The other side of Crepe Suzettes

When my mum was 21, she applied for a job as the PA to Frank Sinatra; and you know what, she got the job. Not for words per minute, but because of one little detail on her application form. This clever puss added her speciality was making Crepe Suzettes, a weakness of Old Blues Eyes, so she was a keeper....

The other side of this job offer was my Grandfather saying "no daughter of mine was going to work for that dirty rotten scoundrel, no matter how blue his eyes are”. So that door never opened to Gaysie.

For the first year of marriage, Gaysie cooked Scotty a different meal every night. Then one fine summers night, they dined with an auspicious guest who fell in love with her food and was offered a scholarship to the Paris Cordin Bleu School for chefs. That door didn’t open either, however, I got a French name and that is about as close as my Mum got to Paris that year.

The other side of a Paris scholarship is a world of missed opportunities in life. We’re so close to having our dreams and then we allow someone or something to hold us back. I can’t help but think what I would be like today if Gaysie had of stood up to my Father and said,
“Darling, come on, you speak Fluent French, the kids will love it, we’re going to have an amazing time together and I really want this”

I would be fluent in French, adding a tickle and vavavoom to my name and finally removing any reference to a Fleur tampons what so ever. I would have made the fantasy of being kissed passionately on a Bridge over the Sien by a bohemian artistic boyfriend a reality. And well, would I be really sitting here in this Restaurant in Singapore writing this blog right now?

All sorts of questions are flooding in like, “would we have just had that wonderful Christmas celebration?”. Would Mum’s restaurant and cooking school been in a magical Château in Avignon rather than opposite Myer in Albury-Wodonga? One thing is for certain is Mum and Dad would be divorced, and therefore instead of living in rural paradise with Wally, Mum could be living in culinary bliss with a French Chef called Gabriel. “Gabrielle and Gabriel”, move over “Julia and Julia”.

Seems so simple doesn’t it, but ask yourself, how many times have you let an opportunity slip past you because you didn’t have the courage to be honest about what you wanted or have the strength to “choose” for yourself?

The other side of that fantasy is pragmatism. I’ve spent hours fantasizing about the Prince that would come along on his white horse and save me. Hours and hours thinking through a long list of incredible attributes, talents and romantic lines used to win my heart!

These days I’ve lost my passion for the fantasy in preference for the reality. No more lists here, and as for talent, granted there will be some (generally when two people are attracted they have the same level of differentiation, so he’ll be AOK in that department!) but as for the romantic words, I’d be happy if he says, “bless you” when I sneeze.

The pragmatic in me doesn’t care to wonder where would I be if I married David at 24, or Andrew at 28, or stayed in Melbourne to have kids with Adrian, it’s a waste of time. I’m now a firm believer that each experience has brought us to where we are today for a reason, and everything happens when it should and at the right time. I would prefer to be 36 and single and being true to myself than with someone for the sake of having a handbag (or right arm) because society will then deem me successful.

The other side of the independence is a little girl and heart that still believes in the romance and having those rare moments when two people lock eyes and the air in your lungs becomes so intense you could fill a balloon in one breath and your smile climbs so high, your ears are tickled. (I just got goose bumps).

How many times has something significant happened to you when you were meant to be doing something else? How many times have you needed to turn back when you chose a path at the fork in the road? You know the saying, "one door closes, and another door opens".

The other side of “what if”, is prediction. I went to see a clairvoyant about a year ago, her name was Faren at Angels Trumpet in Brunswick Street Northcote, Melbourne. Every detail she predicted has happened so far. It is freaky how things keep happening, and still parts of the puzzle are unfolding, but she was so accurate, it’s mind blowing.

The other side of Faren’s great words of wonderment were an acknowledgment that some were missing. Whilst she talked of reaching great heights and meeting the soul mate that I had always looked for, she didn’t talk about pitfalls and the lows with settling into life in Singapore. She didn’t tell me about the colours of grey that was to be experienced that would rock my core.

My standard story to people back in Australia on this trip was; I spent the first three months drunk, the next three wondering what the fuck I was doing here and now I’ve turned a corner and was finally happy. A flippant description, but for the sake of sobriety, a day came at the end of that second three months of isolation that I hit rock bottom. One Sunday, broken from a series of events that exhausted my resolve and was blinded by so many more colours than had the capacity to process. A broken woman, I wept, I wondered aimlessly, unashamed of my tears mid Orchid Road, I was numb.

The other side to having choices is the consequences of what they bring. I had left my support network, my family and friends that all knew me so well. Special people that would have caught my fall, seen it coming, and reminded me that my petals were still a magnificent a deep red and I was still on track. I just needed to see it.

I came across a passport photo booth, the kind you normally pile in with loved ones or friends to capture a moment of warmth or love. Sadly, I wanted to capture the feeling of rock bottom. There was no victim here, it was call of strength, a shot to remind me that this was as low as I could go and there was only up from here. The photo is dreadful to look at now, but yet liberating to know I was right in my thinking. It’s amazing that a photo like this can become such a powerful measure how far I have come.

The other side of this mug shot is choosing a new attitude to life and geography; extricating the victim in replace of the woman I knew. I have turned a corner; all with a little reframing of the things I want in my life.

There is a wonderful scene in a movie called “Under a Tuscan Sun” with Diane Lane. It’s about a writer that leaves her life in New York and buys a house in Tuscany, she bought a house for a life she didn't even have. She is confused by her impulsive choices, she has writers block, she’s miserable from a divorce and she’s just stuck. (For the record I did have that idea before I saw the movie). Frustrated by her anguish, her eccentric friend Catherine tells her a story catching lady birds in a field, and when she tried and tried so hard, she would never catch any. Yet after laying down in the field for a nap, she woke to find there were loads of lady birds, everywhere, all over her. It’s an analogy of getting on with life and life will just happen as it’s meant to.

There is a wonderful scene were she reports back boasting, “lots of lady birds Catherine, lots of lady birds” (a great shag with an Italian Marcello will do it for most of you). The real story of this movie is that she gets everything that she has wanted and asked for but not in cookie cutter from her list. In other words, he desires her dreams came to her in other ways, new forms and experiences that brought with them more happiness that she had ever hoped for.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7t_gCfTPlM

There comes a time when you just need to get out of what you're doing.....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XNoqHJ_UZMo&feature=related

That is probably one of the only Movie Sound tracks I don’t have. I wonder why?

Mum didn’t work for Frank, nor have a lover called Gabriel, but she has achieved more than most in life. Even though Dad didn’t let her do things, in the end she did actually get on do it in her own way. I think she still adopts that attitude with Wally too. Patterns, we can’t get away from them, only if we chose too.

The other side of being single at 36 is the utter pleasure of getting home on Sunday night after returning home and catching up with mates. I choose put on “Hoppipolia” by Sigor Ros, LOUD and dance around my condo naked. (With the curtains closed of course).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmXMA34CeoQ

I often ask people “what do you do behind closed doors when no one is watching, and don’t say masturbating”
Brian thinks that is too personal to ask, but I think it’s a great question, especially when you want to get to know some one. Rarely the conversation swings back to what I do, so now you know.

My point is, you decide, you choose what happens to you, and if you say “what if”, when you look back on your life, you’ve only got your self to blame. Grab hold with both hands, because in my books, it’s a bit like,

“Lead, follow, or get the fuck out of my way, this is my life”.

Let’s face it, times have changed and if when I was 21 and Bono loved the way I did a Duck Curry, I’d be saying, “Whatever Scotty (Dad) I’ll send you a post card”.

Choose your attitude. Make a decision and strap in for the ride. Unthinkably good things can happen, it can be such a surprise.


