The hay fever workout

Is it possible to die from sneezing?

This is what I wondered as I slumped on my couch, a tissue wedged up my nostrils and my eyes bloodshot and itchy as hell (not a pretty sight). I was exhausted from another marathon session of convulsive sneezes.

Source: https://c1.staticflickr.com/9/8393/8762832630_547c3ebba8.jpg

Yes, it’s spring time in Adelaide and doesn’t my immune system know it. Those little nose hairs are on duty around the clock, looking out for every single bit of dust and plant fibre. I kind of thought that by now I would not have many nose hairs left, which would mean a reduction in the sneezing. But I must be wrong because the sneezing has if anything increased.

Back to my initial question: Can you die from sneezing? Apparently in very rare cases, sneezing can cause death. A particularly violent sneeze paired with being on blood-thinning medication and a heart condition might get you into trouble. The sheer power of the sneeze can cause a blood vessel to burst in the brain and the associated bleeding is what will really do the damage, rather than the sneeze itself.

On a more positive note, I might have sneezed across the next spring workout craze: hay fever exercise! Just in time for summer here in Australia! It’s so easy – all you do is step outside the front door and before you know it you’ll be engaging all those flabby abdominal muscles in an endless fit of sneezes. If you’ve got really bad hay fever, stay away from those antihistamines and be prepared to get a six-pack that’s the envy of personal trainers. (*Please note: Workout may result in a dry flaky nose that runs constantly, red itchy eyes, headaches, a dry throat, peevishness and general lethargy).

Okay, maybe the hay fever workout won’t take off – but if things like electric shock toner belts (see below) make it onto the market, surely there’s scope.

Source: http://millionideas.org/2013/02/20/10-ridiculous-but-awesome-fitness-fads/

Nature’s Providore – Cafe review

Mission: Find a cafe in the Adelaide ‘burbs to take the lovely T for a birthday brunch

Key points to consider: T is vegetarian and gluten intolerant. Also, it’s Sunday

Preliminary research findings: Preferred cafe is CLOSED on a Sunday. Darn. Discovered that many cafes have unusual opening hours. Decided to wing it

Chosen destination: Nature’s Providore, 88 Duthy Street, Malvern

This bright, buzzy cafe ticked most of the boxes. Happy atmosphere: tick. Clean tables: tick. Welcoming, friendly and timely service: triple tick. Toilet: as decent as you could hope for. Menu: my stomach was gurgling just looking at it.

Discussion: Undoubtedly delicious and lovingly presented on a beautiful big white bowl…but it was a little too little and for a little too much. It was $13 for maybe a cup of bircher muesli with a few dollops of yoghurt, three wafer thin slices of apple and two slices of orange. Now, that bircher muesli was the queen of bircher muesli, but I really wanted more of the queen for that price. That’s the problem when something tastes so good – you want more.

After much agonising over the menu, T chose the rye toast with avocado and roasted sunflower seeds. $15.90. Hers looked a treat and tasted great, but once again, the portion was on the small side. Her two rye toasts were dwarfed by the (super fresh) avocado that sat neatly on top. Perhaps the toast shrank in the toaster? Lucky she got a large coffee.

Speaking of the coffee, it was really good. Mellow and creamy. T got hers with coconut milk and it was a taste sensation, though some might find the flavour bizarre. The cafe also offers soy, rice or oat milk, for extra.

The coffee had a pretty design on it but I forgot to take a photo before greedily diving in and ruined the swirls

Summary: High quality local ingredients, well-made food, friendly staff and a feel-good, sunny experience. Just under $40 for two breakfasts and two coffees.

Findings: Eating responsibly and eating good food in a nice place with nice people serving you ain’t cheap. (And yes, it’s a first world problem.)

