I know that often when you look back on things after the fact it's hard to see why you made such a big deal about them in the first place. Two instances from my own life come to mind immediately.

One happened just last week, when a dehumidifyer in one of only two 'good' storage areas flooded into the carpet. The storage area, though not ideal, is one I established myself. It has climate control and a mobile dehumidifyer, so everything that has gone into it has been treated properly - cleaned, rehoused, accessioned, documented, and finally, stored. So when I saw that wet stain and smelled the musty air, all I could think of was the inevitable mould, and the wasted hours and hours of labour and effort that had gone into creating that space.

I just wanted to cry, because I didn't know how we could ever completely dry that carpet, and even if we were permitted to remove it, it would still be days before that happened. In a room already subject to rising damp this spill seemed the death knell of good storage, as mould really was the inevitable result.

Fortunately, the maintenance guy had the GENIUS idea of cutting out the entire square of wet carpet. The Property Manager uhmed and ahed a little, but we made it happen, and within an hour of me first becoming aware of the disaster I was smiling once again.

The other example I think of that looks completely different from this side of it was when C and I got trapped in a gorge on the Larapinta Trail for three days due to rain and rising water levels. At the time, that was really scary. We were in the middle of nowhere. We made one attempt to get out, but when C got wet and his lips turned blue, and our fingers went numb with the cold, I made the call to pitch the tent and stick it out.

We rationed our food and watched the water level on the creek next to us rising, and after 3 days of non-stop rain everything except our sleeping bags was sopping. We decided that if they too got wet then we'd set off our emergency beacon, because hypothermia was a real risk. On the fourth day we had to leave, because our food rations were so low we'd not otherwise be able to make it to our next food cache. Thankfully the sun shone for the first time in days, and we made it out fine. Sure we had to squeeze three days walking into two, but we got to our next food cache safely, and notified everyone that we weren't dead (after being reported missing by a friend!), and by the time we'd completed the total hike it was hard to remember what the whole fuss was about.

But at the time, I was aware that we were potentially in a life-or-death situation. Had we made a stupid decision, it's quite possible that we may not have made it out unharmed. But we didn't, and so we did.

I am trying to see my current situation like that. I am so flooded with anxiety right now and have been, let's face it, for months on end. I'm sure that by the time this is all far behind me I'll wonder what I made such a song and dance about. But at the moment, getting through this - even with the end now in sight - is challenging.

PS Re-reading this post I realise both the issues I outlined involve flooding! Perhaps I should just stay away from water!

Bitter. Sweet.

It's official, we're leaving WA! Clinton has accepted a job back at his former workplace in Canberra, and, though I do not yet have any work lined up, I won't be waiting to get a job before heading back.

Life is too short to be so miserable. I've had six job interviews in the last nine months with no result, so I don't want to stick around in the hope that I might get another job from here. Since I'm now willing to make compromises on things like accepting a contract position and taking a pay cut, I hope that actually being in Canberra will make things a bit easier in terms of employment. Plus, there's the whole PhD thing to be going on with!

The challenge for me now is to stick out the next few weeks - I'll be resigning hopefully tomorrow - without giving in to the inevitable bitterness I feel about my experience at the Prison. I could spend a lot of time ranting about the negative work culture I encountered, or my grave concerns about the approach being taken to the heritage there (basically stripping it back to the convict era, and not respecting the complexity and unique multi-layered-ness of the site), but I really just want to let it all go and move forward.

It was a little bit of an act of faith, coming over here. I certainly had expectations. These expectations were not only not met, but dashed, shredded, and destroyed. It's big-picture stuff, though - not just reflective of the Prison but of the state of cultural heritage throughout Western Australia. Nothing I can fix and totally outside my control. Also the big-picture stuff that happened in my own life since moving here, like my Dad dying, closely followed by his wife, and then the breakdown in relations with her family. Being so far from support networks during these events has just amplified how isolated I am here.

Moving back to Canberra feels like another act of faith, though I think this time I have fewer expectations. I'm shrugging my shoulders and just handing it all over to the Universe. There is nothing I can take from this experience but what I've learned, so over the coming weeks I aim to keep my shit together and focus on the positives of having been here.

Giving up and moving on

Tomorrow is my birthday, and I feel like a bit of consolidation of my life is in order.

I have finally accepted that the whole WA thing is not going to work out, and am ready to let it go and move on. While I'm not leaving just yet (I don't have a job to go to, after all!), in my heart and mind I am distancing myself and moving away from this place. It's sad, but you know, life is for learning. And I have learned that living by the beach is not, on its own, enough to make me happy.

I had high hopes for 2013, I admit, especially after the utter train-wreck that was 2012. The first quarter of the year wasn't too bad, but soon after we returned from Canada it all went a bit pear-shaped, with my Dad's widow dying of cancer in April, and then the total shit-storm that was dealing with her (recently changed) will, and all the step-family DRAMAS leading up to the 12-month anniversary of my Dad's death. The silver lining of that cloud was a renewed appreciation for my blood family, though. Dad's siblings gave me staunch support throughout, which was very much appreciated.

Then I didn't get the job I'd been acting in for 18 months. Which wasn't actually a surprise, given the environment I was working in, and the political situation with my manager. I could really sympathise with Julia Gillard when she got the boot from the Labor party. Just as capable of doing the job as her successor, but ousted for political reasons, the crap she has had to endure inevitably means that the position will be much easier for the next woman in the job. And the whole thing was just so UNFAIR - for both of us!

