"Fight Back With Food"

See the present my lovely hubby just got me:

Nice, huh!  It's a book that explains what various foods do what on the health front and is chokka with healing recipes.

But the gift isn't just in the object; it's also in the message. And that message is the best one anyone can ever hear: "You were right and I was wrong!"  Yayyy, Keith! Way to surrender, honeybunch!

Keith and I have always fought about food.  He's from New Zealand so his idea of a meal is meat-and-three-veg - a good cut of steak by choice - whereas I was raised by my mother who always claimed that what Keith called a meal was "murder committed with love."; the very best way to kill someone young. And since Keith was by far the better cook and I was adamant I was NOT cooking what he wanted, he put himself in charge of nightly dinner which meant our dogs always ate extremely well because nightly I baulked and only ate the vegies then helped myself to the hummus in the fridge.

And aren't I grateful now! My doctor here in Hong Kong, Dr Yap, wouldn't believe any westerner didn't have fatty organs - and thus the related health issues - so sent me for a full body ultra-sound to find out what was happening inside me and was almost reluctant to admit that, yes, the organs in my body look like they could belong to a 20 year old; that internally I was in better shape even than Chinese folk my age. "What diet do you follow?" he asked, looking at the pictures, genuinely impressed and deeply puzzled.

"My mother's." was my proud reply.

Looking back on all this, I now realise Mum was speaking from a different place than other folks back then and that there is something very odd about her body of esoteric wisdom and a lot of her strange skills - like being able to ... well, I once saw her put an injured man into a trance just using her voice and then stitch him up without an anesthetic - and, yes, I'm now immensely curious where it came from; all that advice like "Meat, like cakes, biscuits and pastry, should only be eaten in a 'kill the fatted calf' way; something only done on special occasions."  and, most importantly, "Peasants always have the best health so always eat the foods that peasants eat."

And just like Keith and I, Dad and mum also had lots of food wars with dad forever saying "Yes, we'll eat like peasants if it means so much to you, but peasants always ate tripe and offal and off-cuts." to which mum always replied "No, peasants ate PULSES! Peasants ate vegetables. They ate leaves and tubers, fruit and nuts. They had very little meat and virtually no complicated, heavily-produced food, except for special occasions."  ...

... and, most importantly, "They almost always ate fresh" ...

... and so, there on the ridge in the jungle in Tamavua, mum got herself a bete (witchdoctor) for a gardener - Ifarami - and together they built us a magnificent garden, very picturesque, sure, but with fruit trees and food plants everywhere only pretending to be decorative. And Ifarami was amazingly diligent and the produce from our garden was always abundant, and all of it (except for what he stole to feed his own family and let's not blame him for that) daily came straight into our kitchen, and thus we grew up on fresh, fresh, fresh!

And milk and yoghurt and eggs, she had delivered fresh from the Indian farmer just down the road from us in Taverua, who didn't know he was 'being organic' since he was just doing what he did because it's what his farmer-family had always done.

Although the superiority of this sort of diet is common knowledge now, we're talking here about the '60s so mum was very out of sync with the age, and "It's an old Merton family story." mum would often say to justify her own position on various points.

Old family stories!  Oral traditions!  What is transmitted within family lore? What is passed down by word of mouth through the generations? Probably more than we realise. Someone I know quite well once made a bizarre gesture while saying something very adamant that made me think "There's some story behind that gesture that speaks of a great deal of hate many generations ago." and so - as usual, rampantly curious - I tracked down the surname and discovered a very nasty 17th century ancestor who did something particularly cruel that we would now call A Hate Crime that was deeply connected with the remark the friend made; and no, the friend didn't know about the ancestor yet still the hate was there as a fundamental fuel.

And, closer to home, reading an interview with dad's cousin several times removed, Seamus Heaney, when he was here in Hong Kong for the Literary Festival several years ago, I was astonished that every word of wisdom he sprouted I'd previously heard coming from my father's lips!  "Spend your money on your children's education and land on a hill!" was only one of the very many they had in common!



So I wonder what exactly those Mertons once knew that was passed down the generations by word of mouth to eventually end up being sprouted by my mother.

And there was something else mum always said that didn't belong anywhere near 'mainstream common knowledge' which increasingly makes me go "Mmmmm!" and wonder about a lot of things connected with her surname and ancestry ... and, well, after googling the family name and seeing what's out there, even wondering long and hard about the origins of Oxford University and when exactly it started.

I mean, just look at Oxford University, right?. Although it is meant to have started in, what, the 12th century?, there are references to "the ancient mystery school at Oxford" back in 1003, or 1009 or 1011 - early 11th century anyway.  And then there's Merton House for Scholars, which was already there when Oxford began, and which eventually evolved into today's Merton College ... and since teaching is always about transmitting a body of knowledge surely this means these Mertons had a body of knowledge they once thought should be transmitted, so there's our mother most likely sprouting off remnants of what was once known ...


... so I do wonder about a lot of things she said. Like, she was a nurse married to a doctor, and so yes, part of the western medical tradition, yet she always said things like:  "Western Medicine grew out of the triumph of the alchemists over the healers!" and "Western Medicine is about science and not about healing."  and "Western Medicine is like an unscrupulous mechanic who fixes the immediate problem but tinkers elsewhere so things will go wrong in the future." and "Modern medicine has the wrong ph balance for the body chemistry so anything you take will eventually do you a great deal of harm."  ...

... and the biggest thing she was most adamant about: "Stick with only the original medicines: aspirin, St Andrew's liver salts, and bicarbonate of soda, and for everything else ...

USE FOOD!

... and "Food is the best medicine"!  "Find out the foods that heal and use those for healing!"

So, yes, that's what I now think: that The Merton were once a very ancient family of healers! Very, very ancient indeed!  And the world is finally realising their wisdom and returning in droves to what the Merton once knew!

So, you can see why it's so lovely that Keith has bought me this book.  Sure, he surrendered to my diet guidelines nearly a decade ago, but this book shows that he now admits that he thinks my mother was right all along and that FOOD IS MEDICINE.

And let me tell you one final lovely story about my gorgeous chubby hubby:

The latest photo of the two of us.

As you can see, no one can ever accuse Keith of being a slender fellow. However, when we were in Taiwan recently, there was a young Chinese man with a stall on the streets with a sign saying "Free Health Checks", who took one look at Keith, got all excited and raced over to offer him a quick once-over.

