I'm back

It's been almost 2 years since my last confession...

Wow, I've been busy.

I fucking despise that answer, "how are you doing?" "Busy.", but, I digress.

Seriously, life has changed, dramatically. I'm now an expat, living in the depths of Bavaria, Nürnberg, in fact. My wife and I moved here for professional reasons, and today I'm using that term loosely.

We are in the final stages of packing our apartment, and getting ready to move, for the 4th time in 2 years, and haven't been happier about that. It's time to close the door on this place we have called home for a little over a year. That's another post.

We've had a beautiful baby girl, Audrey, which in itself, is an entirely other series of posts!

And, I am back here for one of 2 reasons, I have plenty of time on my hands, or I am unhappy.

For those of you paying attention, you will know which one.

Nice to be back.

"If you’re going through Hell, keep going."

- Winston Churchill

We may not ever understand why we suffer,

or be able to control the forces that cause our suffering,

but we can have a lot to say about what the suffering does to us,

and what sort of people we become because of it.

- Harold Kushner

Addicted

I have an addiction, apparently.

Coffee? No. Well, yes, but this is not what I am referring to, or more to the point, being accused of.

I am addicted to social media.

I know this, as I get told, often by third parties, that have been told that I am addicted, by other people, who are either my "friend" on Facebook, or follow me on Twitter.

Now, granted, I use both of these mediums, a lot. Well, I use FB much less, nowadays, as it is becoming increasingly clunky, slow and boring. Never the less, I have many friends in all parts of the globe, and I like to update it so they know what I am doing, and vice versa.

So, what's my problem?

If you think I have a problem, fucking well tell me. You know, we are "friends" and this wonderful privelage allows you to send me messages or make comment on the things I post. So, if it bothers you so much, tell me.

Secondly, how is it in fact, that you know that I am addicted? Do you sit in my room and peer over my shoulder to see how often I am on the net? Or, is it that you too, use these fucking tools to check what's going on, but rather than contribute to the sphere, you are simply a voyeur?

Say something, for fuck sake!

And, regarding Twitter, they say: "I don't get it?" "Why do you waste so much time on there?" "Who are you talking to?" Well, stick your own nose into the community and have a look for yourself. You know, you're not going to break it, if you do. And, you just might like it!

"Ah, but you tweet too much." Well, unfollow me then, and stop bagging me, for enjoying the myriad of amazing things, that happen on a daily basis, through this medium. Fuck off.

I use Facebook, Twitter, email, SMS, phone calls, and most recently a blog, to try and stay in touch with my friends and family. If that's not enough for you to understand what I am doing and thinking, and doesn't provide you with enough opportunities to comment, either with support or advice, then I'm sorry, I have nothing for you.

Raw nerve? Yes.

I'm tired of hearing this shit, contribute, somehow, or fuck off.

The end.

Little Wish

Walking down Little Collins Street, you are bombarded with street side cafes and coffee shops, providing you with a plethora of choice for your caffeine fix. Well, in the nature of TRM, I am imploring you to take a few extra steps off the beaten path, if you're in this neck of the woods.

Little Wish Specialty Coffee is their name, and special coffee it is. A tiny little shop, tucked out of sight, on the ground floor of Exchange Tower. With minimal space in which to operate, and a fine array of quality equipment, this is a place that indeed takes coffee seriously. They know that coffee is a personal thing, so if you want it made a certain way, just ask and they’ll oblige. For me, there was no need, my macchiato was perfect. Made short, strong and creamy, it was from their Kenyan coffee of the day.

The wonderfully friendly couple that own and run the store are passionate about what they do, this is no boring day job for them. They use delicately roasted coffee, supplied by Seven Seeds, and support their beverages with a selection of pastries and sandwiches, which are baked and prepared fresh, onsite.

There are a couple of small tables in front of the shop, shared with adjoining retailers, and a small, enclosed seated area backing onto a laneway, allowing a place for smokers to enjoy both drugs simultaneously. It’s not glamorous, but rather than the lack of intimacy being a deterrent, it is a good opportunity to get a quick takeaway, or stand at the shopfront and have a chat to the proprietors. A short amount of time watching and talking to them, will have you understanding why the product they produce is high quality.

So, next time you're looking for your caffeine fix, and a light sandwich or pastry, duck inside the Exchange Tower and head around to the left of the elevators, it's the last little shop tucked in on the right hand side. If you love your coffee, you will love Little Wish.

