The Grass is Greener

The Husband didn’t go back to work at all yesterday. Apparently the site, which was 20km closer to the cyclone, was rather a mess and needed to be straightened up before the bulk of the workers returned. It didn’t help that the sky refused to cease tipping bucket-loads of rain over Karratha and the Burrup Peninsula (where the plant is being built) until the early evening. That of course meant that he was pottering around the house all day, his restlessness causing me to be similarly on edge, so I abandoned work at lunch and watched some tennis with him. As soon as I stopped working he relaxed – it was like he felt guilty for not working when I was – so I spent the afternoon with him, watching tennis and doing a few jobs.


By late afternoon the rain was still falling but the sky had brightened somewhat so we ventured out in the car to buy supplies for the weekend. What we saw on that drive to the shops was a different Karratha. It was a Karratha with fast-flowing creeks, rivers where there had just the day before been only dry, sun-baked earth. It was a Karratha with grass, dressed in a colour other than red or brown. It was actually quite beautiful. It’s ironic really – in England a grey, rainy, gusty day would bring feelings of gloom, of a depressing predictability; “another cold, wet, dull day.” In Karratha a day like that becomes exciting – instead of monotonous blue sky, searing heat and sunshine we get blustery conditions that cool down the usually sauna-like air, rain that provides much-needed moisture to the parched ground and a dark sky that is a welcome relief from the blindingly bright sunlight. Plus, it felt rather cosy being holed up inside in the cool, dry house as the weather raged on outside. Usually I’m wishing I was out in the sunshine, making the most of the beautiful weather (an English habit that will probably never die, however long I live in a warm, sunny climate) so it comes as quite a relief to be content with being inside!

It’s true what they say, the grass is always greener on the other side....

Blown Away

Well, it finally happened. After countless false warnings, a category 3 cyclone whipped along the coastline, passing very close to Karratha. The first we knew that it might be a big one was Tuesday evening – it hit Broome, just over 800km north of Karratha, but at that point was only a tropical low, windy and rainy but nothing stronger than a gale in the UK. The following morning brought with it a blue alert and then a yellow and The Husband was sent home at 1pm after ensuring all was tied down and secured on site. After all that excitement came rather an anti-climax of an afternoon. It rained on and off but not heavily and as we went to bed that night we both wondered what the fuss was about.


However, at 2am we were rudely awoken by the deafening howl of the wind, the thunderous clatter of heavy rain pounding the roof and being blown in sheets against the windows. This was what they were preparing us for, and it is all the more frightening when it begins in the middle of the night. All was dark and we couldn’t see the extent of the rain and the wind, only hear it and imagine the damage it might be causing. Our back fence is rusting away at its foundations and, despite informing the agents about it months ago, nothing has been done about it. “We’re still getting quotes,” was the response every time we queried them about it. It has already sagged quite significantly in the direction of the house and I had visions of it being torn from the ground and hurtling towards the glass patio doors. I also had an irrational fear that we might be hit by a tsunami, a fear for which when expressed I was laughed at. Apparently it’s not possible here but in my opinion the weather can never be relied upon to do what’s expected and anything can happen. Just ask the residents of Toowoomba, the small Queensland town that was destroyed by a freakish inland tsunami. I had trouble falling back to sleep, not only because of the wall of noise that was battering the house but because, deep down, I was pretty scared.

We woke to relative calm – none of the ear-splitting howling and drumming rain of 2am. Expecting to be going to work, The Husband got up but soon received a text telling him that we were still on red alert. He wasn’t going anywhere so promptly fell back into bed for another couple of hours kip. It seemed odd at 7.30am that he still couldn’t go anywhere as there was no rain, no wind and it was cloudy but fairly bright. Not that he was going to complain about not having to don his flouro work gear and steel-capped boots and trudge off to site. So of course he proceeded to get in my way, TV blaring, as I tried to work.

