I have twin brothers, younger than me, and identical.

When they were hanging around my Mother’s neck like teensy, chittering monkeys, we used to tell them apart by the number of freckles on their ears (One dot for Twin One and two dots for Twin Two).  In photographs Twin One was always on the left, Twin Two on the right, just in case we couldn’t tell who was who after they were printed on the Hanimex paper.  But I could always tell.  To me, they were and are different in so many ways.  Maybe because they are mine.

Back in those heady days of natural conception, twins were rare and strange.  And I suspect identical, tiny, olive-skinned, white-haired boys that flashed by you on bikes or skates or feet were unheard of.  They seemed like little tornados, in constant whirling motion, picking things up and flinging them off as they razed the landscape.  If you got too close you could be pulled into the vortex, and you’d think it was a lark, being close to The Twins and their energy, only to be spat out again.  Only The Twins could endure.  The landscape of Twinland had it’s very own postcode.  Visitors were just that.

So I was The Twin’s Sister.  I was, and still am, ‘Sissy’ to a whole generation of kids that now own homes, have children, have gone bald.  Kids who can now buy their own beer from the Torquay Pub, they no longer have to beg me, but they still call me Sissy.

The Twins grew up, and first Twin One and then Twin Two went to live and love in countries far away.  Countries filled with television and coke and fries and sport and sport and noise and hustle and opportunity and excess.

When Twin One left, my pericardium got a rip in it, but I thought it would heal, because I thought he would come back.  And just to be sure, I held Twin Two as tight as I could, as a lure, as bait.  I cleaved to him, for I knew that Twins such as these could not cleave.  Yet somehow they did.  Somehow that Twin One found the piece that fit, all the way over there, over amongst the loud.

It took Twin Two much longer to find his fit than I ever thought it would, and for that I am grateful.  But even in knowing he would one day go, I wasn’t prepared for how much it would hurt as that rip became a gash.  Perhaps there was scar tissue to come away.  Perhaps it was because I knew this was it.  Without bait or lure I couldn’t hope to snare them back across the Pacific.

They have found the partners, and the places that know them, and enrich them.

The have stepped into the lives that they were always meant to have.  And when you meet these women- who are alike in so many ways, not twins, but similar enough that perhaps they could kind of, almost be- when you see how they complement my twins, when you hear how they speak of them, when you notice that they love them in all the ways you would want your tiny little preemies to be loved, you know that what is preferred and what is right are not always the same thing.  That right is better.  And that now you have two sisters.  And that is even better still.

And then, miraculously, a little bit of that torn-up pericardium starts to itch.

And that means it is healing.

So I guess I’ve always secretly wanted to be a writer.

A proper writer.

And just so you know, a proper writer is someone who can hold your heart, or your breathing thingies, or your funny bones or your gooey, grey brain in their hand and squeeze just the right amount at just the right time to make the emotion pop right out.

And they write books.

With loads of sentences that string together in long lines.  Until the end.

I’ve always been writing, scribbling and jotting, but only for me, and maybe for a couple of other people.  But only if I pretty much know they already kind of like me, and might also like the words that I line up.  So I stated this blog, thinking that maybe one day someone would read this, and maybe someone else would tell me they’ve read it, and maybe some other person would say they liked how some of the words sounded propped up together.

So that happened.

And something even more than those magical three things happened right after that: someone told me they liked some of the parts of the blog so much that they thought some of the pieces and bits that I go on (and on) about could be a book.  And they would like to make that book.

Imagine that?

Well I have and I did and now a bit of an annoying thing has happened.  I’ve run out of words. Lost the plot.

I hope the plot comes back tomorrow.

RIP Plot.

Ever lost the plot when you got what you wanted?

Here they are, the hits of the week:

1.  These Hammamas towels… They fold up tiny.  They’re cotton.  They’re awesome.  Get some.

2.  This cool little pate knife.  It’s made by a lady in Tassie, and you should have seen the packaging. I.can’t.even.  Modelled on a Sycamore seedpod.  It’s a beautiful little thing.  A perfect gift.  Check her out here

3.  These little thingys by Marion.  Just the thing when you can’t be bothered cooking.  Ahhhh Marion, you may make tasty food, but on the table in 20 minutes?  Marion, you are an amateur.  Get a cooked chook and it’s on the table in under 10.  Sunday night? Sorted.

