Life as a difficult customer

It has occurred to me that my last post, about The Smokehouse at Sorrento, could be accused of being just a smidge on the gushing side. And, of course, the Smokehouse deserves gushing praise. But perhaps those of you who are not terminally difficult customers might not quite understand what all the fuss is about. So this is my attempt to describe our typical restaurant experiences.

For background, and the benefit of those who are not regular readers (shame on you, I say!), I will summarise my family’s food situation: ghastly.  Perhaps a little fine detail might help: I have coeliac disease and fructose malabsorption, and need to eat gluten free and fructose friendly. One of my daughters also needs fructose friendly. The other has silent reflux, which in her case goes hand in hand with severe intolerance to dairy, citrus, tomato, pineapple, and a range of other things. On the bright side, none of it is likely to kill us.

For both the gluten and the reflux, cross contamination is an issue – meaning there can be not so much as a trace of the problem food stuffs in our meal, or we will suffer for it. It means not using the same utensils, same cooking surface, or letting so much as a crumb or drop of our problem foods anywhere near our meal. Feeding us is, to put it mildly, a little tricky.

“Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are.”

Anthelme Brillat Savarin, 1825

“Difficult.” Me, 2010.

We are painfully aware of the burden this places on the shoulders of any chef bold enough to try to cater for us. Gluten free food is, fortunately, becoming easier to find, but the rest of the set is very poorly understood. For the fructose part, it is usually enough to say “Gluten free, no onion, no garlic”, because the rest we can eat around. But even that is hard for some restaurants to do, where almost every dish has onion or garlic integral to its sauce or marinade.

Before we go to a new restaurant, I always call them to make sure they can cater for us. If they don’t understand gluten free already we generally won’t go, because every time I have tried to explain gluten free to a restaurant I have been poisoned by cross contamination.

Having found a place that can cater for us, I am always careful to restate our needs when we order, to make sure there is no confusion. It’s difficult, because I am well aware that we are asking an awful lot – we usually need several meals created from scratch, quite different to anything on the menu. Many restaurants refuse, point-blank, to even try.

“Preach not to others what they should eat, but eat as becomes you, and be silent.”    Epictetus, ~100AD

Once we have located a restaurant that thinks it can feed us, we have to be ever vigilant. I have, in the past, found croutons (made from regular bread) in my “gluten free” meal. I have found cream glueing my daughter’s dairy-free pavlova to the plate. Her citrus free fish has been served with a wedge of lemon sitting right on top. My gluten free omelet has arrived on a piece of toast.

But these are the easy ones. The worst are the ones you can’t see, and don’t know about until it’s too late. The soy hot chocolate made in a jug that had cows’ milk in it before, and has not been washed. Or just steamed using a steaming wand that still has milk on it. The gluten free steak cooked on the same surface as something with flour. The chips fried in the same oil as something battered. These ones we find out about when the symptoms strike.

Recently we went on holiday to Brampton Island, in Queensland. I was very nervous about going to an island with only one restaurant, and no self-catering facilities, so before we booked I called several times to make sure they were going to be able to handle it. “No problem!” they assured me. “Just call us a week or so before to make sure we order in the right foods, and it will be fine. When you get here you can meet with the chef and plan a menu.”

Call them I did. And I emailed them the details, together with a list of safe foods. And I repeatedly tried to speak directly to the chef, but the phones were apparently playing up, so that didn’t happen. But they assured me it would be fine. I had a bag full of safe snacks, just in case, but I was confident that I had done everything possible to make it ok.

When we got there I went straight to talk to the chef, to make sure that he understood and could help us out. He was quite agreeable, pointed out all the things on the menu that were gluten free, and assured me that he could alter things to suit our needs. There was no question of providing a dairy free dessert for our 3 year old, though. That was apparently too hard. Fortunately I had come prepared with plenty of lollies and chocolate, so that was manageable.

Then came the actual meals. I wrote out lists of safe foods, and to make it easier on the chef, I ordered the same things for all three of us, so that he didn’t have to create 3 different special meals. Nonetheless, I was poisoned twice by foods that were allegedly safe – and another time I spotted the bread in the dish just in time.

When we asked for a dish of steamed veggies, they came out on a plate with mashed potato steeped in butter, with garlic and onion as well.  My 3 year old was so badly poisoned that she wound up throwing up (something that doesn’t usually happen with silent reflux, unless she eats a very large amount of the wrong food). I won’t disturb you with my symptoms.

