Why I love Ikea and hate FIFO...

Ever since an illicit copy of the Ikea catalogue landed in my lap sometime in the early 2000s, I’ve had a love affair with the store. Back in those days -- due to Irish planning laws which deemed the store too big -- there was no Ikea in Ireland, and we were obliged to take the ferry to the UK (as we were/still are for so many other things), or head north of the border to fill our cars to the ceiling with those sleek, Swedish and affordable designs. It moved beyond the dull, family-owned furniture shops which dominated towns and cities of the Republic at the time - with their ugly squishy sofas and mahogany nests of tables. It was revolutionary, it was exciting, with its effortless, clean designs and clever flat-packaging.
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When the second boy-child was only six-weeks-old, we went on holiday to Tuscany. Yes I know, I know, six weeks old - what was I thinking? And worse was the discovery that the large haul of 50's inspired dresses from Debenhams and Oasis -- which I had amassed over the pregnancy in preparation for 'the other side' -- were ill-fitting and unattractive on my milky, postnatally-violated body, and as I sauntered down the lungomare in Viareggio, bloated and pale, I felt less like Sophia Loren and more like Zsa Zsa Gabor -- the latter years. (And yes, I know she’s Hungarian, but I can't think of any overweight, dodgy looking Italian women, which is saying something in itself).

Anyway, I digress; one beautiful Tuscan morning, rather than exploring the narrow streets and cafés of Lucca where we were staying, we drove to Florence - not to visit the Duomo or the Ponte Vecchio, but rather the large blue and yellow-signed warehouse on the outskirts of the city, in order to buy one of the coveted Cath Kidston-designed shower curtains, several sets of bug-themed duvet and curtains, a snowflake-inspired mosquito net and two side-tables.

Sad, isn't it?

Remarkably, with some clever packing we manage to squish these extra items into our suitcase. However, showing up to the check-in desk 45 and a half nano-seconds late for our connecting flight at Stanstead, meant we had to wait for -- and pay for -- the next flight, despite much weeping and pointing at the sleeping infant ‘but he’s a newborn!’ 

Unmoved, the stone-faced Ryanair customer-relations manager stood staring at his watch, his heart hardened to our plight (no doubt having come through several weeks of intensive insensitivity training, while mentally repeating the Michael O'Leary-inspired mantra 'the customer is always wrong, the customer is ALWAYS wrong!')

And as we sat in the departures lounge, several hundred euros poorer, it soon became apparent that due to delays, our original flight hadn't even boarded yet and we were surrounded by what should have been our fellow passengers from the original flight. That’s Ryanair for you, service with a smile and a surcharge.

Anyway, here in Perth the love affair with the Swedish giant has continued. Not only does it offer a free drop-in creche, but I can also feed all five children in the canteen for less than $20. LESS THAN $20! I pay more than that in McDonald's and don’t get me started on Miss Maud who recently charged me $40 for 4 sausage rolls, 4 juices and a coffee and muffin; I know which Swede I prefer. So while the kids play for free, I get to wander around, filling my yellow bag with plastic coat hangers, heart-shaped ice-cube trays and bolts of fabric which will no doubt languish in my cupboard until I eventually pack them up into a bag for the homeless....

Fit in or F*ck off, as they say (or FIFO...)

So DH has been and gone, and in truth I can't say I'm diggin' this whole FIFO experience. Yes he gets to be home for a whole week at a time, which -- purely from the perspective of avoiding the morning school-run -- is a big positive for me (and the kids; they get to be on time for five whole consecutive days), but beyond that all we do is laze the day away like students, shuffling around in pyjamas, drinking endless cups of coffee, watching Cbeebies or Selling Houses Australia (you gotta watch it, hilarious stuff!), while reminiscing about how good life was before we had kids. 

Of course in DH's head, a week off means a week-long shag-a-thon, something which is sadly at odds with what I have in mind (which is largely based around sharing housework and having someone to get drunk with) which only adds to the crushing disappointment and sense of anti-climax (no pun intended) when it's all over.

Eventually we'll decide to get dressed and venture out for a coffee or lunch, just as it's time to collect the kids from school. And all my feeble attempts at any sort of routine while he's been away, is blasted to bits; zumba classes abandoned, mid-week sobriety cast aside, coffee mornings with friends unceremoniously ditched, and before you know it, it's all over and I'm driving him  back to the airport again thinking 'was that it?'

