Back in Oz...

We got backto Oz a few weeks ago, but I've been running around trying to assist eldest Bule Boy in trying to decide his Year 11 subjects for next year...

I am a little flummoxed at the entire process really. He is a 14 year old child, who is being asked to determine the best pathway to his dream career...What the??? Here we have a kid who struggles with ordering at McDonald's, let alone what he wants to watch on TV. Sigh...

We have managed to get him some fairly broad choices, that should (in a perfect world) offer him the greatest number of options in two years time - PROVIDING he passes the exams.

In the meantime, I am having fond memories of Pediatricians telling me that he'd never speak...and paying a fortune in speech therapy to ensure otherwise.

If they could see him now...

Happily Out of Australia

Hi guys,
Just thought I'd update and let everyone know what we've been doing...

Firstly, flew to Bali on 21st July, and spent 5 days catching up with friends...sigh. Can't remember why I left (well, can really, but doesn't seem to matter anymore, I just want to go back!) Am working on Tony for that too, by the way...

Flew to Jakarta (which is where I am at the moment)- yes, what they say is true! The traffic has to be seen to be believed. We went to a Shopping Mall yesterday which is approximately 4km from the hotel....and it took 1.5 hours in taxi to get home. (Now, before you ask why we didn't walk, a/ we have no idea where we are really b/ we have been told it is extremely dangerous to wander around by yourself c/ it was getting dark....)

We will be flying to Kuala Lumpur tomorrow at around 2.00 (God and the airlines willing) so will spend the next 6 days up there.

I have booked a hotel that I am CERTAIN Suami will hate, but haven't got much choice, as it is getting close to Ramadan and it is also school holidays, so all of South East Asia had the same idea as us!

Hope everyone is healthy and well.
See you all when we get back

Morning folks!

Well, here we are half way through the year (okay, nearly half way - don't get pedantic on me now)and we have been back in Australia for 3 months.

Soooo, obviously it's time to book another holiday! Yay! (What do you mean, you didn't see that coming....have we met?)

So, as of July the 21st, I will get to load up my incredibly fetching leopard print suitcase and hightail it back to the International Airport - whoooohooooo!

There's something about airports that I love....maybe it's the plastic food (that is really only one molecule away from high tensile rubber), maybe it's the people watching (all shapes, sizes and religious persuasions - love it!) or maybe it's that I'm not at home watching excruciatingly boring infomercials masquerading as entertainment....

Who cares why? I just know that its about 30 sleeps to go.......

More evidence of Aussie stupidity........

