Pobblebonk

"Hello!" I said cheerily. "I'm just calling so that you can identify a frog for me. Hang on for a minute, I'm going to hold the phone out - listen for the one that sounds like, "pok! pok!" - sort of like someone chopping wood in the distance."

Our population of frogs have been going crazy every night since the recent rain, and I've noticed a new sound amongst the cacophony - an unusual pokking call which stands out amongst the lengthy croaks of other species.

I returned the phone to my ear. "Could you hear that?" I asked. Mum laughed, "Yes, I think so. But I'm not really familiar with the frogs in your area. It could be a po..." It was indistinct. "A pobbleponk?" I asked. "Pobblebonk," said Mum. "Your uncle has them on his property in Victoria, but I'm not sure if they extend up your way as well. Hang on, we're looking it up."

I chatted about my latest baking experiment (unsuccessful, unfortunately - note to self, do not substitute butter spread for real butter ever again, no matter how lazy you feel), until an answer was proffered. "Yes, pobblebonks extend from Rockhampton to Tasmania, often in suburban gardens." I was delighted. "I love the name. I can't wait to tell people, 'Oh that noise, that's just the pobblebonks.'"

I discovered this morning that they're also known as the Eastern Banjo Frog, a name which is almost as fun (due to their call sounding somewhat like a struck banjo string, apparently). But I like pobblebonk the best.

Disco in the sky

We watched the most amazing thunderstorm tear itself across the sky last night. It was like someone had installed a disco strobe light high up in the atmosphere - the entire sky flickered and lit up constantly with varying intensities of brightness, sometimes lancing a brilliantly clear fork of lightening before thunder deafened us seconds later. It didn't just grumble, but did that whipcrack of sound that happens when a storm is right on top of you.

I took a video of the sky flickering away with light, but haven't watched it yet - I'm wondering whether there'll be any decent bits where I can extract a still shot of the storm. (Actually, I'm not altogether sure whether I can extract still shots from video.)

I woke up this morning to more lightening and thunder, which was an odd way to begin the day. Storms here are very much the province of the evening, and it seems out of place of be woken up by thunder, and head off the work in the pouring rain. "Maybe we'll be flooded in," said the Prince hopefully, recalling the "Road Prone to Flooding" signs that dot the road we must take towards the main highway. Alas, it was not the case. However, happily the rain has meant that our tanks (our only source of water) are overflowing, and the paltry level of our dams has risen noticeably - that should make the local population of wild ducks happy.

Delayed plans

“We haven’t even lived here for a month, right?”

“Yeeeess,” I said, with deep suspicion.

“And we haven’t actually spent a while weekend here yet, because we’ve been cleaning out the other house, right?”

“Yeeeesss…”

“And we haven’t nearly finished unpacking yet.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So I don’t really see how we can get a nervous dog into a routine living here when we haven’t even got into a routine living here ourselves yet.”

“Oh, I know. You’re right. Which is very annoying. I’m just so excited about the idea, and I hate waiting, and I wanna go to the pound right away. Wah.”

“Let’s just wait a few months, and then get a dog. I think it’ll work much better that way.”

I know he’s right, I know it’s the most sensible thing to do, but lord, I hate waiting when I’ve been looking forward to something.

Dog daydreams

I was telling Prince Valiant about the guard with a dog who wanders along the train platforms at night. “Is he from K-9?” he asked, K-9 being a ubiquitous local guard dog company. “Oohh!” I said, light dawning. “Well, no, he’s not, but I’d never realised that was supposed to sound like ‘canine’ before. I’d always thought it was a bit of a weird name.”

We have been talking more about getting a dog – the practicalities, the responsibilities, and most importantly how a dog will cope being along all day during the week. I’ve been asking everyone I know who owns a dog questions about their routine, and we’ve been wondering how our electric fences work. (You’d think the gate would be insulated, wouldn’t you? I’m not brave enough to switch on the fence and touch the gate to check. And presumably I have to let the neighbours know if we’re going to have the fence on.)

I have been making oh-so-subtle comments about the opening times of our local Animal Welfare League shelter, and am hoping to engineer a visit this weekend, so we can at least meet a few dogs and see if we click with any of them. I keep gazing at the photos of the dogs they have available on their website, and wondering if Denver or Stumpy or Hollie are the perfect dog for us.

Walking

Walk for a Cure, originally uploaded by cee.rose.

I misplaced Prince Valiant at the beginning of the fundraising walk for juvenile diabetes that we participated in on the weekend. I made the mistake of not keep an eye on him as the enormous crowd around us, complete with balloons, children and many dogs on leashes, moved off, and when I looked up, he was nowhere to be seen. I set out to search for him, overtaking slower walkers, and eventually located him again, whereupon we spent our time making longing eyes at the great variety of dogs that surrounded us. We dearly want to adopt a dog from the pound, but have forced ourselves to wait until we've properly settled in at the new property and inspected the fences and so on. (Of course, when I say we, I really mean the Prince. I have decided that I want a dog now please, right away.)