Keith and I were both sure the man would follow up with the offer to sell us something very expensive so it wasn't going to be free at all, but he looked like a very fair-minded and pleasant fellow and, besides, I was confident, so I pushed him into doing it.

So the fellow took Keith's blood-pressure and looked very surprised, then listened to his heart and was even more surprised - crestfallen even - then "Your health is perfect!" he admitted and after me insisting he do me too, with the same results, let us both go on our way.

So, yes, sometimes it's very wise to listen to what your mother had to say! So, GO MUM!  And GO GO THE MERTONS!!!

Random Photo # forgotten!

Busy today so again with the random photo.  This is, as you know, a post in which I choose a photo from my program with my eyes shut, and if it's interesting I talk about it, and if it isn't I don't:

Ah, Lady R.s bust of Sigmund Freud.  And since Wikipedia has a fine entry on the fellow - link here - I get to go off and take a Medicine Quest, which is my new big thing.  And if you don't know what a Medicine Quest is, it's a Native American tradition that, when you don't know what to do, you ask the Universe for an answer and take a long walk following no particular path and look for meaning in random passing events.

Mmmm, wonder what Freud would make of that?

The New Snobby Travelers!

Had an enormous laugh when reading in the Standard the other day about a new breed of rich American and European "Flashpacker" tourists who they're now calling The New Snobby Traveler but who will soon, I'm sure, be given a much nastier name along the lines of "Tourists who travel simply so they can boast at dinner parties" although I'm sure others will come up with something much nastier, shorter and all round more deserving.

The New Snobby Travelers, it seems, do not go to places where other people go.  They like to find their own places in obscure spots on the planet, preferably areas no one has ever heard of and which don't ever see tourists, and then like to boast about it to their friends and associates, feeling the fillip simply because other people don't know where it is and certainly have not been there themselves.

A new brand of one-up-man-ship they're all playing with each other!

(Hey, may I suggest to these folk Ushuaia?  There's a place that's ... mmmmm! ... got the right obscurity value and folks I know who've been there have told me, yes, at dinner parties, that it's ... mmmm! ... rather special!)

The article went on to say that these New Snobby Travelers have just discovered Luang Prabang in Laos and are furious that so many folk from around the world have already been there; that it isn't a discovery they've made for themselves; that they get no cache from the boast and they're annoyed because, well, Luang Prabang, the Royal City on the banks of the Mekong and Khan Rivers is just stunning, so has been well known to backbackers and retirement travelers for nearly three decades, thus they want to go there for the beauty but, no sorry, it doesn't have the right level of obscurity and 'boast-ability'.

Still, if this new influx of Flashpackers have now discovered Luang Prabang, maybe we can let them know about Luang Prabang Orphanage because I'm sure they would get "the obscurity fillip" from boasting about how they've "taken an interest" in the place and subsequently how much they do to help these poor little kiddies.  And, trust me, those little kiddies do need help.

I love going to strange out-of-the-way places myself but do, however, have a wee concern encompassed within this general global jaunting.  Let me tell you one little story to illustrate:

Friends of ours here in Hong Kong - two perfectly nice middle-aged Australian women who teach in Chinese schools here - recently went on a week-long holiday jaunt to Indonesia, and while there, one morning, decided on a whim to catch a ferry across to an island well off the coast that they'd heard was very pretty.

Nothing to it, right?

Wrong! They were there and "tourist-ing" (both are rather chunky sorts so were wearing the standard 'filo gwei-po' tourist uniform of calf-length baggy shorts, collared Polo t-shirts and Nikes-with-socks) ...

 This sort of thing!

.... for no more than half an hour, when several locals grabbed them, bustled them down alley-ways, hauled them away into some little shack, saying there what they presumed was "Duck, duck" as they hauled them down below the window-line, peeping out themselves to see if anyone had seen.

Naturally, while lying on some strangers' floor in a shack down an alley, they wanted to know what was going on so, after a great deal of protesting, mime, and 'talking very slowly in English', one of these "kidnappers" kindly went off to get the island's resident English-speaker who explained to them that ... the island's Iman had seen them arrive, objected to what they were wearing and thus their presence there on the island and so had ordered their immediate deaths!

Yes, he ordered them KILLED! People we know personally were ORDERED TO BE KILLED!!!  People no different from us WERE ORDERED TO BE KILLED!

However, their rescuers/"kidnappers" thought they looked like a nice pair of 'old ladies' so truly didn't want to do it and so had decided to risk their own lives to save them!

Yup, that's what happened! And they had to lie on the floor behind the sofa all day long, until well after dark, when these kindly locals then threw veils around them and secreted them along the back alleyways, to catch the late ferry back.

A lesson there for us all, I suspect.  And certainly a lesson for The New Snobby Travelers!  Yes, traveling to obscure places is all very well but you have to realise that sometimes ... the locals simply don't want you there!

"Agora"

Went to see the film "Agora" today.  Was looking forward to it for ages because it's a film that finally tells story of Hypatia, the brilliant 4th century mathematician, astronomer and philosopher who was running the Library of Alexandria (took over after her dad died, but that's not in the film) when the Christians burned it down, destroying all the knowledge in the world, and who was one of the last voices of Reason and Rationality before the fall of civilisation and the start of the thousand years of rampant ignorance we now call The Dark Ages ...

...  and who, because she tried to keep knowledge and learning alive after the Library was destroyed, was flayed alive by the Christian Ayatollahs who then pulled her naked corpse around behind a chariot through the streets of Alexandria and burned her remains in the Agora.

I've loved Hypatia since I was a child, and always wanted her to be part of the mainstream common knowledge so I had high hopes for this film and have to tell you that ...

YES!!!

... "Agora" the probably the most beautiful film I've been to since ... since ever! Visually stunning and beautifully told, I have to confess it's a little slow now and again but just achingly and astonishingly beautiful and just so deeply and desperately SAD.

Never have I cried as much as I did when the Christians stormed the Library and started burning the books; watching all the knowledge in the world going up in flames and watching the awful triumph on the faces of the burners who honestly thought they were winning some great and grand prize with this monstrous act.

Lessons to us all in there someplace. Particularly to the Taliban, who these early Christians so closely resembled.

Let's see if I can find the trailer for you:



And sincerely, respect! for the script.  I know how tough it was to turn out something this beautiful because I wrote a film treatment of the historical Hypatia as one of the many exercises I had to turn in for my Masters in Screenwriting, and I know I found it impossible to turn her stupid and pointless death into something with some bigger meaning ... but this film does manage to do it, a little, by changing the facts a bit and having her dead already when the Christians stone her to death. And yes, they choose to have her stoned rather than strip her skin off her bones, which would have been too awful visually to be stood.