Other than food, the resort was great, and to be fair, the front of house staff were fantastic. They tried their best to mitigate the chef’s appalling carelessness. Still, eating there was a nightmare. Holidays are clearly going to be tricky for us from now on.

This is the complexity we face whenever we try to eat somewhere new. This is why The Smokehouse was such a find for us.  There, we are not made to feel like the incredibly difficult customers that we clearly are. There is no sense that we are a burden, a problem, or a pest that they would really love to see scuttle out (under) the door. Under the circumstances, a little gushing seems appropriate.

Smokin’

You might want to stand a safe distance away today – there’s a chance I might explode. I am suffering from a surfeit of chocolate mousse and smugness. This is always a problem after I have visited The Smokehouse of Sorrento. I need gluten free and fructose friendly food, and my daughter needs dairy, citrus and tomato free, which together make dining out a challenging option, if it’s possible at all. We recently went on holiday to a resort in Queensland, and despite many preparatory phone calls, emails, and assurances that it would all be fine, the food part of the trip was a nightmare, with repeated poisonings and an utterly recalcitrant chef.

The Smokehouse, by contrast, is proof that there is a heaven on earth for those of us with complicated diets. Owner and chef David Stringer clearly loves food, and loves to share his delight. Many of his dishes are gluten free by default, and the famous smokehouse pizzas come in a gluten free option which, to be honest, I wasn’t sure was gluten free the first time I had it – it tasted far too good!

Many things I can order straight off the menu, but if I need an alteration, nothing is too much trouble. Last night I wanted to try the rabbit (please don’t tell my kids, who would be horrified at the thought. “Rabbits are friends. Not food.”), but it comes on a bed of lentils – a strict no-no in fructose friendly land.  In many restaurants I won’t order something that doesn’t come fructose friendly by default, because it’s too complicated trying to explain and find an alternative – but not at the Smokehouse. David gives it careful thought and always tries to offer an alternative which is not only safe, but delicious. In the end I had the rabbit on a bed of roasted vegies (which usually come with another dish), without the beetroot. It was heavenly.

We go to The Smokehouse whenever we are in Sorrento, but that’s only a handful of times a year. Nonetheless, David knows my name, remembers that I am gluten free, and my penchant for chocolate mousse. The menu currently contains a chocolate mousse cake which includes a pastry base (and is not gluten free), so whenever I make a booking David puts aside some of the chocolate mousse for me, without the pastry, in my own special gluten free dessert. I don’t even have to ask. There is a range of desserts, several of which are gluten free, so he really doesn’t have to go to the extra trouble, but he does it automatically. You get the sense that David wouldn’t be happy if a customer left The Smokehouse in anything other than a state of blissful contentment.

It’s not just David who makes the Smokehouse such a delight – every member of staff gives the impression that they are thrilled to see you, and dedicated to making you smile – even if you bring a horde of ravening children with you. Show up at the door with small people and the staff immediately grab the textas and colouring sheets – and they carefully select the right pictures, conferring in very serious tones with each small person to make sure that they have picked the best possible picture. They make them feel so special and welcome that our girls adore the place, and always clamor to go there.

Of course, the food is magnificent.  I am always encouraged to branch out of my conservative dining habits and try something new, and the results are invariably delectable. I must admit, though, I rarely have anything other than the mousse for dessert.

The only problem with the Smokehouse is its popularity – it’s always wise to book ahead. Once when we went there on the spur of the moment the only seats left were at a bar around the edge. I was heavily pregnant, and although I sat there quite happily, David was not content with the arrangement. Within about 5 minutes a table was magically arranged for us.

The Smokehouse is a wakeup call to other restaurants – it is possible to cater for strange dietary requirements cheerfully and well. It is so hard for us to find a restaurant we can all eat at, and so often it’s a huge drama to get things that we can eat safely. We wind up leaving many places feeling frustrated and unwelcome, as though we have asked the world, wrapped in a solid gold ribbon. Yet despite being the world’s most difficult customers, we always leave the Smokehouse feeling cosseted, smug, and full of chocolate mousse. It’s sheer, unadulterated, chocolate flavoured bliss. We’ll be back!

To absent friends

17 years ago, when we were planning our wedding, my soon-to-be mother-in-law insisted that the reception include a toast “to absent friends”. At the time I was blase about it – my friends weren’t absent. They were at the wedding. That was the whole point, wasn’t it?