Fleur

TBS

p.s
Oh, and please let me know how you go. I’d love your comments, debate, idea’s or thoughts. This is only my way of thinking; there is always the other side.

We all need to touch and feel don’t you think. It’s all relevant.

The other side of Christmas

47 Kg’s and new mate a Singapore Airlines later, I’ve finally worked out why I have this obscure (wanky) title as a Deal Architect. I got away with only paying for 5Kg of excess luggage when I should have been charged for 27kg and two additional gallons of fuel to get me, and my new love handles back home again.

Christmas at “Ring-a-Rah” was a hoot (that’s the name of the farm). Gaysie put on such a great show. Twenty of us all left fat and happy, promising to do it all again before long. Four generations stretched over four families, a reunion that was two years in the making. We had not been together as a family for fifteen years.

To everyone’s delight, there were no arguments or politics; it was what you’d call low maintenance really. The only drama was the brand new stove shutting down every time I tried to cook the prawns for a pre lunch nibble and whether or not we could procure five dozens oysters from the Richmond Seafood Market with out having to wait in line for an hour. Oysters at Christmas are big tradition in our household, but it was getting a bit urgent to be honest, and the menu was fairly extensive as it was.

Gaysie doesn’t do things by halves; I actually don’t think she’s capable. (Yes, I am my mother’s daughter). Please allow me to indulge you in the Menu du jour. Or as a little joke in our family, when a meal is served up with out being able to see the china it’s sitting on it’s called “a trucky meal”. (Truck drivers are big men where I come from!)

The day begins with every one getting a food hamper at their cottage of fresh fruit, yogurt, bacon, fresh eggs, orange juice, cranberry juice and bakers bread.

Bubbles to start the day, and we’re off, bars open from 10am. To kick it off we have a platter of Peppercorn Mousse, lavishly covered in smoked salmon and served on little crustini biscuits. This is a hit with the clan and one of mum’s specialities.

Then we have sautéed Thai king prawns. They’ve been sitting a marinade of chilli, garlic, lemongrass, ginger, lime and coriander for 24 hours. They were absolutely gorgeous plumps little morsels, but I can tell you, a royal pain in the ass to cook when the stove turned off every 30 seconds. Bless Lucy, she was having conniptions about them not being cooked enough. Hmm, if you’ve ever tried to tell me how to cook, you would have been shown the door, and she was. Pronto.

In the Magic Maid (the old school warming ovens that my Granny JoJo had when she was alive) was the Ham that had been cooked in apricots and masala syrup. Keeping him company were bacon rolettes and the baked chipolata sausages. In the oven were 4 turkeys that had been de-boned and stuffed with a sage, pistachio and forcemeat creation. On the Barbie were hundred potatoes and six pumpkins cut up into massive wedges and five kilos of green string beans were being negotiated between the potatoes and pumpkin for stove time. The table had cranberry sauce, bread sauce and the gravy was off to the barbie to grab some heat and reduce into a yummy golden brown sauce to ladle over the whole lot. Bellissimo.

My Aunt Deb walked in the kitchen, with a look in horror, she said

“Jesus Christ Gabrielle, when are the 40 other people turning up?”

It was time to plate up and there was one hell of a production line. Too many cooks, but we all got there in the end, plates brimming with all the trimmings and as we all toasted to Gaysie’s brilliance, I raised my arm, clenched my fist and pulled down letting out a little “honk honk” before I tucked in. This was one monster trucky meal and it was a product of love from Gaysie and the team. Have you ever seen the movie “Like water for Chocolate”?

The other side to our jolly occasion is like this scene
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dlpuR6LgnkM&feature=related
essentially wonderful love story about a Spanish girl that what emotions she felt at the time she was cooking, her guests would experience when they ate her food.

About an hour later comes the famous Gaysie Christmas pudding, she makes about 30 a year and gives them to people. This is where some people may want to skip to the next paragraph this is not the for faint hearted and comes with a health warning… with this puds is home made Brandy Custard Ice-cream, circulating around the table is her home made hard sauce, King
Island cream and a just for good measure, a tub of plum pudding ice-cream for the more hard core gourmandies at the table.

The general consensus was “I’ll have a little sliver please” I’ve got no idea what the calorie count so far would be, nor do I really want to know either. At this point a MooMoo would have been more fitting than the violet 1920’s drop waisted number I had on. Unfortunately we forgot to serve up the raspberries with it (mum had bought 8 dozen at the farmers market, just for a little colour) but hey, there is always a casualty at these things and who the hell would have known, or needed it?

It all sounds terribly OTT and make most people say,

“Oh my god, that’s way too urgent for me”

,
But where I come from, the women are bred to do this kind of gig in our sleep.

My Granny JoJo was an entertainer glamour puss, who was not just good at the show, she was the master of ceremonies. Such an extraordinary woman and my god when she threw a party people and the social pages would talk about it for months afterwards. Many have told me that she was one of those incredibly magnetic women that from the moment she walked into the room people were instantly drawn to her. She had presence, a 6ft tall broad, striking looking woman with a laugh that filled a room and then some. Apparently always the last one standing, you could never get her off the dance floor, oh yes she loved a stage and a martini or ten.

My mother was naturally her protégé, but in reality, I have to say the gene pool is fairly strong; I was blessed with her love for martinis too!

The other side of this blog and ambition to publish a book called the Pampalona Project; is a plan to embark on another project and publish a book about the bloodline of the JoJo, Mum and Me. I’m still at concept stage on that one, more desire phase, but like all of my writing seems to, it will just evolve and pour out at some point.

Gaysie and I were getting stuck into the Noble One Sticky and admiring the cheese board, when she turned to me and said,

“You know Flozzie, when people make a special effort to come all this way to see you and share their time with you, you want to make an effort to make it special for them in return”

I loved that, and I got it, that’s just how it’s done with Gaysie and I have undoubtedly carried on the tradition. That’s what it’s like for us, it’s such a pleasure create an splendid environment for people come together to indulge in wonderful flavours amongst the company of people they love, or are just meeting for the first time. Either way, it doesn’t really matter, you’re always most welcome at our table. My friends will tell you if you come over for a casual Tuesday night quick bite, you’ll be more than likely served barbequed quail to nibble on than a baked potato. It will be a dark day in hell when our fridges are empty or not packed with options!

The other side of all fun and frivolity at Christmas time is missing the ones that are not able to be there with you. Our cousin Andrew died tragically a few years ago a tender of 30. He was the eldest boy with four sisters and was the softest of them all, he was everyone’s best mate and such a special soul. Later in the day there came a point when I noticed the girls had rallied the wagons and were sitting together, having a tear and sharing stories about their brother. He would have loved this Christmas, and it was painful not to have him there. But you know what, I’m sure he was there with us; I have no doubt about it.

My darling cousin Jono is a Kirk Coban look a like and is equally a legend in his own right. We were getting stuck into the Jack Daniels and dancing to Queen “Another one bites the dust” and I went in for a big excitable hug, intent to rebound on again to play dj for the next tune… except he didn’t let go. From a ping pong to full awareness my cousin was distraught. Three months ago his best mate had fallen out of a window at a party in Brazil and died instantly. What shock to hear such news, and such a shame. Poor bugger, it is going to hurt for a long time. Rather to get morbid about it, I asked him tell me about his mate and the reasons why he was such a good bloke. He stopped crying and told me his stories and then told me how all he wanted was to be able to morn the death with his mum, but felt there was a barrier to do so. The other side of this is, 1) you can’t cheat the loss of a brother, family or otherwise. And second of all, people can’t read minds, so instead of going it solo, you need to reach out and ask for help or just let some one know you need to talk.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNQRfBAzSzo - a bit of Queen for you.

