Kate's Country

I Will Always Love You, Dolly.

2011-11-29T10:55:00.000+08:00

I, like most people, have always known who Dolly Parton is. The sky is blue, the grass is green, Dolly Parton has humongous boobs.

My first encounter with her music, however, came in the 1990's, when I, like every other pre pubescent school girl became a fan of Australian band Frente, thanks to their catchy pop number Accidentally Kelly Street.

While I can't remember a single thing I learnt for my Year 12 Human Biology exam, I can still sing that song word for word.

Anyway I was given the single for Christmas that year, or perhaps it was my birthday? It was a tape of course in those days, and on the B side was a song called Here You Come Again. I loved that song even more than Accidentally Kelly Street and it got a fair amount of air time that summer at our holiday house.

While I explained to my parents how talented this Australian band Frente was, Dad did his usual job of raining on the parade. "They didn't write that song, Dolly Parton did. And she sung it well too, not like that woman with the nose ring."

(I think he would have like the cover better if Angie Hart didn't have a nose ring.)

This was a little bit of deja vu. A couple of years earlier I'd had a similar infatuation with Whitney Houston and what I thought was her song, I Will Always Love You.

On that occassion, Dad had been quick to point me in the right direction. "Dolly Parton wrote this and her version is far, far better."

After rifling through Mum and Dad's record collection, I realised he was in fact right. Dolly wasn't just all about the boobs.

And so begun my love affair with Dolly.

An affair helped along of course by statements Ms Parton made, like "Dumb blonde jokes don't offend me, because I know I'm not dumb. I also know I'm not blonde."

My kind of lady.

P.S Look how beautiful she was.

Giddy on...down.

2011-11-29T10:17:00.000+08:00

Yesterday was Melbourne Cup Day.
I went shopping in the morning. At 35 weeks I thought it was probably time I got a few things organised for the hospital. I bought All Bran cereal, absorbent pads for EVERYWHERE, nipple cream and ginormous undies.

As I was leaving the shop, two girls about my age dashed in, wearing gorgeous frocks, fabulous facinators and ridiculous but beautiful heels.

I looked at them, then looked in my shopping bag and before I knew it I could feel tears springing in my eyes. I raced to my car, well, waddled to my car, where I sat and sobbed for about ten minutes.

They were the first real tears I've cried since I got pregnant. Hormones are a funny thing. While husbands are given dire warnings about the emotional fragility of their wives during pregnancy, I for one have never felt more balanced. Gone is the monthly roller coaster of emotion and irritability. And tears, well I am struggling to remember crying even once over the last 9 months.

Mind you the bloke who tapped on my car window to ask if I was alright probably wouldn''t have believed that.

"Oh yes I'm fine, I'm just suffering severe back pain." was my reply.

Back pain, and heart break for a chapter in my life that's about to be closed.

I didn't dare tell him I was distressed because I'd traded bronzer for nipple cream, champagne for prune juice and stilettos for sneakers. And just as well.

"It's those shoes youse young girls wear these days, back breakers. Yer mad, all of youse."

The end of an innings for one of my great loves

2011-08-17T10:56:00.000+08:00

With a few exceptions (including, it must be said, my brilliant husband), my track record with fellas hasn't been all that fabulous over the years.

Some blokes I've taken a fancy to have had minor issues. There was one with poor grooming habits and personal hygiene, one who supported the Dockers and another who drove a Hyundai Excel.

Others have had bigger issues. There was the one who is now gay, and another with drug induced anger management issues.

One of my biggest weaknesses when it comes to men is that I have often been misguided in my loyalty.

Never was there a man that I was more loyal to than Shane Warne.

I was about 14 when I was first captivated by Warnie.

When he'd appear in the lounge room of our Miami holiday house a buzz would go through the room. Whether it was just me and Dad in front of the Rank Arena or a house full of holiday makers visiting for afternoon beers, the excitement was palpable.

He wasn't just a cricketer, he was a showman and I was in love.

It wasn't, obviously, just his cricketing prowess that sucked me in. He was a spunk then with bleach blonde hair and a bit of bling in his ear. I also really loved the fact that his diet consisted of baked beans and fags. What a man.

At the height of my Warnie mania I found out he was signing copies of his book in the City. My Dad wrote me a note to excuse me from a school excursion so I could go and get my book signed. I guess Dad thought giving me permission to meet Warnie was better than me wagging school to go to the beach?

I met Warnie, had my booked sign, my photo taken and went home on cloud 9. Thinking back on that meeting years later I was slightly miffed there was no untoward advances made in my direction.

Through the years, through the scandals, from diuretics to text messages and extramarital affairs, my candle for Warnie may have waned a little but, it was never extinguished completely.

That was until yesterday when a cold bucket of water was tipped right over said flame.

