A post for Rachel, wherever she is.

These are my friend Rachel's feet. 

They are very often in hideous duck bill shaped shoes.
Just like mine.

Freya wears them too.

I said goodbye to Rachel at the grading at Darling Harbour. She made me bawl in public, stuck between a gallery of strangers and curious friends. She's going back to England for a year, maybe forever.


Rachel's a brave woman. She walked with me up Darling Street when we lost Jordan. I was bung eyed from bawling for days. I had snot and tears running uncontrollably down my face. If she was perturbed at my lack of a stiff upper lip, she never showed it.


She was there too, when Rufus was sick. I remember bawling on her, squashed into a corner of a cafe on Oxford Street on a dismal rainy day. 

I bawl way too much for a person of my age. Why I haven't yet learned to have more equanimity and accept The Things I Cannot Change is beyond me.


I told her how scared we were of making the wrong decision, of not knowing when the right time would be to let him go. 


She told me the story of a dog she'd had a long time ago. 


One night, when the dog was quite old, it went from one family member to the next, had a moment with each, then went to its bed, fell asleep and didn't wake up again.


How lucky, I thought. If only we could all say such elegant goodbyes.

***

Freya and Tiggy are the only children Georgia knows. She's known them since they were tiny enough to gobble up. 

Did I mention Rachel is a brave woman?


They're not so little anymore.

Freya.

Tiggy.

This is the picture that makes me remember how I met Rachel.

This is her atabaque that Rufus fell in love with, and that now sits in my study.

She brought it over, riddled with fur-eating bugs, though I never saw any. 

It's been drowned in Raid, wiped down with 100% pure eucalyptus oil, flea-bombed and quarantined for a month. If there are still bugs in it, I guess they've earned the right to live.

***

Freya thinks she may have enough money in her piggy bank to buy a car when they get to England.

I hope Rachel's feet take her somewhere ridiculously happy. And maybe, one day, even back here. 


Until then, tchau, Chapeuzinho Vermelho! Boa viagem! Thanks for the occasional afternoon teas, the many hugs, the walks and the memories :) x

Oh no! why is everyone packing? and 2 Mr Thumper stories.

Dear Mr T, 


I don't know where you are and Australia Post can be a bit iffy, but I hope you get this letter. 


I don't mean to start my first letter to you in a year with a complaint but my tummy hasn't been so good, the humans are feeding me pap, and I'm feeling a little faint. 


Yesterday, even though they could see I was starving, they ate their Saturday market grilled chorizo and bacon with salad and chimichurri rolls right in front of me! I didn't even get the end bits! I always thought it was your fault that I never got to eat chorizo rolls, Mr T, but I might have been a little hasty in my assessment. Please do accept my apologies for any evil thoughts I might have had.


Otherwise, we are all well here! 


Yesterday, The Typist put on her Organization Face and started packing boxes and bags. The guest room is a mess.

I hope they're not sending me away to holidaycamp again. I'm not sure I can take another bout of The Camp Commandant's cooking and it's already so cold. 


I don't know if I should be worried but I'm putting on my best sad face just in case.

In other exciting news from the home front! The Typist took these pictures a few weeks back! They're with that old ball you scavenged from the park. Yes, it's still here! I'm taking good care of it.

The photo session didn't go so well, as you can see. The Typist was terrible at giving instructions and just left me with the ball. What can I possibly do with a ball other than bite it?

Luckily there was 1 kind human in the house who could see I was struggling and tried to help me make the pictures more interesting.

To be honest, I don't think he was any help whatsoever.

At the end of the session, The Typist said I didn't look as funny as you did with the ball, Mr T. *

It sure is tough to always be compared like that. If it's not you, it's Mr Piglet. It's a good thing I'm a very understanding and forgiving dog.

The truth is, I think everyone misses your funny stories. The Typist just had a good laugh reading this one.* But we can't all be big, silly, fluffy buffoons can we? 

That's it then! Hooroo for now! Please say hello to Mr Piglet for me! Much love, your friend who's trying hard to be A Good Girl in difficult circumstances, Georgia Little Pea x


P.S. I get to sleep on the bed now. 

Sorry.

+

NOTE FROM The Typist: 


One year already. Hard to believe. Miss you Rufus B. Please stop popping up around the house. Only Georgia can see you and it's scary, especially when you're walking on the ceiling. Okay? Thank you.


* Highly recommended reading if you're new to the blog, or would like a good laugh today :)

Up the road and around some corners.

Not so far from our little house is this cake shop. 

It is quite famous in Stryliah and has its own TV show which My Typist surreptitiously watches so that The Cushion won't be too disgusted and scold her. She says she watches it for the human drama and not the cakes. You can believe her if you like.

In fact, My Typist [The Queen of Tarts and Cream Cakes] has never eaten any cake from the shop since they are fabulous [looking] cakes that cost 1000s and she only eats ones that cost under $10.

Here are 2 better pictures of the fabulous [looking] cakes so you can see why they cost so much.

Both pics, and more, from HERE.

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Right next door to the cake shop is a little house. The humans who live there painted this sign on their front wall.

There are some funny humans in my neighbourhood, which is very nice. 

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Tiny Footnote: I couldn't sleep and decided to re-write this post after discovering that Planet Cake is nowhere near as world famous as I had thought :)