Halfway through the first Sunday I squirmed and fidgeted to a composition that had some listeners rejoicing and others hiding until it was over: Messiaen’s Turangalila Symphonie (at number 81). Over on Twitter, Tim Senior declared the piece “uneasy, spiritual, effortfully joyful“. Effortful? This sounded like praise for the emperor’s new, horrible clothes. A word you’d use to describe art that was conspicuously messy, noisy and sort of…awful. Like giving birth in an art gallery.

===

The thing is, I grew up listening to bad music. My parents played the classics. Then they played the Hooked on Classics. Then they played Richard Clayderman’s piano, James Galway’s flute, Abba’s moog and guitars, Herb Alpert’s tijuana brass and the Inca’s godawful pan pipes.

They liked music. Awful music. Still do: my mother proudly announced on the phone just the other day that my father was playing Andre Rieu’s Christmas concert and it was SO LOUD!

But all that bad music may have opened my ears, because I spent the next twenty-five years singing, more or less.

As I prepared to leave home for university, my mother handed me a clipped-from-the-paper audition notice for the Queensland Youth Choir. A few weeks later, in a small room in Kelvin Grove, the musical director declared me in possession of a “warm tone” and signed me up. It was the end of the eighties and we were a show choir, a flash of Fame, a grown-up Glee.  We opened the Queensland Tourism Awards, performed David Fanshawe’s African Sanctus, laboured through Boojum! and scored a week-long gig in Japan. It was four years of intoxicating bliss.

===

So when Classic100 came along my inclination was to defend the popular and the crowd-pleasing (because why shame people for loving glorious anthems?) But the countdown and the debate that accompanied it made me think, and for that I am deeply thankful.

I laid down, headphones in ears, to listen to the final five on the list: Rachmaninov, Vaughan Williams, Gershwin, Holst and Elgar. I felt connected, temporarily, to that slice of Australia to which these things mattered dreadfully much. It was nice.

And then, after it was over and everyone had retired to their corners and their beds, Julian Day played a piece that didn’t make the cut, and I hung on the line and listened.

It was “Black Angels” by George Crumb, an experimental piece about heaven and hell, angels and devils. It spoke so immediately, so clearly and so intricately to me; became not just an aural but a visual work in my head, that I wondered if I had taken some enabling substance. Within the first few bars a quiet and sinister cold descended. I heard frost forming on trees and ponds hardening into ice and snow settling on dead things. This was music to freeze by.

And just like that, it became crystal clear. Like Tim Senior said: “Isn’t that the sort of thing music should do? Not just soothe.”

I live near an expanse of sporting fields. On winter mornings it’s a frozen sea. On summer afternoons, it’s either a straw-coloured desert or a lush green cushion. This year, cushion.

It being warm, and having walked a mile or two, and recovering from an illness, I collapsed on the grass in the shade of a tree. The next time I propped myself up on an elbow there were two young men setting up a fitness circuit, right there on the oval. There was a bar bell, a kettle bell, a skipping rope on top of a nearby concrete plinth. A squat-jump station. The soccer goal post was a pull up bar: one chin up, one toes up, repeat. Then repeat all of it. Welcome to Crossfit.

I don’t normally eyeball the Mens Health stereotype. I think it boiled down to this:

1. They seemed young. No, not that young, but young, like late teens. I liked their companionable effort. The way that some men at that age – for a variety of reasons – set physical goals for themselves that swiftly turn into obsessions. How much can you lift, how much can you squat, how many reps can you do?
2. I was really impressed by the effort they’d gone to, in a public place, to put themselves out there with all their showy equipment and “Hey, check this out” moves. Dedication with a side of poseur.
3. It looked like a gut-wrenching workout, so I felt a bit “WOO! HIGH FIVE!” for them.