Z is for Zed (and the pony dance)

I once met a very special cat called Zed. He was the smallest cat I’ve ever seen (really, he was miniature) but he had a huge personality. He would propel his little cream-coloured body around his owner’s house with astonishing speed and had that feline habit of appearing out of nowhere to stare at you with his globe-like green Burmese eyes. When he curled up on your belly (or head), his purr thrummed through his entire body. It was as if he had a guitar inside him.

Zed was pretty unique just as he was, but he could also dance. His signature move was what my sister called the pony dance. It usually happened around dinner time, though he sometimes just seemed to do it for the hell of it. The pony dance involved much leaping about – like a pony bucking – and strange diagonal prancing. Zed looked as if he was performing some kind of hyperactive dressage or circus routine.

Sadly, I never caught the dance on camera.

If you ever see a tiny cream-coloured cat busting some crazy moves on Youtube, please let me know!

*So that concludes my A to Z(ish) Challenge. It sure was a challenge. It sure took way longer than I’d thought. What did I learn? Well, I learnt that D is for discipline, J is for just sit down and do it for god’s sake! M is for mental blocks galore and P is for persistence/procrastination. D could also be for deadline, which I missed by about 3 months…umm…But to be frank I’m impressed that I got all the way to Z – who knew that the English alphabet could feel so long!

Y is for YA Fiction

I’m almost 30 but I still have a soft spot for YA fiction, especially the fantasy kind.

 

The first YA books I read were by Tamora Pierce. As a dreamy tomboy who grew up surrounded by animals, I was immediately drawn into Pierce’s fantastical world where animals can talk to humans, strong female characters, adventure and magic. Her books opened a gateway into places that I could walk through and dream about. They were a a very appealing alternative reality to the drab challenges of moving from the country to the city and starting at a new school.

Throughout the 90s and early 00s I devoured other YA fiction. If you’re familiar with the genre – and perhaps even if you’re not – you’ll recognise some of the authors: Pullman, Rowling, Nix, Carmody, Gaiman, Rodda, Marchetta, Marsden, Lowry, Rubinstein, Bernard and Kelleher. 

School for me was a bland experience. Reading felt more real than my day-to-day life. The characters were, at least in the fantasy books, up against life-threatening dangers that dwarfed my biology assignments. A bunch of them also had a superhuman ability up their sleeve – but regardless of all that I felt more connected to them than I did to many of my peers.

While I no longer read solely YA fiction (I must finally be growing up!) I do still remember that heady feeling of excitement that I used to have when I found the next book in Isobelle Carmody’s Obernewtyn series on the library shelf, or got pulled into Gillian Rubinstein’s dark GalaxArena, or first discovered The Boy Who Lived. Yes, I’m a nerd and a proud one at that. I’m not the only one!

Apparently dystopian is the flavour of the month in YA fiction these days. Series like The Hunger Games and Divergent have echoes of earlier novels, such as John Marsden’s Tomorrow series and Rubinstein’s GalaxArena. I guess it comes back to those old themes of good vs. evil and triumph over adversity…and I could go on. But I won’t.

Anyway the main reason I loved these books was because they expanded my mind. I flew free when I was reading. And I learnt stuff without even realising it. That’s a pretty good deal I reckon.

X is for Xenos

‘X’ was a real challenge…I’ve procrastinated for at least two weeks trying to come up with something for this letter. Finally I just chose xenos, which means stranger in Greek (although it seems to have slightly different meanings depending on the context). 

Voices speak in tongues

Sweat clings to clothes

I can’t see the sky

Heat steams from the road

 

I’m a stranger in this city

I am xenos in this place

I speak another language

My face is a different face

 

Wide-eyed at the station

Waiting for some train

Among a crowd of locals

Go against the grain

 

Thought I’d be at home here

Back home at last

But still I am a stranger

Adrift without a mast

W is for Waveney and the Wall

In a big city near the sea, there was a small boy of ten called Waveney. He was his parents’ only child.

Six days a week Waveney went to college. On his day off he played at home or went on excursions with his parents. Waveney’s mother helped him with his reading and numbers homework. His father brought home new books and toys from the children’s market. His two friends at college liked the same things he did. It was a good life.