The value of having a partner come home each evening -- just at that point where you are seriously considering either necking a whole bottle of vodka or getting into the car and just driving far, far away -- can not be underestimated, and having it rationed to just one week in three is quite frankly, bollocks. And don't get me started on the broken dishwasher, Ikea shelves that need assembling, and the midnight sounds of a crazed murderer outside my bedroom door.... DH, if you're reading this, please come home...

See you in two weeks!

Pets, poo and winter in Oz...

Perhaps I was a little unfair to Aussies in my last post. I must admit I was generalising about Midland which -- it must be said -- doesn't fairly represent, well, anywhere. Midland is what you'd call 'red-neck' country, and what else can you expect what with all those houses hidden in the woods and chainsaws and stuff? Oh, and sensual massage parlours, lets not forget about those (my favourite of which is called 'il signore's Retreat - sensual massage' -- which is located between a petrol station and a tyre shop -- and which presumably comes with a happy ending, so to speak).

Getting to know you!

I reported three months ago that I had yet to lay eyes on my neighbours and as of today this remains the status quo. Although I would quite like to have a word with them, just to let them know that their house appears to be splitting down the middle and on the verge of collapsing and rolling down the hill (I don't think they can see that from their side). But seriously, I would like to meet them, not least to satisfy myself that my life isn't in danger -- what with DH being away on FIFO -- particularly since I have spent many nights laying in bed, frozen to the sound of the possum creeping about on the roof, imagining my neighbour up there, wearing a mask made out of his mother, carrying a lump hammer.

Anyway, from my experience Aussies are nice people, although they do love their pets just a little too much for my liking. I don't think I've met anyone here who doesn't have a dog for example. I guess it's the British in them. The Irish are slightly more dismissive of their pets, although they've got nothing on the Arabs. In the UAE I could probably count on one hand how many times I saw someone with a pet (although I do remember reading a disturbing story about an Emirati man who was found with a 'pet' lion in his car, its claws removed).

Islam supposedly looks kindly on animals (with the exception of pigs of course -- they really hate 'em), and although the Qur'an urges compassion towards them, the truth is that many Muslims see dogs as ritually unclean and avoid them at all costs. I remember giggling guiltily as I watched a Pakistani gardener frantically trying to escape from a neighbour's pet dog, terrified of being rendered unclean by the playful animal. Of course the more the man yelped and dodged, the more the dog redoubled his efforts. And funny as the scene was, I empathised deeply with the man, I too have been a victim of dog-abuse (or should that be human-abuse? Well dog-abuse sounds better...)

Here I am, aged 11, walking into town with my sister, wearing a fetching lemon top with matching lemon jeans (I know, I know, but in my defence it is the 80's). As we stroll along the main street, a large labrador puppy gallops amicably over and proceeds to jump up on me. His paws are covered in poo. Yes poo, and within seconds so too is my lemon ensemble. My sister is almost wetting herself with laughter, but I am failing to see the funny side of the situation, and to make matters worse have to suffer the indignity of walking back home covered in dog-poo, no longer fancying that large 99 ice-cream that I had set out to purchase.

This for me is a painful memory, and I never quite got over it, and to this day I cannot stand dogs coming anywhere near me.


However, I was in a shop the other day which sold -- wait for it -- dog diapers. Yep, nappies for dogs. Of course my first reaction was - Preposterous! Ridiculous! until I reflected back on that miserable afternoon in the 80's and suddenly it all made sense.

But it gets better -- you can also buy DVDs for your pets here too -- in case they get lonely while you're out at work I presume -- or maybe to keep them quiet while you're making the dinner or having a shower. They seem to consist entirely of footage of other pets which I suppose is reasonable, after all we humans generally prefer movies about other humans.

But the good news is that today is the first day of my first Australian winter. Yes, as I sit typing --  barefoot and sleeveless -- looking outside at the sun fading through the eucalypti, mother nature is busily ushering in Old man Winter, readying herself for three months of 'not very hot but let's face it not exactly cold' weather.

Certainly autumn felt mostly like a really nice Irish summer, the sort that has everyone racing to the nearest beach, clambering for a little bit of rash-inducing sun, before complaining that it's too bloody hot, just as the water shortage notices start appearing in the local papers. Of course the shops here are full of winter clothes, which just seems incongruous to anyone who's idea of winter is lashing rain and pitch blackness by 4 pm. But I shan't complain, at least I don't have to fret about filling the oil tank.