Yesterday I discovered the attached photo of the newly dubbed "Scrawny Warnie."

It is perhaps the long overdue end of what has been one of the great loves of my lifetime.

Thanks for the memories Warnie.

Now bugger off, I can no longer look at you.

Pulled Pork

2011-06-14T09:12:00.000+08:00

My friend Claire is in New York City at the moment and stumbled upon this terrific street stall.

The Mystery of the Missing Diary

2011-06-02T08:16:00.001+08:00

I was reunited with my diary yesterday.

Last week I turned my house, office and car upside down looking for my diary.

My life is literally in that little book. Every appointment, meeting, interview and important phone number is in that diary. My menstrual and pay cycles are also well documented in that diary. Not that the two are in any way related.

I was a mess last week. Was I coming or going? Was I Arthur or Martha?

A breakthrough in the mystery of the disappearing diary came last Wednesday with a phone call.

"G'day Kate, it's Danny at Dowerin, I've got your diary."

Come gain, excuse me, or as the young kids say these days WTF? How on earth did my diary end up in Dowerin?

"I won the quiz on your breakfast show last week, you know the Ukulele Quiz? Well I've just received my prize in the mail- great CD, but your diary was also in the envelope."

It went on.

"I'm really sorry, but I've read some of it. I thought it was part of the prize but then I saw all these appointments written in in pen and pencil and realised it belonged to you."

Oh Lord. Has he read about which body parts I have waxed on a regular basis? Does he now know when I'm ovulating? He certainly now knows that I'm not naturally blonde these days.

Horrified, looking to somehow explain my embarrassing mishap, I told Danny at Dowerin that it must have been a blonde moment. Nice work Kate, just in case he didn't already think you had a few screws loose.

Although, it's possible that Danny read enough of my diary to suspect that I may well have had an attack of so called baby brain.

Unable to have a stiff drink to overcome my embarrassment, I think I'll have to buy Danny one when I'm in Dowerin for the Field Days in August.

A Live Debate (mach 2)

2011-06-01T13:12:00.003+08:00

Like most people having their two bobs worth on the issue at the moment, I am no expert on the live trade. I have, however spent a number of years working in pastoral areas of Western Australia as a rural journalist, and along the way I have formed an opinion or two. I am also married to a live exporter and my in-laws farm beef.

I have been trying to bite my tongue and ignore the comments by both friends and strangers calling for a total ban on live export since Four Corners broadcast A Bloody Business on Monday night.

But remaining balanced and without an opinion at work is one thing. It's the right thing, and I respect my position and would never and have never expressed a view or opinion about anything other than my football team.

But it doesn't stop me wanting to defend the livelihood of my family and friends "out of hours."

The footage on Four Corners on Monday night was disgraceful. Two days on I still haven't been able to watch the entire program. (Although it should be said I'm a bit soft when it comes to seeing roos shot and chooks beheaded too.)

The subsequent decision by the federal government to block trade to 11 abattoirs was the right decision. However I totally disagree with calls to completely banning the export of cattle from Australia to Indonesia.

Why? Because banning the live trade will do NOTHING to address animal cruelty in Indonesia. Surely those of you calling for a ban on the live trade are concerned about the plight of animals of every race and religion? Not just Australian animals?

If Australia stops exporting to Indonesia, that country will simply source live cattle elsewhere. This week the the Indonesian government has confirmed it is not interested in taking any more chilled boxed meat from Australia.

The only impact a total ban on live trade will have, will be to decimate the Australian cattle industry (not just those involved in live export) and the many thousands of people, families and communities that make a living from farming cattle.

I personally feel that Livecorp and MLA have a massive case to answer. There job is to prevent cruelty to Australian animals in Indonesia. They have failed. There needs to be a total overhaul of management, auditing and inspection of all facilities in Indonesia.

And those that don’t comply need to be shut out of the Australian market immediately. Without question.

However I believe that what was broadcast on Four Corners this week is a minority practice in Indonesia. It’s a minority practice because Australia has been working there for years teaching Indonesians how to kill cattle in a way that is acceptable to those of us living in the Western world.

It's simply not newsworthy to broadcast images of the clean abattoirs where they kill animals using Western methods and meet Western standards.

Without Australians working in Indonesia, chipping away slowly but surely with education and resources, the cruelty towards animals will NEVER end.

It is a very difficult task and one that Australia has a moral obligation to continue.

Have you been to Bali for a holiday? When you see how the Indonesians treat their own people, you can see how hard it is to change their mindset in regard to animals. But terrific work is being done and real, measurable progress has been made.

You call the Live Trade shameful? I believe to simply walk away from Indonesia and wash our hands of their animal welfare issues would be shameful.