Friends, or what?

We had some people over for dinner last night, and conversation turned to the topic of friends. Who are they? Are they real, or are they simply relationships of circumstance? This topic came up, as I was recounting my experience from the previous day, which incidentally, is not the first time something like this has happened with this group.

I was a part of a cycling group in Adelaide, for about 7 years or so. Each week, one of the guys sends out an email, to a group of around 30 guys, that recounts the previous week's ride, and explains the route we would ride the next Saturday morning. This has been happening for over 10 years, of which, I had participated for around 7 of them, that is, until we left Adelaide and moved to Melbourne.

Now, I had spent a lot of time with these blokes, as cycling is a time hungry sport. We had shared many good days and nights out, been to each others weddings, parties, births, and drank many coffees and beers together. We all got along well, so too did the girls, but, are these people really my friends?

I replied to the group email, letting them know that I would be back in town this coming weekend, and that I hoped the weather was good, so that I could come out and ride with them again. It has been around 3 months since I left, and I indicated it would be good to see them.

Not 1 person replied. Not only that, a few members of the group, had an email conversation, replying to all, on another topic all together! Later that day, one of the guys wrote to me, personally, saying it will be good to see me, and perhaps I will move back for good, soon. Huh, that was a nice thing to say.

Once we knew this trip was booked, my wife and I had already contacted our "friends", some of them ride in this group, and told them individually that we are coming back, and we have organised to see them. I guess the fact that we have all made this effort, says something in itself.

It got me thinking, is it the group email communication that makes people uncomfortable? Do they expect more of me? Do they not really care that I am coming back? Or, is it that our friendship was a result of circumstance, and that's it?

Now, I am sure that when I see these guys, either this trip or another, things will be fine. We will have much to talk about, and history to draw from, but that doesn't make them all my friends. I'm not pouting at not receiving an email, although it may sound like it, and the fact that I told them to get fucked via Twitter that day! I just thought it interesting that all bar one, couldn't find the time to hit reply, type something, and then hit send.

It's been a really interesting process, moving cities. You find out quite quickly, who makes the effort to stay in touch, who of your group that you interact with would be there for you if you needed them, and where you fit in the realm of other people's life. It doesn't seem at all necessary to make conscious decisions about who your friends are, or are not, they are sorted by action, not by word.

It would seem from this unintended social experiment, the term "friend" has many meanings, and perhaps it is given out far too easily, in the absence of a more appropriate word.

Burning the pine.

As a kid, I used to go over to the group of pine trees at the end of our street, dig down into the dried pine needles, and set them alight. Oh how I loved the challenge of putting the flames out before they got too high. I had a bucket of sand next to me and used to throw it on the flames, then feverishly stamp them out. It was fun at the time, and I did it quite many times as I recall.

This particular day I was over the road, doing my usual demonstration of arsonist and CES volunteer, this time with the assistance of a neighbourhood friend, Tabatha Taylor. My Mum didn't like her, not really sure why, it was just the case.

Well, we had played our fire games for a while, and bored from this, we meandered off to find something else to do. Tabatha went her own way, I went back home and headed inside. Not long after I heard some commotion in the front yard, it was my Mum running out the gate, hose in hand, heading over to the pine trees. They were fully alight!

I took one look at the flaming trees, and disappeared, this was not a place to be seen.

Now, I didn't mention that these trees were situated at the end of a block of flats, and therefore, the fact they were alight, caused imminent danger for the residents. Needless to say, there was also a good deal of them out helping with hoses to try and control the flames.

It wasn't long before the fire engines arrived, and fortunately soon after, the flames were out and the flats were spared a parching. They did however, want to know any details from the neibouring houses, as to how this may have happened. I was nowhere to be found, my Mum was most suspicious. Fire, and no me. Guilty.

When they were at the front door talking with my Mum, the curiosity got the better of me, so I surfaced from my hiding spot and poked my head between Mum and the door to see what was going on. Now, at this stage, Mum didn't know what had happened, although she had a fair idea, due to my notable lack of presence. I don't remember the content of the conversation, only that Mum was very anxious to push me back inside, and out of view of the firemen.

She recalls, that she took one look down, and saw my hair, full of pine needles, and to save a possible arson charge, kicked me out the way, whilst politely smiling and denying any knowledge as to the source of the fire. The firemen left, she came hunting.

