Dad Camp

It's time for The Husband's column...

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while you’ll be aware camping has become somewhat popular in our household.

Very civilised and amusing friends are keen campers and described the many and varied joys of sleeping rough in nature’s splendour with only a campfire and glinting glass of shiraz as comfort.

The Author was intrigued by this but also not a fan of being cold, dirty or uncomfortable. Crocheting on the couch with The Cat is more her thing.

However, discomforts countered by clean shower blocks and warm duvets and a morning coffee brewed over a flame by yours truly, we now have a tent, a natty camp stove, some chairs and a table that folds out and various baskets filled with campy stuff.

Camping has indeed proved a rare pleasure and we’re very grateful for being introduced to it.

Last weekend, The Child and I went camping with the usual suspects … well, not all of them. The Author did not come on account of The Cat being very unwell and, suddenly, when other female members of the camping posse realised they could didn’t have to go, they ducked out too, citing attending the Finder’s Keepers market at Sydney’s Carriageworks, as well as a weekend without kids and husbands, as more appealing.

The female members of the camping posse are also the foundation quorum of The Little Marionette Coffee Club, where many a grand plan takes flight, many a candle-making evening planned and many a husband’s less than exemplary behaviour dissected.

Suddenly, it was just dads and teen kids on an expedition, a prospect everyone was very pleased with. “Sa-weet!” said The Child, “We’ll be able to do whatever we want!”

We went to the gorgeous Mill Creek, near Wisemans Ferry in NSW. It was stunning, our own little paddock with a barbecue, fire pit, goannas and wombats ambling out of the towering bush.
So it was just dads – The Cameraman Who’s Always Right and The Truth Sayer and me – as well as four kids aged between 12 and 15. What could possibly go wrong … ?

Engulfed in a Ball of Flame
The Truth Sayer has a camp stove which he alleges is a family heirloom. No wonder none of his ancestors have any eyebrows. On the first morning I fiddled with its various sticky knobs, admittedly while holding a lit match, when I was suddenly in the middle of an explosion. The Cameraman Who’s Always Right, who has worked on Mythbusters and knows about such things, says the correct terms for the experience is Engulfed in a Ball of Flame. The Truth Sayer, attempting to show how safe the stove of death was, also become briefly engulfed in a somewhat smaller ball of flame. How we laughed.

Leech Attack
Reeking of burnt hair, we set off on a bushwalk that was 11km and marked on the map as strenuous. We did not tell The Teens this. About 4km in, I heard The Child screaming rather enthusiastically. I was hiding behind a tree, getting ready to leap out and scare The Teens but eventually backtracked to find out what all the fuss was about. I was confronted by the sight of The Cameraman Who’s Always Right scraping a leech off the, er, upper rear thigh of The Child, who, with good reason, was fairly uncomfortable with the situation. Her ankle was bleeding from where he’d got the other one. Closer inspection showed our socks, boots, and in some cases, legs, were writhing with leeches. We turned back, rather than brave the wall of bloodsuckers. Later, I attempted to put a dying, dusty one on my thigh while The Cameraman Who’s Always Right filmed the experiment, but screamed and mashed it instead at the last moment.

Angry Possum
Possums will take revenge if evicted from a roof cavity by coming back in the night and pushing over pot plants. This is true. We caught a possum in torchlight, climbing a tree and laughed at its angry little face and glinty eyes as it glared around the trunk at us. He jumped down and ran away. Then he came back and did it again, looking even madder. We laughed at him even more.
In the night he came back and pushed the stove of death off the barbecue, gas bottle and all.

Stick in The Eye
One teen, the Apprentice Graphic Designer, fell over and a fairly decent stick poked him in the eye. He snapped his head back, as you do, breaking the stick off. With his eye! He removed the remnant and a swoosh of water rendered him (dad medicine at work) … not blind.
Snapping a stick off with your eye was looked upon as a pretty cool thing and was described in tones of awe as “fairly Ninja”.

I’m So Cold, Dad
The Author offered me various duvets to take with us, all of which I declined, unaware the start to this summer is the coldest in 50 years. When I went to bed on the first night, The Child was hunched in a foetal position, barely breathing, whispering “It’s so cold, dad,” through her little blue lips. The application of most of her clothing and all of the towels fixed that. The next night she had a spare duvet, an extra blanket, and a “space blanket” supplied by The Cameraman Who’s Always Right, the sort of chap who actually owns things called “space blankets”.
I cleverly utilised a picnic blanket to avoid death by hypothermia myself.