Anyway, with each new effort my shirtless young hero’s six-pack buckled appealingly and as the workout extended, his olive skin started to shine with sweat. So there I was, Unaccustomed As I Am To Staring and old enough to be his mother. I felt…well…I felt a bit like this, really:

Keep it up, son. I’m just (as they say over at the bodybuilding forums) mirin.

PS. I’ve been looking for the slightest reason to link to the stupidest, most awesome, several page, first world problem thread in which a bunch of bodybuilders argue about how to fit a Pizza Hut Big Box into a bar fridge. This seems like a good enough excuse. Here it is.

It looked amazing. I say looked because it was another two hours before I tasted it. It was some kind of salad of couscous, cashews, yogurt, capers, cucumber, baby tomatoes and herbs (these last three picked minutes before from our kitchen garden), impressively plated into a small campfire whose kindling consisted of vegetarian sausages (I am embarrassed about eating vegetarian sausages and would not have mentioned them but it becomes relevant later) and twigs of fried haloumi. It was beautiful. And promising.

So beautiful and promising that I decided to take its picture. With my iPhone. My shiny, white, one-month-into-its-24-month-contract 4S iPhone. And where would my iPhone be? Well it would be here. No? Then it must be here. No. Here? Nope.

And then I started to get that sick, gripping feeling because the last time it had definitely been here was in the pocket of my shorts. The shorts in which I had recently walked a couple of miles trailing my kid and his bike around the local parks and playgrounds.

Awful.

So I left my dinner on its plate and retraced my steps. ALL OF THEM. Twice. Paying special attention to any place where I had stopped, paused or broken into a jog. Eventually I conceded defeat and headed home to the family, who had disappeared in the car and left me locked out. They were looking for me. This could be good news or bad news. I started to drag myself down the street again, decided I may as well stay put and sat out the front to wait, making a mental list of all the damage control things.

But guess what! It was good news. Someone had found my phone, answered it and invited them over to pick it up. So lucky. We trooped inside the house and I put My Precious in its spot.

And that’s when my partner said “Did you eat your sausages?” And I said no, because I’d been locked out until now. And so had the dogs.

The dogs.

We went and stared at my meal like a couple of detectives.

Richard: You didn’t eat the sausages?
Me: No. And I think I had four pieces of cheese, not three!
(What am I, Goldilocks? “Someone’s been eating out of MY bowl, Richard.”)

We stared at my dinner a bit more. It looked a bit disheveled, but gently. As if sausages had been…eased out. By a dog.

And so poor Richard, whose beautiful, promising salad was now a victim of crime, said “Throw it out.”

But do you know what I did next? I sat down and ATE MY DOG FOOD. Because even though a dog (or dogs) had recently stolen vegetarian sausages out of it, it still looked pretty good. And it was delicious. And also, it was pretty hilarious that the dog (or dogs) stole vegetarian sausages and left most of the haloumi and OH HO the joke’s on you, dog (or dogs), because now they can eat vegetarian sausages like the rest of us. Or instead of the rest of us.

And a certain Good Samaritan in my neighborhood is going to get a great big bunch of THANK YOU tomorrow.

Australian and World Health Organisation guidelines for infant nutrition currently recommend “exclusive breastfeeding” for the first six months of a baby’s life. Exclusive breastfeeding means that human breastmilk is the only source of nourishment. (The method of delivery – breast or bottle – doesn’t matter.)

So how’s that working out?

Today the Australian Institute of Health and Welfare released the first Australian National Infant Feeding Survey.

At the four month mark, only 27% of Australian babies are exclusively breastfed. By five months that figure drops to 15% and at six months of age only 2% of babies have breastmilk as their only source of nourishment.

Maybe “exclusive” breastfeeding is a bit too strict a target. Let’s drill down a bit, and look at infants that are “predominantly” breastfed. What that means is, breastmilk is the predominant source of nourishment. (The definition also allows for consumption of water, cordial (!), juice (!) and medicines. But no formula.)