It was the best Christmas I have ever had, but if I’m honest, my loss was that my Brother and Blista, Guy and Vikki and boys Marlowe and Ariel were not there to share the day. It would have completed a perfect day, but then again, we can’t have it all, all of the time. But if this Big Sheila had sat on Santa’s lap this year, that’s what I would have asked for.

The other side of the Christmas was all the joy of giving and seeing the kids faces when they opened presents. Funnily enough, Gaysie’s right hand woman, Joybell’s presented me with a gift on Christmas Eve that was a cracker. It was a pair of Cinderella glass slippers and a pumpkin. It was to mark the significance of my room upgrade from being “Cinda-fucking-rella” in the kitchen (as I had moaned about being on the phone only days before), to the Princess in the master bedroom. I told you, you do have to have a sense of humour in my family.



The other side of this graduation is a confession that I would make a terrible Princess. I hate conformity, I can’t stand keeping up appearances, I call out “Hoover” when people name drop and my feet just aren’t cut out for glass foot wear. I need a steadier shoe, a softer fabric that can be more forgiving to a slightly wide size 41 hoof. And let’s be frank, when I look at a pumpkin, all I see is a roast chicken, or perhaps a warm salad with baby spinach leaves, roasted pine nuts with a generous amount of Meredith’s goat’s cheese. There is neither a chariot nor a prince anywhere in my consciousness.

The other side to this story is please don’t be afraid to ask me around for a baked potato on a Tuesday night, I love cruisey mid week catch up. I’ll eat anything generally if it means great company and a giggle.

What ever you got up to or ate on Christmas day, I hope it was lovely. Well done Mum, top show old girl.

Diet starts tomorrow.


Fleur
TBS

p.s – I hope one day I have a little girl. There are traditions that should never die.

The other side of being busy

Sitting on the sofa in my mother’s bedroom on the farm I’ve found some time to exhale. This trip has been a whirlwind fun and frivolity, pure exhaustion and over commitment all of my own self-doing. Good news is I’ve been upgraded from being Cinderella to Princess; I’ve scored a room in the main house! Not sure how that happened?

Busy busy busy. Work hard, play hard it’s the silly season alright, but I been thinking about what busy really means and how it can be a poetic licence for a lot more than just what it sounds like these days.

We use busy as a reason why we can’t do things. Why we can’t prioritise an activity or follow through on a commitment. I’m too busy, I’m so busy at work, I’ll get back to you, I’ll give you a shout later, and I’ll catch you for a drink soon. Best of intentions sometimes, but there really is a voice within most of us screaming out, “Mate, I’m just not going to do this”. But, we still choose to dosy-doh of maybe.

The other side of busy can be self worth. To fill a space, a gap, a hole or a void to create a sense of self that we think is missing.

Sometimes we take on more than we should, I know I do – very busy, very very busy. And this has nothing to do with being single, I know people that are very similar. We create monsters purely because we take on more than we should for the reason that we think we can when no one else will. Step aside, here we are to wade on in there and say “I’ll do it, leave it with me”.

We do it because we know (believe) we’ll get the job done faster, better, with more finesse than the poor sod that’s sitting there scratching their head or picking their nose (figuratively speaking of course). The result is we (the royal “we”) create an expectation with the audience that we’ll ALWAYS do that “thing”, no worries, wind her up and watch her go. Just relax, step back, chill out, have a diet coke break, take a load of Annie, order a pizza or take a pint. Knock yourself out, but don’t worry, the job will get done.

Oddly enough, I’ve been beginning to question the other side of whom these monsters are that we’re so royally creating, and if actually we are the dickheads and they are just really smart people? All the while reclining arms stretched above their heads, and through their chameleon grin the words never said are “sucker, yeah knock your socks off toots, go for it, show’s all yours baby, I’ll sit back and enjoy the ride.” Or maybe they are spoken and I’m too busy to listen.

There is a guy in one of our office whose nickname should be “Neverdunnaday”. I have never heard someone claim to be so busy who is in reality working part time. And day after day, effortlessly produces a plethora of lame “why I can’t go or am late for work” excuses and gets away with it. It priceless. Surely there is a Google Alert direct to your Iphone or Blackberry, sent at 7am daily with your newest one-liner for the boss, or anyone that will listen. (If not, there is business idea there boys, get an app ready for the Apple, it’s a licence to print money, I can tell you!). Again, it leaves me thinking, is this guy fucking lazy or just really clever?

The other side of being busy is being over committed. I have been the master of this and vow to give it away when I step on that that A380 big bird this Sunday. Having spent some time with “Neverdunnaday” I’m feeling like a dumb ass, this dude would have cut 2/3rds off his itinerary to make room to manoeuvre or have some half days by the pool. Watch and learn Flowers, watch and learn.

The other side of busy is impatience. I’ve been so busy to get everything done people question if I ever enjoy the journey? Someone said once you walked the Camino de Santiago like you lived your life. In truth I was always walking at pace at the beginning of the day, leading the pack, storming onward, 30 km a day, for 30 days, until about day 19 when I realised there was so much I was missing out on. It was the day of the “Stream of the Fresh Fanny’s”. A day where Amber and I stopped; dropped back and took a folk in the road and found a beautiful stream that was totally hidden away from the pilgrim yellow arrowed path. We wanted to go skinny-dipping, but it was too cold, icy, icy cold. We were left with no choice but just to dip half way and giggle, tingle and feel completely alive from the assault of the chilly water, and nicely refreshed (hence the name). From that day forth, we kept our eyes open and we slowed down, we sang, we made up stories of princesses in Castles and Pilgrims locked in attics of mysterious old chapels carved in the hillside. We stopped and watched and didn’t want it to end. We talked to new people and found that there was so much more to touch and feel. We agreed it wasn’t sprint, it wasn’t a race, it was our life for now and from that moment on all we wanted was for time to slow down. Slow right down.

To other side of be busy is also not to be available. So when some one says to you, I’m sorry, I’m so busy I can’t see you, call you, meet you, come back to on that thing, it basically means “you’re not a priority to me right now”. Now whether you want to take offence to that or not, is completely your choice. Bless Sophia, she has taught me “don’t assume and not take things personally”. So I tend not to anymore.

Judith also has always challenged me about how busy I am and if I do this to “fill up space” and therefore am not available for what I really want. But one thing we agree is that I would not fill in more space with people that were not what I wanted in my life.

To reframe that, when something is not available, it frees your time and space to be available for something that is available to you.

I got the “busy tone” from a Peacock that had fanned his feathers to me recently and I must say, they were magnificent. But I took the fun out of the show by being honest about his critics and what they thought of his show. I generally don’t read reviews; I’m too opinionated about what really impresses me to let some-one’s else’s experience make it a forgone conclusion. There is nothing common about my tastes or me really; but like I said, I probably cut the music way too early for the Peacock. The other side of my distaste for critics was that I became one by sending the feedback. I reached out once; it went something like this
“Come out of your cave yet?” and I got a reply “Ah, sorry, I’m so busy at work, talk soon.”
Shame, I liked his feathers.

My friend Nadya always talks about how I should be more non-chaluant and is encouraging me to read a book called “The Game”. It’s about how men play the game with woman and if I want to get anywhere, I should invest some time to read this book.

It’s not my thing, I honesty cannot be arsed with all of that dosy-doh-ing that the Gamers, the wolves in sheep backs, the hunters or cougars like to play. I’m not a LBFM (which is an expression my mate Brian told me about recently, it stands for “Little Brown F88king Machines”) In fact I couldn’t be more opposite. I’m not little, I have a moon tan and the F machine needs a service.