So, really, what more can I say except this film is wonderful and I hope everyone on earth goes to see it because ... well, it's a story about the Triumph of Hated and Ignorance over Light and Rationality ... and that's something that we really should have back on the agenda these days, don't you think?

Top Gallery, Dafen

You remember my friend Annie from Dafen?

 Sweet Annie!

Remember her now?  And you recall too how I blogged that she was leaving her current gallery and taking the enormous step of opening her own?  If you don't, let me find that post: here.

Well, she writes to say that her gallery - which she's called Top Gallery - is now open and ... well, here's what she says:

"Our painters is able to paint whatever you need. You also can order any works via email and we will arrange delivery service for you. I will send you picture for your approval once we have the painting done. Best quote, best service is our business tenet ."

And here are a few of the pictures she already has for sale:

 

Actually, I like a couple of these.  Maybe another trip to Dafen is in order.  You up for it, Christine? Heather?

And if you'd like to get in touch with Annie at her new gallery, you'll find it here:

Ji Ya Xuan Gallery (Top Gallery)

 

No.2 Lane 1,
Laowei west,
Dafen Village,
Buji Town,
Shenzhen,
China.

 

And her mobile is 131 6806 8804 .

 

Good luck with this venture, Annie from Dafen Village!

More Singapore Snapshots

Another letter from our Singapore holiday in 2005:

Things in and about Singapore that really took my fancy? 

1) All the elderly Chinese rickshaw drivers plying down for

trade down Victoria Street playing loud Gangsta Rap music 

on their boom boxes.  Some things seem so wrong!
 
2) Passing a large market stall in Chinatown and there's an 

elderly Chinese man on a microphone calling out "Hurry. Hurry. 

Bargains galore. Prices tumble. The price is now ... brace 

yourself ... one dollar an item. That's right. One dollar. 

Why are our prices so low? Because we've gone cah-raaazzzy! 
That's right. We're all cah-raaaaazzzzy!!"
 
3) Young Chinese women all doing puja outside Sri Krishnarama 

Hindu Temple:

4) First day there, having breakfast in the breezeway of 

our hotel. A tour bus pulls up outside and unexpectedly 

there's the usual bad-tempered cadre in his obligatory black 

leather jacket shrieking at his group of elderly Mainlander 

peasants and I have a mild panic attack and think "Oh god, 

it's the crowd of 10,000 China has assigned to me for the 

holiday season. They deliver them internationally."  But we 

never saw any of this lot again so I needn't have worried.
 
5) A young Chinese man in Hindu garments with tika who 

obviously was the boss of Sri Krishnarama Temple: 

I said to him "It's strange to see a Chinese Hindu."  He got 

all snitty and said "My people come from Nepal. All Nepali 

are Hindu."  Later that day I was in a taxi with an Indian 
driver who had a row of bronze Buddhas all along the 

dashboard.  I said to him. "You are Buddhist?" He said 

"All my people are."  I said "It's strange to see an Indian 

Buddhist." He got all snitty and said "My people come from 
Nepal.  All Nepali are Buddhist." 

I thought to myself "There's two people who obviously have 

never ever met but need to in order to get their stories 

straight!"
 
6) A different taxi driver says to us "Do you know anything 

about Australian politics?"  We reply "A little." He says 

"Can you explain John Howard to me?"  We said "What do you 

want to know?"  He says "To me he seems like a strange, boring, 

tiny little man with no policies and no charisma, so what 
does he have that makes Australians keep voting for him?" 

Keith and I looked at each other at a loss for an answer. 

Finally I say "Maybe it's because he's so obviously an 

honest man." 

The driver says "But surely Australia has other politicians 

who are honest who have more going for them?" There was 
absolutely no comeback to that one and we were very pleased 

to finally arrive at our destination.
 
7) Sitting in the Courtyard Bar at Raffles Hotel drinking 

Singapore Slings ...

Raffles fountain. 

... and reading in Somerset Maugham's "Far East Tales" about 

sitting in the Courtyard Bar at Raffles Hotel drinking 

Singapore Slings and feeling most "literary-chic" when the 

Malay waiter suddenly says to us "This is the exact 

table where Somerset Maugham, Noel Coward and Gunter Grass 

used to sit when they drank at this bar!" 

It was so wow! But then I heard the same waiter at a table 

about 12 feet away from us say to the elderly German 
couple about their table "This is exactly the same table 

where Noel Coward, Somerset Maugham and Gunter Grass used to 

sit!" and didn't they just beam with delight. 

It's a con! But as cons go it's a nice one. Raffles staff 

really know how to make a punter feel good. 

8) Sitting in the rotunda atop Fort Canning Hill trying 

to catch the breeze and reading Somerset Maugham when I 

suddenly read that he's sitting in the rotunda atop Fort 

Canning Hill trying to catch a breeze and reading Byron 

only he keeps getting distracted by "the black and 

emaciated Tamil gardeners" hoeing at the grass and is 

transfixed by "the indescribable beauty of each gesture 

they make." 

My hair stands on end and I look up and I'm surrounded 

by Tamil gardeners hoeing at the grass and, aiming for 

literary chic, I try to be transfixed by the indescribable 

beauty of each gesture they make but they are all a bunch 

of awkward, sullen, shambling teenage gits so I absolutely 

can't do it. 

Guess Tamil gardners aren't what they used to be ... or 

else you have to be a repressed homosexual-in-denial in 

order to really understand where Maugham is coming from.
 
9) We're at the Night Safari (much more about this later) 

at Singapore Zoo where you get to wander freely around 

their forests and encounter many endangered species. 

Anyway, before we set off we get a strict talking-to by a 

forest ranger: 

"The predators are all well-fed so are unlikely to do you 

any harm but please remember they are all wild animals. If 

you encounter any dangerous animals do nothing to startle 

them. No lights, no sounds, no sudden movements. So don't 

use flash on your cameras. Restrict your movements. Don't 

make any loud sounds. In fact, keep absolutely quiet the 

whole time you're out there." 

So Keith and I set off alone wandering down various paths 

through the jungle, lit only with moon-light levels of ambient 

lighting, when we suddenly encounter two enormous young lions. 

They're lying on a rock only about 8 feet away from us and 

we can hardly breathe for excitement.  
 

And right at that moment - stupid, stupid, stupid! - we should 

have remembered that there's one thing you can count on during 

Chinese New Year!!! - someone on an estate nearby lets off 

firecrackers. The sky bursts out with light and huge loud 

sounds.