At four months of age, 35% of infants are “predominantly” breastfed.  At five months, 21% and by six months of age only 4% of babies are predominantly breastfed.

Given the government’s position, these figures seem, well, low. They’re low.

Worryingly, there’s a whole basket of demographic measures that  increase (or decrease) the likelihood that a mother’s infant will be breastfed.

Younger mothers, mothers with less education, mothers with lower incomes, indigenous mothers, mothers who smoke, mothers who are obese (Obese? Why did they even test for this?)…The babies of women with these characteristics are much less likely to be predominantly breastfed at that four month mark.

And in some cases the gap is huge. The babies of mothers over 35 years of age are 2.5 times more likely (39.3%) to be predominantly breastfed at four months old than the babies of mothers under 24 years of age (16.4%). Something for Dr Barry Walters to consider.

There is some good news. Breastfeeding is “initiated” for 96% of babies. At six months, 60% of infants are still receiving “some” breastmilk.

But breastfeeding rates are diverging along socio-economic lines.

What’s going on here? And what can, or should, we do about it?

And so I climbed a mountain this morning. You know those psych tests where you have to choose one of two options, even though you hate them equally? You could profile me in a statistically significant way using action and inaction couplets. Presented with a choice of:

(A) Climb mountain
(B) Lie on couch

I am 75% likely to choose (A). I know, stupid.

Mount Tennent, in the lovely and underrated Namadgi National Park, is just under 1400 metres above sea level, which is embarrassingly short. But kind of a big deal in Australia where our mountains top out at around 2200 metres. It’s a massive torso of granite squatting imposingly at the bottom end of the ACT, the little village of Tharwa at its feet. I have wanted to climb it for AGES.

Here’s the thing: it’s hard. You gain 800 metres of height in only about 7 kilometres of distance. There are lots of steep, rocky, technical bits as well as stretches of alpine meadow and fire trail.

Richard is an ultra runner which means “I’ll be gone for HOURS!” and also means that there are energy bars in the house, so I took one of those and 750 ml of water (not enough) and a mandarin I found lying around. His next event is the Bogan to Hotham, Australia’s toughest mountain race for people who drive powerful Aussie sedans.

What? Oh. Well it sounds like Bogan to Hotham.

The route is decorated with tiny wildflowers (including weird miniature daisies that looks like they are in ultraviolet light) and wombat poop. Not just anywhere, either. Apparently wombats like to shit right on the tops of small boulders which, if you can picture a wombat, is pretty fierce. That means awesome. Clearly they have nothing better to do than hang out with their mates all:

Dude. Check this out. I bet you I can balance a shit on that rock.
Whatever, hairy arse, bring it.
~seconds pass~
Duuude.

The final kilometre never. ends. I was saving my snacks for the summit, but I started to hallucinate wildly about sugar, so I pulled out my mandarin and ate one segment each 10 metres. And then, about a pip’s throw from the top I choked on some mandarin and thought how embarrassing my memorial would be if I died right then and there like Mallory.

Leonie Doyle
DIED 17.12.11
Choked on mandarin
Didn’t make it

But I did! And so did Mallory, probably. Hurrah!

The view, of course, was astounding.When I got to the top I first looked out to the south-west to the Australian Alps, which aren’t like Alps at all really, but beautiful and rugged with their bumpy, exposed plateaus. Then I turned around and looked back towards Canberra and I actually took a dramatic breath. It was just so like flying.

===

Time: 2 hours up, 1.5 hours down. Map says 6 hours. FIT AS BUGGERY.
Ate: Winners bar, mandarin and sunscreen.
Recommended for: Moderately fit people. Or moderately unfit people who are prepared to put the hard work in. And maybe sleep out for a night.

I actually tried to steal it, but it wouldn’t come off. Do you have any idea how undignified it is to be scratching at the corners of a bit of paper that is glued high up in a very public place and having tiny little bits tearing off it and getting nowhere? Of course you do. This poem was written by someone who has access to very good glue. Photographic credits go to Richard, who was in the vicinity when I decided I needed a copy of it. Email log:

Me: Don’t forget to photograph my poem today. Or else I will have to do it.
Richard: k, though it will be a CIP.