On one of his days off, Waveney was playing in the garden at the back of his house when he heard a scrabbling noise near the garden wall. At first he thought it was a cat, but then he heard grunting and realised it was a person.

He stared at the wall. He thought about yelling, ‘Intruder! Intruder!’ as he had seen the Officers do, but something stopped him. He just crouched there on the ground, his heart thudding, listening to the scrabbling noise on the other side of the wall.

Suddenly two thickly gloved hands appeared at the top of the wall. Soon after came a head of curly brown hair. Following that was a boy of about thirteen. He looked like a Provincial, with his laced shirt and the leather-bound amulet strung around his neck. Waveney was instantly wary. He had to be careful around Provincials. He never spoke to them because they were different. They stayed on the Northern side of the city and he stayed on the South. It had always been that way.

This Provincial did not look dangerous but there was a distinct air of confidence about him. He moved as if he owned the wall.

The boy’s gaze narrowed in on Waveney, who did not know what to do. He was angry that this young Provincial was climbing his wall; but he was also afraid that the boy might do something to him. Provincials were known to be rough and unpredictable.

‘What are you doing down there?’ said the boy.

Waveney gripped his figurines tighter and scowled. ‘Playing a game. What are you doing?’

‘Climbing this old wall. What did you think I was doing?’ There was a smirk on the boy’s face as he slung his legs over the wall.

‘You’re not allowed to climb there. It’s my wall,’ said Waveney.

‘It’s not your wall. This is the Northern side. I can climb it all I like.’

The boy and Waveney glared at each other. Waveney was sure that the wall was nowhere near the North Quarter. He thought the boy had another excuse for climbing up there, something sly. No one had climbed their wall before.

‘Are you spying on me?’ said Waveney loudly.

‘Spy on you? I have better things to do. I saw you had a fruit tree and I wanted to get some fruit.’ At that, the boy began shuffling over to the fruit tree.

‘That’s my fruit tree!’ Waveney had not cared much for the fruit tree before, but now he felt that he should protect it. He had a strong urge to defend it from this brash Provincial boy.

‘Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t,’ said the boy, plucking fruit off the tree.

Waveney felt hot and angry. He sprang up from the ground and was about to run inside and shout for help when the boy called out to him.

‘You can’t do that. Half the tree’s hanging over the Northern side. So am I. They can’t do anything.’ The boy smiled coolly as he picked more fruit off the branches.

‘The tree does not hang over your side!’ said Waveney.

‘Yes it does. If you came over my side you’d see that it does. There’s fruit all over the ground. Problem is, it’s all rotten – that’s why I have to get up here.’ The boy even had a sack to carry the fruit in. It was bulging with fruit.

‘But I can’t get over your side. I’m not allowed to,’ Waveney said, dropping his figurines. ‘And you’re probably lying.’

‘If you stop sulking and think hard enough you’ll find a way. How do you think I got up here? Did you see me flap out of the sky?’ The boy laughed and flung the sack over his shoulder.

‘You’re just a thief,’ said Waveney, scowling.

The boy grinned. ‘You’re just a baby. Thanks for the fruit!’ He nodded to Waveney and there was a dull thump as he dropped to the ground on the other side.

Waveney pouted and kicked one of his figurines, sending it tumbling across pebbles.

The boy thought he was a baby. He’d never been called that before. Waveney felt his face heat up. He hadn’t been able to defend his territory. The boy had stolen half the fruit from their tree.

Something bright and sharp sparked in Waveney’s chest. He peered up at the garden wall, at the spot where the boy had been, and for the first time wondered how to climb the wall.

V is for Vincent’s revenge

Vincent went to the community hall every day the play was showing. It was called Speaking In Tongues and it was not one of the happy plays. It was June and it was cold; the half hour walk to the theatre made Vincent sweat by the time he reached the community hall. He liked the walk. He said hello to the old man walking his little brown dog and the runner wearing pink and yellow sneakers.

