal tracking and how indigenous communities still retain a special connection to, and respect for, the animal kingdom. Anna’s work is grounded in truth and integrity. There’s no hocus pocus, hyperbole, mystique or magic. She simply puts herself into a calm and grounded space, edits out the white noise and connects with nature.

It’s inspired me to interact with Bertie in a different way. If I still my mind and body and tune in, perhaps I’ll learn to talk canine with him. Then I can explain that he doesn’t have to copy the neighbours’ dog and bark at the fence or get all feisty when people come to the door… But, even if I could chat to him about the possum problem (he likes to bark at them every night or go looking for them), I think he would say: “Mum, get over it. It’s in my nature. I’m a hunter. That’s the way I am.” And he’d be right. However much we anthropomorphize our pets (think doggie yoga, puppy chinos, clothing, birthday parties and worse), they are animals and we need to remember that. Time for us to woof off for a walk…

Tales of a Dog Walker

You never know who you are going to meet when you’re out dog walking. I once read, for example, that actor Bill Nighy is a dog lover. He was quoted in the Age as saying: “I’m one of those people who stop in the street if they see an attractive dog.” I used to be like that before I got my own dog.

Since Bertie came along, dog walking is part of my daily routine. I haven’t met any actors let alone Bill Nighy (shame) but I have had fun people-watching in the various parks and dog-walking areas.

Dendy Park is a large off-leash area and seems to attract gaggles of gossiping dog owners who stand around while their dogs amuse themselves. There’s a lot of talking and very little walking. I like to stride out and get a bit of exercise (especially as I’m not a gym-going, pilates-practising, yoga-loving, marathon-running woman) but I find that I get pulled into conversations and can’t extricate myself.

Walking up to my local dog oval is the easiest and most convenient option, but one I only choose in extremis. There’s quite an eclectic mix here: still a few stand-arounders – either chatting, on the phone or occasionally throwing a ball for Fido; then there’s the old dears with little dogs in coats; a couple of prancing poodles with bows in their hair; a few boisterous Labradors and a few men in suits in deep communion with their phones – perhaps checking the share price – while the rest of us do laps. It never ceases to amaze me that this heavily peed and pooed upon patch of earth doubles up as a football pitch in winter and a cricket pitch in summer; an unholy alliance, I say. You see, this park is full of dog poo. And that’s because people are too busy chatting, texting or phoning to keep an eye on their dogs. That’s why I hardly ever go there. I did once fantasize about putting up a sign: Life is karmic: what goes around comes around. Shit happens to those who don’t pick up after their dog. But I thought better of it.

Just one suburb away is Elsternwick Park, a large open area with a couple of lakes, a children’s playground and, on Sundays, a strange phenomenon in the form of Pug Wood. This is where a group of pug lovers and owners plant a flag and gather round to talk all things pug. Unfortunately, I was a bit too far away to get a good picture, but you get the idea.

A Pug Wood Gathering

A Pug Wood Gathering


Elsternwick Park attracts more arty types than my own suburb which is full of dyed blondes with 4-wheel drives. Here the men wear bandanas and John Lennon glasses, a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. The park has a distinctly grungy feel with a higher quota of rescue dogs.

My favourite place to walk Bertie is along the beach. Just a five-minute drive from my house is Melbourne’s iconic (and much photographed) beach hut beach. The world feels much less cluttered down by the sea; there’s plenty of sky and space, but it’s also a great place to meet people from all walks of life, whether it’s tourists snapping away at the huts, a bride and groom having their wedding photos taken, joggers decked out in matching lycra and the latest Nike running shoes or ordinary folk like me in jeans, fleecy jacket and much-worn lesser-brand runners.

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The social networking opportunities are second to none. Most mornings I meet Harley Davidson Man (HDM)walking his dogs sparky and chispa (like HDM I speak Spanish and so know that his dogs share the same name; chispa meaning spark in Spanish), a local builder who is busy buying and selling properties, a fellow writer whose first book has been published to great critical acclaim, fellow ex-pats, ladies who lunch and ladies who work or strive to change the world, retirees and lots of Asian tourists taking selfies and group shots in front of the beach huts.

I’ve found a wonderful new hairdresser through my beach friends, been invited to Bridge lessons, drinks, lunch and dinner, swapped recipes, publishing contacts and dog trainers. In fact, tomorrow Bertie and I are having our first one on one dog training session. I’m keen to stop him jumping up when people come to the door but, more than that, I want to get him to the required standard of obedience for us to take part in Story Dogs. Suzanne, the writer, helps to run the local Story Dogs scheme and told me about it. Story Dogs started in the USA and is a volunteer-run literacy program that helps children to read by teaming them up with a volunteer and a dog. The idea is that the children feel relaxed reading to a dog in a non-judgemental environment. A scheme that involves dogs and literacy gets my vote. It may be a little while before Bertie and I become accredited but we’re working towards it. All sorts of new worlds open for me at the beach.
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Frost with parrots

English people are renowned for obsessing about the weather (well, if that’s true it’s because they get their fair share of miserable Northern European grey skies, rain and chill) but, from my observations, we’re all pretty tuned into meteorology especially now we can access the forecast via our Smart phones.

