Category: The Life of Lara

Eulogy for a Friend with Long Ears and a Short Tail

We buried Rhubarb today. He was long gone, but his little body needed a place to go, so we buried him next to Fuzz Bucket in my parents garden. Mum and Dad picked him up from the vet on friday (Mum paid for the entire vet bill, nearly $300), and the lovely Jane came across town to say a final goodbye.

This is what I wrote to say at his graveside.

Rhubarb never lived a moment in fear, never doubted himself, never had a moment of insecurity, never troubled himself over something he couldn’t control. He lived every moment of his life with vitality, joy, and love. He was a rabbit who knew how to enjoy himself, who knew how to celebrate life, and knew how to fully relax after a hard day of adventuring. He never met a treat jar he couldn’t open, a parsley plant he couldn’t devour, or a human whose heart he couldn’t melt – even the ones he bit.

Rhubarb has taught me many things, most of all that life needs to be tasted, and savoured, explored and devoured. A life lived in fear is a life not properly lived. Rhubarb came into my life at a time of great sadness, two days after losing Fuzz Bucket, my heart bunny, to cancer. Instantly there was joy in my home again, Rhu would never replace Fuzz Bucket in my heart but it took him very little time to carve out his own place, and make himself at home.

On being introduced to his new condo, he did a quick lap, and settled down comfortably in what had been Fuzz Bucket’s favourite place to relax. Custard, on the other hand, took a little while to understand and appreciate his charms. Rhubarb was once seen in his outside exercise pen sitting calmly in the middle of a whirlwind of activity – Custard running laps around him as he washed himself. Each time Custard would slow down to catch a breath, Rhu would lunge out to nip him, and the dervish would begin again. Sooner or later though, as the hormones died down after his neutering, Rhubarb decided that he didn’t mind Custard being the boss bunny. He was much happier relaxing and enjoying life, rather than struggling to be on top of the rat race. He was stoic whenever Custard needed to assert his dominance with an energetic humping session.

Soon they were best buddies, and would be seen on the webcam lying side by side as the sun traced it’s arc across the sky. Grasshopper would be a few feet away, not wanting to intrude on the cool kids, but not wanting to be left out either.

From the day I met him, till the day he died in my arms, I dreaded losing him. His was such a vital spirit, that his absence is felt very keenly. Our large house seems empty and barren because it is missing not just 2 kilos of rabbit, but a vibrant and passionate spirit, whose loss I will feel to the end of my days.

If you have a rabbit in your life, you know the joy I speak of, and you will also, one day, know the pain. And the more joy they give us, the sharper the pain we feel when they leave. Pain in some way, defines the love we have shared.

Spotlight

I’ve just sent an email to Spotlight informing them of my intention to boycott their store until they back down on their proposed AWAs.

They are proposing to pay workers and extra 2c an hour in exchange for signing away overtime, penalty rates and rest breaks – leaving the average worker (according to the Your Rights at Work Website) about $90 per week worse off. Spotlight are not doing this because the company is losing money. They are doing it because the industrial relations changes say they can, and it will improve on the $600 million dollars the company turned over last year.

Here is what I wrote…

“I am the organiser of a “Stitch ‘n Bitch” group – people from all walks of life who gather to knit, crochet, embroider, etc, together. While we craft, we talk- and your company was the subject of our discussions last weekend.

None of our members will shop at your stores until you treat your workers fairly. It’s a pity for me, as I need some more yarn from Spotlight to finish a much loved project, but I would rather destroy many weeks of careful and meticulous work than support your company with another cent of my money.”

But of course, and am a rabid leftie, and these things make me very cross.

If it makes you cross, you can send an email here.

Rhubarb is Still Gone

Rabbits are interesting pets. They can be affectionate and loyal like a dog, or just use you for body heat and food, like a cat. They can ignore you completely, or follow you around the house, and spring into your lap if they think you are hiding the sultanas in the TV remote. They can be affectionate, and sneaky, clever, and silly. They play, they snuggle, they bounce with joy, and they wrap their furry paws around a heart like you wouldn’t believe if you never lived with one. Of course, you need to share your space with a desexed rabbit – it doesn’t count if you keep them outside and visit them once a day, you need to LIVE with them to gain their trust, and nothing beats gaining the trust of an animal that is everyones food. The trust of a prey species is a rare and precious thing.
But once you get to the point where they trust you, a funny thing can happen. Sometimes, the little buggers get the power relationship all messed up. Sometimes, they come to think of themselves as the supreme ruler of the universe, and you are the pet.
All rabbits are individuals, and breed does not denote temperament, but there are some common threads I have noted, ie. Rex bunnies seem to have this “I am the centre of the universe” thing very close to the surface. My first bun, Fuzz Bucket was a Rex, Rhubarb was a Rex, and so is this bun in the picture.