And it’s worth making the distinction- live exporting, putting animals on boats to Indonesia is not the problem. The problem lies in some abattoirs, not the actual process of exporting the cattle.

I feel that it would be a complete disaster if the atrocious actions of a minority were to result in the whole industry being wiped out. We don’t sack entire police forces because of a handful of corrupt coppers; we don’t ban the entire church because of a handful of perverted priests.

Oh and one more thing. Those of you who have now given up eating meat because of what you saw on Four Corners? You’re simply depriving yourselves of one of the joys in life. The only thing that forgoing that juicy steak will impact is your protein level. You won’t influence the live trade or the Indonesian industry in any way shape or form.

To be sure!

2011-03-17T05:46:00.000+08:00

Happy St Pat's to you!

Isn't it fabulous the way we Aussie's embrace and celebrate St Patrick's Day with such enthusiasm?

We wouldn't dream of paying hommage to the Poms, Yanks or Frenchies with such gusto.

I'd like to say it's about more than just the drinking, but I'm not so sure?

Anyway in the spirit of St Patrick's Day, I would like to introduce you to my new favourite band.

Their name is Flogging Molly and fronted by a bloke by the name of David King.

Their sound? There's no mistaking it, they're quintessentialy Irish.

The Passion is back

2011-03-14T09:26:00.000+08:00

It was only a matter of time and quite frankly I am suprised it's taken this long. I discovered Passion Pop in a can on the weekend at the Mingenew Races.

It had been about eleven years since my last sip, swig or guzzle of the Pop, and I have to say I was pleasantly surprised.

It's no Veuve or Bolly, but it was delish none the less.

If the young fillies track side are a barometer, the repackaging has seen Passion Pop make a come back.

That's the thing about Passion Pop, as I learnt many years ago, it just keeps coming back...

A closed book

2011-03-10T16:41:00.001+08:00

I've given up the Book. Cold Turkey. Well if the truth be told, I did have a look over the husband's shoulder a few nights ago, but I am no longer participating in Facebook.

The Book was starting to trouble me. Had Facebook changed? Or had I?

Don't get me wrong, I had no problem with others knowing my business, it was other peoples business that was making me uncomfortable.

DISCOMFORT # 1.
I was "friends" with teenage children of friends. Children who should not be having sex, much less posting details of it on Facebook. Children who are too young to be using the C word that rhymes stunt. Children who most definitely shouldn't be talking about the "gear" they're lining up for the weekend’s party.

DISCOMFORT #2.
Ultrasound pictures of foetuses. Perhaps it's because I am not a mother that I don't understand why anyone would post an ultrasound picture of their developing foetus on Facebook. To me there are some things that are deeply personal and for me my womb is one of them.

DISCOMFORT #3.
People are a lot ballsier, or perhaps just a lot ruder on Facey. I found that some people were writing things that they wouldn't dream of saying to my face.

In the beginning I adored Facebook. It quenched my insatiable desire to know everything that was going on in everyone's world. The Book also helped me reconnect with some old mates. But over time I realised there are reasons why they're "old" mates. (Not to be confused with mates I've had for a long time!)

Since bushing the Book, my productivity has soared in the office and at home. I have had far more, what I like to call "voice-on-voice" conversations with gorgeous friends and perhaps most telling of all I have stopped thinking in status updates.

It's been delightful to hear fabulous news on the old fashioned "grape-vine" and it's a lot easier to take unpleasant news when someone tells you to your face rather than accidentally stumbling over it on the Book.

I'm not the first to give up Facey and I will not be the last. And it may not be a permanent move. But at this point in time, I am happy not knowing what you cooked for dinner.

And I'll bet you're just as happy not knowing that I bought yet another pair of boots.

To market, to market

2011-02-12T10:54:00.003+08:00

Farmers Markets are super popular here in the West right now and the Geraldton Farmers Market is small but fabulous.

I'm not a hippie and I don't have a thing about eating organic tucker...I just LOVE all the beautiful produce.

Farm eggs, Vietnamese veggies, pickles & jams, mangoes from Carnarvon, pot plants and even chooks for sale!

I bought some olive oil soap and this baby pink snapper. YUMMO.

It got us thinking...we know a town that would kill it in with a farmers market, and we just might be able to come up with something to sell too!

Cheap and Chic

2011-02-08T15:51:00.003+08:00

Short and sweet today, I simply wanted to rate the Red Carpet at the Alan Border Medal last night.

Snaps to the Cricketers WAG's, who, in the whole, were exceptionally beautiful and very classy. Chic.

I especially loved Amy and Kirsty Hussey and Lee Furlong.

It's hard not to compare them to the AFL WAG's who appear to channel Dolly Parton, who once said "You'd be surprised how much it costs to look this cheap." Think Brynne Edelsten and Tanya Buckley.

