A trip down south in search of Mr. Darcy...

We recently took a trip down south to Pemberton (four hour drive from Perth, five and a half if you set the sat nav incorrectly). To be honest, my motivation for this trip was largely based around the fact that Pemberton sounds a bit like Pemberley - that great rolling Derbyshire estate owned by Mr Darcy in 'Pride and Prejudice' -- and I had some half arsed notion that I might actually spot Colin Firth's 'Darcy' emerging from a lake, ruffle shirt clinging, dripping with lake-water, brooding and proud. 

Oh lovable, proud, Darcy!

To an extent I almost did get a bit of Jane Austen's England. Pemberton, and the surrounding area, is astonishingly green and were it not for the red sand which bordered the roads and tracks (oh, and the tin houses - lots of tin houses!), one could almost believe they were driving through Derbyshire, with verdant hills and lush forests. 

We visited the beautiful Karri Valley resort, which nestles snugly on the edge of Lake Beedelup, and offers accommodation in wooden cabins on legs, crouching unobtrusively among the trees. That's right, we left our tree-house in the Perth hills -- travelled more than five hours and paid actual money -- to stay in a tree-house on legs among the trees in Pemberton.

Oh but it was worth it! The lake was a dramatic, shimmering promise – diamonds darting across the surface -- bordered by a thick forest of tall Karri trees, and on our first morning it was unanimous that what we simply had to do -- like IMMEDIATELY -- was hire two boats and go out rowing on the lake.

And as DH -- who grew up on an island and learned to row at a very young age -- skated off across the lake with ease, I sat in my tin boat trying to figure what to do with the oars. My upper body strength has never been up to much, and as I struggled with first left, then right, I found myself spinning around in circles, going nowhere, much to the amusement of some fishermen near the jetty.

It's quite hard to row a boat you know; pull too hard with your right arm -- which is hard not to do if you're right handed -- you will spin to the left. This kept happening over and over and if it had been possible to just throw the oars aside and stomp off announcing ‘I’m outa here’ I would have, but by then we had drifted quite far out, and the small matter of being in the middle of a lake meant I had to continue spinning first clock-wise and then anti-clockwise, over and over again, until I found the jetty again.

Flopping onto the grass, I grabbed a book and waited for DH to finish showing off on the lake.

As I lay there, book shielding the dazzling sun from my eyes, he suddenly emerged from the lake, pulling his boat behind him, dripping wet and brooding. And yes, perhaps with a little pride too. It seems I got my Darcy after all....

Happy 40th Birthday DH!

Why it feels as if Father Noel Furlong has moved in at the moment..

School holidays nightmares...

I hate school holidays. They feel like a personal attack on those of us who are reckless enough to have more than two or three kids. I don't quite know who is inflicting this attack -- I haven't thought it through that far -- but probably some kind of 'one-child policy' conspiracists ...or rather, 'two-to-three-child-policy' conspiracists, who disapprove of the four-or-more brigade).

I say this because, when I had just a couple of kids I quite liked the school hols; for one I could snooze late by locking the bedroom door so the children couldn't escape (they all slept in my bed anyhow), putting on a Little Mermaid DVD, and throwing brioches, muffins and milk at them so that I could snatch an extra hour of semi-dreaming, albeit with a Disney soundtrack.

We'd eventually get dressed and venture out to a play centre or park for a couple of hours, followed by baby-bowls from Bewley's (ah for the days when the kids would eat vegetables..), and best of all, I didn't have to worry about having school uniforms ready for the morning.

And on some days we wouldn't even make it out of pyjamas at all; I'd laze the day away reading novels or watching the box-set of Pride and Prejudice (BBC adaptation), while the children made tents under the kitchen table and emptied the cupboards of saucepans. I'd feed them crackers and petit-filous, and not once have to worry about whether there was any bread for the school lunches in the morning. At night I could stay up late watching crap TV like Forensic Detectives, while drinking cheap prosecco from Lidl, without a care for the morning hangover.

Time loses all meaning during school holidays, days blend into each other, you drift through the week with no idea what day it us,and any sudden engagement or appointment suddenly feels like an intrusion.

And I think it's this loss of structure that, while so charming and whimsical with three children, becomes the overwhelming problem when you have more than this - I need a routine or I'm lost I tell you, LOST! 

Nowadays, school holidays -- unless they involve a trip abroad with DH at the helm  -- can best be described by comparing them to that scene from Father Ted, from the aptly entitled episode 'Hell', where Ted and Dougal visit a caravan park for their annual holiday, only to discover that Father Noel Furlong -- possibly the most annoying TV character in recent times -- along with his youth-club members, is also staying in the caravan. Yep, if you know that episode, you get the picture.

I'm goin' mad Ted...

School is a blessed relief from kids, particularly when your partner works away. It gives you time to do the shopping, touch-up your roots, watch the news, or execute 40 sit-ups without at least one child trying to climb onto your stomach, while everyone else points and laughs (annoyingly, DH thinks it's hilarious to whistle the Rocky theme tune every time I try doing sit-ups...nothing is more likely to put you off than that).

Yes school is essentially free child-care, and if they learn how to spell or read a map into the bargain, well bring it on, I'm all for it!


It's that time of year again...
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When wearing a cowl goes too far...

X-Factor UK is back and as barmy as ever (I can't be doing with the Australian X Factor - I mean I'm delighted that Mel B and Ronan Keating still have careers somewhere in the world, but I'm simply not interested in investing my time in watching them.) This is  the show where uttering the immortal line 'this means the world to me', before breaking down in tears, is a pre-requisite to getting a place in the Live Finals.

Oh how I missed the high-jinx and frankly insane judges decisions, which are clearly only made to incite fury from the Tweeting masses and Facebook campaigners. (Oh, and Gary, I've missed Gary). I mean, seriously, how Louis could have chosen Rylen* over that girl (sorry, she was better than Rylen but still can't remember her name, which probably tells you all you need to know about the voting pattern on the X Factor). Just for a second, try to imagine last years Wagner, or Diva Fever, or our friend Rylen making it to the live finals of the X Factor USA? - no, me neither. X Factor UK -- with all its pantomimic, freak-show lunacy -- you gotta love it!

BTW I think Ella looks like a winner, although I do have a soft spot for the quirky Lucy, who appears to be the love child of Norman Wisdom and Victoria Wood. As for the boy-bands? Meh - who cares!

* Screamingly camp who simply cannot sing but is prone to questionable Grace Jones-esque outfits who did a pretty ghastly rendition of Spandau Ballet's 'Gold' on Saturday night. Oh and check out how he reacted when he was given a place in the live shows - hilarious stuff!