These days I have a profound understanding of that toast, particularly in the lead up to Christmas, surely one of the most bitter-sweet times on the western calendar. Renowned as a time to spend with loved ones, Christmas contains a heart rending sadness when some of those loved ones are out of reach. It’s a time to ache for friends far away, but even more for friends gone forever.

I have never been good at letting go – limpets have a grip that is positively lax in comparison. I have been known to pine for defunct friendships long past the point where rational people would let go. And I have many dear friends overseas, out of reach of the hugs I long to share with them, but at least there is the phone.

It’s the friends I can no longer call that really break my heart at this time of year. I tend to be expressive and affectionate, so there is not much I left unsaid. I don’t regret not telling them how important they are to me – they certainly knew. But at a time when we reconnect with our loved ones, their absence is a gaping wound in my heart.

They say that time heals all wounds, but it turns out there are some wounds that don’t heal – you simply learn to live with them. 14 years on I still cry for my best friend, Di, killed in a car accident at the age of 24. We never got to say goodbye. And nearly 4 years on I still cry for my kindred spirit, James, whose body finally gave out on him, 15 years after the doctors first predicted his death. He was in his 70s, we did get to say goodbye, and it turns out that saying goodbye isn’t a great help.

This year my friend Mike died of pancreatic cancer. He left behind a young family, and a horde of grieving friends. Another desperate hole in the world, where there should be light and laughter.

Our hearts reach out to those we have bonded with, especially now. For those we can touch, the bond, and our hearts are strengthened. For those we can no longer reach, the ache is fierce. They are alive in spirit as long as we remember them.

Reach out to your friends and loved ones. Make the most of these moments when you can touch them and tell them what they mean to you.  And remember those you have lost. Let them live in your heart. Here’s to absent friends.

Coming home to work

Last week we had the end of year staff dinner for the school I teach at. (Did you hear that? I love the sound of that. “The school I teach at.” I’m a real teacher now. The kids have to call me “Dr McIver.” I can’t even call myself Dr McIver without cracking up, so it could be an interesting year.)

Although I have 13 years tertiary teaching experience, I am new to teaching in schools, so I was the target of a lot of advice from my experienced colleagues – most of it on the topic of staying sane. “You must make sure that you go home and vent to Andrew on a regular basis. It’s vital.” Hearing his name mentioned, Andrew tuned in to the conversation, to find that it was all about keeping me from going completely postal. He was quick to put my co-workers right. “No, no. She is going to be vastly more sane now.”

Experienced teachers and teachers’ spouses all, they looked amused and sceptical. “He doesn’t get it,” they were clearly thinking. “No idea at all.”

Andrew is right, though. Regardless of the stresses and pressures of teaching, I am a much happier, more stable person with a regular workplace, colleagues, and social contact that doesn’t involve barbie dolls or lego. (Although, actually, there is some lego. But it’s definitely grown up lego.)

I am an extrovert. I get my energy, stability, sanity, and even my rationality, from interacting with people. Not just any people. I love my girls, and I love playing with them, but there is such a thing as too much pink. Too many stickers. Too many dolls. Even, and I hesitate to say this, too many teddy bears (something my friends never thought they’d hear me say).

I like to be able to talk politics – and explaining politics to kids, even our highly intelligent 7 year old, is painful, because so much of it is so incredibly inexplicable. “Why don’t they just help people?” “Why don’t they just stop polluting and use renewables?” “Why are they so mean?”

I like to be able to finish a sentence from time to time, without fending off cries of “Muuuuuuuuummmmmmmyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!!!”, and I really, seriously, definitely need to be able to use different parts of my brain. I object to people characterising stay-at-home parenting as brainless. It is anything but. It requires a level of creativity, patience and ingenuity that demands every single braincell switched on and 100% focused. But for me, at least, it is an entirely different type of thinking to being at work.

With very young children there are few, if any, downtimes, apart from naps (and some kids never nap well). You can’t even go to the toilet in peace. Usually this is something I can manage at work.  When I am not in parent-mode, I can focus intently on a cognitively demanding task. I can have whole meetings that don’t discuss bodily functions, and hardly anyone at work ever shouts out “I did a poo!”