Fast money

2011-02-07T12:40:00.002+08:00

I have a penchant for fast food. I pretty much love most things that come out of a bain-marie. Crab sticks, hot chips and toasted sandwiches are my favourites.

And I have a confession to make. I really do like crumbed chicken, cheese sausages.

I don’t eat them often.

In fact the last time I had one was at the end of ’09, at Roebuck Plains Roadhouse.

My beloved just about had a coronary; it was a side of me that he had never seen. My deep dark secret. I justified my choice by claiming the worst hang over I’d EVER had (It was pretty nasty) and I have never again ordered one, such was the severity of the scolding.

Having just confessed all that, I’m a little bit miffed by my absolute horror at the number of people driving in and out of a certain fried chicken shop next door to my office. It starts at about ten o’clock in the morning and doesn’t let up ALL DAY. I’m not even sure if it’s open at ten- people could be queuing to get in?

I wish I could bottle the smell that wafts through the air conditioner in the morning, as the children who work there change the oil. I would distribute little vials all around Geraldton.

Guaranteed, no one would eat there again.

My horror is partly at the number of people eating there so early in the day, but, at the risk of sounding a little bit uppity, it’s partly at the sort of person eating there so early in the day. I’m sure you don’t need me to paint you a picture, but I have included one with this post just in case you’re not sure what I’m getting at.

Cashed up bogans are partial to sucking on a fried leg, however in the main, from my astute observation, it looks as though it’s the low income earners in town who eat there.

This miffs me too.

The only reason I can think of as to why they’d shop there rather than across the road at the very nice family run and significantly CHEAPER fish and chip shop, which also does fried chicken, is that next door you do not have to get out of your car.

I don’t for one second think that I’m living in a glass house, but HELLO lady in your hotted up 1992 Commodore with your “Fuck off we’re full” bumper sticker and noisy exhaust! You NEED to get out of your car.

But rather than encouraging Commodore lady out of her car to burn off even a couple of those chicken calories, this town is working hard to facilitate her.

Geraldton proudly boasts (and when I say boast I mean BOAST) the state’s first ever drive thru ATM? I thought it was a joke when someone first told me, and I thought, “Poor Geraldton, everyone giving it such a hard time!” But no my friends, it’s no joke, we are in fact too lazy to stand at an ATM and punch a few numbers in.

So as the forty-fifth commodore of the day pulls into the drive thru next door for lunch, via the ANZ ATM no doubt, I ponder my lunch options.

I really do fancy a toasted chicken, cheese and mayo sandwich from across the road.

But I have no cash and will have to walk about five hundred meters up the road to an ATM.

Don't forget the Gascoyne!

2011-01-03T08:54:00.006+08:00

I had a birds eye view of two historic events during 2010, both declared natural disasters.

My year started at work, in Toodyay, covering the aftermath of the bushfire that destroyed almost 40 homes, businesses, farms and local infrastructure.

I finished the year at work in Carnarvon, covering the flooding of the Gascoyne River, which inundated hundreds of homes, businesses and destroyed farms, stations and local infrastructure.

While the Toodyay fire happened more than a year ago, the recovery continues, both practically for those who continue to rebuild their homes and emotionally for those who continue to rebuild their lives.

The clean up and recovery from the Gascoyne flood has only just begun, and it won't be a quick process.

For those of us who don't live in the Gascoyne, it's easy to forget what happened there only a matter of weeks ago. Carnarvon has disappeared from the front page of the newspaper and it no longer gets a spot on our nightly news. (Though it must be said the ABC Local Radio coverage continues!)

Most of us have enjoyed a Christmas and New Year celebration since then.

And now Queensland is dominating the headlines, as that state braces for its worst flooding in history.

While there's no doubt that Queensland will need the help of the entire nation, to clean up and rebuild, let's not forget the people of the Gascoyne, who contribute so much to this fabulous, but at times, cruel, state of ours.

Donate to the Perth Lord Mayor's Appeal.

Helens' Fruit Cake

2010-12-08T08:42:00.005+08:00

This is Helen. She looks a bit fruity in this picture! In fact she does fruity well... she makes a ripper fruit cake that's a staple of the Matthews family Christmas.

When I was little, and if the truth be told, not so little, I would go through the fruit while it was left on the stove absorbing the grog and golden syrup and pick all the cherrys out.

I also like eating the creamed butter and sugar.

Once the cake's baked, it's especially nice with a thick spread of butter on it, a nasty habit my father taught me. Others enjoy it with cream or icecream. Mum reckons it's best by itself with a cup of tea.

Here 'tis- in old fashioned measurements.