Lights. Sounds. Movements. Everything that shouldn't happen.

The lions stiffen and let out that strange barking - like 

large asthmatic dogs - then, as the fireworks continue, they 

get up and start roaring, their muscles stiffening like they're

getting ready to pounce. The situation instantly becomes 

electric and we're backing away quietly. Fast! 

We round the corner and we're racing madly down the path 

towardsthe cafe in the jungle when we encounter a young American 

couple walking the other way.  We say "Don't go up there. 

There are two lions who've been frightened by the fireworks and 

are dangerous." 

The young American woman snaps at us "Don't be ridiculous. 
I've heard the song. Lions sleep at night." 

Hey, what else could we do but let them pass on their way? As 

Keithsaid "Someone has to win the Darwin Award for this year!"

Sitting out the fireworks 

at the nice cafe in the forest 

where they had lots of lovely 

forest rangers with 

tranquilliser guns.   

A Surreal Night with Merry B.

Dear old friend Merry B. has recently drifted back into my life and I reminded her the other day of a very VERY surreal night she once inflicted on me.  She didn't recall it and asked me to jog her memory, so I've rummaged deep and pulled out that file, and this is an exact account of what I recall happening that night, written to remind her but also posted here because it was so strange and bizarre it's most relate-able:

Sydney, Australia. 1979. I'm on holiday from university when late one night I'm suddenly plunged into a rather frightening episode at Manly Ferry Pier.  Because it was all Merry B.'s fault - she dropped me off in the middle of nowhere to find my own way home in a city I barely knew - I ring her when I finally do get back to Rod's place in Woollahra, after two in the morning, to berate her for putting me in harm's way.

"Ooooh!" said Merry when I tell her what's happened,  "You have dark beings in your aura!"

Normally, I find surreal non sequiturs wonderful but it was very late and I was very cross. "What are you talking about?" I snap at her.

"Dark beings!  Bad things only happen when you have dark beings trapped in your aura!"

A new form of 'blame the victim'? "Still not with you. Again, what are you talking about?"

"Can't explain. But let me make it up to you.  Let me take you to have your aura cleaned."

It's weird, it's wonderful, Merry's forgiven and I'm sooo there!

So late the following afternoon she swings by Woollahra to pick me up on a street corner and, while we're driving through inner-city Sydney, she rummages in her handbag and hands me a small wad of white tissue. "Don't worry." she says "I didn't touch it."

Thinking it's maybe a handmade chocolate intended by way of apology, I open the wad ... but inside there's only a purple bougainvillea flower. "What am I meant to do with this?" I ask, disappointed.

"Touch it!"

I poke it with my finger.  "Now what?"

"That's enough!"

We end up, around sunset, parked on a small road off Norton Street in Leichhardt, Sydney's "Little Italy", and wander over to an old, rundown church.

Inside, it's a huge empty space with only thin reedy light coming through broken stained glass windows. And there are about forty folk milling around a big coffee urn; the men all gaunt and haunted bearded "folkie" types and the women all chunky and butch with overalls, crew-cuts and the obligatory Doc Martens. No one appears to know each other so there's very little chat and everyone carries a single flower.

I find it kinda creepy and sacrilegious and am thinking "Don't vampires and devil-worshippers meet in de-sanctified churches?" No one looks like a vampire or a devil-worshipper so I grab a cuppa and wander around the semi-dark hall trying to read the posters and programs on the cork boards: No vampires! No devil-worshippers! Instead it's all meetings for "Things, Anonymous" and yoga gatherings, aerobics gathering, and gatherings of various different cliques of Anarchist Collectives, but the very best would have to be the advertisement for "Leichhardt Lesbian Lawyers Laundomat Collective", which appeared to be for a place where inner-city lesbians dispense free legal advice while you have your washing done.  Love?

Eventually someone thinks to turn on the lights, and, like it's a signal, everyone puts down their coffee mugs, takes one of the uncomfortable old wooden fold-up chairs from against the wall and goes up to the space behind the rail where the altar would once have been.  Merry grabs a chair so I join her but I'm still thinking vampires and devil-worshippers, and am so pleased when I see they're placing their chairs diagonally away from the once-was-altar-space and towards a long trestle table where everyone is placing their flower.

We place our two matching bougainvilleas in among the other flowers and sit down to wait. No one's talking and it's all kinda grim and uncomfortable, so I prod Merry in the waist and hiss "What are you doing to me, Merry!"

"Ssssshhhh! Esme will be here soon!"

Esme?  So we're waiting for someone called Esme! Mental picture?  Long flowing robes, scarves, a great claimer of Romany ancestry?  I'm thinking she'll be wearing khol around her eyes, a great deal of purple and black and maybe even have an ankh somewhere about her person!

But no!  Eventually, Esme bustles in, all brisk efficiency and rushed for time.  She's in her 50s, quite formidably chunky, with a butch and unfortunate man-ish gray haircut, and she's wearing sensible shoes and a white nurse's uniform that looks exactly like a real one, right down to the watch she has pinned onto her enormous bosom.  For my money, she looks exactly like the matron of a large and busy inner-city hospital ... which, as it turns out, she is!

She's not anything like scary but everyone watches in awed and jaw-dropped silence as she sits herself down at the trestle table, shuts her eyes and puts her hands out to pray Buddhist-style, maybe to center herself but more likely to catch her breath because ... well, she's a big woman and she's been rushing!

When she finally opens her eyes she asks everyone to hold hands as she prays aloud; something politically correct and addressed to some vague multi-denominational god.   And there's some little homily I don't get about polar bears in cages or something.  But then she starts on the flowers ...

One by one she picks them up, holds them cupped in her hands and sprouts whatever comes to her: very general references to things in peoples' lives followed up by what sounds to me like "placebo advice". One size fits all.

But then she picks up a bougainvillea.  I poke Merry in the waist again.  "It's us!" I whisper excitedly.

"Ssshhhh!"

"I have no patience with this person." Esme says scornfully, uncupping her hands and throwing the flower down on the table.  "Your problems are all of your own causing! Stop blaming other people and start looking inwards.  You KNOW and you know that you know ..."

"That's me."  I whisper.

"No." says Merry very sadly and nodding.  "That's ME!"

And that's the point where Merry became very glum and remained glum for the rest of the night.