Melbourne’s winter this year has thrown all sorts at us and, as an all-weather dog walker (try telling Bertie it’s pelting with rain and blowing a gale and we need to wait till it’s cleared), I’ve been out in some pretty inclement conditions. That’s where my UK training comes in handy: you simply layer up against the cold, don wellies, mac, hat, gloves and scarf and get on with it. Forget the whinging Pom thing, we’re remarkably resilient when it comes to weather.

We’ve had one of the coldest winters for many years with snow blanketing many places around Victoria that are normally untouched by such extremes. On Monday morning I was amazed to see a sprinkling of frost in the park when I took Bertie for a walk. I found it rather magical and it reminded me of Blightly, apart from the parrots screeching overhead, that is.

In the Bleak Mid Winter, Frosty Wind Made Moan...

In the Bleak Mid Winter, Frosty Wind Made Moan…

But on Sunday, the wind and rain held off and we enjoyed the most glorious winter sunshine. It was as if the weather Gods had called a truce and bathed sky and land in gentleness. I took Bertie on our favourite walk along the coastal path from Hampton Beach beyond Sandringham and towards Half Moon Bay. And what a wonderfully nurturing experience it was. As we descended the steps to the dog beach at Hampton, we passed a man chopping back some branches that had blown onto the path. He also had an orange ukulele with him and said he often came down to the beach to practise. Sadly I missed his practice but I did hear a Chinese woman singing a bit further along. She was sitting meditatively on a rock oblivious to passers-by and walkers. How I admired her insouciance! Then I met a South African couple walking Gorgeous, their Staffy. What a wonderful name for a dog. Everyone seemed to be smiling, even the dogs.

Looking towards Melbourne

Looking towards Melbourne

Looking towards Half Moon Bay

Looking towards Half Moon Bay

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For once I was not caught up in my head and felt really alive to what was going on around me: the calling of gulls; the gentle lapping of waves; the salty briny smell of the water; and the busy high notes of the fairy wrens as they flitted about. It was a day to breathe in, to feel the expansiveness and to be thankful.

Half Field Spaniel, Bertie loves being in the grass

Half Field Spaniel, Bertie loves being in the grass

We walked on and on, clambering up and over rocks, up and down grassy slopes, onto the path then back onto the beach for a bit of ball throwing and paddling. After a couple of hours, we stopped off at my favourite cafe, the Sandy Beach Kiosk by the Sandringham Yacht Club. It’s cosy, casual, scruffy, wonderfully unpretentious, serves hearty food and is dog-friendly. Over a cup of English breakfast (what else?!), I caught up with some other spaniel owners and their little girl, read sections of the Sunday papers and generally put the world to rights. A perfect Sunday morning.

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Renovations stopped play

It’s been a long time between blogs (writing my own and reading others) but not that long between drinks; which is not to say I have turned into a boozer but I have found that a medicinal whisky and soda (my maternal grandmother lived till her 90s on little tots of whisky) while soaking in my new claw-foot bath has helped soothe my frazzled nerves. Let me explain. Having sailed through my renovations by avoiding the whole thing down in Anglesea, I ran into a few issues on my return.

But it wasn’t the dust (even if it did find its way into EVERYTHING including the freezer compartment), the dirt, boxes and general chaos of drop sheets and furniture piled up in the middle of the living room that got to me, or the clothes dryer jammed next to my bed, or the chair that developed a coating of white fuzzy mould in the shed, or the wires hanging down from the bedroom and living room ceilings where light fittings are yet to be chosen. It was the Paint Problem (capitals intended). In my attempts to cut costs I had told my builder that I would not be using his painter, but would instead get my handyman to do it. Interestingly, my mother, when she was over, did express concern that I didn’t know about Mr H’s painting, but I chose not to listen. And, boy, do I regret it now!

Where do I start?!

Where do I start?!

The truth is that Mr H is not great at painting. So you can imagine my distress when I first got back to the house and noticed patchy painting, wiggly lines between walls and cornices, paint spots on the tiles (my gorgeous new black and white bathroom floor blemished already…) cupboards, mirrors and the timber floors. And that, a bit like Bunnings’ lowest prices (incidentally I’ve been to Bunnings about ten times in the last month) was just the beginning!