Is That Yours?
When it came time to pack up, no-one had any idea who owned what cutlery, except for The Truth Sayer, who puts a red dot on everything he owns, including his underpants. That didn’t stop him trying to steal my good tongs, while I bagged a nice jar of homemade blackcurrant jam.
To sort out the mess we plan to deliver a box of assorted and badly washed cutlery to members of The Little Marionette Coffee Club to sort out.

Dad-camping. What could possibly go wrong?

Holding hands

It's that time of the month, so you're in the hands of The Husband...

We’re a family who likes animals. We’re a family who loves animals. We’re a family who will pause the TV when a cute beaver comes on and call in the others for a look.

I go all funny when I see a boxer, pug, staffie, or bulldog – the uglier the cuter – and ask their owner if I can pat them.

One of the best ever was a boxer with quite severe dental issues who prompted strangers to say nervously, “er, oh my, aren’t you, er pretty,” as she revealed a row of drooling snaggled fangs. She did this, her owner said, because every time she “smiled” people told her she was pretty so she “smiles” at to everyone she meets.

That’s the sort of story we like to tell each other around the dinner table. So imagine what we’re like with our own animals. Mental.

Some 15 years ago, pre-child and in rather tasteful rented accommodation in Sydney’s east, we decided to get cats. We got a couple of Russian Blues, sisters from the same litter. They were the last two in the litter, purebred rejects. Maisie was like a mini-panther, huge, sleek and a very simple soul. Bella was the opposite, a little round-faced bear, quirky and smart.

Over the years, and with the arrival of their “sister", The Child, they wound their lives around ours, purring and asking for dinner.

Our mental family story archives are full of “remember the time that tom cat tried to assault Bella and Maisie tore him to pieces. “Remember when Maisie bit the child but only after she poked her in the eye five times in a row. “Remember when Bella got locked outside for the night by mistake and leaped into “Mummy’s” arms, covered in twigs and leaves.” Okay, legends in our own family, maybe.

Four years ago, big, robust Maisie, Maisie who never got sick, Maisie who could lick a litre of spilled turpentine off her fur and not blink, got kidney disease. She died within two weeks of diagnosis. I wrote a story in a magazine about her death and its impact on us and, to this day, it is the piece that most people talk about to me, over a 25-year career in writing.

So, three months ago, Bella got the same kidney malfunction. We thought she was gone. But two nights on a saline drip at the vet and presto! – she was back with us, a little skinnier perhaps, but pretty much her old self.

Last weekend she had a relapse, much worse, and we all sobbed at her absence, imagining her cringing in a cage at the vet, shaved and hooked up. There was no way she was going to make it this time. She was just so sick.

After two days we took her home. The levels of toxins had dropped a bit and she was at least eating and drinking. It’s such a bittersweet thing. We though we’d lost her. Yet she’s back again, purring as she stands on my stomach as I lie on the bed, making nests in The Author of this blog’s crochet.

As she’s become sicker over the last few months I’ve taken to nick-naming her PC – short for Pet Cemetary. Okay, so we like animals and inappropriate humour.

She’s very “PC” indeed. Her back legs are wobbly, her meow has turned into a quavering quack, and she seems to take a minute or two of grunting and huffing to get her purr motor going. On waking, she’ll take a minute or two to focus the eyes and get moving – like most of us.

Next time the toxins overwhelm her, we’re not going to torment her with days in a cage at the vet. She hates it.

We don’t know how long she’ll be with us. Every borrowed day is a joy, an absolute blessing. To hear her claws on the floorboards as she shuffles up to our bedroom and arrives at the door – “quack!” is such a deep pleasure, because we thought we’d never hear it again.

The bond between her and The Author is as deep as any animal-human connection I’ve ever experienced and I can’t imagine the day it’s not there.

So for now we’ll enjoy having little PC with us and make every moment for her and us as wonderful as it can be.

On the road again

It's First Friday Column time again. Drum-rolling you over to The Husband...

We’re off camping. Hurray! It’s school holidays so we’re hitting the road north to a national park at gorgeous South West Rocks.

South West Rocks really is the hidden holiday gem time forgot. I suppose I’ve ruined it for everyone now, but the place has the wonderful sleepy holiday air and evokes thongs on hot bitumen, deafening cicadas, salt on sunburn (yes, yes), long hot afternoons and sunset barbecues.