While I do have to remember to keep myself fed at work (otherwise things go horribly, horribly wrong – trust me on this), I am not responsible for ensuring that anyone else eats enough to avoid becoming a cranky tanty-monster. And should a cranky tanty monster show up at work (it can happen), I have backup. I don’t have to deal with it alone.

I tried working from home for a while, and although I know it’s the ultimate ideal workspace for some, it doesn’t work for me. I need to be able to rampage out of my office. If I don’t have an office, but work out in the open with others, that’s even better (for me, at least – maybe not so much for the others!). If something distressing happens at work, I can always find a colleague to empathise, make me laugh, or tell me to “suck it up, princess!” Friends and colleagues keep me grounded, and prevent my head from getting stuck so deep inside my own navel that I resemble a klein bottle.

A Klein bottle has no inside or outside. photo courtesy of Svein Halvor Halvorsen

Where would you like to be led?

Politicians these days are all about polls. In a classic episode of The West Wing, Joey Lucas, a professional pollster, told Josh Lyman that being poll driven was like the leader of the French resistance who said “There go my people. I must see where they are going, so that I can lead them.” There, in a tiny, depressing nutshell, you have the current state of Australian politics.

Want to find out a politician’s opinion? Listen for the loudest screaming from the most visible pressure group. Politicians believe that. Wholeheartedly. At least, until a different lobby group starts drowning out the first one. Then they believe that. Utterly. With every fibre of their disturbingly fibreless beings.

There are a few politicians who stand up for what they believe in, and don’t sway in the breeze of public opinion. Bob Brown is one notable example. Petro Georgiou was another. There have been politicians both Labor and Liberal who have, on occasion gone out on a limb and publicly disagreed with their party – most recently Mark Arbib made his views on gay marriage known, but given that the majority of Australians now support gay marriage, that may actually be political cunning rather than conviction. It is inevitable that a ban on gay marriage will seem as disgusting in the future as a ban on interracial marriages seems to us now. Arbib may just be sniffing the breeze there, but even that is a brave thing to do these days when it means not toeing the party line.

But what we need now is not politicians who decide what to do today by sniffing the breeze or listening to the screaming. Nor by the size and location of their donor pool, with its glossy, gold plated sun lounges with the built in hand cuffs. We need politicians with conviction, courage, compassion and cleverness. (Alliterative ability also appreciated. Sorry. I’ll stop now.)

There are so many pressing challenges – climate & environment, humanitarian and economic. We need a radical new approach. We need leadership, vision, and a willingness to try new things. We need someone with the ability to listen not only to the screaming, but to the people who are making no noise.

Imagine if political donations were not capped, but were outlawed. If every political party had a fixed, tiny budget for advertising. A massive levelling of the playing field. No-one would be allowed to advertise any kind of political message – under the guise of “educating” people about myki, or “informing” people of their rights, or any other smokescreen. It would be incredibly difficult to police, of course. Product placement would give way to politics placement. Witness the way the Tea Party in the US was borne aloft on a wave of gratis advertising from a media empire which shall remain namelessly self-serving.

But imagine if it were possible. Imagine if decisions got made on the basis of facts instead of gloss. Imagine if all parties (and even independents) had equal access to the media, and to the eyes, ears and computers of the public.  Imagine an election decided on meaning, not image. What would the political landscape look like then?

I think it would change things. Real leaders would emerge, who needed actual substance in order to win votes, instead of simply needing the most expensive advertising agency and image consultants. Imagine that. Leaders who did what they believed was right, rather than what they believed would win votes. We could have that, even without electoral reform. We don’t have to buy the image campaigns. We could be asking the hard questions, and supporting the media that ask them on our behalves.

I believe we get the government we deserve, and we have given up expecting anything better from our politicians. Ask yourself – is your local member more of the same? Do you have choices?  Are you ready for something different? It’s time to raise the bar.

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Disclosure – I am a member of The Victorian Greens, and recently stood for election in the upper house, South Eastern Metro region.

Not the plan

This parenting caper is not what I expected. Like many parents, I had some pretty firm ideas about child rearing before I had kids. Needless to say, a large percentage of those ideas turned out to be as relevant as boardshorts in a blizzard – and just as comfortable in the try out phase.