Half an hour later we realised why we were still on red alert. The room darkened within seconds to such an extent that we had to switch on the lights. It was like someone was pulling a black cloak over the sky. Then the wind kicked up, furiously shaking our fence which was desperately straining to remain in the ground, and making the trees perform a voodoo dance. Last to make an entrance was the rain but it was saving itself for the grandest entrance of all, ensuring it got full attention. It hammered down on the tin roof, thrashed against the windows, and started a pond in the already saturated garden. A tiny bird sheltered from the elements on the patio, under the roof, sitting with its head pulled in and its feathers ruffed up to try and make itself as small as possible as the cyclone unleashed its fury around it.

It is now 10am and the sky has brightened, the rain stopped and the wind no more than a gusty coastal breeze. The Husband is pacing up and down, unable to simply relax and enjoy the fact that he is not at work. He’s calling the company emergency information line every five minutes, checking whether the status has changed and he should be preparing to go to work. If I didn’t have to work I’d be crashed out on the sofa with a good book or watching the Australian Open, not wandering about the house, looking out the windows, sighing and distracting my wife who is trying to create masterpieces! Now more than ever I am praying that the cyclone moves on so that work can resume as normal.

Sunshine and Champers at the Australian Open



Two down, two to go, but the French and US Opens can wait because we had such a fabulous time at the Australian Open. As predicted, it is quite different to Wimbledon. There’s none of the pomp and ceremony, it is far less formal, and yes, there are definitely more Aussies! I love Wimbledon for all its formalities – I think they add to the excitement, to the feeling that you are at and witnessing something special. You really feel like you’re on hallowed ground when you walk through the gates at the Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Club. That doesn’t mean, however, that I disliked the Australian Open because of its lack of ceremony. It’s just a very different Grand Slam, and it was the perfect Aussie event.


Just like Australians themselves, it was relaxed, fun, and full of colour, both literally and in its character. People everywhere were dressed in their national colours, draped with flags, faces painted. There was more noise and less decorum but that made it fun and very Australian, especially after a glass of bubbly sipped whilst sitting out under the sun in Garden Square, where dozens of people were camped out on deckchairs watching the action on a big screen. Australians certainly know how to have fun, and we had plenty of it in and around the Rod Laver Arena.

Where Graffiti is Art and Greek is the Second Language

I have a strange feeling of déjà vu. I’m sitting on an airplane, netbook on the tiny tray table in front of me, typing my blog. This time however, I am on my way to Karratha, flying steadily away from Melbourne. Below me lies mile after mile of nothingness. Just red land, occasionally rising to form a small hillock, but otherwise a vast tract of the same sun-baked, water-deprived Mars-like land. Quite a contrast to the hustle and bustle, the libraries and museums, theatres and galleries, boutiques and purveyors of fine foods, bars and restaurants, of Melbourne.


Ah, Melbourne, how I love thee. A surprise awaits the visitor around every corner. An Art Deco apartment building from which one could almost see Hercule Poirot gazing out stands proud next to its modern equivalent, a soaring tower of glass. The Yorkshire cottage James Cook grew up in, shipped to Melbourne in pieces and reassembled in its finest park, complete with an English cottage garden. Graffiti so beautiful it could be described as nothing less than art, discovered down unassuming cobbled lanes. The old and the new nestle comfortably beside one another. Grand Victorian buildings rub shoulders with 21st century glass- and steel-clad multi-stories, resulting in an eclectic mix of architectural styles all jostling for space along the streets.

And that one word sums Melbourne up nicely – eclectic. It has the feeling of being a very inclusive type of place – Greeks, Italians, Brits, Chinese, Japanese, Middle Easterners, have all settled there (Melbourne is home to the largest number of Greeks outside Athens), artists, actors and writers flourish, and a Bohemian vibe can be felt throughout the city and its suburbs. Its architecture, its food and its culture all reflect a continually changing city, one which has the ability to constantly surprise. I loved it and I didn’t even get close to Ramsey Street – it turns out there is definitely more to Melbourne than Harold and Lou!

