Longbows at Fifty Paces

In an example of home-grown naturalised Australian (née) Slimm-plification, our cross-family trip to the Abbey Museum took a little organising. Originally semi-scheduled for the week before but then rescheduled for the week after, Nicole was committed to an "event" down at the Gold Coast, so with Monday the only day that the Bs were available, we were going to follow her down there, except it turned out that she'd only be there for like an hour and a half doing some three-minute thesis thingy, then it transpired that actually it wasn't that day at all, it was Tuesday, so the Abbey was back on again.

Archery-tastic!

The Abbey Museum up at Caboolture is modest, quaint, unassuming and a charming little location for an easy, laid-back day out. We're fond of going there in the holidays when they put on schoolkids activities, like mummification lessons, dress up like a Roman, build a Pyramid, all that jazz. It's manned by volunteers and they are enthusiastic and unpretentious.

Eloise is particularly fond of the archery and regardless of the particular period of history that allegedly underpins the activities in the place, archery is always on. So this time, the theme was Ancient Greece, and while the Achaeans did get a look in through the medium of Pritt Stick, squares of paper and a mosaic thingy as well as those weird theatre masks the Greeks were fond of, it was really the archery we were going for.

The kick with the Abbey archery is that it is gloriously un-Health and Safety because you get to shoot arrows at a real person, albeit one who is dressed up to the nines in period armour.

Damien is the name of the hirsutely historical hindividual underneath the pseudo-Saracen get-up, a committed and possibly lunatic historical enthusiast with tremendous technical knowledge of any period of history you care to mention as long as it's medieval - and the loquacious vocabulary to communicate his enthusiasm to all ages.

He's the guy that teaches the kids how to shoot the admittedly weak-kneed longbows with the rubber-ended arrows a reasonable distance up the field. And he is the guy that stands a reasonable distance up the field a lets the kids shoot the rubber-ended arrows at him.

He's on reasonably safe ground, he says, until a Mum picks up a bow, and then he starts to worry.

We were there with Jessica, Penny and Elliot with mum Debra. To my knowledge she represented no significant threat, and was more interested in what her offspring were up to. Janice and Eva toddled along to and Janice was the one whose arrows had to be batted away by the shield and who did in fact represent a clear and present danger, at least to the poor bugger performing target duties.

Eloise, on this at least her third attempt at this archery lark, was enthusiastic if not that spectacularly impressive. She just couldn't get the range. Whether is was a question of technique or strength remains open to debate.

Between the two of them Eloise and Jessica managed to swing an extra archery session, so charming or cheeky were they. They practised cloud-shooting, the technique the massed longbowmen of the English Army used at Azincourt to defeat the French, although the eloquent Damien, admitting to French heritage, claimed that the English couldn't take the credit for the French defeat, and that the French needed to take all the credit for themselves, somewhat flying in the face of the (commonly?) accepted story.

Anyway it was a hot day, a bit of sun was caught, soft drinks were deployed, and sweeties. We ran the gamut of activities and were there for hours, relatively inexpensively, and quite enjoyably.

I had a bit of a go myself. It was a bit painful, and my aim was awful. I did manage to shoot a tree though.

Eloise moaned bitterly for days afterward about her "string-slap" and fletch-cuts. I say sometimes there's a balance to be struck between pleasure and pain.

A Farewell to Alms

What with me and my bones back to supposedly fighting fitness, or at least relatively unrestricted mobility with only middling discomfort, and Mum probably being sick to the back teeth of living on our sofa, and today's date being printed on her ticket, the time had come for her to depart these fair shores and attend to her life back in the Still United Kingdom.

We went out to breakfast at a new place to us called something strange like Form7even, which given its name held out little hope but had reputation and recommendations. It turned out to be quite nice, open and spacious and not next to a busy road, not too noisy, which kids' activities and quite nice coffee with quite nice food served on unusual platters (my veggie smeggie breakfast was served on slate, for that genuine just-mined flavour). Mum even unexpectedly picked up the tab, which was nice.

In the afternoon it was time to say farewell and we dropped her off at the airport, watching her disappear to run the gauntlet of security and automated passport control.

Thanks to Mum for travelling half way around the world to help us out in our hour of need. You executed your duties with character and distinction.

Riverfire: Airborne Assault on the Senses, Mainly Hearing

I don't actually remember what we did for Riverfire last year.

You'll no doubt recall, be aware, or be completely ignorant of the Brisbane Festival, which this year has offered us the delights of a huge inflatable cure for dyslexia and a mysterious bamboo construction of dubious utility, as well as a "veritable" "cornucopia" of "performances," none of which we have attended (that I recall).

It all culminates in a fat-bottomed firework display over the river. There are jet planes flying around and choppers chopping up chop (that's a nautical term), and it's an event, possibly the event in the Brisbane calendar of events.