4.  Watching Coco practice on her new violin.  She’s so tiny and it’s so tiny and she’s sooo cute.

5.  I remembered about THIS ad last night.  You can trawl through all the other ones if you like, but I dunno why, I just love this one.

And I do have just one “shit”: Mike Brady singing the new Foxtel Footy ad.  Messing up the quintessential footy song of my childhood: Not cool.

How was your week?  Any hits?

One day, not so long ago my friends and I decided we needed a “Work Christmas Party Function”.  They seemed to be all the rage at the time- everyone was having them.  Probably because it was Christmas.  So we booked ourselves into The Long Apron up at Montville, because, we is well fancy.

Fancy Chick Selfie

If you’ve bothered to read this far, I’m guessing you haven’t been to the Longy, as I like to call it, or you would have flicked on by, knowing how glowing and flowing this little essay would be.  So click onto the linky if you like, or take it from me: It’s in Montville, and it’s worth the trip.  It’s bloody beautiful.

Now make no mistake, I am no food reviewer, and if we are to be completely honest here, and I think we usually are, I must state from the outset that I don’t know my Guinea Fowl from my Guiness, but I do know a bloody good deal when I see one, and “McWilliams Mount Pleasant Wine Lunch” for one hundred and twenty five smackers sounded like a beauty.

****

Rose and I arrived unfashionably early (and I mean really unfashionably- they were still clearing out the wedding from the night before) because: Queensland and no daylight saving, and also, the evil geniuses both had parties to attend, and there was not a snowballs chance that we were driving ourselves to a WINE LUNCH.  I think Nath shoved us out whilst MissXtralia2013 was still moving, such was his haste to: 1.Get Unit One to the first party 2.Get Unit Two to the second party 3.Get off the range and back to the coast before he changed his mind and sold his kids for kindling and joined our lunch.  Such was the magnificence of the setting.

A fancy front-of-house lady showed us to the library, and brought us tea to get us out of her way help us settle in.  Bonus.

So we lounged on the lounges, as was befitting for ladies of our standing.

The Long Table at the Longy

After a time, the other guests started to arrive, and we were invited to join them on the lawn, with some NV Champagne Taittinger Brut Reserve.  I said, “That champi has my name on it”, and then wrote it with spit on the fog on the side of my cold glass to  prove it.  See: fancy.

The Taitti

It was a bit of a wait, so there was more champi, and then we were seated and there was something yummy to eat.  I don’t know what it was, but some of it was butter, but not just any butter.  Some kind of crazy butter that was so delicious that I surreptitiously ate it like cheese when no-one was looking.

Then there was a speech by the very cute winemaker who I suspect might be named Phil, and the chef, who’s name may or may not have been Cameron (sorry maybe-Cameron) and the chef’s helper, and did I mention there was champi?  They talked us through the wines and the food, and it was all very lovely and civilised and very interesting and then guess what?  More wine.   This time, TWO: Mount Pleasant Lovedale Semillon and Leontine Chardonnay.  The Lovedale was awesome, but frankly the Chardy was bit shit.  It was a bit nicer with the trout, but still, they can keep that one for the proper wine peeps.  “Gimme the Goodlovin’ “, I said, so they did, and all was well.

Lightly cured king trout, dill, pickled potato and cucumber, rye

I was sad to say goodbye to the crispy stuff, but it was onto the Guinea Fowl, and Lord knows I’d never match that with a white, so we had a Mount Henry Shiraz Pinot and then…. I must say here, I do love a good story, and there was a good story behind the Old Hill, which eludes me now, but suffice to say it was about a Paddock and a Hill and old vines.  I think.  And the old vines were apparently good ole vines.  Amazingly, the wine was then called Mount Pleasant Old Paddock and Old Hill Shiraz.

Butter poached Guinea fowl, mushroom, artichoke, fried brown rice… Not as arty on the plate, but YUMMO

Finally, the edges got a little blurry and everything was a little loose, and we had a CRACKING McWilliams Morning Light Botrytis Semillon, matched with some ice-cream made with lemon leaf that they picked just up the road.  Or off the road.  One of those.  I definitely heard something about the road.