Esme eventually comes to the other bougainvillea, picks it up, cups it in her hand then shrieks loudly and throws it away from herself, far and fast.  "This person is being haunted. This person has dark beings trapped in her aura.  It's imperative that whoever owns this flower stays back afterwards to see me!"

"Now THAT'S you!" says Merry!

So that's what Merry was talking about; hauntings!; dark beings in my aura! Cool, huh! I'm hopelessly rapt and loving every moment, thinking about how many zillions of dollars I'll no doubt be asked to pay to rid me of these "dark beings" and laughing to myself because I'm so hopelessly poor no one can bleed me for anything!

After the flowers have all been read, it's time for another prayer, another homily, and the advice "Be the love you all want to find in the world.", then everyone picks up their chairs, returns them to the wall, and goes over to the coffee urn to mill around and still not talk to each other.

Not us, however.  Merry and I get to stay behind and I'm thrilled about it, waiting for the sting and trying to anticipate how exactly she'll set up the con.

Esme comes over to the pair of us, standing side-by-side, glances briefly at Merry then looks at me hard. "You're the one!" she says and signals for the nurse-looking-minion who'd been there all along, not participating, to bring up a regular-looking massage chair and a blue plastic bucket of water. Minion does and places them right where the altar once would have been and I'm not so comfortable with that.

Nonetheless, I sit in the chair and Esme runs her hands about a foot away from my body.  "Two dark beings." she says "Both female. One has been with you for about four years.  The other for nine days."

Suddenly I'm creeped out.  Nine days earlier, a friend had overdosed on Sylvia Plath and stuck her head in a gas oven: Elaine Smythe.

"This new one isn't very nice." says Esme. "In life, she was what you'd call an emotional parasite and you were right to distance yourself from her.  

I'm squirming in the chair and remembering the poetry Elaine used to write me and how I used to have to pretend I didn't know it was cobbled together from bits of the more obscure Elton John songs, and how I found her increasingly very strange and her poetry rather increasingly more creepily passionate and so, well, yes, I'd recently stopped having much to do with her.

"She used to write you poetry." says Esme and suddenly I'm trembling.

Esme wafts around some more: "She's telling me she didn't mean to die. She was just being dramatic and attention-seeking. And she says that you know her well and that her name is Eileen Smith."

"Elaine Smythe!" I correct her.

"No. Eileen Smith. She only used the other name so she'd sound posh!"

More wafting. More trembling. "She's attached herself to you because she realised after she died that you two used to know each other as children.  You used to swim in her pool on the hill overlooking Port Morseby."

Seriously, I'm now shaking with hair standing up in places I didn't even know I had hair, remembering that metal above-ground salt-water swimming pool perilously close to the ridge overlooking Port Moresby Harbour, and of a young girl my age in a green and white swimsuit called Leeny.  A creepy little snot-eater from memory and I didn't like her but it was insanely hot, even in the hills, and she was the only person in the neighbourhood with a pool.

But still, so very very sad!  No one deserves to die like that. So stupidly and so pointlessly! What a stupid, stupid woman that little snot-eater grew up to be!

"She won't leave you." says Esme. "I've asked and asked but she says she now realises you two were meant to be together and won't go.  I'll have to catch her."

Esme, looking grim and angry, starts scooping cupped hands and sweeping away around my body and normally I'd have found it hilarious but truly, truly, truly, I'm not laughing.

Eventually - "Aahhhhh!" - she grabs some nothing in the air, cups it in both hands and puts it into the blue plastic bucket, and inexplicably I suddenly feel so much lighter. I hadn't even realised I was feeling leaden.

"Now for the other one." says Esme and this time I'm a believer from the get-go.

She wafts around again. "Nice." she says.  "This one is a nice spirit and was traveling so lightly with you, she never gave you problems. Ah, she tells me you called her Aunty although you weren't related."

I know exactly who she means.  It's Aunty Claire, a dear sweet old lady, 98 when she died, with eyes the exact colour of her sapphire brooch - and she was so thrilled when I told her so because "that's exactly what my father said when he gave it to me." - who had the best stories ever about balls and beaus and beautiful gowns and, as a child, I used to listen in rapt silence for hours and hours, curled up on the sofa next to her, clutching a pillow to my stomach.Yes, this beautiful lady was one of my early life's very few infinitely-precious adults.

But when she'd died four years earlier, she'd left me (along with a particularly ugly apartment building called "Moana" in Randwick overlooking Coogie Beach that was disputed by her family in court so I never received) some shonky metal brooch with plastic stones that looked like something you'd get in a toy store. I hadn't seen her in years and remember looking at the brooch and thinking "She must have really lost it at the end."

"She says she's with you because you didn't get what she intended you to have.  She wanted you to have the brooch to remind you of her eyes so you'd know that she'd always be looking over you."

"Aunty Claire!" I say to Esme, nodding.

"That's what you called her. And she says you know the person who switched the brooches - another person you called Aunty but wasn't - but Aunty Claire says to let it go. It isn't important now that you've been told the meaning of the gift she intended for you, which was always really the message and not the object."

Esme didn't have to scoop hard to rid me of my beautiful Claire. Seems once I knew the truth she was ready to go.

So that's it.  I know, I know, it's all "Flakes R Us!" but that's the story of how I stopped being haunted. And, yup, it was all most peculiar that entire night!  And after Aunty Claire left me, while I'm still in the massage chair, Esme took both my hands and told me I was a lovely soul with a dazzling aura - mmm, you can never get enough of that kind of talk, can you! - and that I really had to learn to protect myself and so she teaches me how.

"Do this at least once a month." she says. "And instantly whenever you suddenly feel leaden." and I take it all in ... and I must confess I was so impressed I still follow Esme's advice ... maybe not once a month or even once a year but whenever I remember to.

After that, well, once they saw my session was over, all the milling folk surged across the hall all obviously hoping for a private word with Esme, and she was instantly swallowed up by the crowd and so Merry and I snuck off, but not before nurse-looking-minion grabbed us and asked us to pay 30 cents each for the cups of tea we'd had.

30 cents for a cup of tea!  Now THERE'S a sting for you!

Yes, it was all most most peculiar. And, yes, the night had left me rather shaken up and I wanted us to go someplace with tea and cheesecake so we could talk it all through, but Merry was glum and depressed and definitely wanted to be alone, so she dropped me off on Oxford Street in Bondi Junction, again leaving me to find my own way back to Woollahra ... but this time I found my way easily and nothing bad whatsoever happened to me.

