Daffith - The Idiot's Apprentice

I told you a while back that I’m an idiot. But just in case you’re under the impression I’m the only idiot from my village, here’s a story about my greatest rival for the post of Village Idiot.

I was out with some friends a few weeks back, at a place called Manly, a suburb of Brisbane way out on Moreton Bay – seafood, sand, swaying palms, kids chucking footballs at pelicans – and there’s a marina full of all kinds of boats (that's a picture of it.) Looking across at the masts and gel coat gleaming in the sunshine, I supped a few coldies and thought of a summer sailing trip I took with a couple of mates when I was a younger man back in Scotland. Let’s just call these guys Daffith and Norbert. That’s their names, after all, and us idiots like to keep things simple.

Norbert came up with the idea of ‘the boys’ heading away for a weekend on his yacht, while ‘the ladies’ went off and did whatever it is ladies do. So we packed provisions (beer and a bottle opener) and drove across to the west coast where Norbert had The Wee Beastie moored at Dunstaffnage marina, near Oban. There are lots of uninhabited islands around there, and the marina has a pub called The Wide Mouthed Frog – a great combination of facilities if you like beer and sailing.

We arrived in Dunstaffnage just after seven on Friday night. The plan was we’d spend the evening sailing down the coast to Kerrera, a small island just south of Oban, anchor there for the night, then on Saturday morning sail to Tobermory, the hip-swinging razzmatazz and gambling capital of the island of Mull (population: three sheep and a retired school janitor).

Norbert parked the car and I nipped round to the trunk to pick up our stuff, under the assumption that we were heading down the gangplank to the yacht. Not so. Norbert had amended the plans and led Daffith and me straight into the pub (to collect his winnings on a bet, he said.) We’d have a couple of pints, then lug the gear down to the boat and head off while the light was still good.

Eight ales and six hours later, it’s pitch black and we’re singing at the tops of our voices, staggering down the nine-inch wide gangplank with five fathoms of cold Atlantic ocean a few inches either side of us – three blind idiots with no sense of balance (thanks to that beer), no sense of direction (yup, the beer again), each with a bag over his shoulder and a crate of warm beer in his hands.

Now, I can’t really recall what I’d expected from Norbert’s boat, but it fell a good few feet short of those expectations. I spent the night with Daffith’s stinky foot by my nose, and the strong pong of diesel coming from the engine compartment did nothing to ease my suffering. I craved water, but unable to find a light switch or a torch I resorted to popping a warm beer to quench my thirst. (Because? Yup – I’m a fully qualified idiot.) I was all beered out by the time the sun came up just after 4am (Scottish summers can be so unforgiving to the afflicted), but believe me when I tell you I was positively sprightly compared to Daffith.

Norbert’s insistence that we stuff a hearty breakfast into us before getting under way was probably what caused Daffith to barf. Frankly, I found the gentle swell of the harbour quite therapeutic, especially so since it was mingling with the aroma of bacon and eggs sizzling away on the stove. But Daffith turned his back and chucked an imperial bucketful all over the boat next door – much to the displeasure of the retired couple only a few feet from us who were, at that very moment, washing down their decks.

I don’t know what all the fuss was about – they had their bucket out anyway; and no real harm was done. Maybe they were peeved that we’d woken them at 2am with our inglorious rendition of ‘New York, New York’. In any case, Daffith started to get some colour back on his cheeks after our neighbours’ swearing had blown itself out. Then we were off to Tobermory.

Norbert manoeuvred us out of the harbour about noon and I suppose that’s just about when I realised I had some genuine competition for the title of Village Idiot. Our Captain handed out life jackets (the type that come with a gas canister that inflates the thing when you pull a rip cord – the asthmatic’s delight) and insisted we put them on – the sea was rough. Rough enough to set Daffith off again.

Feel free to picture the scene: Daffith draped over the gunnel, chundering into the grey Atlantic ocean, which is doing its best to slam the boat hard enough to make him fall in. After a while he takes a break and joins us up at the tiller, making light of his condition but studiously avoiding the word ‘beer’. The sails are whipping something fierce, the boat’s bucking like a bronco with fleas and the salt spray has us all soaked. Even Norbert’s turning a bit limey, so I look at Daffith - and that’s when I notice his life vest is on back to front. I’m just about to tell him when a wave knocks us sideways. Daffith falls backwards, almost toppling over the side and into the water, and in his blind panic to grab something to steady himself he pulls his rip cord and inflates his back-to-front life jacket.