Anyway last year, we were bogged down with babies and what we did is lost in the fog of war. Two years ago with Nicole doing something, probably working, Eloise and I dared he public transport system and were delighted when an Apache helicopter followed us across the Victoria Bridge, hovering outside the window of our bus and wiggling its weapon at us like a big macho chopper should do. It transpires that Eloise now remembers nothing of that remarkable occurrence and it will be up to me, the old codger with the fading brainwaves to carry the flag of that memory for future generations.

This year, we went down in the car with a Mum, and an Esky, and a Baby, and parked underneath South Bank for maximum utility. Not wishing to draw attention to myself in the surveillance superstate we must all toil under, I will merely say that there has been a heightened security status her to do with the T-word you'll be familiar with through historical events such as Omagh, the King David Hotel, and Gavrillo Princep (was that even his name?) and so we were a bit worried that our Esky would be frisked and any illicit liquids contained therein confiscated, and indeed such was the concern over the potential heavy-handedness on the part of short-term-contract thuggery that it seemed many would be keeping away from the festivities this year.

All this concern proved unfounded as our lift doors opened onto the South Bank Arbour we were greeted by a charming old fellow, yes a Grey Guardian but a nice one in a yellow T-shirt who helpfully directed us to the places we were most likely to find a spot to sit. And even at three in the afternoon things were starting to get a little bust with it.

We cast around a little bit for a decent place to sit then came across a little place just behind the Green and next to Janelle's Lovely Herb Garden where we could lay out our modest little pied a terre aka picnic mat, which we layed out then laid on, and listened to the sounds of the river, with the boats chuntering up and down, the hum of the crowds moving along the footpaths, the playgrounds behind us, the generator not far away.

Pretty much no sooner had we done that than the air was filled with the raucous rip of high-power jet engines as the two Super Hornet jet fighters began hairy-arsedly splitting the very heavens with the power of their mighty turbine outlets, streaking nakedly overhead in various degrees of tilt, bifurcating my bloody vestibules with their terrifying cacophany.

I liked it, it was exciting but Eloise objected to the noise on the grounds of its volume. I'll remind her of that in years to come when night-clubbing becomes the thing and playing loud Goth music in her bedroom.

After showboating up and down the river a few times, the jets tipped themselves onto their bottoms and powered into the sky, disappearing beneath the sparse clouds, and we began the waiting game. The kids went off to the playground, and my game of choice was lying on my back in zen-like communion which my swollen ribcage watching clouds start to form over Australia. I couldn't do anything, just watched them swing with the wind out to sea.

Eventually the helicopters showed their rotors and started messing abut on the river, spraying their spray, buzzing boats, waving at the crowds, wiggling their big guns. All very macho.

There were five of them I think, Apaches and Black Hawks. I know what a Black Hawk looks like, I think, from the fillum of the same name, but I didn't see Orlando Bloom doing any abseiling.

The Apache I remember from such classics as The Iraq War and the Other Iraq War, though these particular examples hadn't to my knowledge or ability to detect been outfitted with the Hellfire missiles that made them such effective anti-armour machines.

Instead they had apparently amiable dinky-di Aussie pilots who waved and wiggled their weapons in a very jolly way. The crowds waved back at least, though thankfully their weaponry remained under wraps.

The choppers went on for ages, then coffee seemed appropriate and various foodstuffs were dispensed and drawing was done as the sun dipped and the air began to cool. Clothes were fetched and put on and before long night was falling and the build-up to the actual fireworks crescendoed as the Fighter Planes rattled our bones with their sub-bass kerosene roar, the sound bouncing of the buildings in the gathering dusk and then they were power-climbing again through the apricot clouds.

Really I should have taken my tripod and proper camera, but well I didn't so you'll have to make do with this firework photo taken with my mobile phone. As soon as the fireworks started Eloise disappeared but I tracked her down pretty quickly, leaving behind Lyra with her face buried in Nicole's neck.

Eloise and I made it down onto the beach and had a pretty good view of the stretch of river looking up towards the Victoria Bridge; the fireworks were going off in perfect synchronisation, clearly under computer control. It was in impressive display; it always is. It's rear end was, as previously trailed, generously proportioned.

It's a Natural Progression

Eloise managed to snap another very nice picture of a kangaroo with her joey refusing the leave home:

Macropus Copulus Sighted at the Koala Sanctuary

The annual pass to Lone Pine, the Koala Sanctuary of choice for the Discerning Macropod Appreciator, got another outing the other day and Grandma Mary, in the twilight of her support mission, was treated to one of the finer wildlife experiences that Brisbane has to offer.