2 1/2 pounds of mixed fruit

2 tablespoons of golden syrup ( or honey)

3 (or more) tablespoons of brandy, sherry or rum

3/4 cup of water

1/2 teaspoon of salt

1/4 teaspoon of cinnamon

1/2 pound of butter

1/2 pound of brown sugar

5 eggs

10 ounces of plain flour

2 ounces of self raising flour

2 teaspoons of mixed spice

3/4 teaspoon of nutmeg

Place fruit, golden syrup, brandy and water in a saucepan and boil for two minutes. Pour onto a bowl, cover and stand overnight. ( Here is the opportunity to steal the cherry's!)

Cream butter and sugar, add eggs one at a time.

Sift dry ingredients then sift half of the dry ingredients over the boiled fruit mixture, mix lightly, then blend into creamed mixture. Add remainder of flour and blend well.

Line an eight inch tin with baking paper THREE times. Bake at 150 degrees celsius for two and a half hours.

You could bake it in a terracotta flower pot, then turn it upside down then cover it in icing...then you have a christmas bell! If you are going to bake it in a terracotta pot, only bake at 120 degrees celsius.

Wedding Weight Woes

2010-11-15T14:11:00.011+08:00

In recent months I've tried a range of weight loss techniques in order to fit into a wedding dress that at the time of purchase was a size and a bit too small for me.

The ladies at the shop try their best to convince me to, at the very least, order a 14. I even sign a form saying I won't hold them liable if I don't fit into the size 12 dress when it arrives FOUR months later.

The problem is, the dress arrives THREE months later, meaning I am four weeks and five kilos out in the weight loss regime.

(Please note I use the term regime fairly loosely.)

The first five came off quite quickly. Root canal gone wrong, three stints in hospital, allergic reaction to pain killers, throw up for a week and presto. Five kilos gone. And a tooth to boot!

During this tooth nightmare, I discovered laxatives. A handful of laxatives does the trick on the scales. The only problem is that when you work in an open plan office with one female toilet, running back and forward ten times an hour starts to look suspicious.

I've tried the high protein no carb diet, which again is good for the weight loss, but again, not so good in an open plan office. One more tin of sardines and my colleagues will lodge a grievance against me.

Speaking of grievances, I will be launching one against said bridal frock shop. A letter arrives saying my dress is in store ready to be paid for in full, a month early, and I can collect it Monday to Friday between 9 and 4.

Well, I live in the country and the dress is a month early and I'm still five kilos overweight, I'll just collect the dress at my convenience.

Snotty shop lady: It must be paid for in full within seven days of it arriving in our store.

Kate: I'll pay you over the phone then come and collect it next time I'm in Perth.

Snotty shop lady: No you must try it on and check it before it can be paid for.

Kate: Well I live in Geraldton and work full time so it will have to be on a Saturday in a few weeks time.

Snotty shop lady: No it must be this week and it can't be a Saturday. You'll have to take a day off work, there are too many people in the store on a Saturday, someone might step on it or touch it.

Kate: Lady, it's just a dress. I can't take a day off work just to pick up a dress.

Snotty shop lady: THIS MY DEAR IS NOT JUST A DRESS!!!

After a while she got my drift and I tried it on and paid for it on a SATURDAY. And it fit too, which I was quite smug about.

I just can't sit down in it or drink or eat anything while wearing it.

So for the next two months, it's air & water. And no alcohol. And probably a bit of exercise.

So much effort for one single day!

To look good for a bloke who had no problem conning me up, and as it turns out falling in love with me, when I tipped the scales at 83 kilos.

I've said it once, I'll say it again. Our priorities are all arse about. (A sizable arse.)

PS. That's not actually me in the photo...

Redemption?

2010-08-27T09:13:00.000+08:00

Two of my all time favourite famous people are Benny Cousins and Johnny Cash.

I adore Cash's music. So much so that we've named our new dog after him. Now we have Cash and Dusty, after Slim. Let it be said that Dusty pre dates me so I had no hand in naming him.

Likewise I have adored Benny Cousins since I was fifteen years old. I am a West Coast devotee, but it was certainly Ben's good looks, hot bod and charisma that got me hooked at 15. It's an addiction I've been unable to kick since, despite the circus of the past ten years.

I can't say I adore him now, but I can't write him off.

I feel heartbroken after watching "Such is Life" last night. Say what you will about Ben Cousin's, watching his father speak about his ordeal was emotional and distressing.

And my distress and sadness is heightened, because I honestly wonder how Ben Cousins is ever going to survive post football. When you've adored someone for almost 15 years, albeit from a far, it's sad to face the reality that perhaps their ultimate demise is inevitable.

My hope comes from Johnny Cash. Perhaps the most influential singer song writer in history.

A drug addict.

Johnny Cash's story was one of extreme talent, extreme success and extreme wealth. His story was one of struggle for survival and ultimately one of redemption.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if Ben continues to walk the Johnny Cash line until the very end.