I realised three things that windy afternoon on the Atlantic ocean halfway to Tobermory. First, if the wind changes its mind and says you ain’t going to Tobermory, then you ain’t going to Tobermory. Second, Daffith’s eyes bulge like footballs when he’s choking. Third, I have some serious competition for the title of Village Idiot.

Haggii and Their Addresses (by KazzaBP)

When I first met Jack Ramsay, I was a naive girl. I knew little about Scotland... or Australia, for that matter. Befriending a man 'from away' has been a very interesting experience. Educational, to say the least.

Way back then I asked Jack what, exactly, a haggis was. If you've read his blog posting, 'The Idiot', you have an an idea of the tale he told me. And, like the trusting girl I was, I believed him. It wasn't until some time later that I discovered the truth; that haggii are NOT snorkle-nosed pond dredgers with ferocious attitudes, but rather, they are mild-flavored plants that grow on an island off the coast of Scotland. The same island where Scotch tape was invented, in fact! If you're not familiar with the succulent plant, it is similar to a cactus. (Two or more of them are called cactii, of course. Haggis, haggii. Cactus, cactii.) I can't believe it took me so long to figure out he was pulling my leg! Snorkle-nosed pond dredger, indeed! Who, in their right mind, would eat one of those??

Jack thinks he's so smart! But he can't fool me... I always discover the truth!

Below is Burns' famous Address to a Haggis. I love this poem. I've memorized it, even though I know that my pronouciations are off and I don't have a Scots accent. I am The Butcher of Burns, no doubt about it. In celebration of Burns Day, which Jack has told me is January 25th, and to commemorate the publication of Jack's 'The Idiot' in my hometown newspaper, The Irregular, I've written my own poem about haggii. For even though I now know the truth, I will forever think of haggii as fierce little Scottish critters who dredge their pond bottoms with their snorkley noses. Sheesh. I used to be so gullible!

Address To A Haggis
by Robert Burns

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn,
they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
Are bent lyke drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
"Bethankit!" 'hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!

Address of a Haggis (i.e. The FARM, 252 Spruce Pond Road, Territory 2 Range 1, Bingham-Kennebec Purchase, West of the Kennebec River, Maine, USA)
by Kazza for Jack

A Scotsman told this girl from Maine
That haggii roamed our hills and plains,
Our Highlands split, the clansman claimed
In times long past.
And when they rent t’was left behind
A dredger fast.

This Highlander had honest face.
Alas, in Maine there is no space
For haggii to take o’er the place.
Not at The FARM!
Their snorkel-nose does cause disgrace!
(T’is long’s my arm!)

Now Scotsmen on their wee small isle
Believe the haggii can beguile
Large men who find the kilt in style
(Like Scotsmen do)
And then, a peek makes this girl smile,
(Yup, they’ve got two!)

These clansmen cinch their armor up
To hunt the haggii for their sup
(I think that they should wear a cup
While on the quest.
For haggii, fierce, will always lunge
At groin or chest!)

These hairy Scots are not afraid
They capture dredgers when they raid
The pond; through thigh-high water wade
To snare the beast.
With nets and ropes, they make the grade
And have their feast.

While over ‘cross the Pond, in Maine
This native girl has made it plain
She’d rather all the ponds to drain,
She learned a lesson.
From on the shore she takes her aim…
Fires Smith and Wesson.

Not only does she have her prize,
The bullets, they did tenderize
The haggii, which are bigger size
Than Scotsman’s beast.
(Of course they are! We feed them well
Herein, Down East!)

Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
Remember Scots, and how they fare,
Those kilted men still use the snare
But it’s not fun.
Wee sleekit coorin timorous beasties
Die best by gun!

Happy Robbie Burns Day, Jack.
**************************************
Photo of Loch Katrine in Scotland copyright by Tina and Andrew Thomson. Photo of Flagstaff Lake, Territory 4 Range 4, BKP WKR Maine (USA) by Chuck Bessey


The above photo was taken in Gray (note: spelled with the proper 'a', instead of 'e') Maine. The emblem on the uniform is like an old friend to me: My father wore that same one for the first 19 years of my life. The large-sized gentleman to the right is a bull moose, and as you can see, I could not possibly confuse him with a Scottish haggis. He might be 'sleekit' and a 'beastie', but 'wee coorin tim'rous' he's not!