In the decades since then, I've thought about Esme now and then, and particularly so when around cynics who scoff at psychics ... or around folk who don't believe there's an afterlife ... and there have even been occasions when I've been in the company of a group of working psychics and asked if they've ever known a woman called Esme who worked from an old church in Leichardt in downtown Sydney and there's always at least one person who gasps and says "Oh my god, you knew Esme!  Wasn't she spectacular!"

And I always have to reply with perfect honesty "Yes. Yes, Esme was indeed spectacular!"


So, darling Merry, you old duffer, do you remember it all now?

Another Random Photo!

Have another old story to blog, but not today.  Inexplicably deep-bone-tired!

So for today's offering, more photomancy!  A photo chosen with my eyes shut:

Ah, the old doors at the Upper Cave at Pak Ou along the Mekong in Laos.  Already blogged this story so don't need to do it again. If you're interested:  http://travels-with-denise.blogspot.com/2009/01/pak-ou-caves-mekong-laos.html

See you tomorrow when hopefully I'll feel much more energetic and tell you the story.

"Me'a Kai" by Robert Oliver.

My sweet high-school BBF Robert Oliver's new book "Me'a Kai" (Tongan for "Come Eat")  - published by Random House - is currently `going gangbusters' in the global market.  Huge sales. Huge publicity. Huge feedback.  Huge interest.

Everyone's raving about the food and the format and how he's "reinvented Pacific Island cooking for the global market", and "made Aunty's cooking into a gourmet's delight.", and loving the stories of his adventures in the islands that he's included, and his snippets of history and culture.

HRH Princess Pilolevu of Tonga has even said "Reading this book is like going on holiday." which was very nice of her, wasn't it!

Sincerely, and I've been thinking about this a lot lately, Robert's the very best BBF I've ever had. Back then, growing up in Fiji, we were just so wild together.  I've always been this crazy-arse stupidly-adventurous soul with just the right amount of Aspergers to make me dangerously careless about public opinion and personal safety, and, looking back on my entire life, I've realised Robert is the only friend I've ever had who was always with me all the way.  Yup, this beautiful boy with a face like an Angel and an air of golden innocence, baulked at nothing! NOTHING!  Not EVER!

And never once did he ever say "Are you mad?" whenever I suggested we attempt something outrageously stupid and dangerous, like ... no, no, I won't tell. Knowing what we got up to would probably give his lovely mother a post-reactive stress disorder. I'll save those stories until I can afford myself the "deniability" of a thinly-disguised, secretly-autobiographical novel about growing up in Fiji.

Yup, my friend Robert; together we could do anything. Totally fearless! Totally Bonnie and Clyde!  And we did incredibly stupid things constantly and laughed uproariously the whole time! Oh man, he was funny! Best quipster EVER!  No, wait, that honour would have to go to Ian Jackson!  But Robert wasn't that far behind!

One particularly special memory:  we'd been out nightclubbing together at the Boom Boom Room at Beachcomber in Deuba and were walking home along the beach. 

 This beach! 

The one we always called Buru Lutu Beach

even though it wasn't it's real name. 

Only, in this story, it's at night!

Visualise it.  Nighttime! Long golden beach next to a thick jungle. Full moon. Lapping waves. Two teenagers in tight evening wear, carrying platform shoes, hobbling along the sand, talking, laughing, singing ...

... but then we got to the headland - Shark's Fin - and discovered the tide was fully in with waves crashing high against the cliffs. No other way to get home except a long haul back the entire beach and a cut-through at the river.  "Stuff it. Let's do this." I said and darling Robert didn't baulk for a second, "Yeah!  Makes sense!"

The rocks were very sharp so we had to strap on the wooden-soled platform shoes. And thus - you have to visualise us - there we were, full moon above, clinging onto the cliff-face, inching our way along in tight movement-restricting evening-wear and impossibly-high platform shoes, trying to find toeholds on the rocks and in the cliff-face, one misstep sending us down ... well, maybe not to our deaths but certainly to a serious wounding ...  clinging tight when the waves crashed around us ...

... and then - and it's this that makes this moment so very special in my memory - while clinging perilously to the rocks, Robert and I began to sing "Under the Boardwalk"! Yup, it's the fact we sang together under those circumstances that turns this into a Golden Moment with an Honoured Place in My Memory ... and needless to say we did it in really good harmony, with me going low and Robert going high!, and we sooo rocked it!

Yup, other folk in my life may - MAY! - have rounded that headland with me that night, but there was only Robert who'd have sung while doing it!

Nice, huh!  A sincerely special memory of a very special person.

So how can you NOT be part of his latest big adventure.  Me'a Kai. Buy Robert's book and put it in pride of place in your kitchen or on your coffee table.  And you can even try his recipes.

Here's where you can pick it up if it's not in a bookshop near you. 

I'm just so proud of him, my gorgeous darling honeybunny, and hope this ride takes him all the way to the top! Go, Rupati-levu, you sincerely champion human-being you!

Buddha's Birthday!

Today HK is having a public holiday to celebrate Buddha's Birthday!  Turns 2518 from memory!

Now THAT is one seriously massive birthday cake!

Keith wants to go out so I'm not blogging today.  OK, just one photo because I love this photomancy game so much:

You recall this one? I go into my photo program.  Shut eyes. Let the universe select a photo for me. If it's interesting, I'll tell you about it.  If I isn't, I won't:

Ah, Christine's friend Ruth's restaurant in Luang Prabang in Laos.  Tamnak Lao. Lovely place. Gorgeous food. Already blogged it so won't do it again.  Look here if you're interested.

See you later!

The Yagona Bowl!

Didi and Andre's wedding reception was great fun ...

 Didi and Jamie get funky!

... and everything looked so very beautiful ...

Kudos to Julia 

who put so much thought into all this!

... however since this blog tries to be all about stories, the most interesting part of the evening was The Saga of The Yagona Bowl!

You know about yagona, don't you?  If you don't, read here. Or for what an important role it plays in Fiji, try here.

What happened was that, during the planning, Tom kept saying "This is a Fiji wedding. We need to have yagona!" and Julia was all "No. We're not having some ugly old wooden bowl in among all the silver. No yagona, and that's that!" ...

... but she didn't count on Joe, did she!, because look what we have here!

 Yayyy, Joe!

Tom's long time good friend, Joe was seen, just before the reception, sneaking around the back entrance with all the yaya, and hiding the bowl on the back veranda where Julia wouldn't see it.