I do not recall another hand burning lesson, although, I am sure my ass was on fire, for some time after the dressing down I would have copped for that one. And poor old Tabatha, well I hung her out to dry, what else was a guilty boy to do? Sadly, we were never to socialise again, Mum's orders.

I don't hang out under pine trees these days, but I still love fire.

Light a match.

Yep, as a kid, I loved fire. Actually, I still do. There is nothing better, than sitting in front of an open flame, staring in, getting lost in the flicker, crackle and radiant warmth.

My early memories of fire, were not so soothing, allow me.

Growing up, I once lost my bedsocks somewhere at the deep end of my bed. So, I thought it a suitable idea to go fetch them, aided by the light of a box of matches. Now, when you're young, you're not making that much space between the mattress, and the doona, however I forged on. I ended up finding my socks, not a remarkably difficult task, I confess, but unfortunately it did not go unnoticed by my mother.

As I skulked down to breakfast, my Mum asked why she could smell matches, "I dunno", I said. She walked closer, rubbed her hand on my forehead, disturbing what was left of a singed fringe, totally singed, singed off in fact.

I was in a wee bit of trouble.

With no where to go, I confessed to my expedition, which was not so well received by my Mum, and so she decided, as good parents do, to teach me a suitable lesson so that I would not do it again. Hide the matches? Give me a torch? Show an example of something burning? No....

She light a match, blew it out, then burned my hand with it!

Well, I can tell you, it fucking hurt! I still have a small scar on my hand to prove it.

Well, not to be outdone by this "lesson", I thought I might get my own back. I went to school, and in our daily writing exercise, recounted the bedsock episode, and the burned hand I received as punishment. I then proceeded to read it to the class.

This all ended well, with a meeting with my Mum and the teacher, where she assured the teacher of our impeccable family balance.

I wasn't burned again, at least by my Mum!

Wherever you are, be there. Totally.

See if you can catch yourself complaining, in either speech or thought, about a situation you find yourself in, what other people say or do, your surroundings, your life situation, even the weather. To complain is always non-acceptance of what IS. It invariably carries an unconscious negative charge. When you complain, you make yourself into a victim. When you speak out, you are in power. So change the situation by taking action or by speaking out if necessary or possible; leave the situation or accept it. All else is madness.

Ordinary unconsciousness is always linked in some way with the denial of the NOW. The NOW, of course, also implies the HERE. Are you resisting your HERE and NOW? Some people would always rather be somewhere else. Their “here” is never good enough. Through self-observation, find out if that is the case in your life. Wherever you are, be there totally. If you find your here and now intolerable and it makes you unhappy, you have three options: remove yourself from the situation, change it, or accept it totally. If you want to take responsibility for your life, you must choose one of these three options, and you must choose now. Then, accept the consequences. No excuses. No negativity. No psychic pollution. Keep you inner space clear.

If you take any action – leaving or changing your situation – drop the negativity first, if at all possible. Action arising out of insight into what is required is more effective than action arising out of negativity.

Any action is often better than no action, especially if you have been stuck in an unhappy situation for a long time. If it is a mistake, at least you learn something, in which case it’s no longer a mistake. If you remain stuck, you learn nothing. Is fear preventing you from taking action? Acknowledge the fear, watch it, take your attention into it, be fully present with it. Doing so cuts the link between the fear and you thinking. DON’T LET THE FEAR RISE UP INTO YOUR MIND. Use the power of NOW. Fear cannot prevail against it.

If there is truly nothing that you can do to change your HERE and NOW, and you can’t remove yourself from the situation, then accept your HERE and NOW totally by dropping all inner resistance. The false, unhappy self that loves feeling miserable, resentful or sorry for itself can then no longer survive. This is called surrender. Surrender is not weakness. There is great strength in it. Only a surrendered person has spiritual power. Through surrender, you will be free internally of the situation. You may then find that the situation changes without any effort on your part. In any case, you are free.

Or is there something that you “should” be doing but are not doing it? Get up and do it now. Alternatively, completely accept your inactivity, laziness, or passivity at the moment, if that is your choice. Go into if fully. Enjoy it. Be as lazy or as inactive as you can. If you go into if fully and consciously, you will soon come out of it. Or maybe you won’t. Either way, there is no inner conflict, no resistance, no negativity.