For me to act non-chaluant is to be disinterested, disengaged, without passion or even a heartbeat - which again is completely the opposite of who I am.

There is a great scene in a play I saw once called PAM ANN. Check this link out, she is hilarious – she’s a flight attendant on the PAM AM airways – and she does this skit about being a hostee and being very busy, very busy, very busy…looking very important, acting busy to get away with not serving any one… it’s hilarious show…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ge_x1U2rYBo

(check out the link) She’s an Aussie bird, and it’s a sensational laugh. If you’ve got time have a look at her safety video on Youtube, she is a cracker.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sq_JrXQ6Hx4&feature=related


We move in express times, the age of convenience increases our desire for speed, setting up our toys to enable us to operate as fast as our fingers move. We are constantly feeding this growth with in us called “impatience”, whilst we accept that it’s normal to maintain our heart rate at a pace just over that of the common man standing next to us. There in lies the challenge to unwind, to stop, to be allowed to break down…. to actually stop and smell the roses.

I worked out that sprinting ahead, being so busy can mean a fixation on the end game rather than what’s happening right now and I not interested in don’t the missing out part any more. People keep asking me when am coming back to Australia or what I’m doing next? My standard response has been “I have no idea if, when or ever I will come back to Australia. Right Now, I’m just taking it one day at a time”.

It’s funny, I was thinking about the other side of getting busy next year and writing my new years resolutions, the usual long list of things I wanted to be doing next year. Then it dawned on me, I didn’t need a list this year, I was already doing it. Instead of a list, I have a motto

“I’m available for what’s available”

Think about that. It’s not referring to men either, even though that is a mandatory criteria.

Benny Hill once said,
“Just because no one complains about the parachute, doesn’t mean there is nothing wrong!”

What do you think about that?

I’ve done busy to death on this trip. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, after dinner and beyond, I’m all for stopping and smelling the roses for a while I think. Although, that being said, my stopping and sniffing is probably still going to represent some one else’s hectic.

Morgan Freeman’s famous quote in the Shawshank Redemption,
“…get busy living, or get busy dying…”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7tkzc983aE0


Gaysie has made little star shaped short breads with our names swirled in icing for place settings on the Chrissie table, that will each lean against petite Turkish tea glasses, red and intricate in design. After I wrote this blog today I suggested to Mum that we should place a rose from her magnificent garden in each glass to complete the table. “Good idea Flozzie”, she said. I thought so too.

Merry Christmas. Enjoy the time with your family and loved ones.

I know the sides of my mouth will be curled up nicely.


Fleur

TBS

P.s – I had an instrumental 2 play-list for this Blog– all of my movie soundtrack instrumental pieces by Craig Armstrong, The Charlie Haden Quartet, Yann Tiersen, Ryuichi Sakamoto, John Barry, Ennio Morricone, Traffic, Closer, Mono, Sigur Ros, The Mission, David Foster. Let me know if you’d like it.

The other side of Bridget Jones

I arrived at Tullamarine Airport, Melbourne on Monday night, on route to attend two events that promise to be magnificent shows. First off is my oldest male buddy Nick’s wedding, who is tying the knot with this angelic French Canadian bride Marie-eve. To then be closely followed by Gaysie’s family reunion Christmas bonanza at the farm.

Both of these events will be outstanding; but both have led me suffering some trepidation of doing a Bridget Jones at both. From all the weight that I was struggling to navigate on my trolley, and having been slightly Bridget the day before having more than my daily units of sherry; there was no doubt I was pushing a packing disaster. I was walking out through those double doors on my todd (on my own), with no one there to wipe me out with hugs and kisses to welcome me home.

Through customs, I walked straight into the scene of “Love Actually”; a sea of people all waiting for their loved ones to welcome home as they bust, fall or collapse through those famous double doors. It’s such a vibe of anticipation and emotion. Sure, I knew there would be no melodrama waiting for me; the pragmatic Glovers have a routine, grab your stuff and I’ll meet you out front. And generally what happens is the driver does some circle work until you’re allowed through the very anal Melbourne Tullamarine ground staff check. Ok, I was excited to be back, feeling slightly cheeky and festive, so to get on board of the other side of pragmatic, I chose to have some fun with it.

I started waving like buggery at this guy, who was innocently waiting for his girlfriend to come through with her back pack and pig tails. I grabbed his eye and started shouting “hi, hi, hi, hello, oh my god, hello, hi, hi” Waving like Forest Gump at him, and a with smile wide as she could go. This poor guy looked completely bemused, more concerned but yet started to wave back, half smiling. I’m sure what was going on in his head was

“who the fuck is this nutter…?”

I shrugged and cutely said “sorry, wrong guy” and got the giggles. (I thought a wink would be OTT) Thankfully he had a little chuckle (ok little) and I kept on pushing the wide-load trolley. Bless him; he had a sense of humour, which is more than I can say for his girlfriend, who pushed up behind me. Hmm, I think her name must have been Sharon (not with an 'ron' more an 'za').

My suitcase is packed with twenty outfits, ten pair of shoes and enough other stuff see me through the Melbourne season. I’ve bought three dresses for the wedding because in true Glover style, I had no idea where I'd put that wedding invitation whilst packing at 11pm Sunday night, so even less of a clue of what the dress code was. Details, details, Babs was blaring (of the Streisand variety) and I was doing this wedding true ‘passenger’ style. Or rather, at that time of night I had no 'phone a friend' ability so what were my choices?

Coming back to Melbourne is so exciting but I can tell you, it’s no holiday. I’ve over committed myself and booked up breakfast, lunch and dinner every day. Luckily I’ve found some self control because without that stop button I might be coming to Singas resembling the before shot of SG Biggest Looser photo.

I do love my food, good wine and wonderful friends. Friends that smoke seem to love me even more, as I help them light their cigarettes at the end of a night. Yes I have given up, but all of this holiday festive, “I miss you my darling” palaver is going to take its toll.

I was having slight conniptions about coming to Nick’s wedding on my own. I did have a “+1”, but he was not allowed out of the Singapore. So I had to find the silver lining and decided to reframe this whole going it alone shindig in a whole new way.

The other side of the idea of coming to this wedding on my own was a bloody great one. Twenty of my dear old mates to catch up with, so the tally would not be units of sherry, it would be hugs. Twenty hugs at hello, twenty (plus) hugs at circa 3-4am mid d&m (about the anything and everything) and then twenty hugs (plus) to say good night. Ohhhh yeah, so much warm and fuzziness going on and why not be selfish and have it all to myself! Hugs galore, hugs r us, cuddle me up and make me dimple.

Beyond the wedding, I’m off to Albury Gaysie’s for Christmas - a Glover extravaganza Christmas affair with twenty of our relatives all coming for the big day. Gaysie has set the menu and it’s fit for a king, and his men, Robin Hood and the folks of Sherwood Forest too. Enough for four weeks but we would fit it all in on one day and one table.

The other side of Bridget Jones at my family Christmas is that my mum won’t make me wear some dreadful Reindeer jumper and we won’t be eating cubed cabaña in a curry sauce. But because there is no dishy Mr Darcy accompanying me this year, so that means I get the pleasure of having the Cinderella Room in the kitchen. It’s very convenient really because it means I’m close to the oven and the washing up, but it’s not apart of the main house, it’s what you’d describe as closer to the dogs bowl than the claw foot bath.

In our family the order of priority for the allocation of the boudoirs in the main house is you either have to be under five, or married to get one. I’m neither of those, so again this year, I know where I’m sleeping.

I don’t know why I didn’t think of this one sooner, but I came up with a bright idea for next year. I’m going to hire a boyfriend; yep, a hot sexy 6ft 3 gigolo ‘man bag' that will buy me my ticket into the main house. Surely there was a movie like this, so it’s not an original idea, but nonetheless, it will be a hoot and have Albury’s mouths flapping until 2012.