Mr and Mrs Joe Average were sitting on their brand new patio, built to accommodate the brand new solar panels, in their brand new 300m2 block backyard of their brand new First Home Owners Grant two story home (with under roof alfresco) – sipping their recommended no more than two standard drinks per day, basking in the glow of the light pollution where the stars used to be.
Joelene Average put down the paint chips she had been studying, asking her husband Joe “What do you think, darl’ – the white or the cream?” He swallowed his mouthful of mid strength low carb beer slowly, and rubbed his ample beer belly before replying, “Well love, whatever is going to make the new 3D TV look best from the new home theatre lazy-boy leather couches.” “Ah, yes” she nodded, “good point!”
A brilliant light appeared - more brilliant than 10 million solar paneled powered low emission eco friendly light globes would emit without leaving a carbon footprint. Even more brilliant than the recent insulation fires had glowed; this light meant business. An Angel of the Lord had appeared.
“Strewth” said Joelene. “Strewth” said Joe, as they gazed in wonder at the Angel. In the distance a heavenly chorus of Iranian and Sri Lankan voices could be heard – “Ozzie, Ozzie, Ozzie, Oy Oy Oy – I still call Australia hoooome.”
“G’Day” the Angel said, fluffing his reflective Safety to Australian Standard wings. “My names Kevin, and I’m the Prime Angel around here, oh, and I speak Mandarin if you’re interested”.
Joe and Joelene squinted against the glare, and replied with a shaky “G’day, Prime Angel, err – no we’re not interested. What can we do for you, Kev?” Joe, offered the Angel a beer. “Cheers, ta” replied Kev as he indicated to the brand new outdoor chairs – “May I?” Joelene nodded, shifted her not-obese-merely-politically-correct-curvy frame, and grasped Joe’s hand in hers.
“Well Joe, Joelene” Kev nodded to each of them, “I’m actually here with a delivery.”
“Huh?” exclaimed Joe, looking at Joelene and thinking of the most recent Stock Take Sales, “delivery of what – we’re not expecting anything.”
“Oh yes you are” smiled Kev. “Here, have a look” The Angel gestured into the darkness, and the sound of scuffling and muttered oaths floated over to the trio. A tired, worn-out and exhausted looking Nurse appeared, laboriously dragging a cot. Tripping from fatigue, she found her feet, and stopped to catch her breath.
Kev scowled at her, rolling his eyes and said in an aside, “Just between you and me Joe, these bloody nurses, honestly. Say they’re over worked, under paid – jeez, it’s not my fault I’ve been a little busy with the Choir lately. Diva types - require a lot of money and attention….Oh, and the Miners – don’t get me started…….you understand dontcha? ”
Joe gave a half hearted dip of his chin, frowning at the scene before him.
“Ozzie Ozzie Ozzie” drifted melodiously over the backyard, “Yep, they’re about the only ones who like me really……they think I’m a great bloke”, Kev continued, his chest puffing out in pride.
The Nurse straightened up. “Here you go” she crooned, moving to place the baby gently in Joelenes’ arms, and taking a deep breath, she staggered back into the darkness.
“Hey, wait a minute” exclaimed Joe in surprise – “What’s this then?”
“Oh yeah, Joe, remember when I got pregnant 9 months ago – this must be the baby!” Joelene excitedly replied, pulling the blanket down to gaze into the infants sleeping face.
“Eh? It’s here already?”
“Yes honey, it’s been 9 months” Joelene tickled the sleeping babe under the chin. Kev took another swig of beer, looking around the backyard, “hey, great solar panels” he belched, pointing to the roof. “Got insulation?”
“Yeah, got the Government rebate on those babies, insulation was great till it caught fire.”
“Ah yeah, bit of a problem across the board, that…..” Kev hurriedly changed the subject, “Sooo, waddya think of the baby? Cool eh?”
“He’s beautiful” Joelene snuggled her face into the new baby smell, inhaling like a vacuum.
Joe turned back to Joelene “But…….but that means that you can’t go to work on Monday if you have to look after it.” Joe blanched at the thought.
“Oh” Joelene stopped in surprise’ “yeah, that’s right. It’s Monday tomorrow, so it’s Interest Rate Hike day, bugger!”
Kev shook his head, and held up his hands pleadingly “Look, don’t panic, it’s not a problem.”
Joelene and Joe looked at each other in alarm, as Joelene squinted frantically into the darkness for the nurse.
“But we can’t keep it” Joelene whined, “I still have to work, ya know, to pay for all the new stuff we’ve got.” She swept her arm widely to indicate the Jamey Drury recommended Buddha statues, the water wise mondo grass and stainless steel BBQ with side wok attachment.
“Listen” said Kev, leaning forward with his hands on his knees “You ordered a baby, right?”
“Well.. yes” answered Joelene. “But in all fairness, it was only 9 months ago, oh – and the year we planned for it….anyway, we sort of haven’t really gotten around to saving up yet – it’s not like I’ll get a payment for keeping it.”
“Actually, you will” Kev intoned seductively “……and you know the nurse delivery charge just then?”
Joelene nodded .
“Well, I’ve picked up the tab for that too.” “Ooooh, really?,” she squealed .
“Yep,” smirked Kev, popping his lips on the P sound, “and here’s a little bit of info for ya – tell ya what. I’ll give you free medical for it, till it’s 16, oh, and I’ll throw in dental too…..oh, and a child health nurse, and hospital…..vaccinations?”
“Yeah, keep talking”, said Joe, narrowing his eyes.
“Ok, what about free education, with ummmmm, a tax deduction for any out of pocket expenses like another laptop, uniforms, books, internet access and that crap.” Kev was on a roll now.
“Hmmmmm” said Joe, nodding noncommittally.
Kev leant back and thought for a moment. “Hey, you guys don’t earn that much do you?”
They both shook their heads emphatically.
“OK, then I’ll throw in paying Joelene to stay at home for a couple of months to look after it too, and pay her the federal minimum wage….”
Joe and Joelene looked at each other, and Joe nodded. “OK then Kev, we’ll keep it, but only ‘cause its not going to cost us anything, okay?”
Kev laughed, slapping his knee in hysterics. “Joe! Don’t be stupid. Why would anyone expect you to pay for your own baby? Jeez mate, be reasonable. “