Are you stressed? Are you so busy getting to the future that the present is reduced to a means of getting there? Stress is caused by being “here” but wanting to be “there”, or being in the present but wanting to be in the future. It’s a split that tears you apart inside. To create and live with such an inner split is insane. The fact that everyone else is doing it doesn’t make it any less insane. If you have to, you can move fast, work fast, or even run, without projection yourself into the future and without resenting the present. As you move, work, run – do it totally. Enjoy the flow of energy, the high energy of THAT moment. Now you are no longer stressed, no longer splitting yourself in two. Just moving, running, working – and enjoying it. Or you can drop the whole thing and sit on a park bench. But when you do, watch your mind. It may say “You should be working. You are wasting time” Observe the mind, smile at it.

Does the past take up a great deal of your attention? Do you frequently talk and think about it, either positively or negatively? The great things that you have achieved, your adventures, or experiences, or your victim story and the dreadful things that were done to you, or maybe what you did to someone else? Are your thought processes creating guilt, pride, resentment, anger, regret or self-pity? Then you are not only reinforcing a false sense of self but also helping to accelerate your body’s aging process by creating an accumulation of past in your psyche. Verify this for yourself by observing those around you who have a strong tendency to hold on to the past.

Die to the past every moment. You don’t need it. Only refer to it when it is absolutely relevant to the present. Feel the power of this moment of the fullness of Being. Feel your presence.

- An excerpt from: The Power of Now, by Eckhart Toll

Seven Seeds

With subtle branding on a painted wall and a feature timber door being all that is used to signify the location of this cafe, it would be easy to miss it. Make no mistake, your trip inside Seven Seeds will be rewarded.

Once inside, you are greeted by a generous bike parking space, with floor and wall racks to park your steed, should you have chosen that as your mode of transport. The interior has an industrious, open, yet inviting feel. Although premium fixtures are not a feature of this cafe, it is comfortable, warm and gives a sense that you are here for something far more important. Coffee.

These guys source their own green coffee from around the globe, concentrating on estate, micro lot and single origin coffees. With onsite roasting facilities, they mean business when it comes to a caffeinated beverage.

The workspace is open, clean and visible. The baristas and staff are friendly, efficient and make the experience pleasant, without being overbearing.

You can take your choice of seats at the bar, smaller tables of 2’s and 4’s, or pull up a seat at the communal table and share the space. Ceiling gas heaters provide ample warmth on what was a cool day for this visit. Even with the concrete floors, high exposed ceilings and hard fixtures, it was a very pleasant temperature inside.

Their food menu is simple and uncomplicated. Assorted pastries, pressed sandwiches, quality grain toasts and accompaniments, that all support a casual, relaxed theme. The food looked and smelled great, unusually for me, I didn’t eat, as I was there for the coffee. Needless to say, food service was handled quickly and without fuss, again providing the feeling that their concentration was directed towards the bean.

The coffee was magnificent. All brews that left the service area were made with consistent care, and a subtle flair of coffee art. This particular day, I had a short macchiato and hands down, it was the best coffee I have had in Melbourne. Strong, smooth and rich, a perfect temperature and combination of espresso and creamy milk. I followed this by a staff recommended Aricha espresso, their coffee of the day. It was also excellent.

Upon paying the bill, I was told of the regular Saturday morning cupping sessions they hold on premises, educating their customer on their coffee selections and characteristics. Now I must confess, I like coffee a lot. I’m sure I’ll get along to a cupping session, although I am in no hurry for that.

The most important thing I look for, is a place that will deliver a consistent, high quality brew. At Seven Seeds, I am confident of enjoying the experience every time I step through the door.

- See more reviews here

When you get what you want in your struggle for pelf,
And the world makes you King for a day,
Then go to the mirror and look at yourself,
And see what that guy has to say.

For it isn't your Father, or Mother, or Wife,
Who judgement upon you must pass.
The feller whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the guy staring back from the glass.

He's the feller to please, never mind all the rest,
For he's with you clear up to the end,
And you've passed your most dangerous, difficult test
If the guy in the glass is your friend.

You may be like Jack Horner and "chisel" a plum,
And think you're a wonderful guy,
But the man in the glass says you're only a bum
If you can't look him straight in the eye.

You can fool the whole world down the pathway of years,
And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be heartaches and tears
If you've cheated the guy in the glass.

- The Guy in the Glass, Dale Wimbrow

Heaven

- Ruka, Finalnd

Up to our necks in it.