Like father like daughter

2010-04-11T20:35:00.000+08:00

I'm turning into my father. (See picture.)

If it was his admirable attributes I was acquiring then I wouldn't be concerned in the slightest.

He is a man of honesty, integrity, loyalty and passion.

But, I fear, that his dark side is becoming my dark side.

I, like my father, am the quintessential bad sport.

You see, football, is determining my state of mind, and my state of mind tonight, is poor.

To say the least.

And what's worse, is that I'm less concerned about my side losing three on the trot, than I am about the arch enemy winning three on the trot.

While I know deep down that it's sheer arsey luck that the opposition have won their first three matches and that they will, inevitably, come crashing down to earth, I still hate to see them succeed.

Even for five minutes.

And mark my word, that's what it is. Five minutes. Not a second more.

What's more, I absolutely detest people who support my team, but say, "Oh well at least it's another WA team doing well. "

It's club football. Not state football. You dickheads

For the love of god learn some integrity. And while you're at it, some loyalty, honesty and passion.

Thank you and goodnight.

Credit where credit is due

2010-04-07T20:17:00.000+08:00

Goon, boxy, chateau de cardboard, plonk or lady in a boat.

There's no denying it, the trusty old cask wine holds a special place in the heart of most Australians whether they admit it or not.

Australians drink more than 180 litres of cask wine a year.

I know it's not terribly high brow of me to blog about goon, but following the death of its inventor Thomas Angove last week, I thought a few words were in order.

South Australian winemaker Thomas Angove died aged 92. He invented the wine in a box in 1965.

What a legacy he's left.

My own personal experience occurred in 1998 somewhere in the Perth Hills. I say somewhere in the Perth Hills because after half a carton of fruity lexia I had no idea where I was.

It's been said that "fruity lexia makes you sexier." So true. I was HOT that February night. It's just a shame I was the only one who thought so.

The sexy theory wasn't the only one I'd worked on that day. "Eating's cheating" is another one that's ringing bells.

I was in Year 1o and at a party held by a boy in my class. For a teenage girl with low self esteem cask wine was a panacea.

I've never forgotten the kindness said year 10 boys sisters showed me that night. Holding my hair while I threw up in their parents bath.

Not that I've had a chance to forget. One of them is now married to one of Woody's best mates. (Perth. Capital city or small town?)

But my point is, who doesn't have a story similar to that? I reckon there's plenty and many worse than mine.

How many children have been conceived after a night on the goon? (I may have even been one of them? Or it could have been West Coast Coolers, not sure?)

Even now, many of my amazing women friends (although not my Kimberley mates- cask wine is banned there) have been seen doing the bottle shop walk of shame, quickly ducking into the bottlo after work, then ducking out again eyes down, cask tucked under the arm, praying they don't see anyone they know.

So as I sit here sipping (swigging) my glass of Vasse Felix white, thinking I'm all grown up, I salute you Thomas Angove.

May you Rest in Peace. And may the wine be plentiful!

A live debate

2010-03-27T10:37:00.000+08:00

I'm getting on my soap box for just a minute.

The Live Export debate has reared its head again this week following the death of more than two hundred and fifty head of cattle en route to Egypt from WA.

http://www.abc.net.au/rural/wa/content/2010/03/s2855150.htm

Five years ago, like most city kids, I knew nothing about the live trade. And despite knowing nothing, if asked, I most likely would have said I opposed it.

Some people will never be convinced that the trade is "right", and that's perfectly reasonable. Everyone's entitled to their opinion.

But wouldn't it be nice if everyone who had an opinion on the live trade had an informed opinion.

Meet my mate Annabelle Coppin. A Pilbara pastoralist, Annabelle won a Nuffield Scholarship and spent most of 2008 investigating and developing a clearer understanding of why it is so important that the live trade continues.

Animal welfare was just one of the issues Annabelle considered.

"There is legitimacy behind some of the pressure from animal interests groups in response to isolated but unacceptable animal welfare practices in the live export supply chain. Changes, even for the better, do not usually eventuate in any human culture without pressure. However, the solution put forward by these groups in response to any of these challenges is to simply ban the live export trade. This is a vision which does not appreciate the thousands of livelihoods involved in the supply chain or the Australian livestock industry’s future contribution to the nation’s economy and responsibility to supply the global market place with food it demands and requires.

Banishing Australian livestock will not magically improve animal welfare and slaughter practices as there is no evidence to support the claim that stopping live exports will have any positive influence on attitudinal change towards global animal welfare."

Check out the rest of Annabelle's report "Sailing ahead - the Australian livestock export trade"

http://www.liveexportcare.com.au/StockmansBlog/Annabelle/AnnabellesBlog.htm

Off me soap box now.