We had several bunnies in Bali - this one is Sandy. They were about $6.00 each,(as the Bunny Seller explained to me - they breed like rabbits, so very cheap! Good for teaching children about life.) The boys absolutely loved them. Imagine my shock, when I went to the pet shop the other day and was told that rabbits are $65.00 dollars each, $120.00 for the hutch, and $28.00 for pellets........Guess they can look at rabbits on the internet for now.....

http://flavorwire.com/95206/john-waters-10-best-pieces-of-advice-for-functional-freaks">

Thought this was great - I am sooo off to the bookstore to see if I can get it.

And I thought I looked bad first thing in the morning......

Not famous – nope, have done nothing of worth

Not rich – Hmmmmm, struggle to buy groceries

Not particularly good looking – still have own boobs, cellulite, and occasional whisker

Not sports star- can’t even watch it on TV

“Great” thought Paris, “haven’t got a shit show in hell, basically”

She shut down the computer, wandered into the kitchen and poured herself yet another glass of Chateau de Crap. Sipping as delicately as a dehydrated Bedouin, Paris asked herself the serious question. Capital S, capital Q.

“Is it worth it”.

The little voices in her head immediately began replying…..worrying really, when you thought about it. Isn’t that called borderline personality disorder? All vying for attention, she had to do some serious refereeing. The most vocal of course, was Ego. Ego immediately glossed over reality with a dulcet golden syrupy “Of course it is, you’re amazing”. It was how Paris imagined it would sound if George Clooney was speaking directly at her, over a candle lit dinner – after the oysters. Pure heaven, however as likely as evading her council rates and keeping her house or losing her muffin top in a week without exercise, or booze.

The other voices that managed to get a word in were slightly more realistic, damn them. The whiney arsed voice of Reason piped up next – God, how Paris hated this one. “Well really” it shrieked “Will you for the love of all that’s holy, finally get OVER it!!!” This was in fact the same voice that invariably drowned out all others eventually. Paris was as used to its mutterings as she was the effects of gravity on her face. It didn’t matter how much you wished it wasn’t there, sorry honey – it was a fact of life.

The more timid members of her brain were also making noises. There was Ever Hopeful, who came in really handy in a change room – it was the optimistic voice that thought that perhaps sizing’s had changed, and that there was still a chance that Paris could squeeze her ample thighs into that skirt, or that maybe, if she were nice enough, she would be universally loved. Paris generally dismissed her services after Reason and Ego had beaten her into a bloody pulp somewhere before midday, and Common Sense took over.

Common Sense was by far, the hardest to ignore – all the voices had their attractions – however, they also all had their agenda’s. Common Sense unfortunately was as pure as triple distilled vodka, and had the same painful after effects.
Paris drained her glass, rinsed it and left it upended on the dish drainer. She looked around the kitchen, decided that she would leave it all for the morning, and switched off the lights.

Making her way to bedroom, Common Sense was making headway with Reason, something that was unusual. Common Sense was dealing with numbers.
Paris was not a numbers person. She struggled with balancing a cheque book. She could be persuaded that $300 for a dress was a bargain. She thought that a Tax Return was a multiple choice quiz, where if she just got the right formula – like Suduko – she would win. That one of her voices was chunnering on about numbers, was a definite first. Common Sense kept talking.