Crappy iPhone Pic.

~time passes~
~phone rings~

Richard: Do you mean the big concrete thing in the square?
Me: Yes, I mean that thing, except it’s metal.
Richard: Metal?
Me: It’s silver, isn’t it?
Richard: Okay. There’s no poem.
Me: Yes there is. Look up high.
Richard: There’s just this page of typed stuff.
Me: That’s it!
Richard: It’s not a poem.

We left it there because I already felt bad about sending him to take the photograph because he stepped on a chicken the other day and injured his foot. One of those wind-up chickens that sort of hops and pecks and it is cute and hilarious for about…once. And then the rest of the time you are all “Who left that fucking chicken in the middle of the rug?”

But whatever, here it is!

Forty-six commas, in case you were wondering. Who wrote this? What does it mean? Here’s what it means:

1. Hello, ladies. If a man asks you out, accept.  Because let’s face it.
2. One: Macking (GOOD). Two: Lonely (BAD).
3. Three: Lonely, plus alcoholic and schizo (TERRIBLE).
4. Ladies. Some of you are complete sluts (GOOD), but the other half are undersexed (BAD) and one day you’ll be dead (DEAD).
5. Don’t hook up at the pub (BAD) because the dudes there are pissed and macho and in denial (GAY). Hook up at the promenade instead. The promenade rules!
6. Don’t laugh, assholes, you know I’m right.

In the heading, the writer vents his frustration at rejection. He allocates a capital letter to Approaching, indicating that this is an act of some significance to him. What reward does he seek? Second base, I guess. Or better. You know, whatever.

I’m not sure whether the 50% who are cowardly avoiding dating become the 90% who are sexually frustrated later on. Or are they different groups? I don’t know.

Also, the promenade thing. A promenade is “a public place for leisurely walking”. The sign is stuck to a giant sculpture in the Woden town square, which is an open area linking government buildings and shopping centre. Public servants are leisurely walking there ALL THE TIME. There is also a library, a post office and both a bus AND needle interchange just a few steps away. These are all good places to meet people.

I will stick my interpretation up next to it, in case the author wants to clarify anything.

Until then, my advice is that all Approaches made in Woden town square should be treated warily. Unless it is me asking for a leg-up so I can glue something to a sculpture.

Because you may not know this but I went to school with Mark Bode.

And I wanted to be a journalist  too, but the school principal Brother Roger told me to write “Law” on my QTAC form because he was a cunt distant acquaintance of Lionel Murphy. Or maybe it was Lionel Bowen. I can’t remember and according to Wikipedia they are the same person anyway. So that’s what I did because Catholic schoolgirl, that’s why.

I dont know what Mark Bode wrote down on his QTAC form or whether he undertook any post-secondary education and I am not bitter about those FOUR YEARS WASTED IN LAW SCHOOL AND TWO HUNGRY YEARS OF ARTICLED CLERKSHIP, but his newspaper cadetship belongs to ME and by God one day I will have it.

Only then can I regain my journalistic birthright and take my rightful place as a part-time freelance contributor to a small regional newspaper that returns 19 results in this blog called Angry People in Local Newspapers.

Instead of my current meaningless existence.

But in the meantime I would like an avatar of his head on a plate.

Yours etc.

It has recently come to my attention that there is an on-again, off-again segway business down at the lake (the “on” and the “off” of which is apparently determined by the current level of hand-wringing by local government).