Eloise was particularly excited to make the trip as her best friend Hannah was in attendance, and she had some personal successes also. I will make a list:

1) A personal photograph with a Dingo, yes a Dingo! The Dingo, probably called something like Sandy, owing to its sandy coat, was out for a walk with his/her handler. His/her handler appeared to have a handler of his own, and Eloise somehow caught the handler's handler's eye while they were having a conversation about something deeply technical and the handler's handler, in a mysteriously American accent, suggested a photo for the "little girl" which the dingo's handler was only too pleased to agree to.

2) The Bird of Prey show where Eloise was able to demonstrate her general geniusness to anyone who would listen by identifying, at the top of her voice, the barn owl. Mysteriously the American handler handler, who must have been some visiting official or something, volunteered for some raptor action, and hey presto, there he was messing with the big birds, bypassing all the paying customers in one easy swoop.

3) There was great excitement on the Kangaroo fields as a pair of amorous roos consummated their unstoppable romantic urges in the most public - if not the most protracted - display of affection I've seen for a while. Eloise was there with her camera, and snapped a shot which I have edited here for decency, but which deserves a place on the success list nonetheless.

Amusingly, children were approaching the pair as they were carrying out their... activity... and offering them encouragement by holding handfuls of roo-food underneath their noses. Food in which the roos were perhaps understandably uninterested. The parents, keeping their distance, not wanting to get involved, called from afar: "Maybe not those kangaroos, Aspidistra! Why don't you try those others over there! The ones that aren't cuddling!"

I got some knowing glances from some grownups though when Eloise bounded across the fields to me shouting "Come and look! There are some kangaroos mating!" Maybe that should go on the list too, for sheer Attenborough-ish-ness.

Hooray for animal love! And hooray for lists of personal success!

In other news, everyone had fun with the lorikeets, Lyra and I got to molest a wombat up close (and when I say molest, I mean annoy with a net full of hay, which really needs explanation - unfortunately), and the cockatoos didn't utter a single word.

Balloon Without a View

We went down to the South Bank a couple of times to have a go at this funny rubber thingy with the frankly stupid name of Exxopolis. The xx is supposed to represent twenty years of the company who makes these things, the nature of which I'll elaborate on momentarily, has been making these things. But it just made me think of oil companies, and tigers.

Ridiculous name aside, and by way of background, for the last couple of weeks the Brisbane Festival has been running, you know the one that culminates in Riverfire. There has been the obligatory Spiegeltent, the universal nature of whose design and name bemuses me, in which various performances occurred. There was a big lit-up sculpture made of bamboo which was no doubt deeply significant, but which left me, well, fill in the gap before boozled.

And then there was the Exxopolis thingy, which cost money to get into so was a bit of a gamble but the photos looked good.

From the outside it looked like a recreation of a little castle from the Yellow Submarine film, in the style of, if you know what I mean, because I can't be sure that there was a castle in the film, but imagine a sort of curvy not-quite straight wobbly rubber-looking complex shape with protuberances and patches of colour, about five metres tall and maybe twenty metres on each side, and towers and cupolas of different colour poking out above the rest like rubber gas-bubbles.

Mum, Lyra, Georgia and Claire approached with anticipation, running the gauntlet of what I now understand are locally referred to as "Greeters."

Once we had relieved ourselves of our shoes, and received the obligatory corporate-bollocks introductory statement, and the airlock had been opened, we stepped in. Instantly the atmosphere changed, with soft music and ambient light - filtered through the walls of the enormous balloon it turned out we were inside - changed to bizarre primary colours inside this strange maze reminiscent as much as anything as a really very clean and complicated gastro-intestinal tract, kind of organic in an artificial way, with no straight lines and no natural colours. Passages undulated away with colours changing with distance, so we could be standing in a bright red space - and the very air would be red, our faces and everything filtered through red light, like being in the red bowels of a red thing, but looking down the corridor a could of turns the walls would be bright green or blue.

We had been told in no uncertain terms that it was not a bouncing castle, but the homunculi were disinclined to respect that instruction, so we spent a happy and slightly strange hour-and-a-half wandering, lolling, and taking pictures.

There were a few large rooms, very tall, which had clear Gaudi-esque lines to them, and the architect was reputed to have given the place an Islamic feel. Around the rooms were alcoves where people were just sitting, relaxing, or playing with their kids.

Lyra enjoyed finding the ventilation ducts where air was pumped in to keep the structure inflated, then letting the breeze blow into her face.

I enjoyed lying down on the floor on my back and my ribs giving me enough pain stroke discomfort to be unable to get back up again, and then having my child stroke children come and sit upon me just when I had no hope of escape.

I say children, for we went back the following week with Eloise, so impressed was I with the general discomfitude of the experience. She immediately disappeared with Georgia, with Lyra departing in a different direction. We spent many a happy minute wandering the fleshy halls and passages in search of our offspring, who were clearly also moving. By the time we had found them and exhaled, were surprised to be told that our time was up this week, because it was the school holidays and $16 only bought us twenty minutes or something ridiculous like that.