While Paris gave her sagging face a perfunctory rub with a cleansing wipe, she listened to the voice. “Honestly Paris, “it started “so what if you’ve received 90 rejection letters”. Paris could feel Ego pricking up its ears. “So, out of all the people in world who are writing – what makes you think that yours wouldn’t be one to plucked out of the slush pile? After all the stuff you’ve been reading on blogs – a hundred people were picked out this week. Australia alone publishes 1000 books per month. You DO still stand a chance.”

Ego was sidling into the conversation now. “Yeah” he purred “Listen to Common Sense – for once, I agree…..by the way, have I told you you’re amazing lately”
Paris was in her jimjams now; fluffy socks donned, and ready to jump into the wide cold bed that dominated the room. She shook her head, pulling back the doona, and spoke out loud to all of them. “Thanks guys, I’ll talk to you in the morning”, feeling Ever Hopeful shrink back, knowing that come sparrows fart, she would be nursing more painful hematomas.

Another chapter....

Anyone who has lived in Indonesia can tell you that they are the masters of DIY. No one is necessarily qualified to do the job required; however, they don’t let a tiny thing like that stop them.
Pa Putu was, of course, Paris’s general handyman – despite the fact that he had been asked not to on several occasions, this had done nothing to dampen his enthusiasm if there was a “fix it job” around the place.
Where the Australians excel in the use of fencing wire and duct tape, the Indonesians take a more traditional approach, with lashings of bamboo, string and more bamboo. In fact, it would appear that if it couldn’t be mended with a few lengths of bamboo, then it needed to re-built completely so that it could, and that included electrical items.
As just about everything that was purchased in Bali, of course, managed to render itself US (Un-Serviceable) within the space of a week or two, there was quite a list of items that Pa Putu had turned his hand at repairing (rather than have Paris buy a new one) – everything from mops (new bamboo handles, or new bamboo pivots for the heads), ladders (new bamboo struts and steps – not particularly stable but Pa Putu seemed to trust it), door handles (little bamboo bits inserted as spacers), garden taps (string tightened with bamboo to hold it on the outlet), even down to the doorbell, which threw itself off the wall one day to ricochet off the tiles a few times, and stopped working. It now boasted hand cut, tiny bamboo braces glued to hold the loose wires and speaker in place again – Paris didn’t have the heart to reveal to Pa Putu that it only cost $6.00Au in the first place, especially after he had spent a good two hours with tweezers and a razorblade imitating a surgeon.
This one mindedness also extends to jobs around the home that we in Australia would not think twice to call an expert.
In the front yard of our villa, there was a large coconut tree that was strategically planted so that it grew directly under the house electrical wires, which were connected to a huge substation 3 meters away on the main road. This meant that the tangle of thick cables carrying all the electricity for Jimbaran, Kuta and more than likely Ubud, passed directly in front of us, with a snare of lesser, slightly less lethal volt carrying wires branched out at random intervals and passed over our front garden. Luckily, they had the coconut palm to rest on, or they would probably have dangled into our yard.
Paris had pointed out the stupidity of placement of both the tree and the wires ad-nauseum to Pa Putu, and explained the danger while tut-tutting over the whole deadly scenario daily.
One afternoon, after Paris’s regular inspection of the front yard, and associated beef session about the tree, Pa Putu stated he would go and do some “farming” – his word for gardening. Paris was not surprised to see Pa Putu disappear down the back to where he kept his favourite “sharpening stone”. He often spent hours sharpening knives, gardening equipment and other metal objects, and so this was not an unusual thing.
What was unusual was when Paris ventured out to the front veranda, she found Pa Putu, aluminium pool extension handle with a razor sharp machete tied to the top in hand, hacking away at the coconut palm and by default, the electrical wires.
“Crap” yelled Paris “Don’t do that – you’ll get electrocuted!” cringing as Pa Putu was still blindly hacking away, yet turned to face Paris.
“Tidak apa-apa” beamed Pa Putu, resting the machete on the wires for a break while mopping his brow, “machete very sharp, Mrs., will cut easily”
“That’s what I’m worried about” Paris muttered, staring in disbelief as pieces of coconut palm leaf showered down on Pa Putu, who was still in one piece, and didn’t at this stage resemble anything fried.
When Paris finally convinced Pa Putu that he had cut enough away from the wires, he delivered a final flourish of the machete, and a small young green coconut landed at his feet.
“This one good for drinking, also for hangover Mrs – you drink coconut water, feel better langsung (immediately)” he stated deftly slashing the top off it and taking a long swig.
“Excellent” thought Paris “I’ll need one in the morning after watching you do that”.