A continuation from this post.
*****************************

The phone rings, it's Mandy.

Shit.

"Hey Mandy", I said.

"Hi, it WAS Justin at the airport", Mandy said, tersely.

"Oh, right, and...and the woman? Who was she?", I ask, not really wanting to hear the answer.

"He just said to me, you're right, It was me, and I've got some things to work out with Leanne", Mandy recalled.

"So, he admitted to some sort of relationship with her then? How did you bring it up?", I was a little concerned....

"Yes , he confessed to it. I said that we were around at your place for dinner, and that you saw him at the airport, and told us that it looked suspicious", explained Mandy.

"You fucking what?!" I shout. "Jesus Christ, I specifically explained what to do, and it wasn't that!" I was finding it hard to control the anger.

Mandy starts the justification speech, "Well, I thought by mentioning your name, it would give credibility to the story."

I couldn't talk.

Earlier that day, Mandy had rang, and said she was going to confront him, and wanted to know what she should do it. I took her through a process, explicitly stating, it is not necessary to use your third party as a supplier of knowledge. Just say what you know to be true, and ask for their perspective on that. Let them answer, it will come out by itself, no additional weight or credibility is needed.

"Well, he's now going away for 2 weeks for business, and said he won't tell Leanne until he gets back. "So I have to carry this with me, and see Leanne in the mean time, whilst we wait for him to get back", Mandy explained her quandary.

"You've got a choice to make then, haven't you", I say, almost pleased that she is in this shithole with me. "Tell, her, or wait, it's up to you".

"It's not my job, I'm going to make HIM do it", growls Mandy.

Wow, what a mess.

Mandy waits, her hatred for Justin grows, every day, and every time she sees Leanne in the mean time. Understandably. She, however, put herself in that place by deciding to confront him. And, I, well, I am up to my neck in shit. I saw it, I told someone else, it turned out to be true, I'm the rat. Justin may well end up on my door step with a gun, or at lease a big fucking bat, and Leanne's life is about to be turned upside down.

The 2 weeks passed, Mandy ground Justin down, holding him to the fact he would tell Leanne. He did. I'll spare you the gory details, but needless to say, it had been happening for a while, she was an office colleague.

Their relationship, had exploded.

And so, there were now some life changing conversations to be had between Leanne and Justin. Making things worse, they have a little boy, so it wasn't going to be pretty.

I admit to being a little fearful for my safety, for a while. I was still travelling a lot, so from then on I took a rather cautious path through the airports in particular. The rear vision mirror in the car, was also kept clean.

I was not looking forward to seeing either of them, not looking forward to that, at all.

Release me.

I was standing in the lounge room of the house I grew up in as a kid. In the corner, my Dad lay dead, in his coffin. We were to bury him today.

It was June of 1995, I was 18 then, he had died of a heart attack, his third. He was 44.

He was a man that lived life, hard. He, as many do in the country, drank, smoked, and laboured, in his case, at the local power station. He was also a supremely talented sportsman, more so a footballer. So the fable goes, the most talented full forward to come out of the Spencer Gulf. In a small country town, my Dad, they all called "Wigg", was a legend.

My Mum and Dad had divorced, when I was nine. Myself and my older brother had moved to Adelaide with Mum, what would prove to be a prosperous move for us all, at the time though, it made no sense.

Whilst it is not a day I will forget, I remember a few things about it, vividly.

We woke up early and drove to Port Augusta, I wanted to arrive early, as we had an opportunity to see him, before the procession for the burial. It was a clear day, but it was still cold. The heater was on in the house, it was a kerosene heater. That is vivid memory #1, any time I smell burning kero, I gag.

Dad was still very involved with footy. He had also been a successful senior coach, but had recently taken to coaching the under 14's. He and his mate, having fun teaching the youngsters, they loved it. He was taking them on a warm up lap, jogging and bouncing the ball around the oval he made his own, when he collapsed. By the time the ambulance had arrived, he was pronounced dead.

I took a deep breath, wiped away the tears and walked slowly across the room. I was petrified. Without a doubt, walking across that room, and looking into the coffin, has been the single hardest thing I have had to do in my life.

He looked peaceful. Strong. Well groomed, and masked with a slight smirk, he was famous for it. I cried, a lot. It took me some time until I could talk to him, I gathered myself and whispered a few things. I told him that I loved him, that I would miss him, and that I would go on to be a man he would be proud of. As I spoke to him, I tucked a gold medal in his top pocket, right above his failed heart. It may have stopped beating, but it was golden, to the core.