The Idiot (by Jack Ramsay)

I’m Jack Ramsay, and I’m a gullible idiot.

There. I thought I’d best start with honesty. I’m also a husband, a writer of the most frustrated kind, a pen-pal to Maine’s very own magnificent Karen Bessey Pease , and an immigrant to Australia. But, back to the idiot thing, if you’ll indulge me.

An idiot, if dictionaries are to be believed, is a layman; a stupid person. But some definitions go further and describe me – sorry, ‘idiots’ – as having an intelligence quotient of less than twenty-five. Okay, so I might have an IQ slightly higher than that, but having the combined brainpower of six idiots, in my book at least, still makes me a lot of idiots. The word ‘gullible,’ of course, isn’t in any dictionary. Check it out if you don't believe me...

Such claims are all very well, in a ‘Saturday night after a few beers with the boys’ kind of way, but I have irrefutable evidence stretching over many years to corroborate my assertion. The examples are many, and the good Lord knows they’re varied in the extreme, but let me take you back to the day I first realised just what it takes to secure the title ‘idiot of all he surveys.’

I grew up in Scotland, on a farm that nestles in the foothills of the Ochil Mountains near Perth, gateway to the Highlands. Okay, truth time again, they’re Hills. But if you stand at the bottom and look up, knowing you have to get to the top, they’re pretty daunting in a grassy, rounded, picnic-on-a-Sunday kind of way.

After school I’d hang around the smoky little bothy where my dad and a few of the farm men retreated to fix their machinery when it broke, as it often (rather conveniently) did in winter when it’s too cold and rainy and mucky to be outside.

One afternoon at the end of March I was sitting on my favourite five gallon drum, ignoring the wrestling rats in the corner and trying my hardest to emulate my peers – drinking overly sweet tea that had been stewing on the fire since breakfast, laughing at the right times and nodding at the wisdom spouting forth from such admirable fellows – when something Grieg the Grieve said made my ears prick up. The ‘Grieve’ is the foreman, incidentally.

He was planning a haggis hunt. The very next day!

Sure, I’d eaten haggis before, many times – I’m a Scot, and there isn’t a Scot alive who doesn’t incessantly crave the succulently meaty flesh and sweet wood fired flavour of the most cunning prey on the moors – but I’d never been on a hunt. Platefuls of haggis had always magically appeared from my mother’s kitchen, surrounded by the ubiquitous guard of honour of mashed tatties and chappit neeps (also known as ‘mashed turnips’ in the English-speaking world.)

When I questioned the origins of our national dish the shepherds and drovers laughed at me, then I sat listening in awe as they told of the last great Perthshire haggii hunt (‘haggii’ is the plural of haggis, just for reference – say hag-eye) which had claimed the lives of four novice hunters in a netting gone wrong. The more they divulged of that fateful morning some ten years before, the more I found myself compelled to claim my right to hunt the haggii. I saw my chance to prove myself.

I, Jack Ramsay, would become the youngest haggii hunt champion in living memory!

And so, after one or two well-placed hints from me, the anvil played host to a whispering confab, and when the huddle broke up I was invited along to what promised to be something extra-ordinary: we were to stalk the (apparently) infamous snorkel-nosed pond-dredging mountain haggii – a very dangerous species, but the tastiest of them all. Barely able to contain myself, I leaned closer as Grieg the Grieve outlined in hushed tones the equipment we would need, and his plan of attack.

We were to leave for the ponds by sun up. My dad agreed to call the school and inform them of my absence – it wasn’t every day that a boy became a man, so a day out of class was acceptable, even laudable.

Next morning I rose before dawn, taking care to follow Grieg the Grieve’s instructions to the letter. After all, what idiot would squander his chance at infamy by failing to rendezvous at the meeting place or bring the essential tools of the haggii hunt or wear every last item of protective clothing necessary to tackle an amphibious horde of such devious beasts?

Not I! I’m Jack Ramsay!

In the next room I heard my father preparing himself for the hunt, talking in whispers with my mother and enjoying his first joke of the day – he was always such a considerate, jovial man – but my tasks were pressing and I had no time to share in that particular hilarity. I made a few final checks, zipped myself up and struggled the half-mile to the school bus stop, where I was to be collected by Grieg the Grieve in his Land Rover. Then to the hills, where we’d meet my father.

