I think I might be a middle aged man. Yep, with my penchant for following the weather (showers and cold for the remainder of the week) and more recently a tendency towards vintage trains, I really think I am. I've long had quite a thing for large machines. I've always fancied myself as the driver of one of those massive mining trucks or as a pilot of an aeroplane. I've even contemplated marrying John Travolta, too. He has his own 747, license to drive it and then there's Grease. Say no more.
The train thing is a bit genetic. My Grandfather had the trip of his life on the Ghan well in to his sixties and had many an argument with my Dad over who was the rightful owner of a full scale model train set. It seems he bought it for my Dad when he was a kid so he could play with it himself. Ownership since then has always been a bit hazy. So, I could imagine them both watching down enviously over this past weekend as a very cool, very shiny, green vintage train rattled in to town.
Children come in quite handy these days. They're super for displacing my over enthusiasm. Like when the show rolls in to town ("we're only going for the kids") or when it rains ("this is how you splash in the puddles, children, wooooweee!"). Then there's the train. "Look, it's Percy...and Annie...and Clarabel...and Hero!!!" So having bridled this enthusiasm, listening to the train wheesh, peep and clunk past our house a few times we set off down to the station for a ride.
Children come in quite handy these days. They're super for displacing my over enthusiasm. Like when the show rolls in to town ("we're only going for the kids") or when it rains ("this is how you splash in the puddles, children, wooooweee!"). Then there's the train. "Look, it's Percy...and Annie...and Clarabel...and Hero!!!" So having bridled this enthusiasm, listening to the train wheesh, peep and clunk past our house a few times we set off down to the station for a ride.
Great fun, and quite the education regarding a group of very serious hobbyists. The Trainspotters. At every crossing (and way up the track clambouring through mud and scrub), there they were. Cameras on tripods, notebooks in hand and, oddly, bottles of Coke. Lots of Coke. Even some lucky families tagging behind daggy Dads. The crowning glory amongst a sea of exceptional spotters was green Corolla guy. Anxiously, hopping from foot to foot he took in all the powerful beauty and historic charm of the old lady (are trains girls?) then without a second to spare he dashed to his car, jumped in and sped off, leaving his train spotting comrades to shield themselves from a shower of bluestone gravel. He then raced along a parallel road, keeping pace with the train, before disappearing from sight, only to reappear at the next crossing. Ready to do it all again. Now, consider this. The train ran on the hour, every hour all day Saturday and Sunday. Did he meet it at every crossing on every trip? Wow. Next time you spot a vintage train, I may well be the new green Corolla guy (probably girl) parked in my green Corolla (and, yes, I really have one) waiting exitedly for the 4.04 to Ararat.
Hang on a minute. I'm not just a middle aged man. I'm a middle aged, hippie man.
I've come over all self sufficient and started making my own bread. For the past week the house has been filled with the smell of fermenting yeast and covered in a thin layer of flour. I'm not just making the odd loaf to be clever, either. Oh, no. I'm making ALL our bread. It feels good too. There are no nasty additives, identified only by a number (like a criminal in a mug shot) and it's serious bread, not air bread. I'm sure bread companies go to great lengths to combine a tiny amount of flour with a lots of air to create a large, neat looking loaf of fluff bread. Now, all this bread talk is quite out of character for me. I'm the daughter, wife and mother of bread eating blokes. They have bread for breakfast, bread for a snack, bread with pasta (carb up boys) and bread covered in sprinkles at a party. They even eat the crusts. Not me, I've never eaten crusts (curly hair? no thanks). I was always the kid to eat the cream from the middle and the icing from the top of a cake. I love a chunk of cheese with a glass of red but you can stick the bikkie, and to me, bread ruins a good sandwich. But...how good is a slice of hot bread with salty, melty butter and a smear of golden syrup? I could well be a changed lady, I've even bought a special book (probably no bid deal to any one who has seen my cookbook collection). Next stop, bread making shop...
I'm starting to get a bit fidgety about the next Daylesford Makers Market on September 4. I've got lots of making to do and lots of ideas whizzing around in my head. I've nearly finished a new batch of my original colouring book, then it's on to a pile of cards and hopefully some colouring bundles. Oooh, lots to do, lots to do, Oh, and I managed to post a stack of new goodies on Madeit. I've got the new colouring book on there, some new cards and some bundles. So hop on and have a sticky.
Now, I've got no cheese, but I won't say no to a little glass of red...
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