Melbourne-Bound

I’m typing this on the plane on the way to Melbourne, a city I haven’t visited since I was 14. Unfortunately, work has yet again forced The Husband to stay in Karratha (it really does get in the way far too often) so I am making this trip alone but I shall not be all on my lonesome – I will be joining The Parents at the hotel. The main reason for this little sojourn is to catch some of the Australian Open, a Grand Slam I am yet to watch other than on the small screen. In fact, this is only the second year in which I have even watched it on the telly as usually it is on in the middle of the night, what with Australia being the other side of the world to England. And I am not quite sad enough to stay up through the night to watch a ball being batted to and fro across a net. However, going to watch it live is a completely different ball game (pun absolutely intended) and I am really quite excited about it.


The only Grand Slam I have ever been to is Wimbledon and I just adore going – the rare sunny weather, the excitement like electricity crackling in the air, the Pimms, the strawberries and cream, the pomp and ceremony of it all. I have no doubt that the Aussie Open will be rather different – more relaxed probably, less formal, more Australians I expect – but it’s the differences that I’m looking forward to. I want to see what other Grand Slams are like, how another country approaches such an important event. Eventually I would like to visit all 4 Grand Slams but 2 will do for now. You see now why I had to go even if The Husband was chained to his desk, for when was I going to get the chance to get to go to the Australian Open again? It’s a long, long way from Reading.

So anyway, here I am on my way to a city I haven’t visited in 14 years – half my life ago in fact. I expect it has changed a bit since then and will in any case seem very different to me now, seen through the eyes of a 28 year-old married woman rather than a 14 year-old schoolgirl. It was actually a school trip that took me there all those years ago, a drama trip on which I remember more about the boy with the floppy hair and the dimpled smile that I developed a massive crush on than the city itself. So I am also incredibly excited about wandering down Melbourne’s famous Laneways, gazing up at the buildings in Federation Square and immersing myself in a bit of culture. I did the trip to Ramsey Street last time - the other thing, along with Dimples that stands out most in my mind. Yes, there is much for me to see this time round – there is definitely more to Melbourne than cute boys and Neighbours. At least I hope there is.

My Worst Nightmare

There has been some scary stuff in the news recently, much of it to do with natural disasters, but a report in the papers and on the local news yesterday brought my fears of another sort of natural terror to the surface once more. Snakes. Sneaky, slithery, venomous snakes in a story that will probably give me nightmares for days because it is just that – my own personal nightmare, something that I have lain in bed at night being terrified at the prospect of.


The true story involves a 7 year-old boy safely tucked up in his bed at night. At least, both he and his parents assumed he was safe, as you do when you’re in your own bed in your own room in the family home. Softly sleeping, in a world of little boy dreams of racing cars and super heroes and swimming in a sea of Lego, he was awoken by his own screams and a searing pain in his foot. His screams only intensified as he looked over at his arm, which felt tight and heavier than usual. Wrapped several times around his left arm was a Dugite, a highly venomous Australian species of Brown snake capable of inflicting a potentially fatal bite. I can’t even imagine the fright of waking up to find a snake clinging to your arm, especially as the boy then watched in horror as it bit his finger!

The Dugite had apparently entered the boy’s bedroom through a small hole in the wall, presumably in search of food and water, slithered up his bed and bitten him on his toe and then again on his foot, before wrapping itself around his arm. His piercing screams woke his mother, who ran into his room to see the snake still clinging to his arm despite the poor boy’s frenzied attempts to fling it from his body. She managed to calm him somewhat and hold him still as the snake released its grip and began to slither off. I suppose the snake was just as frightened as the boy, hence its rigid grip, not that that would have been much consolation to him. An ambulance was called and by the time he reached hospital, his whole body had paralysed. Four doses of antivenom later and he was on the road to recovery although, unsurprisingly, he is too scared to sleep in his bedroom.