Given the weather in Sydney has been, in meteorological parlance, total crap, it may be more thongs in cold mud and the thrilling smell of damp wool in the musty tent but we’re nothing if not hardy.

In fact, that’s not true at all. There’s nothing hardy about us. A bigger bunch of princesses and nancies has never set foot in a camping ground, and that’s just me.

The Author of Small Things, Simple Pleasures may well be at one with nature when it involves birds and cats, but not so much if it involves multiple legs and feelers.

Let’s just say the Author likes things to be clean, comfortable and good quality at all times. This time last year we were holidaying in Europe and in the quirky little apartment we rented in Paris she had to line the bed with towels lest she come into contact with the sheets which were deemed “nylon-ey”.

We started camping slowly. Our first foray was to Sydney Harbour’s Cockatoo Island, surely the original site to put the glam into glamping. The amenities block could have featured in Inside Out mag and evening cocktails at the Harbour Bar were delightful.

Then we borrowed a tent and took off with friends one long weekend, wine glasses, our own good linen and duvets and lovely Neil Perry braises with couscous around the campfire.

Now the Author realised she’d be warm and comfy with all her things around her she became quite the camping fan. Not that we’ll ever make an assault on the south face of Everest, nor will ablutions ever involve a spade, but we’re getting more adventurous each time.

We have our own tent now – a two roomer with a terrace. Or a verandah. Or whatever the front room of a tent where shoes and eskys go, is called.

Today we even ventured down to a camping store, looked at all the eskys and tents and beds and hats and lights and canoes and bought a natty little camp stove. It runs two burners off a little gas bottle and will be used to produce the Author’s morning coffee and evening hotty –seriously!

We also have a barbecue near our tents, which, to my delight, is wood powered so, yes, I can light fires.

But the weather’s looking a little dodgy so the Author’s getting a little jumpy about an awful situation which could possibly develop and ruin everything. This dreaded possibility is known in camping circles as “getting cold”.

I do hope nobody gets cold. I do hope our new stove doesn’t explode. I do hope our tent doesn’t blow away or the campfire set my mate Peter’s pants on fire. Actually, that might be kind of fun.

I’m sure reports and photographs of our adventure into some of the wildest territory on the planet – the mid-North Coast of NSW – will feature here soon enough.

Wish us luck.

Image is of a South West Rocks sunset taken on a crappy phone. The reality was actually breathtaking.

Birding around

It's First Friday Column Club time again. A reminder of what this is all about here. Over to The Husband...


I have had the pleasure of living with and being married to The Author of this blog for quite a while now. During this time she has revealed herself to be funny, very smart, stylish, creative, a loving mother and partner, fiercely independent and touchingly tender.

She is also completely nuts about animals. And I don’t mean nuts in a cute adorable way, I mean nuts in a way that could see one admitted to an institution for the bewildered. Too harsh? Perhaps. Read on.

Let’s start with The Cat. They have no greater mutual pleasure than snuggling down in bed together for half an hour before getting up, both of them purring loudly. She believes she knows what The Cat’s thinking, and helps her out by verbalising her wishes.

When The Cat is eyeing me angrily for some mystery slight, as she does increasingly these days, The Author will helpfully say “I hate you,” on her behalf.

But that’s nothing compared to birds.

The Author has always been completely bananas about birds, especially cockatoos. In most of our family photos we sport a cockatoo on our heads. The Author has always carried a bag of birdseed in her car, in case she should spy a flight of cockatoos which she can lure down from the trees so they may sit upon her head.

The other day The Child (that would be The Cat’s sister) and I were discussing The Author’s love of all things avian. “Yesterday she made me listen while she listed every species of bird she spied from the deck in the afternoon. There were 10,” I said. “Mum’s quite mental, isn’t she,” said The Child observed happily.

On the table on our deck are The Author’s bird tools. There’s her beautiful copy of What Bird Is That, a pair of ancient and brilliant binoculars once owned by her father, a spud gun, a spud and a nerf gun.

You see, we’ve had issues with currawongs raiding the nests of “our” doves.

They’ve tried to raise two families this season and the currawongs have eaten the babies both times. Mother Dove’s nest is right outside The Author’s home office window, which is not good.

When Mother Dove settled down on the nest again, cooing, after losing her first offspring, The Author said, firmly, that this time she wasn’t getting involved.