In truth I hadn’t thought much about it. I was going to parent the way my sisters and my own parents had. It was all I had seen. The trouble was that my daughters had other ideas, and when it came to the crunch, so did I. I wound up doing things I found quite startling, but that felt incredibly right – like co-sleeping, and breastfeeding on demand. I even did strange and bizarre things like breastfeeding both girls well past 12 months of age – which turned out to be natural, comfortable decisions that worked for all of us, but used to seem quite unthinkable.

My instincts led me to comfort my girls when they cried – heedless of the alleged rod I was creating for my back. They also led me to stop travelling (I used to travel several times a year for work, and never dreamed that I would stop when I became a parent), and in the very early years I rarely went out unless my kids could come too.

I found I wanted to be there for my girls in a way that my original view of parenting didn’t allow for. My oldest had her first sleep over at Grandma & Grandad’s when she was 7.  My nearly 4 year old has never slept without us, although she does now sleep in her own bed (mostly).

But it’s not all positive. I also find myself shouting more than I intended. I can be quick to snap and my tantrums sometimes outdo the kids’. I struggle to be calm in the face of 7 year old fury, and I often have to ask myself: “Who is the adult here?” when I take tantrums personally. I know all the theory, and in my heart I can see the calm, unflappable mum that I would love to be, but am unlikely to attain.

We have struggled all along with sleep – in hindsight that had a lot to do with reflux, rather than the self-doubt that I tormented myself with on a day to day basis – but both girls are finally starting to sleep pretty well. The youngest is nearly 4 and we still don’t have many nights in a row where she doesn’t wake us at least once, but that’s down from several times a night, so we’re counting ourselves lucky.

Sleep is the holy grail of parenting, and it’s amazing how many people come sheepishly out of the woodwork when you confess that it’s a constant nightmare in your house. It’s hard to admit to sleep troubles in public, because of all the people boldly asserting that they’ve had it sorted from the word go. You can’t help fearing that you’re a bad parent, or you’ve made the wrong choices, or somehow failed your kids. It’s horrifying how quickly a crisis can send you down into the “I’ve failed my kids” vortex – especially when you are sleep deprived.

As my kids grow up I find myself wondering what other certainties will evaporate like dew on a 40 degree day. Ultimately all I can do is my best – in the certain knowledge that there will be days where my best feels woefully inadequate, and that in the future I will often wish my best had been better, or at least different. At least until my girls are teenagers I will most likely continue to be my own fiercest critic.

This parenting caper is not what I expected, but, as it turns out, neither am I.

The drowning of compassion

I was trying to explain the problem of asylum seekers to my 7 year old today.  It wasn’t easy.

Miss 7: “What are asylum seekers, mum?”

Me: “They’re people who are escaping from terrible situations in their own countries – like wars – and they’re asking us for help. So we lock them up.”

Miss 7 (with withering scorn, worthy of a teenager): “Can’t we just let them in?? They’re just from another country. It’s not like they’re going to invade us.”

It’s almost hard to add anything to that. The hysteria surrounding asylum seekers is incomprehensible to me. The idea of demonising people who have escaped from horrors worse than any nightmare is just so breathtakingly, devastatingly wrong that I can’t process it. It makes no sense. And to use them for political advantage, the way successive governments have repeatedly done – well. The mind doesn’t even boggle. It just crawls into a corner and rocks, whimpering.

You can try, as politicians have done, to turn it into a moral war against people smugglers. Against the appalling conditions that people suffer in trying to get here. You can argue that it’s about saving lives. But as long as there are traumatic conditions elsewhere, people will try to come here. People will ask for help. You can’t police every kilometre of every coastline and stamp out the people smuggling trade – there is demand. There will be supply.

So here’s a radical thought. Why don’t we learn from my 7 year old? Why don’t we actually make it easier to come here? In the past we have called asylum seekers queue jumpers, notwithstanding the fact that there is no queue. For most of these people, there is no legal, safe way for them to apply for asylum until they reach our borders. So why don’t we setup queues? People will try to come here. Why don’t we help them?

We have this terrible fear of being overrun, whether it’s by the yellow peril, the darkies, or the purple skinned. But here’s the thing – people don’t choose to leave their homes lightly. To abandon their friends, families, lifestyle and language – it’s not a step they take on a whim. Australia has it pretty good, I don’t deny, but I don’t believe for a moment that the rest of the world would leap here if they could.