The funniest thing will be that next year’s boyfriend (let’s hope there will be one), will have to suffer the double take from Gaysie and the whole family. “Is he, is he?” Thankfully, I generally only choose men with a sense of humour! (Will have to make sure the gigolo has one too!!)

The other side of the Cinderella room is this gathering is set to be one to remember. The food will be outstanding, the bubbles will be endless (or until you fall over) and the banter will be non-stop. You have to be a brave person to dine with the Glover and Wallace clan, one must be able to hold their own and take and give a bit of shit or shovel it. If you show any weakness you are a goner! There really is never a dull moment and lots of silliness, lots of jokes and always always a story that reduces Mum into a laughing, crying, snorting mess. Priceless. Really, I don’t need a ‘hand bag’ to have fun.

This princess has slept in worse places I can assure you. Bugger, but I can’t help but think if I was a little bit more organised this year, I could have pulled off a two for one deal with a rent-a-bag – Nick’s wedding and Christmas. More bang for your buck as they say.

However, my dear old Dad has always said,

“Little One, remember the 6 P’s. Piss poor preparation produces poor performance.”

I’ll be commencing auditions for my 2010 holidays to Australia first week of January. I have a wedding on the 23rd of January and several other family events to attend. The best part about Singapore is they love a good deal, so I might just have to get creative on a package. Australia in the summer is a stunning place to be and who doesn’t love a wedding!

In reality I am no Bridget and I’m doing just fine with out Darcy; very Safe in the knowledge I’m set to have a jolly good time. What’s not to love about being with the people I love, and love me just as me!

Happy days and Merry Chrimbo.


Fleur

The Big Sheila

..and of course I have the soundtrack.

The other side of a lie

This is what I was listening to when writing this….Jamie Cullum’s “High and Dry” – have a listen. Great words.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nFrerzpZOuY

An astounding 5918 couples exchange wedding vows every day in the US. That’s allot of promises made, and with the divorce rates as high as they are today, that’s allot of broken ones too.

To love, honour and to obey (“obey” is that really still allowed to be a vow?). Tiger Woods has quit golf indefinitely because he broke his promise to his wife – he lied that he would be faithful for the rest of his days. And if you’ve been watching CNN lately, you’ll see interviews with sports pundits saying he has lied to the American public about being a family man, a devoted husband and father. All the while he’s been using his 5 Iron to get a hole in one, or two, or three.… or maybe 18?

The other side to that is if all of our brilliant sportsman pulled out of the game because they got caught "scoring", we’d have no professional sports to watch and Ritchie Beno would have to retire! Do we really need to talk about Shane Warne? I don’t think so!

The other side of the lie is expectation. People lie because they feel they need to play a role in their social group, work environment or family. A common example; men put on a show with their mates because they need to be seen as “men”. Women lie about their weight because we need to be seen as feminine, little, in shape, "for the show”.

“Oh yeah, I put her away last night", a common male alpha male recall from the night before...when in reality he may have just had a cuddle with his lioness and been as soft as a pussy cat himself! But hey, what man is going to share that kind of detail over a pint with his mates? Imagine if you heard your mate saying,

“wow boys, I met this wonderful girl last night, it was amazing, we cuddled all night and it felt wonderful, truly amazing…”

The response would more than likely be

“What are you a pussy?” or “mate, you sound like a girl!”

The other side of the truth about people that lie, is that there are two types of people that do it. men and women.

Woman lie all the time, yet we get all upset and point the finger at men for lying yet we want them to make us feel good and tell us what we want to hear…. “No honey, your ass doesn’t look big in those white pants….”
Thankfully I don’t have big buns… but you get the picture.

A friend of mine recently picked up a hot 26 year old (boy) in a London bar and told him she was 27… she’s ticked over to 38 just this year and he believed her! Mind you, she does look damn good for 38, and with no botox either.

When you think about it, the bra can be one of the biggest lies around. Some should come with a warning sign; “can only guarantee aesthetically pleasing views in operation. No guarantee after dark.”

A man in a bar gives his resume to a woman to impress her. In fact I met a guy recently who was putting on fairly decent show with his resume, but he kept dropping into conversation that he had a house in Phuket. I wasn’t really interested so didn’t remark. Then when I made some throw away comment about going to Laguna Triathlon to seem slightly interested, it gave him an excuse to give me the full coordinates of where his house in Phuket actually was and bang on even more. He got a fake smile.

To change the subject, I chose some something innocuous to talk about, like what colour the door was. (ok, yes, I was full of it...). Yes, you-bet¬cha, he found a way to tell me that that was the exact colour of his door in Phuket. Oh. Fake eye-brow raise. lovely smile .

Oh really.

I wasn’t fast enough to divert and he went full launch into the design of the whole house.

I'm not an advocate of lying and always favour the truth, but I did lie, I did. I lied, my whole face body and smile was a one big FAT bloody lie. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I couldn’t stand Laguna and I thought it was more like a compound for the duller side of rich let out on holiday. I found it pretentious.

If my friend Sophia had heard this conversation from the dance floor, she would have screamed out to me “Barlow” . (a term we say to each other on nights out when we don’t need to lower the bar any further!). I exited stage left and headed for the dance floor.

Do we lie to preserve, to promote or to perform? Do you think it’s genetic or socially developed tool to get what people want?

My point is we all have lied at one time or another. Some more extreme than others, but it’s all about what you can handle I guess. My mate Dave lied to me once about having Parkinson’s disease (why?) he then lied to every one of our group about having a shrinking spine, then went Skiing to St Anton, Austria some two weeks later leading the pack down the black runs! Such elborate tales, but why I ask you? Why? We don't really keep in touch any more.

Or my last boyfriend disaster, Kezza; he lied to me about everything but where the kitchen sink was. Funnily enough, his favourite saying was “Remember to remember” I liked it allot, but I wanted to say to him was ...
“….try and finish the sentence Kezza; remember to remember to be honest!”
We’re not together any more either… just in case you were wondering.

How many people extend the truth on a daily basis to get what they need or get the job done? What’s the old saying, “never let the truth get in the way of a good story?” Some just love a good story more than others.

When it comes to embellishment and exaggeration my darling mother takes the cake. God bless her heart, she could win an Oscar for her shows and story telling. In 2000, I was shipped to London with my company to work on some big Outsourcing Deal for BP worth $ figures resembling a phone number. Bless Mum, she told the girls in Albury-Wodonga I was the “MD for BHP representing my company in some major deal, very global, very global”. Details Gaysie, details. Bless her.

More recently I had Chris Tuppen (voted one of the one of the Top 50 men that could save the world from a Climate Change disaster - See link) meet my client to share experiences and help with the development of their CSR strategy. Mum I believe, told the girls that I was actually working with Chris to save the world, and one day I’d sit on the UN and give Rudd a run for his money on the Carbon Trading scheme for Australia. (god love her!)
http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2008/jan/05/activists.ethicalliving


We can be anything or anyone in the eyes of the person who is listening.

Like I said, there are two types of people that lie, tell fibs, stretch the truth, bend the rules or just colour the tale; just two.

Now, the other side of the lying is telling the truth, coming clean, and putting it out there in real terms. As I was trying to sleep last night thinking about all of this, instead of counting sheep (who the hell does that work for anyway) I was thinking about all the films with scenes that had an impact when the truth came out.

Have a look at some of these – and if you don’t have time to look through them all, please do open the last one… it’s one of my favourite scenes in movie - and some of the best old school kisses you’ll ever see.