He must have fallen hard when he collapsed, there was a mark still visible under his eye. They had used make up to cover it, that is vivid memory #2. The smell of that makeup. I have only smelt it once since that day, it gave me chills, and I am sure the person wearing knew it, it was impossible to hide.

I guess I must have been going through a Pearl Jam phase at the time, as TEN was the album I decided to play on the final drive in to Port Augusta. The CD was on random, and as we were entering the city limits, and went past the cemetery, Release came on. All other songs had been played, this was the last one. Coincidence, most likely, but it sure was eery. I had played this song the night he died, I light a candle, sat there and watched it as this song played. That is vivid memory #3.

There are many other things about that day I remember and recall, frequently. The overweight funeral director whose tie wasn't even half way down his shirt front, the guard of honour his under 14's team made as we entered the cemetery, the amazing amount of people who turned up to pay their respects, and the love and adoration one man had, from far and wide. We shared beers, tears and laughs with many of them that night.

One of his good mates said to me as we left to drive back to Adelaide, "Son, if you turn out to be half the man your father was, you will be a fine individual."

Well Dad, I'm still trying.

Release me.

Hauntingly Beautiful

- Augie March, Vernoona

"Live the questions. You will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."

- Rainer Maria Rilke

"The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear."

- Stephen King, The Body (via Doctor Jazz)

Slippery when wet.

Nay sayers, despise the new hi-tech swimming era.

Stripped back, swimming is one of the purest athletic competition sports. The medium is repeatable, it's water, in a pool. The pool is the same length. The lanes are the same width. Whether it's indoors or outdoors, there is very little to affect your progression through the water. It is you, in your own lane v's the clock. If you're the fastest, you win.

Nothing has changed. If you're the fastest, you still win. The difference is, we can't tell who is the fastest athlete.

The one who has done the training, passed their drug tests, got their taper right, got their mental state right, had a race plan, executed it better than everyone else on the day, passed another drug test, and been the best at combining those elements. That makes you a winning athlete.

Now, we are stuffing this combination in to tight fitting polyurethane suits, and masking some of these elements.

There are plenty of arguments:

Coaches: "These suits are a substitute for correct training. They artificially enhance endurance, core stability, technique, and this should be taught correctly, by coaches". - Well, coaches, maybe you're not as important as you think you are?

Past athletes: "All the old world records are being beaten, in our day it was all about us, not the suits". - Guys, do you really need your name at the top of a start list to reaffirm you and your EGO that you were indeed great, a legend? Times change, history does not.

Current athletes: "The suit doesn't swim for you, you still have to train, to race, to turn up prepared". Let me clean the vomit from my mouth, yes, yes, yes we know that. But, THEY ASSIST YOU! - Say it in private first, it might just make it easier to cough out in front of the camera.

The media: "Scandal this, boycott that, a win for technology, tension in the camp, ripped suits, asses on camera". - Thank you, swimming has found a new way to be in most news breaks and papers.

This is not simply about who has the best technology, they can all source their fabrics from similar suppliers. It is about who is able to access this technology, in time, to make it a legitimate, proper element of their athletic performance package. And, this is about the interpretation, and more importantly, the enforcing, of ambiguous rules.

For those manufacturers, who have been brave enough to take on the rules, construct new suits, and fight hard to have them allowed, I say well done. We have had an explosion of brands enter the sport recently, willing to invest millions of dollars on R&D and marketing, to grab a slice of the pie. Is that a bad thing?

The real problem, are those that sit at the dizzying heights of the sport's administration. The politicians. The shiny pants brigade. The rubber desk Johnny's. Swine.

FINA, you have allowed all of this to happen, via ambiguous rules and by-laws, shoddily interpreted and applied due to threats of withdrawals of funding, law suits and heavy handed tactics, to that I say, YOU ARE PISS WEAK!

If you love this sport, and not the junket it provides you, show some balls, make some hard decisions, make them with the best possible information available, make them known well in advance to allow for adaptation, then enforce them.

This may just allow the even playing field that everyone is striving for.

And no, taking the retrograde step of rolling back technology to the pre 2000 era, whilst leaving the modern day rubber records on the books, IS NOT a decision. It's a fucking embarrassment!