So it was that I found myself waiting impatiently by the side of the road in the farm manager’s holey old wetsuit, his lead weights around my waist and his snorkel by my ear, ready to dredge every pond in Perthshire in search of my quarry. So it was that my knees came to buckle under my burden of fishing nets, wooden stakes, sledgehammers and oxygen tanks, a combination which, even on that cold April morning, brought sweat to my brow and a desert to my throat.

And so it was that, as the school bus rounded the corner and headed towards me, its occupants’ mouths agape, their fingers pointing, I realised without a shadow of a doubt – I’m a gullible idiot.

But, like I said, the word 'gullible' isn't in any dictionary...

NB: No haggii were harmed in the telling of this story.

First published in The Irregular newspaper, Kingfield, Maine, USA – June 2009

Trapped Between the Slats (By KazzaBP)

I'm trespassing here on DUD without my pal Jack's prior knowledge. Jack is a dedicated writer, and he's been busy lately doing some serious writing and editing. I, on the other hand--while a writer--have been doing nothing but flubbing off. Twiddling my thumbs while I wait for the inspiration to create the next great American novel. It's a good thing I'm a patient woman, that's all I can say.

Anyhoo, don't blame Jack for the content of this blog entry. The man can't be held responsible for this woman's wayward mind and sometimes uncouth sense of humor. He'll either forgive me when he reads this, or he'll quickly delete. I'll chance it, and see. I'm not working on an amazing novel like Jack is...but I AM brave. And just a little bit foolish, too.



Okay, gals and guys, grumblers and grinners! Have you read it? Have you scanned down through this article? Have you paused--lingered, perhaps--as the image seared itself in your mind, like it did mine?

Get it out!!! By all that’s hairy, shrunken, and shriveled, get it out! And I don’t mean get what’s hairy, shrunken and shriveled out of the CHAIR! That’s HIS problem! I mean get the image out of my mind!

Oh, for Pete’s sake! For MARIO’S sake!

Good Lord.

There is so much wrong with this picture, this story, this newspaper article! First off, the question must be asked…what makes ‘news’. Hmmm? Seriously, is this ridiculous episode worthy of being memorialized in print? Distributed to thousands of unsuspecting readers? Will this man—this naked swimmer/sun-bather—ever be able to show his face in public, again? For, as sure as the sea is salty, the poor fellow’s nether regions will forever be associated with his name! Mario Visnjic! Is it fair to do that to someone who is, quite obviously, not all ‘there’. (Because some of him was trapped between chair slats, you see…)

Heh. What an idiot. And Mario, if you are a reader of DUD or GAG, I would say that to your face, too. I’d hug you while doing it (if you were dressed, that is), but I’d tell you true.

You’re a dipstick.

How long have you had those things? Most of your life, I would assume. Certainly long enough to recognize your little buddies’ vagaries and propensities! Holy smokes…

I’ve simply got to say this. IF I was a man, and IF I was brazen enough to go swimming in the nude at a public beach, and IF I was then so dim-witted that I’d sit in a SLATTED chair afterwards…well. There’s no doubt about it. If my Joe Fridays got wedged (good Lord!) between two pieces of wood, I would never—and I repeat, NEVER!—call Beach Maintenance for help. No way, no how!

Could the discomfort of being trapped in my chair ever compare to the humiliation factor involved when total strangers then have to cut me out of it? Because, of course, they couldn’t cut me out without LOOKING at me! Arrgh! I can picture it, now! And I shouldn’t! No! I should never have that image seared into my brain.

And what follows the looking, Mario? The LAUGHING!!! The rolling on the ground. The gasping for breath, the side-splitting shrieks. The cell-phone calls to REPORTERS who print your humiliation in the newspaper! Maybe, even, the photographs! Because, trapped like that, I would be powerless to stop them, right? Short of lunging at them with a heavy wooden chair swinging from my…gah!!! Holy moley…no way in the world would I suffer through that humiliation. No way!

Nope. What I would do is sit still. Wait for sunset. Pass the time until the dark of night brought--not only cold temperatures--but DARK! So no one would see me!! With my private parts (for they SHOULD be private, Mario) smooshed between the slats of a chair on a public beach! A chair where other people sit!!! Did you ever think about THAT, Mario? That other people might want to recline in the sun in the very same chair that your naked, hairy bum was plastered into? Hmmm?