A Few Good Men – the scene when Jack tells Tom he can’t handle the truth… how many of us can handle Tom these days?? Jack, yes of course.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8hGvQtumNAY

The Sixth Sense – The classic scene when he says “I see dead people”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bN6PpM5b0A4

And finally – this is the best scene in a movie – Cinema Paradiso

Who can forget that finale scene - he finally discovers the truth about all the movies he’s watched as a boy – a compliation of all the kissing scenes cut out of every movie by his mentor to please the church… it’s really a wonderful scene. Very touching and of course very warm and fuzzy.

A must see scene – have a look

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nMTYTRapJes&feature=related


What do they say, "if you fool me once, you’re the fool. If you fool me again, I’m the fool". Then, Karma on your bad ass…

But if you’re fanning your feathers to get my attention, then “hello Peacock, nice show, I might just watch today….”

None of us are perfect and god knows I’m no Florence Nightingale… I have feathers too! I guess the difference is these days I know what role I’m playing.


Remember to remember, there is always another side to the story….


Fleur

TBS

The other side of finding your voice

I’ve been thinking about how the sound of some one’s voice can have impact on our moods, our life choices, our happiness or grumpiness. It’s fascinating how the power of one voice can effect the emotions or well being of another human being is really astounding.

Whether or not you’re a baby in a womb hearing your muma and dudda sing you songs or call you by your name “hello mittons” (the first little glover, baby gloves, get it?)…..

Or whether it’s your loved one kneeing beside you as you sleep, whispering how much they love you in your ear so your dreams are sublime and you wake with the warmth of love……

Or it’s Keane Singing “We are the Champions” as their oncore as in the concert in Singapore and you just wanna bounce, singing along with them, loudly, feeling life streaming through every vein in your body…..

Or it your new boss calling you at 9pm one night to say, “….Fleur, you’ve got the job, we’d love to have you come to Singapore”….

Or hearing one of your best mate on the phone telling you she’s coming to see you in Singapore after not having seen each other for 3 years…

Or if you are Karen, enjoying some bubbles on your birthday hearing Roy saying to her, sitting on a beach in the Maldives, “happy birthday gorgeous, will you marry me”….

The sound of a voice can have such an impact or sometimes even change your life forever.

If you give me a microphone you’ll probably never get it back. I have been known to belt out a few tunes in my time, invited or unsolicited. Years ago, working for Gazman in Melbourne at the ripe old age of 21, I sang Whitney Houston’s, “I will always love you” at the Christmas party, standing on a table, after some 3 bottles of wine and god knows how many shots. Ouch, it really was like cats on a hot tin roof. (…and I still haven’t lived that one down!)

Since then I’ve somewhat honed my vocal chords, I’ve song at weddings, been the lead singer of the “Well Hung Jury” and more recently I sang at a Wedding speech for Catherine and Danny’s wedding, as their Maid of honour.
(For people that know me, you can check out the video on my Face Book homepage, it's a video called the "Wedding Singer")


Whilst I’ve been singing allot lately, I’ve been thinking about the other side of having a voice.

There is a beautiful scene in a move called “Human Traffic”, on YouTube, it’s called “Wanker”. The age-old problem of keeping up appearances when you catch the eye of some one you’re about as interested in talking to as you are a plant. But, you end up having one those obligatory small talk social exchanges like, “hey, mate how’s it going…blah blah blah”. When really what you’d really like to say, “go away you twat, you bore the pants of me… ”. (Watch this)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xcIKQRTRLlk

How many times have you done that!

Imagine what we could all have achieved if we told people what we really thought, or if we had a voice and used it all the time? And, I’m not meaning telling that moron to go back to the corner he came from either.

The other side of having voice can mean all sorts of possibilities …. it could be telling your boss, you don’t agree with his decision and offer a new one for a better outcome? Or when you wanted to turn to left, but you’re boyfriend said right, and it took an extra 30 minutes to get to party (and of course you were now late). Or when your friend bought that shocking low cut dress and you didn’t have the heart to tell her she looked like she was going to get paid that night. Or if you had of actually said no to that last drink at 3 am, and the next thing you know you’re married with two kids.

Whilst I’m a big believer of fate, I’m just posing some questions here.

Whilst I’ve always been a fairly direct young lass, sometimes I really haven’t had a voice at all. It’s only been within the last 18 months that have I learnt to speak out and speak up. (That’s what some hard earn dollars on therapy will do for you.)

I’m not talking about going on a date with a hot guy and going from “I’ll have a salad please” to, righto, "I’ll start with the escargots, followed by the 400g eye fillet streak and let's wash that down with a bottle of Château Neuf de Pap, followed by a crème brulee and a bottle of Noble one… " :-)

I mean speaking up and it having meaning, truth, or real honesty for how you are feeling at the right time.

Karl Jung, the famous Psychologist says we learn how to communicate with in our family of origin. In mine we were taught to keep up appearances like Rode Scholars. We didn’t talk about what was really going on, we just “dealt with it and moved on”. But we never really dealt with anything.

I had a conversation with my friend Michelle today about why relationships break down, marriages fail, or people have affairs and then it all goes pair shaped. We agreed it all boiled down to communication. More importantly, having the ability to openly share or express to your partner what you really needed, what your preferences are, or what you yearn to touch and feel with out judgement. Being accepted for what and who you really are.

The other side to this is having the ability to trust yourself to let go of the fear of letting go and stop listening to the voices in your head.

How many couples do you know that are really lonely people in their relationships because they can’t communicate? How many people do you know that have had affairs because they can’t talk to their partner about their needs, what excites them or discuss why has the their sex life gone stale…...so it’s easier to look outside the nest for that person that they can have that fantasy with, that freedom that they don’t allow themselves to have with in their married.

The other side of the inability to communicate is sometimes easier to share dialogue to with another party like this… rather than answer the questions of what’s really happening in your life…

“…my wife/husband doesn’t get me like you do”

“…oh wow, I can really be myself with you”

“ … I feel like I can do anything with you…”

“… you’ve awoken me…. You’ve given me back my spirit…”

“…I want to spend a day inside your head, spend the day there…there is no logic why this is happening… ”

As U2 sang, I’ve had enough of romantic love, I’d give it all up for a miracle drug
….is that what we’re looking for when we can find the words to say it? Have a listen to the words….

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7UufsC8ORQQ

The other side of this need to feel something else than what we have in front of us, is that unless we have are brave enough to push those words out of mouths, when we need more, our partners are going to need to become clairvoyant to really understand what is going on.

Maybe they can watch, I will say as woman we instinctively know when something when something is up (whether we choose to act is another matter). Men too. We are not blind. We choose not see.

There are also extreme cases of blindness. Like my old boss from T-Mobile for example; Joanne came home one day to find her husband dressed up in woman’s clothing in full make up, a wig an some stunning Jimmy Choo’s. A ritual he had apparently done almost daily for 2 years of their relationship, when she would go out for her daily bike ride. I asked her, come on, did you have no idea. She said she wondered about his feminine side, but she wasn’t going to give away more than that. They divorced, she kept the Jimmy Choo’s.

I feel madly in love with “Bob” walking Camino de Santiago in Spain, I met him one random day walking into a bar in Pamplona. I’ve nearly been married twice and I can tell you I loved this man more than had ever experience with the two I did a runaway bride on. We were holidaying in Barcelona working out the arrangements for our love nest in Pamplona; he was on route to Ireland to see family, and I heading to London to pack up - viva Espanola!

On the last night I was leaving little Fleury love notes in his suitcase to be found when he unpacked in Dublin. Looking for the right hidey-holes for my notes, I came across a stash of paper that stole my voice, rather left me gasping for air for nearly an hour afterwards. On the other side of that paper was invitation. He was to be married in 2 months. He was on his way home to Ireland to hand them out to his family. Bob didn't have a voice, but the wedding invitations were deafening.