As diplomatically as I could (oh the speech rehearsing that went on beforehand), I told Mr H that he had done a good job but it was clearly too much to expect of him so I had decided to get professionals in to finish the job. Far from taking offence, Mr H was clearly relieved. Phew. One major hurdle overcome.

Someone recommended a team of professional painters to get it all into shape. Their price was similar to the quotes I had had from professionals in the beginning and so I thought it was worth the financial stretch (yikes). What’s more, a team of four were ready to start and blitz the place the following weekend if Bertie and I could vacate. I hadn’t much enjoyed evenings camping out on a sun lounger eating takeaways in front of the TV in my guest room (the sitting room was still under dust sheets), so was quite happy to decamp to my brother’s house just down the road complete with Aga cooker and cocker spaniel playmate for Bertie.

But the so-called professionals ripped me off and did an appalling job. And it still hurts. Every time I lie in the bath, wash up, sit on the loo (sorry but you do notice things from that vantage point), I see blobs and blotches of paint, paint on the floors, and lots of rough, uneven areas on the woodwork.

I found out that the boss guy of this dodgy outfit has one service for the mansion owners and one for the rest of us. One of his staff, a lovely guy and trainee painter (that makes him cheaper you see), let slip that the boss had told him: “Don’t take too much time on this job. She’s not paying much.” He had the cheek to tell the student that I was paying 50 per cent less than I actually was. Needless to say the woodwork didn’t get properly sanded down or prepared. And the belligerent boss insisted on using oil-based enamel even though I requested water-based. “No worries (his catchcry), I’ve already bought oil-based paint,” he said in his thick Eastern European accent. Perhaps he had purchased a job lot, I couldn’t help thinking afterwards. So the place STANK when I finally moved back.

Dusting off the contents of my wardrobe

Dusting off the contents of my wardrobe

What’s more, the painters (well it was just the student for the last two of the four days) didn’t seem to know what was and wasn’t included in the job. So I had to yoyo back and forth to my house, checking on progress. But the biggest challenge was standing up to the boss man when he came to collect his money and refusing to pay the total amount until the work was brought up to an acceptable standard. I was scared; he’s an imposing man, four times my size, a bit of a bully and, I suspect, a misogynist. If I had rehearsed my speech to Mr H, this time I wrote a dissertation. The bastard tried to intimidate me, to pull the wool over my eyes blaming an old house for imperfections in walls and woodwork (for someone that grew up in houses dating from the 1700s in Britain, a house built in 1969 is NOT old.) So that didn’t wash. Then he was rude to me (If I had known you were going to be so difficult…) but I stood my ground and went round pointing out the areas that needed attention, such as a door that had clearly not been sanded. Grudgingly he agreed to send back the student for a few hours (it turned into a day) and apologised for not project managing the job more closely. Something about his son having bad asthma.

There were 56 bits of masking tape highlighting areas that needed fixing when the student arrived. He did his best, and in fact unbeknown to his boss, is coming back this weekend to fix up more areas but we’re never going to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. At some stage I will stop looking at the place with a magnifying glass and let go of the drama of it all.

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Thank Goodness I had a comfortable base at my brother’s house as the whole episode knocked me for six (add a few noughts and you’ll appreciate just how painful it was!), but it wasn’t just the money or the bad craftsmanship, it was all the nervous energy it gobbled up as I vainly tried to juggle work, tax demands, backlogged paperwork, cleaning and scrubbing paint-flecked everything, unpacking my house (I couldn’t find anything) and spending weekends flogging round IKEA, Bunnings and Masters looking at carpets, fixtures and fittings and trying to track down someone to lay a bit of vinyl in the laundry.

I went through about ten days of total brain fog. I got lost in several car parks, went shopping for milk and came out with everything but, struggled to focus on my work and would spend hours on one paragraph, sent invoices out with the wrong number, left the oven on one night, tried to turn the television on with my phone and so on. You get the picture. I was totally overwhelmed. And into the bargain I had a severe migraine (Bertie dog took advantage and kept me company on my bed; what better therapy), another massive paint-induced headache a week later and several episodes of bursting into tears. But there was an upside; I changed the colour from Hog Bristle quarter (too beige) to Antique White USA and it looks great.

Thank god for soothing baths!

Thank god for soothing baths!

And we’re winning now and it is beginning to look like home. I love my new bathroom, my breakfast bar in the kitchen and my $180 antique shop period sofa shipped all the way from Gippsland makes a cosy spot to curl up of an evening. If I haven’t lost you in the drama (yes, I’ve bloggd on a bit long haven’t I?), stay tuned for the next episode; next week my builder returns to get the place ready for carpets and to install fixtures and fittings and I’m awaiting quotes to lay vinyl in Bertie’s bedroom aka the laundry.