And it was a huge success too.  Everyone from Fiji was forever sneaking out of the formal dinner to gather around the bowl, laughing and swopping stories in the usual Fiji yagona-bowl-style, and all those who weren't from Fiji were also out there, sampling away, and, particularly with the South African contingent, discussing the strange taste. Yup, yagona became a great topic of conversation as well as being its usual conversation-encourager.

And look who also snuck off for a talanoa and a bilo:

 Careful your mum 

doesn't see, honey!

So, vinaka vaka levu for your wisdom and foresight, Joe!  This was a very great success!

But let's not tell Julia, kila ga!

My Buddha!

Busy today, but just want to check something out.

Remember my Buddha ... well this is it now:

And when Talei gave it to me last year it looked like this:

Weathering badly?  Mmmm, yes, a little. Guess I need to ask Richard to take it inside.

Didi's Wedding!

Didi and Andre's wedding was, after everything, beautiful.  There's no real story here but let me simply show you a few of the photos:

Mmm, look at those balloon tassels hanging over Didi's face and you can barely see her behind the candle.  This is too difficult selecting the best from thumbnails so let me go into the application and blow them all up so I can select properly.

OK, now the trick is remembering which I've selected:

And here's the image I really liked and thought Didi was so right to include as an important and meaningful part of the ceremony:

See those candles?  Didi insisted they have one representing her family and one representing Andre's family, then they both lit a flame from their family's and together lit the central candle representing that they were starting a NEW family. And with such a seriously strong pair of mothers ...

 ... I suspect this is something they'll have to refer to often! 


And just to tease Baby Jane, let me include only one of the many that shows the strange balls of white light that started when Tirangi sang her "sanctifying the space" song:

 Wait, let's see if I can find a clearer one:

Although I find it most curious that one followed Jamie into the jungle when he snuck off mid-ceremony for a quick smoke:

Look at it, right over his face.

And Jamie has the most amazing photographs of 'em too, and his are the only photos  I've seen so far ... and dammit if every one of his photos aren't better than mine!  That boy has a seriously good eye for image!

Anyway, Jane, no, these strange white light balls are not orbs. Although I do acknowledge that is definitely an orb Talei has in the empty space next to her:

And just to be especially mean, here's a photo of the strange human-shaped light I thought I saw in the tree-line ... although I didn't get a very clear shot of it:

So that's me getting immensely silly, so I'd better stop now.

Didi's wedding!  Just a gorgeous occasion!  And, yes, mum would definitely have been there if she could, so I won't laugh at Baby Jane as much as I normally would!

Loving This!

Have you ever seen this absolute gem?



Love?

"But Molly Murphy ..." Strikes Again!

Sincerely, I was not happy with the Cairns Colonial Club Resort.  If it weren't for the lying, I'd just have thought they were simply inefficient, incompetent and rampantly stupid, but the lying made it ... well, sickening really. And made me rather angry too.

I think the last straw was being told, after we left, that the cheaper rooms also had baths.  I was told only the deluxe rooms had one so I up-graded at almost double the cost ... and when Keith found out he yelled at me for a while - la la la la la!  - but I had to have one because I NEED a hot bath after a long flight, so there!

But then there were also other lying e-mails - which I've kept for my records - telling me the wedding package rooms were all $99 per night.  These packages are ... well, name your wedding party and they give you a room at this "amazing discounted price".  However, I have also since found out that only the first room booked in the package costs $99 and all the others in that name cost $70, and yet, despite naming my wedding, I was initially being asked to pay the full $99, except, you know, I up-graded.

(AND I also found out that weekdays the rooms only cost $60 for locals, so if Jane had simply booked all the rooms under her own name we would have had a truly "amazing discounted price".)

However, we found all this out after our three days there, and at the time it was only the "But Molly Murphy ..." that got up my nose and made me, eventually, throw a massive temper tantrum in the lobby, screaming blue murder at all the poor humble "English Language Learners" they have manning their reception desks.

Something strange was definitely afoot because "But Molly Murphy ..." constantly struck everyone in our wedding party, even the REAL Molly Murphy, who discovered, after lugging a mound of very heavy boxes back to her room, that she was locked out, and then after lugging them the veritable MILES through the gardens to the lobby, was told that "Molly Murphy has already checked out"!

For me, "But Molly Murphy ..." started well.  I had just come in on the 8-hour Cathay Pacific flight from Hong Kong to Cairns, was exhausted, stinky, aching and lugging a mound of luggage-full-of-presents so, in a sleep-deprived daze, wandered out of the airport to grab a taxi to the hotel, thinking of nothing more than a cuppa, a hot bath and a long long nap, when the Cairns Colonial Club bus - big logo on the door - pulls up beside me and the nice driver leans out the window and says "Murphy?"

"Yes!"

He leaps out, takes all my luggage and puts it into the bus. 

Nice, huh!  An unexpected airport pick-up!  But on the trip he says "Molly Murphy?"

"No, she's my sister."

"Do you know when she's arriving?"

"As far as I know, she's already arrived."

"That's odd.  For three days now, I've been out to the airport six times to pick up Molly Murphy, but she's never on the flights."

So the airport pick-up was just a misunderstanding, however I'm fine with that!

But then we get to the hotel.  "Sorry, Molly Murphy canceled your room!" some poor little German English-Language-Learner at the reception desk tells me.

I'm pleasant about it! "Well, uncancel it!  I'll sort it out with Molly later."

So I get my electronic key and am about to lug my mounds of baggage through the massive and so-beautiful gardens to my room (the hotel really MUST get more porters) except I bump into Kele and Christine in the lobby and - so thrilling! - we spend several hours catching up over many cuppas in the restaurant, and then we meet Jamie and it's more thrilling catch-ups.

Eventually, however, my luggage and I arrive at my room only to find ... I'm locked out. So I have to lug my bags back to the lobby.  "But Molly Murphy canceled your room!" this poor little Japanese English-Language-Learner at the reception desk tells me.

"And I uncanceled it!" and this time I'm a total bitch and demand a porter to carry my luggage back through those bloody gardens because I refuse to do it again.

So my porter, my luggage and I arrive at my room and this time there's no drama and I get my bath and I'm a happy-chappy and life is good ...

... except for the next three days every time I go out, when I return to my room I'm again locked out and it's always "But Molly Murphy canceled your room." so ... yeah, yeah ... eventually sick to death of that bloody walk through their miles and miles of bloody annoying gardens I end up screaming at the entire reception desk.

At one stage, I even try to meet this OTHER Molly Murphy, but it turns out she was still arriving on each international flight into Cairns and the poor pick-up driver was about to scream at the entire poor little English-Language-Learners at the reception desk as well!