I’m not suggesting we have no rules – we could still process asylum seekers’ claims and try to determine whether they have a justifiable fear of persecution, and whatever other rules we work on (although a little more compassion would not go astray). But why force them onto rickety wooden boats that sink at the slightest wave, in order to apply? Setup real queues, as close as possible to the major troublespots. Actually seek to help people. Show real compassion.

Sure, there are refugee camps where people can seek help from organisations such as MSF and Oxfam. But there is clearly a huge sense of desperation among people who can’t find the queue, and need help. Why don’t we seek them out? Put the people smugglers out of business by reaching out with compassion to the poor, the persecuted, and the desperate.

Now that’s something I’d be happy to explain to my kids!

Used and abused

I recently went to a training day where a very earnest presenter tried to tell us that his software could do amazing things. And there is no doubt we were amazed, but perhaps not quite in the way he was hoping.

That the software was glitchy became apparent very early on, as it failed to do a number of the things he was trying to show us. He clearly had a set of carefully scripted demos that he knew would work, but even those produced somewhat unreliable and unpredictable outcomes.

What really had me going for his throat by the end of the day, though, was the number of times one of us would have a problem with the software and he would greet us with “oh, that’s because you’re doing it wrong.”

And no, I wasn’t grumpy because I am a grammar nazi (although I confess I do have tendencies in that direction). It was the overwhelming implication that we should be changing our way of working to suit the software. We should not expect to be able to do things the way we have always done them. We should alter our entire workflow in order to do precisely what the software wants, the way the software wants it – whether that meets our needs or not.

There, in a nutshell, is the sheer arrogance, ignorance and, yes, malpractice of the computer industry, all wrapped up in one neat little package.

It’s not our fault. You’re just doing it wrong.

I have a PhD in Computer Science (in usability, in fact), and I have lost count of the number of technical support people who have tried to talk to me as though I am a 3 year old standing near a wall covered in texta, feigning ignorance. It’s always “What did you do??” in weary, exasperated tones.

Even with my relatively high level of technical understanding, it can take forever to persuade them that it wasn’t some dumb thing that I did, but that there really is a problem with the technology. How does the average user cope with that? Usually by assuming that they did, in fact, do something wrong.

If I only had a dollar for everyone who has ever told me “I’m no good with computers”. I always give the same answer: “No, computers are no good with you!”  The best tools do exactly what we need them to do, without interfering with our workflow at all. We don’t need to compensate for them or understand them. They just work. Software all too rarely fits into this category.

For a simple example, picture a door in a public building. It can only be pushed, not pulled, and it has no door handle. Just a flat plate where the doorhandle would normally be. The whole “pull/push” quandary is missing with this door. You can only push it. The very design of the door says “push”.

Of course, software is intangible and conceptually complex, so it’s not easy to make it as obvious as a pushable door. But think of the number of doors you come across in your day that can only be pushed, yet have pull-able handles on them. They need labels to tell you what to do – and who stops to read labels when walking through doors? As a simple rule, if it needs instructions to tell you how to use it, then the design isn’t good enough. Good design is distressingly rare.

In the software industry, it is all but absent. In a way I don’t argue with that – as users, it is up to us to do our homework and choose the most effective and usable piece of software we can get. In general we don’t – we buy the most effectively marketed, the cheapest, or the most famous, for which we mostly have ourselves to blame. Caveat emptor and all that. But what I do find incredibly objectionable is that culture of blaming the user when things go wrong. A little respect would be a fine thing.

Mr Frog jumped out of his pond one day

Mr Frog Jumped out of his pond one day, and found himself on a lily pad.

We came home from dinner last night to find actual frogs, sitting on genuine lily pads in our pond. Real wildlife. In our pond. Technically the one in the picture is a froglet, because it still has a tail. Nonetheless, they are out and about. Any day now we might hear them bok.

There is nearly always a frog on a lily pad now. Despite the numerous different plants in the pond, many of which have large, flat, floating, lily-like leaves, they really do seem to prefer the lily pads. There is one lounging there at this very moment – I can tell, because my kids are running in and out of the door every two minutes shouting “he’s still there, Mummy! Come and look!!!”

The frogs are remarkably bold – the photo above was taken by my husband, who first had to lift the wire cover (known as the “kid catcher”) off the pond, and then get the camera up nice and close, and the frog just sat there, quite unperturbed. They seem perfectly happy to share this space with us, and any time the kids get a little too enthusiastic they just plop back into the pond. It’s never long before another one appears.