Aw, man…have a care for the rest of us! That’s just gross.

So…my plan of action, if I was a man who had shown a tendency to be as numb as a pounded thumb, would be to WAIT. Until the night grew cold or hell froze over--whichever came first. I’d sit there anticipating the time when those little fellows shrunk back up again. Shriveled, withered, ascended. Slipped through those wooden slats all on their own, thlupp, and released me from my confinement and my mortification.

Problem solved. Chair in one piece. Dignity intact. (All right, all right… I’m trying to be generous, here. There’s no way you’ll ever be able to hold your head up in public again, but I’m a kind woman and don’t wish to add to your humiliation. Anymore than I already have, that is…)

Chances are good that this kind of thing will never happen to the men up here in Maine. For one thing, we have no nude beaches. For another, our men tend to have more common sense than our good friend, Mario, displayed. And lastly--and most importantly—we are hardy folk, and impervious to the cold.



Mario, my friend, don’t do that again. Ever. Learn from your mistakes. But if you simply can’t help yourself, if you just can’t swim on a public beach in a suit or sit on a towel like the rest of the civilized population does, then please, man. Please.

Disinfect the chair before you leave.

American Football--What a DUD! (by Karen Bessey Pease)

I think I’m in love.

And the best place I can think of to gush about this new-found adoration is here on Down Under Dunder, my pal Jack’s blog.

I’ve been in love before. The first infatuation I can recall was with Steve Austin, The Six Million Dollar Man. Then, as a teenager, I was enthralled with horses--most particularly, McDuff, my blue roan Appaloosa. Into my twenties, I had the hots for Thomas Magnum, of Magnum, P.I. And as I matured towards my thirties, I flipped for Mr. Bessey Pease. (By the way, my husband does not come when he’s called by that name, so you’d be wasting your breath to try. At fifty years old, he’s barely housebroken, and rarely even lays down on command.)

Now… here I am in my forties. Middle aged. Like old McDuff, I’ve gotten long in the tooth. My days of fantasizing that I could run off into the sunset with my bionic dream man are a thing the past. (I still like to make that distinctly bionical, percussion-like sound when I run, though…)

What?????? Aw, c’mon!

Anyway, my new-found love is not for a man, or even a large and noble animal. (And those were, of course, completely different kinds of love. Just thought I should be clear on that…) Nope, my most recent fancy is for a game. A game where there is not just one handsome man to look at…but a whole slew of ‘em! Well-built men…men who are dressed in short shorts and have thighs like those of a Greek god.

Ah, RUGBY!!!

You understand that I am a Mainer, from the United States. The most north-eastern state in the Union. Baseball, hotdogs, apple pies and Chevrolets…that’s what little American girls are made of.

We have our own version of football up here, which is all I was acquainted with until recently. I am a fan of the New England Patriots. I’ve been known, on occasion, to have the patience to watch—for four hours straight--a game that should only last a little more than one hour. I’ve even managed to do so without screaming in frustration. Without cancelling my satellite dish subscription, or cussing too loudly, or swearing off the game forever. But see….American football was all I’d known.

Not so, anymore!

I’ve just had the pleasure of watching some awesome DVDs. Wallaby Wonders. A Decade of the Super 12s. Rugby League’s Greatest Tries of the Century. And I’ve gotta say….Rugby beats the socks off American football! And without a doubt, Rugby uniform socks are MUCH prettier than their American counterparts, too!

Naturally, I’m feeling a bit of guilt, here. Feeling like a traitor to all men with massive shoulder pads, heavy helmets and over-sized cups. But I’m an honest woman—usually to my detriment—and there is no doubt about it-- Rugby makes football look like a game for sissies.

I did NOT just say that!!! Not, not, not!!! I am a loyal American, and would never utter such blasphemous words! This is Jack Ramsay’s blog, and he must have snuck in here and tinkered with the intent of my statement, and censored my words before publication…

What I said is this: Those pro football players need to shuck some clothing and accessories!! To keep my interest from now on, they need to slide along the turf on the skin of their knees instead of the padded upholstery they currently protect themselves with. They need referees who aren’t dropping flags right and left, but who let the game be played despite the potential for bone-crushing boo-boos or slight infractions of the rules. Football players need to doff those huge helmets and let their fans see the agony on their faces when they’re tackled, or the euphoria that lights them when they’ve made a touchdown. (I know, I know…it’s called a ‘try’ here on DUD. Excuse me…I’m still a novice to the game.) Yup, to ensure my enthusiasm for the sport, the NFL players need to toughen up, and they need to undress! Grrr!