There are four big reasons to get yourself on a segway as soon as you can:

1. Because LOL, am I right? It’s the vehicle of choice for anyone who wants to look like a complete tool.
2. Because GOB BLUTH, one of my all-time favourite people, ever. Just once, I wanted to roll up to Richard (ZNNNNNNNN) and sneer at him menacingly but sort of nervously all, “Hello, Michael.” And then silently reverse away.
3. Because HOW EVEN IT WORKS. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of two-wheeled transport. Big fan. I just think that wheels are supposed to be fore and aft, not port and starboard. Also I’m partial to putting a bit of effort into the propulsion of said wheels.
4. Because DECEMBER. And I don’t think Richard has bought me anything yet, and if he sees me looking adorable on a segway, he might buy me one. And then I could ride it to work. Actually, maybe I would ride it AT work, and be all (ZNNNNNNNN) “Here is that speech you wanted” and (ZNNNNNNNN) “Please don’t leave boxes in the hallway”.

So lucky they didn't give me the GIANT WATERMELON HEAD.

So up we showed. I was bursting with questions, such as:
“What is the right way to ride a segway?”
“Can I take this segway on the highway?”
“Do I give way to segway?” and
“I think I’ve made a huge mistake.”

Okay, here’s the deal.

It’s very, very awesome.

It’s like a giant, stupid-looking, battery-powered, weightless robot that obeys your slightest movements. Rock forward and ZNNNNNNNN off you go. Rock back and slow down. Stand normally and it stays put, but with a sort of “Stopping? Are you sure?” quiver in its gimbals. Depress one hand and you spin on the spot. Shift your weight to take the corners. It’s like skiing and standing still all at once! Man becomes machine! Machine becomes man!

I never did find out what happens if you need to urgently…step off it. But George Bush did.

To summarise: This thing likes to move you. It’s slow but determined. LIKE A ZOMBIE. Which brings me to my two-word film pitch, which I believe is the shortest film pitch ever:

Zombies. Segways.

LET'S ROLL. MORE BRAINZNNNNNNN.

(Did you see what I just did there? Segue.)

Look at this salad. It looks okay. It’s neatly plated, has shape, balance and dimension. The flatware is white bone china. There’s a suggestion of company in the background, because who cooks for one? The generously-sized bowl reflects the action. But it’s not a money shot. Why?

The leaves on the right hand side have too much caesar dressing. They look dipped and limp. Maybe there should be some utensils, so you can pick it right up and get stuck in? But wait: OH NOES! There’s a bread tie on the counter.

Let’s look closer. Here’s another picture:

The leaves are coated, glossy, even. But not overly so! You can still see their veins, their spines, erect with freshness and moisture. You know, when you need a break from the yolk, the anchovy, the raw garlic, the lemon, you will be able to find a bit of virgin leaf. Look at that crouton. It’s only an hour old! The bread is so close you can see the the sponginess, the strands of gluten, the rub of the oil. You can tell by its golden edge it’s going to be crunchy outside, chewy within. Look at the cheese! It’s so thinly shaved it’s almost transparent. You can see its ruffled edges, its salty petals. It’s sitting in that roasted tomato like confetti in a cup.

And I wasn’t even trying, I just dumped it out on the plate. Imagine what a team of food stylists would come up with.

The first photo shows you food on a plate. It’s a strip show. The second photo takes you in close and sharp. That’s a lap dance.

You can still tell you’re not dining alone but you no longer feel like you have to share. It’s practically in your mouth already.

But here they are. I’m offloading them. They are for sale.

This one is meant to show a huge Aussie crowd tearfully farewelling Kim Kardashian, while a lone sniffer dog heads over to inspect Obama and his smelly, nuclear briefcase. Kim looks rather good.

Here, the Australian Quarantine and Inspection Service gets to work. The second frame is meant to be an Obama thought bubble or something. He’s wondering if he should declare his APEC beach towel and the charred remains of Greece and Italy.

And here is Quentin Bryce getting ready for yet another meet-and-greet.  She looks rather fetching in a slip. I think her private secretary is meant to be jabbing a finger at the checklist. It’s an anatomical disaster. Oh well.

Don’t give up your day job etc.