It's a worry...

I met a mouse the other night.

Sitting alone at the kitchen bench, Googling various bits and pieces; I was waiting to be tired enough to go to bed. Out of the corner of my eye, there was a fuzzy movement, that wasn't one of the children getting a drink. I looked down, and there he/she was. Dark brown, twitchy nosed - just staring at me.
So I stared back.
After a few minutes of this mexican standoff, he/she must have realised that I posed absolutely no threat, especially as I just went back to the computer.
No screaming. No jumping on the bench. No chasing him/her around the kitchen. Nothing.
I feel sorry for the mouse now. I hope I didn't offend him/her. I didn't mean to be so off-hand, but after living in Bali, and meeting his/her slightly larger, meaner, aggressive cousins; really, it was all a bit pathetic really.
I was not in the least bit shocked, intimidated or frightened. Sorry Mickey.
Bugger.

Some snappy insults I never tire of.......

1. The fact that no one understands you doesn’t mean you’re an artist.
2. I don’t know what your problem is, but I’ll bet it’s hard to pronounce.
3. Any connection between your reality and mine is purely coincidental.
4. I have plenty of talent and vision. I just don’t care.
5. I like you. You remind me of when I was young and stupid.
6. I’m not being rude. You’re just insignificant.
7. I’m already visualizing the duct tape over your mouth.
8. I will always cherish the initial misconceptions I had about you.
9. It’s a thankless job, but I’ve got a lot of Karma to burn off.
10. How about never? Is never good for you?
11. I’m really easy to get along with once you people learn to worship me.
12. You sound reasonable…Time to up my medication.
13. I’ll try being nicer if you’ll try being smarter.
14. I’m out of my mind, but feel free to leave a message…
15. It might look like I’m doing nothing, but at the cellular level I’m really quite busy.
16. You are validating my inherent mistrust of strangers.
17. I see you’ve set aside this special time to humiliate yourself in public.
18. Someday, we’ll look back on this, laugh nervously and change the subject.
19. If you find it hard to laugh at yourself, I would be happy to do it for you.
20. Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of how awesome I am.

Chapter One

Paris was totally bored with mundane Perth. There was something about living in the most isolated capital city in the world that was, excuse the expression, isolating.

Embracing safe, suburban time wasters like organised religion, crocheting scrapbooks for the needy or surrendering her so-called free time to other people’s obnoxious children at local schools, did not resonate with Paris. Not even a quiver. She had two equally obnoxious children of her own who would probably appreciate some of her time, if she cared to ask them; she could not crochet to save her life and quite literally cringed at the thought.

Paris was terrified that her life was going to pass her by, and dreaded reading her eventual obituary which would say;

“Sorry about the sad passing of Paris, wish we could say more, but unfortunately she was as boring as bat poo and did nothing of any worth.”

It didn’t help that Paris was not spiritual – well, unless you count all the spirits she drinks; then yes, she is 100 proof. Praise Dan Murphy’s. Amen. Organising land rights for gay whales in a pestilence ridden slum, or inoculating endangered orphans against lumbago all sounded a little dangerous. Paris was selfish enough not to particularly care about the starving hordes to be found in seventh world countries, obviously unless they are serving the above mentioned booze. Then of course, she cared very, very deeply about their general state of health; steady hands and no communicable diseases being her top two priorities.

