And my weekend is being spent massaging all sorts of views and opinions and making up content which is going to make a society with secrets appealing.
Is this an impossible task?
Possibly.
Can we drag the and order of ancient and accepted freemasons into the 21st century without making the whole thing sound anachronistic, archaic and strange?
Possibly.
Can we integrate all of the opinions at hand an come up with a cohesive copy.
Maybe.
Will I end up braining a couple of members of the committee.
Yeah... nah... we'll see.
Am I getting fed and watered.
Yes.
Am I being paid for this weekend's work.
Yes, and at professional rates, because I'm nobody bitch and I'm worth it.
Is my cat being looked after.
Yes.
What else?
Adelaide is about ten degrees warmer than Melbourne at the moment.
As I have a glass of wine in my hand and a one eye-ed cat to pat and I'm about to be fed, I'll leave it at that. Just don't tell Lucifer about the cat...
Poor Lucifer is going to wonder who his Mum really is.
It's back to the airport tomorrow morning, this time, to Adelaide for whistlestop visit.
For a change, I'm not seeing family or friends, other than the one who's putting me up for the night.
We have a weekend of preparing a new website for the Masons (Or if I'm going to be very specific, Freemasonry for Men and Women - Le Droit Humain).
We have a website at the moment, but it's about as useful as tits on a bull. It's not search engine optimised, filled with old information and is as appealing as a half-flooded op shop. Three of us are putting our heads together to write and design this. I might get to use some of my website designing skills to do a mockup of the new site - I think they've brought me in for my writing and IT skills.
To be honest, anything will be better than what we have now. If you try and search for our website it's found about ten pages in after the Church of Satan - not that we have anything to do with them.
I also get to spend some time with my friend who moved to Adelaide two years ago, her kids and her two wonderful black cats.
Lucifer will have his needs serviced by Jay, who's popping in to feed him either end of the day I'm away. It's less traumatic for him staying at home - and he's good for the night people dropping in on hime.
I'm just a bit used to the airport now. I've got the run down pat. Even packing is easy - although I hadn't taken into account that Adelaide is going to be about five degrees warmer than Melbourne. I'm rethinking my wardrobe as I write.
It's only for a day. I doubt I'll be able to get a pasty and some fruchocs before catching the plane back on Sunday evening.
That this trip is funded by the Masons, even better.
It's the last time I post a photo of my new trainer on Facebook.
I just wanted to say thank you for letting me test my boundaries on a night when Jay was off doing something with her football club. When Jay's away I get to do some more challenging stuff, and Twelve, as we call him, was happy to oblige.
Tonight was heavy night.
I asked if I could do some chest presses - and not with dicky weights. Part of this was egged on by my old P.E. teacher who lives in Darwin. A sprightly septuagenarian, she's still pushing weights, and was very proud of her bench pressing 35 kgs.
35 kilos is about the same weight as an adult labrador.
I've not tested myself on the bench press for a while.
We started out with a 20 kilo bar. 12 reps. Too easy.
Then another 10 kilos was added to the bar. 12 reps. Sure, it was a bit heavier, but I could do it.
The question I get asked is how many more could you do? I said five or six.
Finally, that extra five kilos was added. And yeah, it feels like you're pushing a labrador off your belly, but I got out a further two sets of ten reps.
That will do.
One of the great things about getting a new trainer is adapting to the way they train you. Where Cleo keeps us moving, Twelve is more about heavier weights and form.
The benchmark has been set - it's onwards and upwards from here.
And a number of heavy sets for a an aging chick is not a bad thing at all. They recommend women keep up with strength training. It staves off arthritis, and keeps your bone density and mobility, ups your metabolism and stops your muscles from weaking.
I've got no intention of stopping weight training.
I'm truly grateful to live in a country where the powers that be believe in preventative medicine. Once you hit fifty, the barrage of tests start to come in every two years. There's the poo test, the skin check - and for the women, there's the mammogram.
Fun. But it's easier to do them and have the piece of mind that you're still running well.
The great thing about the mammogram is that it's over in about five minutes.
That you're not charged for it, even better.
That the clinic I go to is in David Jones in the city - fabulous.
And the mammogram itself doesn't hurt. yes, it's uncomfortable, but the machines are a lot better than they were - the plates are now plastic rather than metal.
Yet, there is something very discombobulating about having somebody position your body, hoik your breasts about the place, tell you when to breathe, when to move.
Not accustomed to being touched, I jumped a mile when the operator tried at first to put me into position. It wasn't the touching of my breasts - it was my back.
It was over in five minutes.
And though it's by no means a traumatic experience, I found myself in Koko Black buying a small packet of almond nougats, which were demolished on the way to the tram stop.
A few hours on and I'm still feeling the lingering heebies from this two-yearly test.
From memory, I felt exactly the same after the last one.
My hatred of Downward Dog is something I have to work on. I've only got myself comfortable with Child's Pose, so uncomfortable I am with my body and the way it moves, but as with everything, if you work on it, you can make things better.
The 12.15 yoga class at the gym is something I should get to more often. Even if it means starting earlier and working a little later, and as confronting as it can be, it makes me feel good.