I went to Spain to find myself; but I can tell you now, I found out a lot more than I ever bargained for.

The other side of that suitcase discovery; was a passage to new beginnings. There is always a silver lining. Two years and two new Continents; as one door closes, another door opens. With out that suitcase, I would not have enjoyed such a wonderful reunion with my family, playing the role of Aunty Flowers, getting to know my family again after 8 years of being away, reconnecting with my dear old mates who made my home-coming like I’d never left. Sharing such special times, that you should never miss out on or who of if not for that suitcase.

I’d come home to for a reason. In a studio in down town Prahran Melbourne, I found a teacher Judith, to help me learn how to use my voice properly..

As I said we learn the “how to” communicate in our family of origin; and as I was one of those people that couldn’t communicate what I needed from my partner, we did some work to break where my patterns were formed and letting me down. So we worked on how I communicated with role models in my life, my father and my brothers.

To be heard doesn’t mean to be validated. It’s more powerful simply to deliver rather than hold it back because you are too concerned if you say what you really feel you’ve loose that person, you’ll be rejected or they wont like you any more. Sounds basic stuff, but I can assure you’ve all suffered from this paralysis in some for or other which has stopped us from using our voice to say what we really feel.

My Father was very ill late last year, seven back operations and a hip replacement he was his back for eight weeks in hospital with complications making us all nervous. Allow me to paint a picture for you here; Scotty is less than healthy man. Over weight, loves a drink (or ten), had suffered a heart attack and had major open heart surgery for a quadruple by-pass, 2 knee replacements, and for the year leading up to his hospital stint, with out warning, he would loosing all feeling in his legs and would just collapse in the street, in house, and often knocking himself out on the pavement. But to his credit, with no more golf, no more fishing, no more freedom, he was stoic, and on every phone call to me maintainted
“I’m alright Little One, I’m going to be alright”.

Yeah, he’s a good Aussie battler, but he’s not Jesus.

I was really affected by is illness, visibly moved from this all this so much so, I was getting a little wobbly at work. The other side to this messiness at work, was a very human Country Manager Paul, who took me aside and in a very soft, friendly voice, said “go home Fleur, go be with you family” That was a voice I needed to hear.

I went to see my Dad that day in the hospital. He was thrilled to see me, “G’day little one, aren’t you a darling to come and see your old dad. I tell you there is nurse in here that reminds me of you…. What’s it like out side, looks sunny”

In my family we call my Dad, “Rob Gel” (a famous Melbourne Weather Man) because he always wants to talk about the weather. “G’day Little One, it’s fucking hot here, I tell you what, we need some rain, that weir is about 6% these days”

If you’ve ever watched “Home and Away” my father is Alf Stewart. Such a good old Aussie clique, but true.

Maybe it was the thought of loosing him, or that his mortality became real to me. But suddenly there was a burning desire to unearth years of suppressed anger for how I felt he’d treated me over the years. I realised all of this upset I was carrying around was not just fear of loosing my father, but fear of never having a voice and being choked by all of these buried emotions I’d carried around for years.

I’d spent some time with a Judith discussing this at length. It's not an unreasonable title calling her my voice coach. Yes in reality she’s a councillor and cost me $80 a week for 2 years, but it taught me be brave enough to step up and sing in tune.

For six hours, I sat there and told my father what my experience was like as his daughter. I didn’t hear or get all the answers I wanted to hear, and I’m sure I saw him go for the “nurse emergency button” a few times – but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t about validation, or hearing some fantasy answer about why my daddy didn’t do all that “he should have in the story books”. It was simply about me expressing, releasing what I had wanted to say for years, but didn’t have the courage. It was all about for me. Does that make sense?

It was exhausting I can tell you that much, and I was honestly worried that we might get a flat line from Scotty at some point through my surge of emotion – but actually, we both survived and something really amazing happened.

God bless him, after six long hours of painful discussion, his closing words to me were these:

“Fleur, my darling, if I don’t know how you feel, how can I do anything about it. Please promise me to always tell me how you are feeling and I promise I’ll talk to you about and we’ll work it out together, but if I don’t know, I can’t help you….”

I walked out of that hospital a different woman, and my father a wiser man. It wasn’t so scary after all, and I didn’t feel like the “Little One” anymore. It allowed space for a shift to occur, a powerful transformation actually had happened. (As I’m writing this I can feel such warmth in my chest. A little water eyed, but I’m feeling real joy).

I’ll never forget this, the first song that came on my ipod as watch out of that hospital was “Open your eyes” by Snow Patrol.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H1XUbJEPShE&feature=fvst

My Dad and I don’t talk about the weather anymore; our relationship has taken on a whole new form. We now discuss anything and every thing. Honestly and raw and when he can’t cope with the content, he’s ok with it and so am I. But what has been the real gift to the other side of this is, is that my relationships with men have also transformed. Fundamentally.

Like with any new toy, you should read the instructions and learn how to use it responsibly. I’ll have to admit that at times, especially here in Singapore I had struggled with setting the equaliser on this new sound system I’ve got on board. (It’s not as easy as a Bose, let me tell you).

The other side of my entry in Singapore Idol is that some times people might not want to hear my tunes, or rather how I really feel about them. Especially when I have “5 martinis” playing on the decks, socialising with some-one that in my experience has been a condescending sarcastic prick. You know what, I nearly got kicked out of Idol for that performance, so I’ve adjusted the play list and learnt when to play the tracks the locals like to hear. And hey, when my voice really wants to call out… I’ll just turn the volume down.

As for singing with men, I’m still singing “Fever” - and that will always be my “call sign” and song for many occasion. However, I have a massive love of Miriam Makeba’s voice and her recording of the “Click Song”. This voice is a trigger of happiness for me, she’s got energy and passion the is infectious and you can't help but want to clap and learn how to click like she does!

Like I always say, every day is a school day.

Play this loud and have a click!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OHxkiXALQjU


That’ll do pig, that’ll do.

Fleur

TBS

The other side of the Laguna Phuket Triathlon 2009

This Sunday I had to sit trackside at the 2009 Phuket Laguna Triathlon as spectator not a competitor, to an event that boasted roughly 1000 athletes would officially start the race and attempt to conquer the a triathlon of a 1.8km swim, 55km bike and a 12km run. All shapes and sizes, the entrants represented more than 40 countries and ranged in age from 18 to over 70 years old - now how many of the Silver Fox’s actually finished? I haven’t a clue, but they were there in full force.

Check out this video and you see how mammoth this event it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D6GJhuxkMME


The other side to being on the sideline was I did have a fantastic view positioned right in front of the water station after the swim. One after the other (and the scene really could have been in slow motion), uber fit bodies were striding past me, all with such impressive physical fitness; I really needed to pick my jaw up off the floor, or close my mouth at least.

First out of the water was Olympic Gold Triathlon Medallist, Jan Frodeno, 6 ft 5” German Adonis of perfect athletic beauty. (What do you call a German god? Gottbert m. Old German name: "God" + "shining" doesn’t really work does it). Here he is, check this out

http://www.pbase.com/colind/image/120072054

Whoof!

Then came Matthew O’halloran followed by Kevin Clark; rippled bound bodies that were clearly hard as a cats head, snatching cups of water from the hands of the volunteers, splashing it randomly all over. . All I could see was beads of sweat glistening in the sun with pearls of water sliding beautifully off their wet bodies.


http://www.pbase.com/colind/image/120072043

Then, as if I was slapped across the face by a cold fish and you heard the needle scratch all the way across the LP; in came Number T55x, with jelly donuts that wobbled so much they looked like they were flying a flag for England, Scotland and Wales. No more slow mo, just a silly girl getting the giggles.