After all, I wear it every day

I had my hair cut off into a sleek bob last night - although I doubt the sleekness is going to remain once I've washed it. At the moment it's still got the just-been-to-the-hairdresser swooshiness. I had straightening tongs used on it for the first time - what amazing things. I think I want to get myself a pair.

This was the first time that I've been to a "proper" hairdresser, by which I mean a pricey city salon as opposed to the cheap chain hairdressers I usually go to because you don't have to make an appointment beforehand. Lord, what a difference. I was introduced to my colour technician (!) and my stylist, and was offered a glass of wine. I hauled my embarrassing pictures of celebrities (Katie Holmes and Mandy Moore, if you're curious) out of my bag, and was informed which parts of their hairstyles would suit me, and how we were going to adjust the cut for me. The colour technician told me she thought I needed a nice dark brown semi-permanent colour to do away with the odd orange glow my previous dye experiment had left me with, as it would "suit your skin tone perfectly", and began painting my head, and talking about how she had been recently traumatised by seeing a friend feed a guinea pig to his pet snake. "I was like, seriously, like, crying," she said, painting away. "I just kept crying." I tutted sympathetically.

After over two hours, I trotted out the door with my new hair swooshing around my head. I have always wanted a hairdresser who'll just tell me what's best for my hair, and how it should be cut. And now I have this lovely and expensive hair, I think I'll try and spend a bit more time trying to replicate this sleek look at home. With some straightening tongs, for example. But probably not the $300 pair recommended to me by the hairdresser. I passed on the $35 bottle of shampoo as well.

And it still hurts, you know

I did something to the knuckle of my thumb while moving that I was whinging about earlier in the week to Prince Valiant, who informed me that no, he didn't think I could have broken my knuckle without noticing. "But it hurts," I whined. "It hurt just now when I switched off the lamp. No, not there," as he gave it an experimental poke. "And not there either. No, it's when I straighten it again from being bent." The Prince told me he was sure it would get better. He seems to have missed the bit in the marriage vows about sympathy for hypochondriacs.

I went to our new local video store for the first time on the weekend, and had a happy time browsing through a wide selection of TV series while enjoying the sight of the "$2 weekly" stickers that were generously slapped over most of the stock. I ended up picking up the first discs of Rome and Foyle's War, which we've been enjoying. Rome is good fun, despite being a very soap-opera-ish version of Roman history. Then again, Roman history (in my muddled view) is sort of soap-opera-ish. All those feuding families. And nudity! I am back to referring to the Rome DVD rather than history. I'm sure history has lots of nudity in it, them armless statues and so on. But Rome was the first time I'd seen a sex scene with groin-to-groin nudity going on. I bet they cut that out when they screened it on commercial TV here. And I hope Polly Walker (who plays Attia, and spends a reasonable amount of her time naked) negotiated a nice big pay cheque for her efforts.

We've only watched a bit of Foyle's War - it is set in staid 40s England, with Foyle, the lead character, being a policeman who's going to be detecting things (he hasn't done any detecting so far, but I'm sure he's going to start soon). I'm not expecting any nudity from this one, but I might be wrong. As the episode we're watching is called The Dead German Woman, I am watching the only German woman character with trepidation, waiting for her to be killed. She just rode off on a horse alone, despite me telling her not to. At least it's not going to be an unpleasant surprise, given the title.

New territory

Moving was - is - an exhausting process. I found myself flopping down on the floor at various moments during the weekend, wiping sweat from my forehead and wailing things like, "Why do I own so many candles?" and "Why have I carefully stored a Marie Claire magazine from 2005?" The mysteries of life. However, sitting on our back verandah last night, sharing a bottle of champagne and identifying birds (with the help of our new bird book and my poor eyesight - "It's a rare bird! No, it's a bit of a tree branch! I think I'll go and find my glasses."), it was very much worth the work. I love living in a house with beautifully painted walls, and a blue tiled bathroom, and hooks in the kitchen roof where I have hung our wok. The kitchen, where everything fits and we can actually move around one another while cooking, is a sheer delight. There are many wonders left to discover - I am yet to walk around the boundaries of our property, and the outdoor spa remains untouched - which makes me think the next few months are going to very fun indeed.

I heard a koala last night, grunting away up in the trees above the house. During the day, the house is surrounded by bird calls - at night, by the sounds of crickets and frogs, and the occasional gecko, climbing palely up the windows. The next few weeks are going to be busy, what with lots of unpacking left to do, addresses to change, and our old house to clean (argh!) and sell - but coming home at night to the gates of our own peaceful piece of bush is going to make it all a pleasure. I can't wait to start inviting friends for leisurely lunches, or martinis* in the spa (well, invitations that don't include, "hey, can you come over and help us move a fish tank? And then you can have a beer and bugger off, because we're exhausted."). And putting Christmas decorations on the verandah, given that it's October already, where did this year go? Marriage and then moving seems to have made several months just disappear.

*For some reason, my brain associates "decadence" with martinis. I think James Bond is to blame.