Original post here

Grrrrr…….

I thought Sydney was a cosmopolitan hub, a glittering and thriving city, a Mecca of style, entertainment, and well…

A place where you could get something to eat after 9pm on a saturday night.

But apparently not.

Mark and I went to see Peter Singer talk about his new book “The Ethics of What We Eat” (note the different title of the US version of the book). After the talk we wandered to the Pitt Street Vegetarian Restaurant, to find that it had closed, so we went on to Wagamama, near Kinokuniya at Town Hall. They were just closing, but directed us to the Circualr Quay outlet. I wasn’t overly keen on the walk (having forgotten to grab a scarf on the way out), but there was nothing else that beckoned, so off we went. We arrived well before 10pm, to be told that they had taken last order 10 minutes earlier, and would we please bugger off.

By this stage, the muttering under the breath became audible, and I apologise to any visitors to our fair city that were offended by my potty mouth.

Still muttering, we made it back to the car in Pitt St (how many Weight Watchers points did I earn in that little excursion I wonder?), and drove to Chinatown. The Purple Lotus Vegetarian was open, so we parked in the closest parking station, and hurried out. Or at least, we hurried around in circles. That place is a nightmare to get out of when your head is spinning with ethical questions, your nose is frozen, you are weak with hunger, and contemplating a move to New York, where even the Apple shops are open 24hours a day.

Finally, we made it over the threshold of the restaurant. Yes, they were open, and allowed us to sit down. They even gave us menus, but they weren’t too sure about giving us tea. The waiter seemed anxious to take our order, to the point of warning us that the chef was keen to go home. Now, normally I would expect a certain amount of hostility from a waiter in a Chinese restaurant – it’s part of the charm, but tonight I was on the verge of a complete sense of humour bypass, and I may have been a teeny, tiny bit resentful.

And then the food arrived. I have certainly eaten worse, but I had been told that this place was good, so the rubbery wontons in the watery and tasteless short soup were a bit of a disappointment. The san choy bow was just ordinary. The insult after the injury came when the cashier broke my change down into gold coins to make it easier for me to leave a tip.

More Shitty News

I had a difficult start to the week. Work has been pretty horrid, for reasons I can’t make public, and I came home on monday night (after finding that the Club Lard Auditors had made a 1kg mistake a few weeks ago – I am not doing as well as I thought), to find that Rhubarb and Grasshopper had escaped from the Palais du Bun, and gone on a rampage.

My birthday flowers had been eaten, the “cheer up” tulips from Mark had been knocked over, and the vase they were in ( a wedding present) aws in pieces on the floor. Bad Hare was desperate to try to get back home and pretend that it wasn’t him – Bad Bunny wanted dinner, and nipped me until he got it. I collapsed into bed, to find that it was somewhat damper, and more populated with bunny poo than I had left it in the morning. Yes, Rhubarb had paid a visit, and left a calling card.

I tried to remember that pooping on something that smells like me is a bunny compliment, and I shouldn’t be offended. But tuesday I was going back to court, for what I had hoped would be the final installment of the Brendan McMahon experience. Every trip to court has been confronting and awful, but I had been lead to believe that there was a very good chance that the 23rd would be the end of it, one way or another, and I felt a little more hopeful and positive. It may not be a great outcome, but it’s an outcome – and I can move on.

So on tuesday morning I met mum and the wonderful Jane outside the court, and we waited till 10.15 am for the court to become available.

The defence solicitor seemed pretty hopeless, the prosecution appeared much more competent and prepared. Unfortunately, the judge now has to make a judgemnt on an interpretaion of law. The defence wants McMahon to be considered insane – that he didn’t know what he was doing was wrong, but the state would prefer that the case was considered under section 11a of the crimes act. If you’re a law student, or a lawyer, and can point me at the relevant documents, I’d be grateful.

The long and the short of it – if the judge feels that the consideration of the “McNaughton Rule” (sp?) should come before section 11a of the crimes act, then the charges will be dismissed. Otherwise, there will be another court date for sentencing.

There is no appropriate punishment for this horiffic crime. I can only hope that once it is over, I can find a way to give the events of the past year some meaning.