And, for the technophobes, step outside your ego, swimming is a pumping conversation piece, for a lot of wrong reasons, I agree. But, do we want to be pure and boring, or hi-tech and thoroughly engaging.

There's no such thing as bad publicity, right?

Windmill

- Edeowie Station, Flinders Ranges

An airport affair

I'd just flown back from a business trip, it was 6ish and I was tired from a hectic few days.

Heading towards the carousel to get my bags, I noticed a guy I vaguely recognised as the husband of a friend. It must be said, she is a friend of a very good friend, so a bit removed, but a friend none the less. I had met him only once or twice before, but he had these translucent blue/green eyes, that were hard to mistake.

Strange thing, he was being greeted affectionately, by a woman, and no, it wasn't his wife.

It wasn't a motherly figure, nor was it a familiar greeting from a sibling, it looked too intimate for friendship...I was suspecting. I didn't say anything about it when I got home, not sure why, I just got on with my week.

Friday night came around and we had some friends over for dinner, including coincidently, the ones that provide the link to my midweek sighting. Well, it was really a passing comment, rather than a gossip piece, "Hey, did Justin fly back in from Sydney on Wednesday?", I asked. "I think he did, actually", Mandy said back. "Oh, I think I saw him", I pause. "Did you say hello?", Mandy asks. " No, well, he had someone there picking him up, so...".

Silence.

Mandy is now leaning forwards on the table, looking directly at me.

I remember thinking to myself, what the fuck have I just got myself in to?

By this stage, all eating and drinking had stopped too, and now everyone was looking to me for the next piece of information.

"Well, he was greeted by another woman, and it wasn't Leanne, it didn't look like it could be his mother, and looked a little too intimate to be just a female friend". "Um, does he have a sister?", I ask, lamely.

It was silent.

Mandy looks to her husband, and says "I told you!".

Fuck.

"Now, hey. I haven't seen this guy for ages, and you might want to be careful what you think, or say", I sprout out trying somehow to climb back up this greasy pole. Alas, we are in free fall.

"I want to know everything you saw", Mandy barks, "I'm going to confront him".

Ah, fuck me, I am now the accessory to a possible dalliance, and I for one, do not want that position. Guess I should have thought of that before I opened my mouth.

Fortunately, there was more food and wine to hide behind for a short while, and being the cook, I had plenty of reasons to get up and down from the table to excuse myself from the fire I had started. And, it was raging.

I had a habit of being opinionated, my friends knew it, and expected it of me. I just said it as it was, straight to the point, it is black or white, left or right of the line, nothing straddled the middle. This to me, at the time, was another straight out "tell it as you see it" moment. Oh, how wrong I would be.

Mandy's blood pressure was bordering hypertensive, it is one of her best friends involved, and I hold the details to a possible life changing event in both of their lives, especially Leanne's.

I'm flushed, and feeling pretty fucking ordinary. "More wine?", I cry in desperation. For me at least, comfort me dear juice of the grape.

Over the course of the night, I have every minute detail of the 3 or 4 minutes of data I posses, extracted from me. I tell you, interrogation should be carried out by a woman scorned, she was relentless. I told her each time, "listen, you should be very careful, I saw them briefly, from a distance, and I couldn't tell you the last time I saw Justin".

Well, fortunately, for me and the others, we managed to get off this subject, with brief digressions back to THE sighting, and finish the evening, on topics far more light hearted. We laughed a lot, enjoyed each others company, as we always do, but something has now changed, for good, Mandy knew this, and looked at me so.

One thing is for sure, I knew Mandy was going to take this further, it was just a matter of time. I told her that before she planned to confront him, she should consider it very carefully, and that if she was definitely going to do it, I would give her some steps to follow.

I had been workshopping some issue and conflict resolution techniques I had learnt from a management training course, and without fail, they worked, every time I used them. I wasn't going to confront him, I didn't know him well enough, so by Mandy choosing to do it, she needed my information to validate her reason for the confrontation. This made me nervous.

Number one rule in using information from a third party in a conflict resolution, do not reveal your source, say only that you know this to be what happened, and then ask the accused for their perspective. They then simply have 3 choices, refute it with proof, confess, or lie. If it turns out to be false information, and you reveal your third party source, they're dead.

I am the third party, I value life.

As every one was leaving, we worked through the usual procession of kisses and handshakes, with Mandy being last. We hugged, and she said, "I'll call you". I knew she would.

For now, all I could do was wait.