Sabotage

2010-03-23T19:28:00.000+08:00

So far this year I have been in the midst of fire and flood (kind of)...all I need now is a famine and I'd have the full compliment.

Then I might actually lose some weight. Lord knows it would be the only way.

Admittedly I did get off to a good start, but I have now come to a big fat stand still.

Why, you ask?

Last week:
Lady issues. Which, if you didn't know fellas, gives the ladies the licence to eat whatever they like, whenever they like in whatever quantity they like.

So on Sunday, lady issues done and dusted, I proclaimed the next ten days would be all about discipline.

Monday:
Perth's worst storm ever, a massive day at work. (This means I'm allowed to eat whatever carb/fat/sugar laden food I can get my hands on.)

Tuesday:
No sleep due to thunder and lightening.
Woken by Woody's alarm 5.30am.
No power. Which, on farm means no water. Armpit/crutch wash with soapy flannel and ice cold water from the fridge. (Power clearly hadn't been out THAT long.)
Wet day, good excuse to wear hot leather boots. Break heel as soon as leave house. Go to Midland Gate.(Which is a separate story all together.)Boot maker cannot fix on spot. No other shoes in car so buy cheap (but real) leather boots from Target.
Back car into concrete post in ABC car park.
Made to feel stupid by Woody.
Kate: "I accidentally scraped the car on the post."
Woody: "Didn't the remote sensors on the car work?"
Kate: "Yes, but I usually just ignore them."
Drive all the way to Joondalup for ONE interview about storm.
Lotto machine in Toodyay broken so no ticket for 20 million draw.

I'm still smiling.

Why?

Goodbye diet, hello wine.

News Kids on the Block

2010-03-21T18:13:00.000+08:00

For the last ten years or so I've thought it would be a brilliant idea to get some alpacas. Even when I lived in my little shoe box in Como, and I'd only ever been on one farm (thanks to Large Westlake in Calingiri) I still thought owning some alpacas was an ingenious idea.

Why?

Tess McLeod.

Everything I knew about farming, pre-Woody, I learnt from Tess, Claire and Stevie. Oh don't forget Kate and Jodie.

And Tess McLeod was all about the alpacas.

So after four and a half years of talking up the benefits of alpacas (as stated by Tess McLeod)and dropping hints and sending subliminal messages and demanding a pet alpaca, Woody and his Dad have actually bought some.

I've named them Rocky, Willie and Kenny. (As in Balboa, Nelson and Rogers.)

But you know what Tess failed to mention?

They're arseholes.

The Bingle bingle

2010-03-10T19:47:00.000+08:00

I'm sorry, but I do care. No matter how hard I try to ignore it, I want to know. I am hungry for more. Feed me tabloids, feed me. (Maybe I'm confusing my hunger for Bingle gossip, with hunger for carbs?)

It's wrong, oh so wrong, but I'm not just enjoying the Bingle bingle. I have an opinion too. Actually a couple of opinions.

Opinion 1. Michael Clarke should not be given the Australian captaincy. He should, however, be given a cup of cement.

Opinion 2. Lara Bingle is not very bright. Brendan Fevola. Max Markson. The SCG. John Ibrahim. Allegedly.

Opinion 3. Lara Bingle is young. Young people make mistakes. (Lord knows I've made plenty.) But sadly for the luscious Lara, mistakes that denigrate the reputation of Australian cricketers are the worst kind of mistake you can make in this country. Messing with an Australian cricketer that most people are particularly fond of is particularly unforgivable.

Because that's why the public's so outraged at the Bingle bingle.

Right?

It's got nothing to do with the enjoyment we mere mortals get at seeing a pretty, thin, rich model-girl squirm.

Right?

AC/DC revival

2010-03-09T17:54:00.000+08:00

What a show. Last night's AC/DC concert at Subiaco Oval was a thrill on so many levels. Of course there was the music, and while I'm no expert nor critic, I know what I like. I didn't like last nights performance. I LOVED it.

But there was so much more to the concert than the music.

I LOVED Everything about it. Even the girls up the front who flashed their boobs on the big screen. I even loved the girls with yucky pointy saggy boobs. Those girls were just so happy and excited, it was hard not to be happy and excited too.

I loved that so many people from so many walks of life, from so many socio-economic backgrounds, with so many diverse political beliefs, so many different values, so many different morals and so many different tattoos could come together for a common cause. (I especially loved that the diverse bunch came together in the Western suburbs. Something nice about that don't you think?)

The highlight of the night? I'm finding it hard to choose between Dirty Deeds, Thunderstruck and Highway to Hell.

Low light? The bloke in front of me who vomited in his beer cup during the third song, then proceeded to drink from it.

All part of life's rich tapestry.