Yet somehow, in spite of all this, I feel that there is a light at the end of the 2013 tunnel. I'm not quite sure what it looks like just yet, but I'm pretty sure it looks nothing like WA! I'll let you know when I get there.

Time ticking

I have this watch now. It's a family heirloom, though I don't know who it originally belonged to. My paternal grandmother had it, and it seems likely that it originated from her side of the family, as she came from a wealthier background than my farming-family grandfather. Who she inherited it from is a bit of a mystery. I am trying to date it to get a better idea of who might have owned it. Apparently one watch-maker suggested c.1910.

Despite the mystery of who owned it first, I like wearing it. It makes me feel connected to the women in my family. I take comfort and strength from the unknown wrists that it has circled, and the many hands that have wound it. It looses around 10 minutes every 24 hours, though it seems to lose more time when I'm unfocused and running around, and less when I'm calm and my energy is directed. Is that weird, for a watch to so fully embody the metaphor it represents? Time ticking, losing time, finding time...

I haven't worn a watch for over 20 years, and I am out of the habit of using it to actually measure time. But whenever I tuck my hair behind my left ear I hear it ticking, and that is reassuring.

The Number One Sweet

You know those family foods that you grow up with that seem normal, until one day you realise that in other people's minds what you're eating is weird?

That role was played in my life by the Number One Sweet. I don't know why it's called that - as a kid I never questioned it, nor did it ever occur to me that others might not know what a 'Number One Sweet' was. It was what my Dad ate for breakfast pretty much every day while I was growing up, and occasionally as a snack. It was certainly an important part of my childhood diet too. 

So what exactly is this culinary oddity? A Number One Sweet is peanut butter, jam, and cheese, between two bits of toast. You could have it with bread, but toast works better. Other stipulations are that the jam has to be strawberry, and the cheese has to be cheddar. As for peanut butter, crunchy or smooth, you choose.

It's not something I eat often in my adult life, mostly because it seems a bit too indulgent, but I have recently discovered a great sheep's milk cheddar that I thought would lend itself to the dish perfectly.

Today I was feeling a bit nostalgic and missing my Dad, so I thought it was a good chance to bust one out, and sure enough it was just as good as I remember. The salty-and-sweet taste resulting from the combination of the peanut butter and jam, with that added bite provided by the cheddar - delicious!

I like old stuff better than new stuff

Yesterday we went to the salvage yard to try and find some timber that's the right size for the fascia of our house. The place was chock-full of gorgeous timber sash windows, and vintage 50s and 60s doors - both interior and exterior. I couldn't believe it - these beautiful quality fittings, tossed out, just so people can built their cement McMansions. It's a travesty.

It turns out that the guys who run the salvage yard actually demolish the houses. They knock down around four 20th century homes per week. People like me shouldn't go to places like that, because I just find it heart-breaking.

Everyone over here is so fixated on NEW NEW NEW, building ever-larger monstrosities, with no room to reflect on the beauty of the past. There is no way that a modern aluminium window has anything on a jarrah sash window, or a Bunnings chipboard door can compare to a solid hardwood door with carved trim. So why do people do it? I really don't understand.

On the other hand, last weekend we went to an awesome second-hand shop I've found, called Turnstyle. It was crammed full to the brim with amazing goodies from across the span of the twentieth century. I was looking for a desk, and found a marvelous jarrah number, circa 1940s. I also spied a chair that literally took my breath away as soon as I laid eyes on it, and which I decided I had to have - white vinyl, also a 1940s (or possibly 30s) vintage, with turned feet and original castors:

 As for the desk, scrunched up in the top drawer was the typed draft of a letter, dated 1984, where Mrs Sandford of Applecross requests that Jestset pay to fix her camera from damage it sustained on a trip to NZ earlier that year.

Desk top halfway through sanding. The whole thing could do with sanding back, but following an afternoon with the orbital sander I thought I might restrict my restoration to just the desk top!

I sanded it down using 80, 120, and finally 150 grain paper. Most woodworkers seem to like going down to 400, but I wanted to actually get behind the desk sometime soon! After getting it stripped back to raw timber I oiled it - check out the contrast!

Here it is in all its glory!

Yep, there's no doubt about it, I definitely like old stuff better than new stuff. It has history, and is also generally better made.  I'm sure my new furniture could tell some stories if it could talk, not least of all about Mrs Sanderson and her camera!

Rest in peace Anne

Earlier this morning my father's wife and partner of 18 years passed away. She outlived my dad by only 10 months.

I am so glad I was able to go up to Brisbane last weekend and say goodbye to her. I didn't realise it until I got back, but it wasn't for her, or my step-sister, or my dad that I needed to do it, but for me. I feel incredibly lucky that I was able to be with her during her last lucid days. Apparently she died peacefully in her sleep. With her were her two children and her eldest grand-daughter.

I went to the florist this morning, and very appropriately they had some Banksia Menziesii in stock. I also bought a candle, because when my dad died Anne lit a candle for him, so I have done the same for her.

I have taken the day off work. I know that the normal patterns of my life will resume themselves very soon, but I wanted to take today to honour the sadness I feel, and to mourn for the woman who shared my Dad's life for almost two decades, and who made him very happy.

I hope that wherever they have passed to, they are together now.