Retreating to an ashram to eat deities and worship mung beans wasn’t her thing either. She wouldn’t eat anything with the letters D I E T in it, regardless of how those letters were arranged. With her hormone levels plummeting and hot flushes escalating, the thought of squatting on a grotty temple floor responsible for rolling her own hemp tampons, was not appealing. The lack of Chardonnay or HRT; which were both interchangeable medicinal items in Paris books, made a root canal with a rusty jack hammer the preferable option. No, Paris was not a spiritual Lah-lah; she had used the pages of several spiritual tomes to make origami teabag squeezers.

She did, however, take final leave of her tentative grip on sanity. There was no lying face first on a cold bathroom floor communing with the All Powerful, no helpful suggestions from the Universe to “go back to bed”, no internal crisis about having children. Paris had already been there and had varicose veins to rival a Melways Map Book on both legs to prove it. No it was so much more – and less, than your mediocre to be expected fashionable mid life crisis. She just wanted to be different from the masses for a while. That’s all.

Bali offered just that, if you ignored the possibility of terrorist attacks. Obviously it was close to home, and offered a suitably decadent level of alcohol, food, and spa treatments for her increasing cellulite. There would be no requirement to change the world, no expectation to compete with Mother Theresa or to pretend she was off to find herself. She could just go there and relax. Maybe sip some cocktails under frangipani trees, who knew? It had to be better than death by housefrau.

There was also the small matter of her children. Paris had managed to raise unadulterated spoilt brats; not the nasty kind, just the ones that expect everything – now - and the more expensive the better. They had also committed the unthinkable, and turned her into her Mother. With every utterance from her lips, her Mother leapt out regardless of how many times Paris swore it wouldn’t happen, until Paris was channelling her daily. Okay, Mothering was never on her list of “Things I Do Really Well” – but surely she didn’t deserve this cruel and unusual punishment. Paris actually hadn’t had any contact with her mother for about a decade for various reasons, not least of all; they didn’t get along. That blood coagulates is the only evidence that it is thicker than water in Paris’s opinion; and her family had been mainlining Warfarin for years. Lip syncing her Mothers crappy lines was just too much.

Paris honestly felt that living in a third world country, immersed in a different society could only be beneficial in taming the “entitlement” philosophy her sons had picked up in Australia. The Bule boys were a product of their repulsive culture. They truly believed that life without several flat screen TV’s, or hot and cold running technology was not worth living. This had to change, and change fast as far as Paris was concerned, or she would not be responsible for her actions.

The Bule boys would surely benefit from the experience; as Paris often thought – school is fine, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your education. A year or so, seeing how the other half live, well, it couldn’t kill you; unless of course you contracted one of those communicable diseases – but really, what were the chances? She certainly didn’t want them growing up watching football on TV every weekend, thinking that “Facebook” constituted actual relationships or that “Neighbours” reflected real life. Paris wanted them to have a wider global view.

The other hurdle Paris faced was convincing her husband. He worked on the mines, and was not too impressed at the idea of his kith and kin suddenly having its main base in Bali. He prided himself on supplying his family with the best money could buy, despite their obvious lack of gratitude or appreciation. Why his wife would suddenly decide to go and live in abject poverty was a serious head-scratching predicament. Okay, the family was on their fifteenth holiday trip there, and did have a great time every time they went, but he is of a cautious nature, whereas Paris is just a certifiable lunatic.

Eventually he came around after many months of petulance, weeping and unrelenting domestic guerrilla warfare from Paris. She pranced around the kitchen like a demented lemur. Poor Suami was used to Paris’s particular brand of insanity – for years he had tolerated her doing all kinds of foolish and impractical things – the shoe fetish, the hat addiction, reading every style of self help books ever published then forcing him to change as after all it was HIS fault. Paris’s trademark crazy had been unremitting over the years.

That the poor man finally realized he was getting a break didn’t actually dawn on Paris, as she set about leasing out their home, resigning from her mind numbingly boring compliance job and throwing things recklessly in packing boxes ready for storage. While normally it can take Paris weeks to get around to removing a dust bunny that is threatening to devour the entire front portion of the house, she can move like greased lightening when given free reign with one of her more self gratuitous projects.