I suspect I impressed and astounded the punters across the table from me with my excellent knowledge of the Botrytis fungus (I did Microbiology in second year you know), before we retired to the lawn to play croquet.

Mandarin, botrytis, rosemary and oat crumble, lemon leaf ice cream

I took a shitload of photos, made best friends for life (or the end of the day, whichever came first) with the Winemaker’s wife Sylvia, promised the National Sales Manager Greg I’d write an astounding blog about the day, threw the croquet ball (? puck? anyway, the round thingy) to show my “good arm from softball (circa 1985)” and at some point, someone brought out a dog, which I may or may not have promised to buy.

So, there you have it, Mc William’s Mount Pleasant: the blog post, as promised.  You were sensational hosts, your people are affable, and even more than quaffable, your wine is the nectar of the angels.  And I shall never buy Noble One again.

…Nor shall I ever have so much plonk on a hot Queensland Summer afternoon.

The End

PS If you would like your establishment reviewed, send me your deets.  I shall consider it carefully (should you promise to pay in wine).  As you can tell, I am nothing if not professional and precise.

Have you been to The Longy?  Do you want to?  (I’m free that weekend, BTW)

Did you ever meet someone so amazing, and such a good fit for your friend-finger that you knew right away you could slip them on, and then you’d be friends forever?

Did you ever have a person in your life who made you laugh so much that your face would get paralysed into a reverse Bell’s Palsy smile, and you would snort your drink out through your nose, again and then again?

Did you ever have a friend who knew all of the things about you so completely that they could predict what you should do, and they would know how to tell you so your soul could suck up the words better than a ShamWow?

Did you ever have a mate who sparkled so hard that she lit up every room she walked past, and you could just follow around in her afterglow, smiling?

Did you ever have a person who knew on a breath how to untangle your knots and smooth you out like Glad Wrap?

Did you ever have a friend who knew when you needed her to be funnyseriousrudesarcasticteasingsad?

Did you ever have your friend call you and tell you she was scared, so scared of the thing that the doctors were going to do to her, and that you knew you should fly, fly, fly to her and hold her and shield her with your wings and stop them from touching her with all of their stuff, but you didn’t?

Did you ever say a proper goodbye?

Generally speaking I don’t like nature to touch me.  I don’t go on long bushwalks.  I don’t like birds, insects or wildflowers.  I don’t care for ‘fresh air’.  Plants are okay I guess, but I don’t understand the crazy rules you all have about what constitutes a plant or a weed.  To me they are all plants, however many of you seem to have decided some of them are good and some are evil.  I have no idea why.

The only exception to my nature indifference is the beach.  I love the beach.  I love the feeling of crunchy white sand.  I love the smell-taste of salt and how it scratches my skin when it dries.  I even like the water, as long as it has been heated to the appropriate temperature.  However if I’m to be completely honest, my love for the beach could be tempered by a Pavlovian-type response that goes: Beach+Coconut Oil=Tan.  So perhaps I only like the beach because I’m vain.

Now back to the nature thing: I don’t like it much.  I’m happy for plants and trees and stuff to be over there, looking after themselves, but I don’t need them to get all close to me.

This weekend, nature could be avoided no longer.  Even my untrained eyes could see our joint looked a bit crap, so gardening had to be done.  So we made a plan with our neighbours, and we gardened the shit out of our plot.  We grabbed nature and we showed it who was boss.  Mostly.  Other than all the times that it showed us me who was boss.  Stabbing, scratching and hurting me in ways inhumane.  Here is the proof:

Exhibit One: hand maiming

Exhibit Two: Leg scratch

I know, I know, it’s terrible isn’t it?

No wonder certain politicians are against all nature and want to kill it with fire.  Nature is terrible and dangerous and it must be stopped.  Sharks and their bitey teeth and their cold, dead, untrustworthy eyes.  Coral reefs and their sharpey, prickly, stabby bits that scratch your feet when you walk on them.  And of course you’ve just seen what damage inert plants can inflict, left unrestrained.   Pfft, out with dangerous nature and in with air-conditioned comfort.

See for yourself how sane it looks in this picture (that I stole off the internet, but didn’t write down the source…Sorry clever cartoon maker, possibly Allie Brosh) :

Just sayin’