This story is truly my worst nightmare and I have vowed to rake the fallen leaves as soon as possible and check for any holes in the walls. As the mother said, “You think you’re kids are safe when you put them to bed. You don’t expect them to wake with a snake around their arm.” Indeed you do not.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

The disastrous floods in Queensland have brought out the very best and the very worst in people. The good news is that the best by far outweighs the worst. Most Queenslanders took to the streets over the weekend to help out family businesses and homes that are coated in mud, quite literally mucking in to help friends, family and often total strangers. Many of the stories in The Weekend Australian were heart-warming. One involved a 14 year-old girl spending all her hard-earned pocket-money on sausages to help her mum provide a free sausage sizzle for all the workers. Why? “We’re Australians,” she said, “we help each other.” Other stories are emerging of incredible bravery, including the truckie who risked his own life to pull a mother and daughter from their car as it was being carried away by the inland tsunami in the Lockyer Valley. Many of course were also heart-breaking. The 21 month year-old girl who was ripped out of her mother’s arms as a torrent of water smashed through a brick wall and a large glass window and tore through their kitchen. Baby Jessica is missing, presumed dead.


Then there are the stories that are heart-breaking for a different reason, because they represent the depths of depravity some will sink to, even in times of crisis. Reports of people using boats to loot businesses still under water, scams involving others falsely claiming to be collecting for the State of Emergency Service for Queensland flood relief. How people can be so cruel, so heartless at a time when everyone most needs to pull together and help each other out of disaster is utterly beyond me, and the majority of Australians. Hopefully they will be caught – and, despite the Australian way of not being a dobber, looters are being reported by a disgusted public – and sentenced harshly. The Police Commissioner, Bob Atkinson, announced last week that the maximum penalty for looting is doubled to 10 years in times of natural disaster, and that will certainly be upheld.

The ‘low-life’ looters, as Atkinson termed them, are but a miniscule percentage of the largely good-hearted, brave, resilient Queenslanders, most of whom are rallying together to help clean up and rebuild a shattered state. I wish therefore to end with words spoken by Premier Anna Bligh, who has shown great strength and leadership throughout the floods; “We’re the people that they breed tough, north of the border. We’re the ones that they knock down, and we get up again.”

Preparing for the Worst... with Beer

As the weekend draws near, Cyclone Vince is heading steadily our way and is due to intensify by Saturday to Category 3 which will redefine it as a ‘severe tropical cyclone’. The Australian Government’s Bureau of Meteorology defines a Category 3 cyclone thus (capital letter are theirs): ‘Some roof and structural damage. Some caravans destroyed. Power failures likely. A Category 3 cyclone’s strongest winds are VERY DESTRUCTIVE winds with typical gusts over open flat land of 165-224 km/h. These winds correspond to the highest winds on the Beaufort scale, Beaufort 12 (Hurricane).’ The Beaufort Scale’s definition of a Beaufort 12 force wind is truly frightening: ‘Over Land – severe and extensive damage; Over water – the air is filled with foam and spray; sea completely white with driving spray; visibility very seriously affected.’


Luckily, the present plotting of the cyclone shows it taking a South-Easterly direction just before it hits land, travelling parallel to the coast back down towards Exmouth. Therefore, as long as it keeps to its current trajectory it shouldn’t actually make contact with land, which is when it is at its most destructive. The winds will be fierce, the rain will lash down, but we should be safe. Of course, a cyclone, like any weather system, is completely unpredictable and could change at any moment. With that in mind, we have started to prepare for the worst. Or at least, that is what I thought we were doing. The Husband offered to go to the shops to fuel up the car and buy necessary provisions – tinned vegetables and other tinned and dried foods, a portable gas-powered stove in case the power is cut, bottled water, that sort of thing. However, what does he come back with? Two loaves of bread, six tins of baked beans (which he knows I don’t particularly like) and a slab of beer. ‘The beer is to help us get through it,’ he said, adding, ‘you’ll be glad of it if we’re stuck inside for days with nothing to do!’ He obviously enjoys my company so much he needs beer to get him through the possibility of a couple of days with me. Then again, maybe he’s right – cyclone party anybody?!