Regardless, on the other side of my face was a massive amount of respect for Dough Boy, at least he was giving it a red hot crack and there I was with nothing to be proud of, sitting under a tree, dry with my ice cold bottle and a good aim for my mouth. Run, phat-boy, run. (“ph” = cool)

Even before 9am it had already hit 35 degrees. With the swim done and half way through a gruelling bike ride and I’m tipping these athlete’s must be starting to feel the pain right now. Exhausted, the majority dehydrated, hundreds of burning cramping muscles, some having to walk their bikes up the hill, sun cream streaming in their eyes and the inevitable on set of Turrets Syndrome begins.
“Fuck, shit, this is tough, fuck me dead this sun his so bloody hot, why the fuck didn’t they tell you about this god damn hill, I’m sweating like a fucking pig”

One man’s pleasure is another man’s pain. Did I really have athlete’s remorse?

Dave very kindly offered to do the run for me. Legend, albeit slightly sadistic with 2 days to go and he hadn’t done any training for the run. Nevertheless, he is a fit lean rocket and mean-machine on his bike. The theory being he would push out a run with out breaking his …. err, manhood. If I was catholic I would have suffered a mountain of guilt asking him to stand in for me, but I’m not of the cloth and nor was he. We agreed I had gratitude and made a promise to be there every step of the way. There was no piking on the 5am starts Glover.

Checking Dave into his bike transition stand and seeing him off when Kim finished the swim, I was confident he had his game face on and our relay team, Hands V, were looking sweet.

Jan Frodeno, the new champion run the last 100 meters, 12 minutes in front of the next competitor Mathieu O’halloran, with a baby elephant! Ha, only in Thailand! I bet those Germans wouldn’t be offering him a national animal to run the final leg with. What do you think they’d do? Herald a big fat bratwurst sausage in the air as a victory wave? I don’t even think the Aussie’s would ship in a kangaroo, actually; surely we would have Kylie prancing in her gold hot pants along beside him, glossed up a treat! ? (No, it was too early to be drunk, but this sun was getting to me….Poll anyone? Agree or disagree?)

Somewhere around 10.30am I was hanging around the finish line watching every one come in (I tried to get into the Press tent, but they wouldn’t let me in, I didn’t think they’d know who The Big Sheila was!). And you couldn’t help but notice on the other side of all of these tired faces was sheer exhilaration. Greg Russell came in with high hammers across the line with “Welcome to the jungle” blaring in the back ground;

Que the music -
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E1WUMRgbPR0&feature=fvst

Mind you, still looking like he could have run another 20 kms and smiling like a freak. It was mad, people were chanting, clapping like buggery, kids were running down home stretch with their dads; I tell you, it was a magnificent energy and such a buzz of excitement. The MC just added to the electric vibe by calling out each and every competitors name as they crossed the line - he was a yank, so hammed it up like it was a WMF super fight.

I was having a chuckle thinking about the Doctor’s (the Hands team co-ordinator) description on how people approached the challenge of actually finishing the triathlon and how it was a real sense of achievement. I couldn’t help but think about the other side of what it feels like to actually finish? One mans triathlon, is another mans conquest maybe? (I had some time on my hands).

Here’s how she put it, with my interpretation of the other side added in:

Weeks of training leading up to the big event with immense focus on the prize (…she’s hot and stop looking you found me).

Then half way through you’re thinking “why am I doing this, this is bloody hard work”, but you don’t want to give up (…she is taking too much ground work, should I go to Orchid Towers, or do I stick with it?).

Then the next minute you’re in it up to your eyeballs; finally riding the bike and you’re flying (.....do I need to explain?).

Its hot, it’s sweaty, it pleasure and pain (….come on when are you going to finish?).

Then the feeling when you actually cross the line, you can’t beat it (…high five).

Medals awarded (....you were so good baby) ,

And then some ice cold sponges and lots of water to cool you off (....honey I’m taking a shower).

You’re spent, you’re exhausted, but you did it. You’re pretty pleased with yourself, then all you want to do now is sleep.

"Footloose" is playing now; it’s feel good time.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nwBbMXYDsXw

And here comes Dave, he’s knocked off 6kms, 6 to go and looking like he’s doing it tough. His knees had gone and his trainers are feeling like they were 10kg cement blocks. However, I’m standing there feeling like someone’s hit me in the stomach. It didn’t matter that a crowd pleaser like “Footloose” was playing, because behind those Mosley Tribe aviators were a pair of eyes that couldn’t fake it. It was really affecting me. Thank god for the sun cream stinging my eyes excuse.

On the other side of those sunglasses was my mind going back some 15 years ago watching the 1994 Commonwealth Games and seeing Melinda Gainsford-Taylor and a young Cathy Freedman cleaning up all the medals. Both with times and distances that were in a thread of what my times were at The Australia Institute of Sport, aged 17. Blessed with a gift of natural talent - just no discipline. If you were watching my face that day you would have seen the corners of my mouth go from hugging my ears to a pout gone all wrong. Or as my brother Guy would have eloquently called it, “a cats ass look”.

Enter stage left my mother, god love you Gaysie. I will never forget her voice saying to me

“It’s your choice to quit, to stop training, it’s your choice. Just don’t come crying to me one day with regret or let me tell you I told you so…..”

The phone rang; and blimey, blow me down with a feather, guess how it was… yep, Gaysie…

“Now Flozzie, I don’t want to say this…..but”

“Mum, don’t’, don’t say it”

“….darling, you didn’t want to do it any way. All of that training and athlete lifestyle wasn’t for you. You’re too much of a free spirit and not one for all that regulation. You’ve done the right thing Flozzie, you chose the right path……”

Big sigh. A long silence. But god love Mum for doing her best to placate me.

The Other side of that comment is some parents would have drugged me out by my pigtails to train at 6am day after day, no questions asked. Who knows, by now I could have been be married to Dazza the Shot putter with a double-barrelled surname, in bed by 9pm every night (so I wouldn’t need botox) AND been the face of Kellogg’s Nutra-Grain (shove over Lisa Curry-Kenny!). Or I could be the host of “It’s a Knock out”. One thing is for sure; all of our medals (mine and Dazza’s) would be safely tucked away in the poolroom.

You have to check this out, Lisa Curry Kenny having an arm wrestle – such a crack up, so Aussie, Go Lisa!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pgx7sbQJEzA


Mum was convinced I would get bored - and you know what, she might not always be right, but she’s never wrong. God love her, just the other day she said laughing over the phone -

“…well sweetheart, no one can every say you haven’t lived….”

Ok, so I didn’t have the commitment to go the distance; or just maybe I got distracted with all of life’s wonderful colours. After all, there is so much to touch and feel out there.

Another lesson learnt, I didn’t like being a passenger. There was no way I was going to be sitting on the side line again, unless I chose to. Which does actually mean smarter, not harder, and maybe no “insomnia” for a while either until I learn to be responsible. And in the words of my dear old buddy and boss Andy Balmain,

“…take a cup of cement and harden the fuck up Glover"

.

The tune that played as Dave came in was “I get knocked down, I get up again” – how apt and what timing.


I’ll leave you with this Gloverism …

“Never put a price on experience, and never ever say what if”

Enjoy the ride!


Fleur

The Big Sheila

*** Hey Tem, the Tribobs are coming up next March, April May… so better hatch a plan hey Bru! I'm signed up for these.
http://www.singaporesprintseries.com/

***If you’re interested in doing this next year… here’s the site

http://www.lagunaphukettriathlon.com/