Well hello there

2009-11-09T18:11:00.001+08:00

Yes this post has been a long time coming.

It's been three weeks today since we arrived at our new abode, "The house on the hill" and it has to be said that it's been a shock... culturally, emotionally, mentally and physically.

Leaving Broome feels like I have broken up with a boyfriend. My right arm is missing. I'm in mourning.

The problem is that there simply is no remedy other than time. And I am SO impatient. Reading "It's Called a Break up because It's Broken" simply won't work this time, because there was simply nothing broken about me and my relationship with the Kimberley.

The thing is I don't HATE it down here at our little shaggy shack on the hill. In fact I can see myself growing to quite like it...once it's had a complete makeover.

It's just that I haven't quite come to terms with the fact that my fabulous life that was Broome is over.

The thing is though, I still have my true love by my side and he is as the saying goes, "as happy as a pig in shit".

Speaking of pigs, look what I spied on my way home from Perth over the weekend.

Culture shock well and truly.

Personal training

2009-09-24T10:48:00.000+08:00

Let's face it, I've had a bloody good time in Broome over the last couple of years. In fact I have no choice but to face it, every time I look in the mirror.

A bottle of white here, a few rums there, cold beers after work and then some hot chips to soak it all up. Cold chips too if the truth be told.

Granted, it's not the 17 kilos I gained when I lived in Karratha, and maybe, as happened in 2006 when I left Karratha the weight will miraculously fall off once I get below the 26th.

Then again maybe it won't. So just to be safe I phoned the gym.

It didn't get off to a great start.

Kate: "Hi Peter, Kate Matthews here, I need help."
Peter: "That's no problem Kate but are you going to be better than all the other times you've said that?"
Kate: "Well..yes...I hope so...I'll try..."
Peter: "When can you come in, tonight? Tomorrow?"
Kate: "Well I'm busy tonight (sunset drinks on the beach) and tomorrow could be tricky...(Pizza at 12 mile)"
Peter: "Right."

I have this sneaky suspicion that I am going to be told, if I want results I'll have to give up the booze.

But I do want results, I do. I want to fit in to all those clothes shoved in suitcases and garbage bags under the bed, in the back of the wardrobe, in the linen cupboard.

And I don't want to compare my arse to Matthew Pavlich's nose anymore.

So, personal training.

Tuesday, 4.30pm.

Cheers.

Scones

2009-09-21T14:26:00.000+08:00

If one more person asks me if I'm good at baking scones I will punch them.

Don't let it be you.

While I have improved in the kitchen in recent years, it's fair to say my level of expertise when it comes to cooking is minimal. Baking less so. Poor Woody. He'd love a girl that's handy with a beater and some flour.

But what it is it about farming and scones? Do I really need to know how to bake a good scone to succeed in our new life?

I have been on many, many farms over the years and not once have I been offered a scone.

In fact the only person I know who makes a mean scone is my mother and she ain't a farmers backside. To be blunt.

Though she did grow her own pumpkins for the scones. They were rippers, fertilised by Sarah's dead mice if I remember correctly. They froze one summers night under the fan. The mice, not the pumpkins. I digress.

Being adopted the scone gene was never passed on. Oh the travesty.

But you know what? I've never been one to shy away from a challenge and now that I've read the CWA cookbook and have seen that the degree of difficulty in baking scones is "low", I might just have a crack.

Wouldn't it be nice to say "yes, in fact you smart arse, I'm the best bloody scone baker in the whole of the valley."

Maybe, just maybe.

I'm a blogger...

2009-09-06T15:51:00.001+08:00

I’ve wanted to keep a journal or a diary for years. However despite many starts, my undiciplined nature and sometimes it could be said, laziness, meant my inner most thoughts and feelings were never recorded for more than maybe a week at a time.

But as Bob Dylan said, the times they are a changing.

Kate Matthews is now all about dicipline. I am growing my nails. I am losing ten kilos. I am paying off an outrageous debt, (accumulated as a result of my insatiable appitite for fun. And shoes.)

And I am a blogger! Blogging being the modern day journal and damn it I am a modern girl, despite what they say.

Well when it suits me anyway.

So as I lie here on the day bed on a delightful Broome evening, windows open, singlet and boardies on in the middle of winter, cotton wool between my toes watching Australias hopes of retaining the Ashes fade into oblivion, I am blogging.

I am going to document my experience in leaving this most magnificent town and my beautiful, fabulous friends (yes that’s you) and moving to Toodyay to live on the farm.

There will be tears. But, it’s hoped (I’m hoping) that my insatiable appitite for fun and adventure will hold me in good stead to survive anything that this new life will throw at me.

My excitement at moving to the farm is genuine. As is my terror. However my glass is not just going to be half full, it’s going to be brimming over.

Brim, brim...