So bugger it: first week very good, second week not so very good. Note: go when not crowded.

Moody Eloise Attempts the Smoulder

Eloise art-directed for this one, in her new haircut, posing like a poseur, giving face. As they say.

The Desculptification of the Playground

If a picture says a thousand words, then I don't think it unreasonable to claim that three pictures munged together in Photoshop shouldn't say three thousand, and that therefore this photograph represents a significant essay in the art of using playground equipment to ruin a finely sculpted, yes sculpted and not entirely inexpensive up-town inner-city metropolitan sassy stylish haircut that many of the world's disadvantaged would at least salivate over.

Haircut One

It's the New World.

Gone are the days of the pudding-bowl daggers-at-dusk two-shakes-of-a-lamb's-tail look-after-the-pennies-and-personal-esteem-will-look-after-itself mother's cut; this is twenty-first century suburban narcissistic Australia and on this, the twenty-third of September, just shy of her second birthday, Lyra visited the salon for the first time to have her hair cut, for the first time.

It says something of young Nicole's devotion to her studies that she decided that she couldn't be there for this most auspicious of events, and it's a gratifying testimony of her faith in me to keep my mouth should and trust the Professionals to get on with the job and make the critical decisions in a timely manner.

It was a worry, in the loosest possible sense of the word, to have Lightning Lyra in such close proximity (what other kind of proximity is there?) to scissors with molecule-sharp edges, but with Eloise in tow, Lyra was putty in young Tom's culpable hands as he proceeded to sculpt, yes sculpt her hair into what can only be described as a Blunt Bob (because that's what he described it as).

Eloise was next, and, sassooned member of the preened clientele that she is, she simply proceeded to the basin to have her hair deep-cleansed then straightened, as usual, and sculpted yes sculpted I tell you into what I can only describe as a style of some kind whose name I don't know because I wasn't sufficiently interested to ask, beautiful though it , and she, is, and are.

Lovely!

Afterwards we went to New Farm Park with Mum and messed it all up.

Nicole: Bellbird Bidet Barbie

It is customary for Nicole to perform a barbecue activity upon the occasion of her birthday each year. I, as a committed veggo loser (we are in Straya after all) am unable to appreciate the quality of her carnal knowledge (as it were), and must make myself content with imitation snags, but I am convinced that she performs miracles of marvelous meaty manipulation each time she so much as glances in the direction of a barbie, public or otherwise.

Horror of horrors, she failed to take the day off for her birthday this year, instead electing rather foolishly to leave the logistical preparation up to me. Normally we forget to take something critically important, and it seemed to me that this year's ill-conceived strategy would end up with more than just the usual omissions. Still I attempted bravely to constitute a comprehensive collection of cutlery, comestibles and, um.... crockery (plastic) along with the necessary implements and ingredient, alcohol and alternatively alliterative articles. What an effort!

There were a number of potential destinations we had in mind, but given Nicole wasn't to finish her work until four, we had limited time to travel and so we settled on a jaunt out to The D'Aguilar Mountains and a little dell in a valley with which we are acquainted by the name of Bellbird Grove.

The heavens were thinking about indulging in a spot of foreboding as we arrived and selected our bbq by the wide field of ball-playing beneath the gum-encrusted hills around, the colours dulled in the grey light. We neglected to remember from last time that the wood-fired ancient barbecues of charm and dignity were at the other end of the recreation area, but by the time we'd remembered that we'd forgotten to remember that, well: it was too late. We were committed. And we had packed sticks especially.

I did remember the oil, which I counted as a personal triumph, but this did not herald universal success. On my list had been a spatula, and I had looked at the spatula in the drawer of the kitchen, but apparently that was as far as I'd taken that as the spatula was nowhere to be found. Also it became apparent that I had failed to bring along any tea towels for Nicole to drape over her shoulder in order to look culinarily cool.

We played something resembling a ball game for a while but my daughters are frankly balls at ball games, much like their father. "Tiggy," or "Chase" if you prefer (a game that involves chasing, for the uninitiated) was out of the question for recuperational reasons. We indulged in some balancing, and some going to the toilet, and some messing around generally, but soon the wild birds - They Who Should Not Be Fed - began to arrive, scenting the aromas of the preparation of food by that Cuisiniere of Repute, my darling wife, on the occasion of her quarty-tree birthday.

There were certain elements present who will remain nameless who chose to disregard the do-not-feed signs and soon little parcels of food were appearing around the place in the hopes of enticing the kookaburras, magpies and miners down from their perches to eat from the hands of children, with some success.

We ate in the fading light, discovered that I'd forgotten some other critically important stuff (I don't remember what), ate the profiteroles that we'd had to go back home to get earlier, because I'd forgotten them, and as the rain gathered its wits we returned home to get the ankle-biter to bed in time for us to watch yesterday's Doctor Who on catch-up.

Which we singularly failed to do...