Messing around with the gee gees

Evenings are getting longer and lighter.

Rather than dodging darkness and downpours to dispense food and apply rugs, we can take our time to enjoy messing around with the gee gees.

Horse phobia is apparently not genetic.

Jarrah is R’s horse.

R thinks Blade also belongs to him.

But according to the Ginger Biscuit, Ginger Blade (aka “The Racing Horse”) is her, ALL hers.

And so are all the carrots.

While Toffee has been sort of outgrown, and Dancer is convalescing, Dave is the Farmboy’s steed of choice.

But Farmboy has his eye on the newest arrival, Rosie.

She’s Blade’s half-sister and Jarrah’s niece (or something similar- horse pedigrees are still largely beyond me).

Farmboy says she’s going to be his showjumping horse.

I’m told that she’s at the “ugly duckling” stage, and she will grow out of it.

We can only hope.

On the road

Well, look at that! It’s been three months since my last confession… err, post. Oops.

I’d like to have a decent excuse- a secret overseas mission, the birth of new triplets, my enormous Lotto win, but sadly none of these apply. It isn’t like I don’t have any free time. I guess I’ve just been choosing to spend it elsewhere. Like afternoons with Norman (my regular riding school horse), and running.

Yep, I’m back on the road, after more than 5 years and numerous half-arsed attempts- still more penguin than Pheidippides, but we’re getting there.

Most of the time we’re going around the paddocks. The downside to this off-road route is that if I have to take the pram, I’m pushing an extra 30kg through sand and mud and basically, I nearly die. The down side to the other option- running on the bitumenised road- is that I may well actually die, courtesy of the many country vehicles, including huge grain and sheep trucks, that hammer up and down our road. This is a rural area, so the idea of using one’s legs to move from place to place is quite foreign and not something drivers here would expect to encounter. Also, the black plumage of a penguin tends to blend into the background. 

But this is my newest bit of running gear (thanks to the lovely Boss, who really doesn’t want me to die because then he’d have to do all the reading of Hairy Maclary, every single night):

The other obstacle to be overcome in my quest for regular running time is winter, daylight and the lack of it. Generally if I want to squeeze a run in before school and work, I have to go around 5am. In case anyone isn’t up and well into their day by that time, at 5am in May, it’s very dark. Most paddocks have sheep in them (generally rather pregnant ewes at this time of year), and even though most of the dogs in my running pack have pretty good recalls, it isn’t beyond some of them (hello, Mabel! Ziggy! Elvis! Queani!!) to accidentally drop behind in the dark… and meet us at the gate with five hundred woolly friends. Here’s my solution:

Taking a few of the pack out to test drive the new gear was brilliant. Running through the paddocks below the silhouette of redgums against a clear starstrewn night sky, the dogs orbitting around me like huge blue fireflies- I was in heaven. As we went across White Dam paddock on a path halfway up the hill, a car passed along the road about 400m below, slowing abruptly and then crawling along until they rounded the bend, stopped at our driveway- I wondered if they were considering warning us of approaching alien life- and then took off again. I’m hoping we make Today Tonight!

Of course, being able to see the dogs is one thing, being able to see the ground is another.

Some of our paddocks have quite a few rocks in them.

(and yes, I’m aware that with such massive expanses of fluorescent white doubling as legs, my high-vis gear is probably redundant)

Australians all let us rejoice... or Aussie Aussie Aussie, Oy Oy Oy!

I couldn't decide on a title, so I'm having both.



Today is Australia Day, a celebration of all that's great about our country and our people. It's one of my favourite public holidays because it makes the most sense, because the weather is always fabulous, and because there are no obligations, no cards to be sent, no rituals to observe- it's just pure unadulterated celebration, however you feel like celebrating.



I have been thinking recently about what being Australian means to me, and how I can help BabyJ grow up with a strong sense of Australian identity. It was deep, it was insightful, and I'm not going to bore you with it here, except to say that I'm pretty sure J's journey will involve Banjo Paterson, circle work, the subtle olive beauty of the Goldfields scrub and the dusty red drama of the Kimberley, slogging one over the fence on the way to a backyard ton, meat pies, yabbies, goanna and damper, learning to take the mickey out of his mates, himself and life in general, cold nights in a warm swag as the Southern Cross slews across the sky, and one day standing on the airport steps, Eureka flag on his backpack, the whole world at his feet, ready to step out and grab it with both hands, but always knowing the way home.









We spent Australia Day this year at the Kojonup Picnic Races, which is the big local shindig, a great excuse to get a bit tarted up and gather at the polocrosse grounds/racetrack for horses, gambling, beer and sun- 38 degrees, in fact. I was the course doctor, so I had to forgo alcohol for the adrenaline-charged buzz of waiting for jockeys to maim themselves. Can I really handle a flail chest in the field? Fortunately I didn't get to find out, everyone went home in one piece and I did get to finish the evening with a couple of cold ones. R won a few dollars (well, broke even, anyway) and J was in heaven with horses everywhere, a merry-go-round, bouncy castle, sandpit complete with diggers, and a Mr Whippy van. Life just doesn't get better!

From this:


To this:




To this, before you can say "Yippee, it's Mr Whippy!"



Happiness is: icecream, and a winning bet!


Race day scenery:


My friendly ambos:



The barrier moving, farm-style:








Farmboy at the bouncy castle:




Merry-go-round:


This adorable babe is Dougal, from Don Robertson's Booroola stud, north of us. He'll be coming to do a bit of training at our place when he's bigger.






J refuses to accept the dismantling of the merry-go-round.
"Now, where's the ignition on this thing?":


Diggers! (please note the Holden shirt- you can't say we aren't patriotic)