She cheerfully ignored the incredulous looks of the more sane members of her acquaintance who spluttered dire warnings and fairly rational arguments as to the foolishness of her actions. However, those closest to Paris had always known of her penchant for doing bizarre things, and that her level of eccentricity was only rising as she aged. It didn’t help that she was now seriously hormonally challenged and dangerously addicted to the Oprah “Live Your best Life” website. Stronger HRT was not the answer – her glazed expression watching travel programs on TV was a far better indication of the current state of affairs. Paris certainly wasn’t going to let something like common sense stand in her way of an adventure.

Paris had also talked Suami into the idea of starting a business while they were there – this in theory, was to offset her sure-to-be hideous alcohol and botox bill whilst on the island. On their many holiday trips, Paris had spoken to many expats who “owned’ businesses there, so figured that she should be able to stick her perfectly manicured finger into the pie too. With a new found sense of responsibility and purpose, both of which were alien concepts, Paris set about finding a Business Consultant to smooth things over with the local Government.

Anecdotal evidence had given two sides of absolute polar opposites, with some wonderful stories of success and others that guaranteed the establishment of suicidal inclinations. Paris was diametrically opposed to using a noose as a necktie and determined to get it right. She set about gaining the correct legal advice necessary to ensure triumph, or at the very least to avoid the possibility of sharing a cell with Schappelle Corby. Night after night she trawled the internet, not at all sure of what she was looking for, but Paris was certain that it would leap out from the page when she saw it. At the end of the day, facing everyone at home after failing dismally was not going to do anything for Paris’s already questionable reputation for sanity.

Unfortunately most of what she found promised way too little in the way of assurances but wanted a lot initially in US dollars. Oh, but she could get a larger penis, guaranteed.

Desperation was setting in until she came across one particular website, run by an Indonesian woman who seemed to tell the truth about the difficulties, but also offered solutions around them. It was filled with fairly sensible sounding advice outlining the steps required, legal ramifications and alerts as to the calamitous consequences if expats got it wrong. Paris was soon in contact with her via email, and was stunned to receive a prompt reply. Oh, frabjous day! A ferocious email frenzy began in earnest, with the neophyte Paris parasitically sucking up every recommendation and item of fact from this staggering suppository of Indonesian legal knowledge. Paris was astounded at what she learned.

Indonesian law is an absolute minefield of loopholes, contrary statements and clauses, and makes Australian Legislation look like a Kindergarten Reader. There were several choices when establishing a company however, not all are available to westerners; there are no Equal Opportunities Commissions within cooee of Jakarta apparently. The easiest and cheapest appeared to Paris to be what is called a CV Company – the only drawback seemingly that it required two Indonesian Nominees to act as Director and Secretary, however this could be overcome by employing Nationals “in name only”. The business consultant assured her that she would be able to supply the names of suitable candidates, however Paris had her scam-o-meter turned up full, and wracked her brains for alternatives.

Paris was sure she could overcome this, as she knew of two Expat guys working for the same company as Suami (although in Indonesia), who had recently traded in their Australian wives for younger Indonesian models. These two fairly “westernised” ladies agreed to assist Paris “in name only” and Paris gleefully ticked another box on her to-do list. More lemur dances and prances were performed, more internet trawling was logged and Paris commissioned the business consultant to set up a CV company. Paris dealt directly with the owner whose name is identical to a smelly plant, which Paris will just call Garlic.

Being highly professional, Garlic did not turn a hair when Paris stated that she would pay via international transfer half of the required US $4000, and the other half on completion. The money was duly transferred, and it was all systems go, the final details regarding staffing, premises etc could be dealt with on Paris’s arrival in Bali and in the meantime, Paris would be kept up to date via the web. Smug feelings of self assurance set in with a vengeance. Suami shook his head at the pathetically excited Paris, and bookmarked mental health services in the Yellow Pages.

Paris had also to find an appropriate place to have the two woeful “wanna-have” children educated. Despite her desire to have them enrolled in the school of humanity, she understood the nasty legal requirement of a formal educational institution. Noting a disappointing lack of Communist Gulags on the island had led Paris to make enquiries into her second choice – the local International School.