Vincent was big, with a large face, grey eyes and brown hair that his sister cut for him. He wore black tracksuit pants every night. When he walked he stumped along unevenly and his hands seemed to move of their own accord. This was not ideal because his job was to help the male actors change into their costumes in the darkness off stage. The changes were very quick and he and the stage manager were supposed to make sure everything was well organised before the play began. But Sandra was always too busy sorting out issues with the lighting box, so it was usually left to him.

Vincent seemed younger than his 34 years. No one was sure how he came to be at the hall; he might have been the relative of someone on the hall committee. He just appeared at the first dress rehearsal and everyone grew used to his solid, quiet presence.

On the sixth night of the season there were problems with the lighting cues and the actor playing Leon and Nick forgot a line. The actor’s name was Tobias and he was took his theatre very seriously. Mostly he ignored Vincent, who always sat in a plastic chair in the right wings, ready to help him with his costume change. But on this night Tobias was in one of his foul moods. He swore at Vincent, who was fumbling with his costume, and then ripped the jacket from Vincent’s hands.

‘You hopeless dickhead, get out of my way!’ Tobias hissed. He yanked the jacket on, glaring through the gloom at Vincent. ‘Fucking hopeless.’ Then he slid past the curtain and was back on stage.

Vincent sat back down heavily. This was not the first time Tobias had hissed or sworn at him, but it was the first time it had been witnessed. The other male actor, whose name was Mark, was standing several feet away when Tobias lost his cool.

He approached Vincent as Tobias’s voice carried through the curtains. ‘He should apologise for that. You’re doing a good job, Vincent. Don’t take any notice of him.’

‘He’s a wanker,’ said Vincent.

‘Yes, he can be.’

Then Mark went on stage too and Vincent was left to sit in the wings, uncomfortable on the too-small chair. There were two costume changes left to go. A hot feeling spread through his belly as Vincent replaced the jumper that was up next with a purple and pink hoodie that Sandra had changed out of before the show and forgotten to remove.

Vincent sat in the darkness, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and waited for the stage lights to dim for the next scene.

U is for Uncool

Casual Day. It was supposed to be a day of freedom from woollen skirts, misshapen jumpers and socks that fell down. In reality, though, it meant something else.

In Year 8 at Moorland Girls’ High, things were changing fast. Actually, things had really changed last year when Maya Williamson kissed Lucas Gallo at a party. Even before that, though, girls had begun buying makeup and gossiping about boys and huddling in tight groups. Suddenly half the girls in Caitlin’s year wanted to be 17.

Caitlin’s friend Lena was from a coastal town and had no patience for girly stuff. ‘It’s a waste of time,’ she said. ‘All that for boys? I can tell you my brothers don’t give a crap about what brand of jeans you’re wearing.’ Last Casual Day Lena had worn the same outfit that she’d worn the previous year. It was okay, though, because Lena didn’t care – and she had older brothers who surfed.

Other girls could be brought down with whispers and texts that spread through the year like the flu. Hannah Goffey, with her frizzy hair and preference for too-short pants was a reliable target for snide comments, but anyone was fair game. For many girls, the lead up to Casual Day was a project in how to not be picked on and not be labelled as uncool.

Unlike Lena, Caitlin had just one brother and he was six years old. He thought any clothes looked good. Definitely unhelpful. And even worse was Caitlin’s mother. She had been humiliated more than once by her mother’s unique sense of style. Caitlin still squirmed when she remembered last year’s end of year Casual Day. She would never again wear velvet or overalls after that. Caitlin had laughed along with the jokes and pretended it was all a prank, but inside she had shrivelled up. Her mother might be able to get away with odd outfits, but Caitlin couldn’t. She’d just have to go it alone from now on.

Six weeks before Casual Day, Caitlin volunteered for chores around the house to get more pocket money. She had spent time working out what the latest look was by eavesdropping on Maya and Zoey Frost’s conversations during Drama class. She decided that she would have to get something new to wear and was happy to find just the thing at a shop in the city.