And today, I learned that my dear friend Simone lost her cat Scooter overnight. He was eight years old, and healthy as can be until tuesday morning. He spent last night in an oxygen tent. He went into respiritory arrest and was revived 4 times, but they couldn’t save him. Please spare a thought for Simone, and her remaining cat, Maya, who doesn’t understand where her buddy has gone.

It’s My Birthday

Had a great day. Physio says he doesn’t need to see me any more (if I keep up my exercises), bought yarn, had lunch and shopped with Mum. Bought “Handknit Holidays”, but am sending it back – $60 is too much to pay for the one pattern I would knit from the book. But I am keeping the James Blunt CD. Tried my first home dyeing, the purple did not work out, but I am pretty happy so far – lets see how it knits up.

Had a family dinner at a great Indian place in Harris Park (no, I have no idea where it is), mum’s brilliant fruitcake, and maybe one too many glasses of wine 🙂

Sick!

I’ve been feeling a little poorly for a few days, but this morning my sore throat felt like it was closing up entirely – and I woke up to a very bad asthma attack. My asthma has been bad since the weather has become colder, and I’ve been careful to take my preventer religiously, knowing that if I don’t, I could end up in hospital, or worse.

So today I’ve had a very quiet day. I’ve been feeling frustrated that I don’t get enough time for myself, for my knitting, photography, writing, gardening, and all the things that get forgotten in my busy life.

So with a day off, I was feeling miserable that I wasn’t able to use my time constructively. I did a load of washing, and put the dishwasher on, but between the painkillers, the sudafed, and the vast amounts of ventolin I had to take to keep breathing, I was about as jittery and scattered as a frog in a blender. Which, as you know, is strongly against my deeply held beliefs.

I finished the Surprise Jacket for little Lara on the weekend, and on monday I finished the Baby Fern Jumper. My dear friend Anna and her lovely husband are probably going through labour right now. On Saturday afternoon, she was 11 days overdue – and she was going to be induced today. I’ve got everything crossed, and am waiting with bated breath for an announcement.

Anna and I shared a house in the early nineties, and without going into too much detail, we shared some turbulent times. I am very happy that she is back in my life, and more than a little touched that she and Rob are considering naming their baby daughter Lara.

I knitted a fab blankie for them when I first learned they were having a baby. At that time, the baby was called “Boris Bump”. I am hoping to document the pattern properly, and perhaps even have the pattern published, so no pics yet. It’s pretty simple, but I think it’s the sort of thing I would have loved to knit as a newbie, so the Boris Blankie has to stay off the blog for now.

But I took pics of the Baby Fern Jumper today, and decided that it would be a good exercise to try to write up the pattern properly. Knitting things from a pattern is one thing, but writing up a pattern other people can follow is a skill I haven’t attempted until today.

So here it is, and here is a schematic. I’d love it if anyone actually wants to knit it, and if you do – and please send me any notes and corrections.

My Brother Got Married :)

One year and 363 days after I married Mark, Adam married Sarah, on a perfect day at Waverton Bowling Club.

I think this is my favourite image. Adam was playful, Sarah is the perfect foil for him, and the light was extraordinary.

I was asked to do a reading, and I found this very appropriate, given Adam’s “wandering past”. I have great hopes that he and Sarah will be very happy together, and I am thrilled that he has found someone he adores.


Our grandmother, Rita, modeled for Norman Lindsay- sculptor, painter, poet and author,who also wrote and illustrated children’s books. Before I was born, and just before he died, he gave Adam a copy of his book called “The Magic Pudding”. The inscription in the book reads “A slice of puddin’ for Adam”.

This story has always been special to Adam and I, and the reading comes from the end of the book, when Bunyip Bluegum has finally found his place in the world, and his seafaring friend Barnacle Bill sings his final chorus of his shanty “The Salt Junk Sarah”.

On winter nights there is always Puddin’ and hot coffee for supper, and many’s the good go-in I’ve had up there, a-sitting round the fire. When the wind blows and the rain comes down, it’s jolly sitting up aloft in the snug tree-house, especially when old Bill is in good form and gives us “The Salt Junk Sarah”, with all hands joining in the chorus.

“Oh, rolling round the ocean,
From a far and foreign land,
May suit the common notion
That a sailor’s life is grand.

“But as for me, I’d sooner be
A roaring here at home
About the rolling, roaring life
Of them that sails the foam.

“For the homeward-bounder’s chorus,
Which he roars across the foam,
Is all about chucking a sailor’s life,
And settling down at home.

“Home, home, home,
That’s the song of them that roam,
The song of the roaring, rolling sea
Is all about rolling home.”

More pictures can be seen here.