It’s amazing to have these gorgeous, and surprisingly tiny creatures sharing our block. We have always had a pretty good collection of wild visitors, especially lots of small native birds. We have a pair of spotted pardalotes who regularly knock at our toy corner window, lots of silvereyes, and a range of small, fast birds that refuse to sit still and be identified.

We get parrots and galahs by the flock, and magpies, currawongs and butcher birds are regular visitors. We have possums galore going BOOM thumpa thumpa thumpa on the roof in the night.

Most of this is due to our wild space. It is a smallish urban garden, but apart from some lawn out the back for the kids to play on, most of it is stuffed with native plants happily running riot. Our garden is not of the manicured lawn & precision garden bed variety. It is a wild and crazy place, with plenty of places to hide. There are no pesticides, herbicides or artificial fertilizers of any kind – compost and mulch are our main tools.. It took a while after we moved in for the small birds to reappear, because the previous owners were heavy on the poisons, but now we have many different species.

We also have a birdbath that we try to keep filled. The birds can’t drink from the pond because of the kidcatcher, which also serves to keep our frogs safe from hungry magpies & butcher birds.

We do have some slightly more organised spaces with veggies and fruit trees, but even those are mostly surrounded by a profusion of undergrowth and wilderness. Wild gardens offer so much – plant and animal diversity, habitat and hiding places for native animals, and the joy of discovery. They can also provide wonderful shade and magic places to sit and watch the life teeming around you.

It’s not hard to create wild gardens, even on small, urban blocks. Reduce your lawn (think of all the mowing you won’t have to do!) and fill the spaces with native plants. It’s a labour of love, and the rewards… well… there is every chance the rewards may go bok and look amazingly fetching on a lily pad.

I’ll do it

“Somebody, somebody has to, you see. Then she picked out two somebodies. Sally, and me.”

Call me a busy body, interfering, a compulsiver do-gooder, or simply someone with a guilt gland larger than my island home, but I am one of that strange breed of people known as volunteers. If you need someone to help out, my hand will be up before I can even think about wrestling it into submission. It’s probably some form of obsessive compulsive disorder.

Of course, I am not alone. From kinder or child care committees to sporting clubs, from school councils to working bees, from conservation groups to political parties, there is a small percentage of the population who just want to help out and get things done. These are the people who will pick up broken glass in a playground, or cut the grass outside the child care centre when the council workers are on strike. They don’t wait for someone else to do it. They just get it done.

“This was no time for play.
This was no time for fun.
This was no time for games.
There was work to be done.”

Unfortunately it is a very small percentage indeed. If you are a regular attendee at school working bees, you quickly learn that it is the same faces who show up every time. They run the election day fund raising sausage sizzle. They are on the fund raising committee. They stand for the school council and the kinder committee. When a notice comes home begging for help, they step forward unthinkingly.

The slightly startling thing is how rewarding it can be. Through my involvement with our child care committee, I have made lifelong friends and learnt huge amounts about management, child care and conflict resolution (don’t ask!). I actually look forward to the monthly meetings, and I know so much more about the running of our centre than I could possibly have learnt any other way. Other parents feel their children are in good hands – I know they are.

It’s hard work, and there can be downsides at times,
but it’s definitely worth it.

We chose our local child care centre for the lovely atmosphere. But we only looked at centres that were community run. Education, health and child care are areas that we believe are about community and the public good – not about making money. Private, profit-making child care has always been a concept that worries us.  So having deliberately chosen a centre with a parent management committee, it seemed only fair to offer to help out on that committee.

In the 5 years I have been on it I have met many wonderful people, but I have also been struck by the sheer number of families who stay away from the committee in  droves. Never attending a meeting, coming to the AGM, or helping out at the (infrequent) working bees. In doing so they are turning their backs, both on a community that needs their help, and on an opportunity for real personal growth.

When things need doing, it comes down to the same people, time after time. While it is very rewarding, it’s also frustrating to feel as though so many families are being carried on the back of your work.

I wouldn’t change my involvement with my community one bit. It’s a wonderful part of my life. But I do often wish I could persuade more people to try volunteering. To get involved with their communities, be it as parents, neighbours, or simply people who care.

In our increasingly secular society, for those of us who don’t go to church there is often a large space in our lives where community should be. By volunteering you can become a part of something larger, and more valuable than yourself. And that’s good for everybody.

Somebody, somebody has to, you see.