She didn’t show her mother what she’d bought despite her pestering. This year she would not be humiliated. She would look cool.

The last day of term arrived. Caitlin quickly ate breakfast and put on her new clothes. With a shiver of excitement, she stared at her reflection in the hallway mirror. It was definitely different. She wasn’t used to wearing tight jeans and lopsided tops. The jeans were uncomfortable and the top made her feel off balance, but this was the fashion. She’d done her research and now she just had to go with it. Feeling rebellious, she called out that she would get the early train and managed to run out the door before her mother could catch sight of her.

Caitlin’s heart was thumping like a rabbit’s by the time she reached the school gates. Girls streamed into the school in casual clothes; the morning was noisy with laughter and fast commentary. Skinny jeans were everywhere and Caitlin felt her spirits lift when she saw more than one other girl wearing an asymmetrical top. She felt sure that she wouldn’t have to defend herself from ridicule this year.

In the locker room Caitlin quickly looked around at her classmates. Once again Hannah was wearing pants that finished well before her ankles. Vanessa Lee had on a shirt covered in frills and lace.

Lena was in black pants and a stripy t-shirt. She stood a metre back from Caitlin and raised her eyebrows.

‘Wow, you look…like Maya,’ said Lena.

Caitlin blinked and glanced across the room. Maya was wearing almost the exact same clothes as her. They met each other’s eyes for a moment across the room and then Maya muttered something to Zoey, whose eyes narrowed. A heavy weight dropped back onto Caitlin’s shoulders. She felt the waistband of the jeans cutting into her skin.

‘I think I liked you better in the overalls,’ said Lena.

T is for Tree at the top

Not far from where I live the land rises up in a series of hills. They huddle together along the Eastern horizon, swathed in trees and dotted with houses that perch precariously. Each morning the sun breaks over the hills and casts its bright morning light over the plains of the city. The hills hold a certain mystery, an aura of permanence. The hills watch and wait. In the hills, the earth is still strong.

One hill stands out from its sisters. You can see it easily from the airport, 15 kilometres away, for it is a bare hill – a Brownhill. It rears up at the head of the hilly belt. A single dirt track can be seen winding up from the circle of eucalypts that thin out a quarter of the way up. Straggly bushes and windblown acacias grow here and there.
In the warm months, from October to March, the hill is a dusty brown, dried up by the fierce sun. In the cooler months, grass shoots up and green flushes across the hill. Occasionally you can hear the muffled moos of cows that still graze on the hill, but mainly the animals there are birds. Crows and magpies swoop, sing and swagger. This is their patch.

Brownhill does look bare, but if you stand at a distance you will see that it is crowned by a single tree. It sits proudly at the top of the hill, perhaps 10 metres tall, and plays host to a variety of birds throughout the day. From afar it looks just like broccoli with its sturdy trunk and densely bunched branches. Through beating sun, lashing rain and roaring wind, the broccoli tree stands atop Brownhill, steadfast in its lofty position, watching the world go by.

S is for Sleepless

‘Happy Halloween’ (19 October 2011), image courtesy of Richard Elzey on Flickr.com at https://flic.kr/p/axnbV4.

With a jump in the bed

I wake in the dark

Check the time on the clock

And that’s when it starts

The memories, rushing in

That night, two years ago

A car that crashed

Left her on the road

It happened so fast

Water slicked the ground

They couldn’t see her bike

They didn’t slow down

I grab the radio, turn it on

Drown out that night, that sight

But it doesn’t stop

The images turning in my mind

The hours will pass

I’ll lie awake and drifting

In and out of that nightmare

The sleepless, the dead, the living.

I must be in one of my morbid moods! As a bicycle rider myself, the thought of being hit by a car (or seeing someone be hit) is frightening. Two people I know have recently had this experience, so it is close to home.