Most odd, huh!  Although when you couple it with the Paronella Park Events Planner not turning up, you are kinda left wondering if maybe, maybe, maybe "But Molly Murphy ..." wasn't some vindictive plot on someone's part to spoil Didi's wedding!

However, even if there were someone ringing up or hacking into their computers or whatever it was they were going, there is no excusing the Cairns Colonial Club Resort for constantly falling for it. I mean, you shouldn't have to scream at nice-folk-who-are-only-doing-their-job and in-a-language-they-don't-really-speak to make them realise that it's too too strange that "But Molly Murphy ..." is constantly demanding airport pick-ups and canceling rooms and checking out of a dozen different rooms on an almost hourly basis.

Truly, whatever "work experience" English Language School they're hiring their reception staff from, there is no excusing their general inefficiency, incompetence and rampant stupidity.  The REAL Molly Murphy has said so.

Tirangi Saves The Day!

Back in Hong Kong and currently sorting photographs and decided to first off tell you the story of the highlight of the wedding and indeed the entire trip:

TIRANGI SAVES THE DAY!!! 

 

First up,  before I start this story, you need a context.

Setting:

This is the spot where Didi always said, back from when she was a little girl, she wanted to get married:

One of the "castles" Jose built in the jungle

back in 1930 that is now Paronella Park.

Main Characters: 

 Didi and Andre, the happy couple:

 The backdrop is the waterfall at Paronella Park, 

where the wedding took place.

And it DID take place. 

Eventually.

And this is Tirangi minutes before she saved the day!:

The story: 

Paronella Park screwed up. The Events Organiser rang in sick that morning and nobody else knew the arrangements so all the guests turned up to the clearing in the jungle to find that NOTHING was done.  Yup, it was a shambles and I was so shocked when I heard that it was Joyce - a guest and in her 80s -  who put out the chairs:

 Joyce, 

wet from putting out chairs in the rain.

And it was Jane who had to grab all the Park's umbrellas for the guests:

Baby Jane, Arch Umbrella Thief, 

wet from grabbing and distributing 

all the Park's umbrellas.

And the waiters Julia thought she'd hired through the Park weren't there so the local Fijian community of Innisfail, who'd turned up just to watch from the tree line, stepped in to serve.

Another lovely jump-in rescuer!

That's just so wrong, isn't it, especially when the venue was so expensive to hire in the first place!  (But it was Didi's dream to marry there, so ...)

However the biggest problem was that the Park hadn't provided ... no, you have to wait for that one because that was the crux of the entire story.

So there were all the guests, clustered into one tiny area, sheltering from the rain ...

  

... and time was ticking by and the wedding still didn't start.

After half an hour, folks were restless and, now umbrella-ed-up, wandered out into the now-drizzle ...

... and still the wedding didn't start. 

About an hour late and everyone was seriously restless. 

Waiting, waiting, waiting!

And then the whisper went around.  Didi was back there in the jungle "Bridezilla-ing"!  Seems she wasn't coming out unless the Park found her a sound system to play her chosen wedding march song ... but the Park didn't know where the sound system was. Mmmm, mmmmph, mmmph!

So that's when Tirangi came over to Jane and "Maybe she'll come out if I sing!" she offered.

"Do you know how to sing?" Jane asked ... and then realised that was a truly stupid question to ask a Polynesian so changed it to "But what will you sing?"

"Something will come to me!"

Tirani was Didi's friend and none of us had ever met her before. Hadn't even been introduced and had NO idea who she was. "Mmmm, have you done this sort of thing before?" Jane asked, worried.

"Once or twice." said Tirangi modestly.

Jane then took Tirangi over to Julia, Arch-Organiser-and-Mother-of-the-Bridezilla! "Tirangi has offered to sing." Jane said. 

Julia was beyond caring. "It'll have to do." she snorted.

So Tirangi took her stand next to the jungle and let out a totally unexpected cry; something primal and Polynesian and somewhere between a wail and a chant:

The voice was HUGE; powerful and pure and the effect was chilling and you could see hairs instantly rising on everyone's arms. And then she began a wailing chant of ancient words "It's very like, but not quite, the New Zealand Maori call for the honoured guest to enter the ceremony." Jane and Joyce both whispered.

And then Tirangi began another song that had hairs rising on the back of necks; primal ancient sacred holy and the rain seemed to clear and the sun came out and the whole space began to fill with golden light and the atmosphere lightened and the whole thing started to feel special and holy and RIGHT!

As she sang everyone watched the jungle ...

... and it was with huge relief that we saw ring-bearers Eli and Aaron appear, and, phew, with the others - Opel, Erin and Maria, the bridesmaids - close behind.

That's when Tirangi's incredible song morphed into another song - which sounded equally ancient and sacred - as they all walked the red carpet.

And then we all saw, coming out of the jungle ...

Tom and Didi!

... and Didi was actually smiling.

And it wasn't until Didi was half-way down the red carpet ...

... before I realised I knew the song Tirangi was singing.  Yup, despite sounding like something that was sacred and ancient and ceremonially significant it was nothing more than a modern pop song with fruity love lyrics and it was in English too. But, oh man, she made it seem so very very special.

And it wasn't until the Reception many hours later that we all discovered who Tirangi was.  Not just Didi's good friend, she's considered the most famous "sacred singer" from the Cook Islands; practically a National Treasure; one of the very few of the modern generation who know how to sing the most sacred and ancient of the Polynesian ceremonial songs, and the one who is considered to do them better than anyone else and so who is begged to do so at every significant Cook Island ceremony ...

... so we were completely blessed to hear her sing, and to hear just one of these ancient sacred songs; the first song, the one after the Invitation to Enter, which is still used throughout the Polynesian Pacific. This one was, I think, judging by the effect it had on us all, a very special and particularly ancient one intended to make a space become sacred for a ceremony ...

... and there we were saying "Mmmph, guess it will have to do!"  Cringe!!!!

Naturally, I am now wondering if the whole Paronella Park screw-up wasn't an Angelic Gift. Or maybe we can thank our beautiful mother for this so-special gift from Tirangi. Mum always loved Didi so very much she HAD to have been there and she definitely would have come to our rescue when Didi needed her, so ...


Thank you Tirangi for your gift.  It was very special. And now Jamie's asking if you will come sing at his wedding as well ... as will, I'm sure, every single person who was there that day and heard the very special magic you weaved for us all in that jungle clearing next to that castle Jose built in the name of love.