Not getting involved meant spending three hours photographing the nest-building procedure and showing me the series of “cute” photos.

She also chucks handfuls of birdseed around the backyard every morning as Father Dove must be tired and hungry after all that flying around with nest twigs.

She made me purchase the spud gun to scare away the currawongs, which didn’t work at all. The big black birds just tried to catch the little pellet of tasty spud coming their way. The nerf gun works but requires frequent trips out into the lane to retrieve the foam bullets. The garden hose is often brought into operation, but to no avail. Mother and Father Dove lost family two yesterday.

The Author’s also become quite birdlike in her mannerisms, cooing about the place, nesting and arranging twigs. When The Child and I see her out in the garden, scratching around, The Child will comment mum’s “birding around”.

Crazy as a crested bulbul she may be. But I love coming home to the nest every night, twigs in my beak.

First Friday Column Club

The Husband writes stuff for magazines sometimes and snorts with pleasure when he thinks he's made an amusing point. Surprisingly, publications actually pay him to do this (the writing, not the snorting, obviously). I'm not going to but, as he can spit out a column in the same time it takes most of us to brush our teeth, I've asked him to write something here on a regular basis.

I'll put it up on the first Friday of every month. If you've seen a piece of writing that makes you smile - could be anything, even a one-liner, then please share with a link in the comments box - as I'd love to add some extra bright spots to my weekend. It's not as if there's much on TV in the evenings.

No pressure, though. I visit lots and lots of blogs and don't often leave a comment because sometimes I'm just in the mood to flit. Anyway, enough preamble. Here he is...



As one of the few male followers of Small Things, Simple Pleasures I think I’m uniquely credentialed to comment on the difference between the small, simple pleasures of men, and those of women. The fact that I happen to be married to The Author of this blog also helps in my understanding of the small but important distinctions.

Small Male Pleasure 1:
Mocking Sticks
Myself and The Child find it incredibly easy to mock those things that The Author loves and form the central theme of this blog. For example, I’ll get home and The Child will say, with much eye-rolling, “Mum stopped the car and picked up some sticks she found on the side of the road today,” and, with uncanny comic mimicry, demonstrate the effort required by The Author to get the massive bunch of sticks through the house. Hilarious.

Small Male Pleasure 2:
Enjoying Candles
Of course, I haven’t lived in the same house as The Author without some taste points rubbing off. I may often complain about the over-cushioning of the bed, but I do enjoy a good candle arrangement.
On the weekend we light the fire, cook something delicious, have a glass of wine and relax. The Author will make a beautiful installation of candles and sticks (see above). It’s just lovely.
If I decide to stay up and watch sport when she’s off to bed, The Author will blow out all the candles except for one and say, as she leaves the room, “that’s enough for you.”

Small Male Pleasure 3:
Gardening Machinery
I grew up on a farm but live in a small, inner-city semi, so I do have a weird fondness for my collection of electrical gardening machinery. I have a massive extension cord an electrician once left behind and with it I power my lawnmower, my hedge trimmer, my whipper-snipper and my beloved chainsaw.
When it’s gardening time I will attempt to use any piece in my collection but generally get made to do boring weeding after being accused of only wanting to do the “glory jobs”.

Small Male Pleasure 4:
Getting Out of Weeding
This is just so easy, it’s ridiculous. While being watched, you weed slowly and badly and protest “But I just did that bit!” when shown the patches you’ve missed.
Then you slink off inside for drinks of water and don’t come back, until you’re forgotten. I’m such an expert at this I can make “weeding” cover the removal of just two individual weeds.

Small Male Pleasure 5:
Wilful Disobedience
When discussing this column with The Author, I threatened to refer to her as The Publisher, which she thought was overcooked, grandiose, self-important and pandering to my corporate sensibilities, which are totally counter to the organic, personal and hand-crafted nature of the blogosphere.
And yet I still managed to call her The Publisher once…

I could go on … and on … but I see I have reached the limit of the strict word count I have been given. So you will never get the pleasure of my opinions on Speed Cameras, Correct Parking Procedure, Cooking Steaks, Disciplining Cats, Annoying Teenage Daughters (too easy), Dishwasher Stacking, Knowing When Things Are Clean Enough, Riding Bikes, High Pants and Silly Hair, to name a few.

Never mind. I must make a note to tell The Author all about it tonight …