Truth be told, she had actually already been to see the establishment during their last holiday. It had a startling resemblance to Hogwarts, and this appealed to Paris’s sense of the ridiculous no end. Envisioning frenzied games of Hindu Quiddich amongst the students, or failing that, at least mixing with several other cultures and religions galvanized Paris to sign up the Bule boys immediately. She completely ignored their pitiful screams of anguish on hearing the news.

She had also sleuthed out a suitably palatial villa to lease for a year. The Landlord was an Australian guy, who now “caretook” it for his Indonesian ex-wife; after she took it from him in the divorce. He had lived in Bali for 35 years, and was a fair dinkum lovely man; more than ready to sing an off key rendition of “Advance Australia Fair” with anyone who cared to join him. Paris knew that he was a tad “eccentric” but gravitated towards his open hearted enjoyment of life. He completely understood Paris’s motives, had experience and knowledge of the local goings on, and was an absolute hoot. He negotiated the terms of the agreement to Paris’s satisfaction with his ex-wife, and gave Suami the commitment of looking out for them while he was in Australia working. Finally it looked like Paris had all her ducks in a row – not realising that “Drunken Duck” was a favourite dish served up all over Bali, and not just for the tourists.

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I've heard it all now!

Hi guys
As you know I have just come back to Australia, and I am APPALLED at what crap we Australians put up with. Hey, don't get me wrong, it was going on before I left, but I was not aware of it - it was under the radar, it was subversive, I WAS USED TO IT! I never, ever, noticed what complete wussie lah lahs we were.......

Then I went to live in countries where Police would shoot you, where they would demand money for nothing, where if you didn't work - you didn't eat (no Govt handouts), where - and get this - people were responsible for their own actions. No, seriously! If you tripped in the street, tough luck, if you fell over a soggy lettuce leaf in a shop - big deal, and the biggy - if you were pissed, and got hit by a car - your bad luck mate!

I know, amazing hey - so, third world! Guess what - I didn't get shot, 'cause I was never EVER in a situation that would demand it, I only once was stopped to pay a bribe (which was less than I could ever worry about), I never got hit by a car (duh) but I learn t to stand on my own two feet.

I never considered that it was someone elses fault when I screwed up. Its quite liberating really. To be an adult, and actually take responsibility. Yeh! What an amazing thing!

This blog was inspired by the drop kick Unionist ROBERT PAUL MCJANNETT, whom has apparently landed back in Perth after being incarcerated in Keroboken Jail (Bali) for drug importation.

Yes, he admitted they were his - something to do with a bad back - hey, the rest of us take Panadol (available in Bali mate). He was taking his son for a holiday over the New Year break when he was busted - nice message for the kiddies mate! - and was busted for his trouble.

Having lived in Indonesia for just over a year, mate, you must have stood out like a sore thumb straight up - but the next thing is - WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!

These people (Indonesians) luuuuurve it when stupid westerners (Bule) try to bend their rules!

Were you in a plastic Bubble when Schappelle went down, or the Bali 9, or did you just think that because you're a Unionist, you'd get off scott free. Well mate - there's a Scott in kerobokan now that you've met, and you know disagrees.

AT WHAT POINT DO YOU PACK YOUR CASE FOR AN OVERSEAS HOLIDAY, pop in your grundies, and toothbrush, then your pot, and think that it's going to work for you?

Especially when the country you're going to shoots people? I swear, this man is not only ignorant (he blamed the Bali Justice System - ummmm, idiot, Bali is an island of Indonesia), but must have thought that his teflon Union Suit would work overseas........

If he had wanted his Union secretary to check, she could have told him that Indonesia (therefore Bali) was 128 on the Global Corruption Scale - which to the unitiated, is like saying they suck! They are rabidly corrupt, they will sell their mothers for a few rupiah, and they see westerners as money trees. I find it incredibly difficult to believe that this politically "adroit" man did not know that.
Well mate, now you know!

Please don't come home with a "Fix Schapelle" kit, she has had more exposure than an iceburg under an ozone hole! She and her family know exactly what it will take to get her out, but they want to play the media hand. More fool them!

Till tomorrow.