Firstly, the instructor, Frank, is wonderful. When I introduced myself to him a while back, explaining that I'm not very flexible and completely crap at yoga, he said it was fine - he gave lots of options - child's pose for Downward Dog - various iterations of Warrior Pose. You name it, he'd make it accessible.
Secondly, as crap as I am at yoga, it makes me feel great. It's good to stretch out this old body.
I'm not sure what I like more about yoga. The stretching, the sitting in my uncomfortableness for an hour, the sense of pride I get when I realise I can do something I think I can't, or Frank's encouraging words. I love the feeling you get when you work through the flows. I suppose this is why so many people go to these classes.
All I know is that I feel better about the world after this lunchtime jaunt into a darkened room in the gym.
My calendar is booked out for the same time next week.
I'm currently finishing a book out of sheer bloody-mindedness. I keep berating myself for this, but with pages to go, I can do it. I will hopefully finish this tonight.
The book is Sally Rooney's Beautiful World, Where Are You?
Normally, I have a 30 page rule. If, by page 30, I'm not getting into the book, I throw it against the wall, pick it up when I'm cleaning and put it back on the stack. Some of the books which have failed the 30 page test are The Great Gatsby (which I tried to read for 30 years, and finally got through it - and I enjoyed it) and The Hobbit, which I just can't make myself do, no matter how hard I try. I think Tolkien was ruined for me after a semester of Old English at Uni.
Somehow, this got through the 30 page test.
I've also taken this book with me overseas - it came to New Zealand for a ride. It's been with me to Darwin for three trips. It's hung onto me like a limpet for nearly six months.
And now I have 15 pages left to go.
I will persevere, even though I really dislike this book. I can't get into the characters. And I particularly hate the five-page paragraphs, which somebody like Anna Burns does so well in Milkman, but Rooney misses the mark. All of the characters are going nowhere and doing nothing, which you could argue is what your twenties is all about, but these guys I don't give a crap about. They shit me to tears.
And why have I kept on with it, other than I've dragged it around like a rag doll and if it wasn't for the fact the book doesn't belong to me, it would be going into the nearest street library once I'd finished it?
Well. I really liked Sally Rooney's Normal People, though I remember having a bit of difficulty getting into that one too - but this - nah.
I know I'll feel a sense of relief when I've finished this book. It will be over. I can start something new, and not as boring. Maybe Pip Williams' The Bookbinder of Jericho - although I go into this with a little trepidation because as much as I liked The Dictionary of Lost Words, her first book, I found it lacked a certain something at the end. Or the third Amor Towles book - I'm listening to his first book, Rules of Civility on audiobook at the moment and loving it. His A Gentleman in Moscow is a must read. My To Be Read pile is huge.
Maybe I've continued with this book because I am an optimist who hates to be disappointed, which this book has done in spades.
While I was in Darwin, Lucifer stayed with Blarney and Barney. He's stayed with them on many an occasion, which they are okay with, but he's not so sure.
He has a big room to himself. The family go visit regularly, read with him, talk to him, try to make friends with him, but it doesn't seem to work. He just hisses back that them and goes back to sit in the cupboard, where he takes up residence on top of the shoes. Blarney says he's not trouble. He eats and drinks and poos where he's supposed to. He doesn't wreck things. He's just and antisocial twerp.
This time, he did something a bit different. Finding a doona/duvet in the cupboard, he hauled it out and made a nest in it. His blanket and bed were in the room, but no, he wanted to sleep in Blarney's quilt. Bless him.
Regular readers also know that Lucifer is a bit of a prick. Okay, he's more reticent that other cats, but give him some time and he comes out of his shell. If I'm around, he'll come out more quickly. Stay with him in the flat and he's good after a few days. Teddie, when she came to stay with him said that he would come into the kitchen, look at her, and give her a look of utter disappointment.
He's also not the cuddliest of cats.
Imagine my surprise when I got him home to find my little black beast has had a bit of a personality transplant.
He's gone all sooky.
Yesterday was a busy day. Meditation, a hair appointment, pop in on a friend for a cuppa. I was out and about.
Returning from meditation, I was busting to go the loo. I got into the flat, said hello to the cat and ran relieve myself.
I was following in, the cat hot on my heels. As soon as I got my trousers down and was sitting, his lordship came up to me.
"Hello, mate."
There were nose butts and lots of head rubbing. This is reasonably normal behaviour. He visits me while I'm on the loo.
Then he jumps up on my knee, then up on my shoulder, purring loudly, rubbing his head against mine.
"Mate, I love you too, but I really need to wipe myself."
The cat took no notice and staying on my shoulder, kept purring.
After a few more minutes, I asked him, nicely, to get down.
Thankfully, he complied. My bum was getting cold.
But I've had to pop out a bit over the weekend. Whenever I come home, I'll sit down and he now climbs up on my shoulder for a cuddle.
This morning, on waking, he came and joined me, again sitting on my shoulder and the pillow, once again, purring loudly, making biscuits and nuzzling. He stayed for ten minutes.
He normally only cuddles for a minute or two before he goes off.
I hope the stays like this. I love this new cat. He will probably go back to how he was - stroppy, surly and a pain in the bum.
Yet I like to think that he's maybe going to be a bit like the Japanese art of kintsugi - mending broken items with gold. A little bit of time away in a slightly uncomfortable place and I get something better back in return.