Trying to Find the Good News

I turned on the TV this morning to see that the Brisbane flood level high at 4am this morning was lower than expected, saving many houses. Great news. No more people have been confirmed dead overnight. Excellent news. I then powered up my computer and looked at the BBC news homepage. The top news story is ‘Death Toll Rises in Brazil Floods’. Terrible news. I flick my eyes down to the top UK news and see ‘Heavy Rain Prompts Flood Warnings’. Bad news. Anna Bligh, Queensland State Premier then announced at a press conference on the TV that a 14th body had been found – a 24 year old man had been sucked into a storm drain in Brisbane. Horrendous news.


Just when you think things are getting better, the news turns sour again. The horror in Queensland is still not over and yet it is already being overshadowed on the world stage by another tragedy in another country. Brazil’s floods have so far claimed over 230 lives. The shining light to come out of the Queensland floods is the stories of courage and typical Aussie mateship. When all looks grim, that’s what you’ve got to cling to.

The Fury of Mother Nature

Over the weekend I was shivering, cocooning my entire body under the duvet in attempt to keep warm, wrapping myself up in layers of tops and jumpers, a thick coat, gloves, hat and scarf. On Monday I came back into the house sweating after hanging the washing up to dry. Yup, I’m definitely back in Karratha. It does feel odd that in a matter of a few hours I can go from 10⁰C to 38⁰C – my body really doesn’t know what’s going on. The sky is blue, the sun fierce. It is strange to think that a strong cyclone is headed our way. We are off to the shops this evening to stock up on tinned and dried food, a portable gas stove and bottled water in case we get a direct hit or a near miss, which will effectively imprison us inside our house, possibly without power or running water. All that we can hope is that we do not suffer a direct hit, which can decimate homes and rip trees from their roots.


Watching the tragedy of the Queensland floods unfold brings home just how powerful and relentless Mother Nature can be and that with all the technology we have today, nothing can stop her when she is at her full strength. News of the floods has been broadcast 24/7 on just about every channel here in Australia and it is hard to tear myself away from it. It just seems to be getting worse and worse – with each hour the waters rise further, flooding houses, almost completely submerging shopping centres, leaving an entire stadium under metres of muddy water. Of course, that is all devastating but what is really tragic is the human loss. 12 are now confirmed dead, several of those children, and over 50 are still missing, many feared dead. All the news reporters keep saying is that they know that the death toll will rise. It is odd to think that just a month or 2 ago, Queensland was suffering from a terrible drought, with residents desperate for water. Now they are literally submerged in water but, ironically, are still short of potable H²O as sewage leaks and other nasties contaminate the water system.

What with droughts, floods and snowstorms, Mother Nature certainly seems to be angry about something. I’m just praying she isn’t angry with Karratha.

Monkey Business

A post-fight bite to eat

We live in a country that is home to the top ten deadliest animals in the world and yet it seems only to be when I visit the urban jungle of Hong Kong that I encounter wildlife that leaves me truly fearing for my life. Last Christmas we came across a 20ft-long python having a little nap on the path after a meal of what looked like a cow (see my blog post on the close brush with death for further details) and this year we had a face-off with a bunch of angry, rabid monkeys. We walked up a path in Sai Kung to find half a dozen rather large red faced and bottomed primates seemingly gagging for a fight. It was like walking through the centre of a dodgy area of an English town at 2am in the morning. As soon as I saw them I grabbed The Mother's arm - why I rushed to her I don't know, seeing as she is the weakest and smallest of our little group, but it perhaps it was an instinct to want to be protected by my mother. And when one of the monkeys closest to us actually growled at us, I practically jumped into her arms. I did not fancy being mauled by a wild monkey. We managed to move past them unscathed - physically if not mentally - and when we returned only one was left, completely engrossed in devouring some food discarded by a careless walker. It had unleashed some male agression and was now ready for food - again like a boozed-up man from a rough area in the UK. Who knew Hong Kong could be so dangerous?