Of course, that’s just one American woman’s opinion. But I’m an honest American woman, and I think I’m in love.

Ah, rugby!

Snakes Alive! (by Jack Ramsay)

One tub of lard and I'm anyone's.

I'm no stranger to snakes. I come from Scotland, after all, where the adder still rules the moors. Nah, that's crap - I walked the hills of Perthshire and beyond for years and years and years, and never once saw an adder. I think they're related to the pond-dredging haggii - they're certainly just as rare. Still, a few of my friends claim to have seen one, and that's good enough for me.

Yes, I'm from Scotland, where snakes rule.

Then I came to Australia. But I didn't just rack up here and expect to fit in. I did my homework. I found out what could sting, bite, nip, paralyse, hypnotise or even kill me. I'd list them here for you - from ants to ticks, to wasps, spiders, caterpillars (that's just taking it too far!!!), dingoes, kangaroos (they fight dirty...gouging little so-and-so's), crocs and of course snakes - but it'd take too long and I've got tea brewing. Oh, there are more. And all are in the 'most dangerous in the world' category, or 'the most poisonous...' or 'just one bite can kill a million elephants...'. You get the picture.

So, when I arrived in Australia in April 2000 with my dear lady Alison, I was alert. I was prepared. Nothing would sneak up on me and bite my bahoochie (bum). No red-backed critter would nip my cheek while I contemplated the state of the Chinese economy in the dunny at the end of the garden. Nuh-huh.

We rented a place in Perth in Western Australia, moved in, and after the removalists had gone we sat outside with a 'coldie' or three and breathed a big sigh of relief - we'd arrived in Australia at long last. The sun went down, the cloudless sky turned purple and eventually we clambered over boxes and cartons to get to the bed, exhausted from the stress of moving home from one side of the planet to the other.

I didn't get much sleep. All those documentaries I'd watched; all those natural history museums I'd visited (and all their gift-shop books I'd bought) came back to haunt me. I'd visions of huntsmen - like the one I found in my new garden shed a few minutes after picking up the keys - marauding over us as we slumbered with our mouths agape (I've seen Alison sleep like that all night - all night!) I tried to relax, thought of haggis hunting on the Perthshire moors, and was soon drifting off...

And that's when the hissing started.

It wasn't even one of those 'is it, isn't it?' moments - it was loud, unmistakable hissing. A bloody snake was in the house! Already!! I knew it sometimes happened in Australia, if screen doors had been left open. We'd had the removalists at work all day, and every door had been wide open. And I knew that snakes here are viscious, deadly, pure evil and nasty for the sake of it...

I sat up, straining for some indication that I was imagining the noise (hoping I was imagining it.) But no. It was clear as clear can be; so I poked Alison in the ribs and she confirmed I wasn't hearing things.

"Go get rid of it," she said.

I can't tell you what I said in reply - I have a reputation to uphold - but after about twenty minutes of lying there (no, I wasn't quaking, even if Alison says I was...pfft!) the noise stopped. No hissing.

Only dripping.

Well, I had to get up and have a look, didn't I? Snakes don't 'drip', do they?

Ah, it's wonderful moving to a new country. See, in Scotland we never once had to water our garden. Installing a bore water irrigation system was a home improvement project that had never crossed my mind.

The thought of killing my land lord did cross my mind, however. I mean, who the **** (thanks to Anonymous for the correct spelling of **** there) sets an irrigation system timer to come on at 4am? Eh? Who?!

Yes, I come from Scotland where snakes rule the moors, and men never have to dodge those invisible, pop-up-when-you-least-expect-it watering heads when walking on someone's lawn. Pfft. 4am.

It's been almost ten years since we arrived in Australia, and it's true what some people say - you do become used to the heat, and the mozzies...and the snakes. In fact, it's snake season now and the slithering from the rafters tells me that Malfoy the python (it's so handy having a name for each snake, I find) will be out sunning himself in a few minutes. I might just go get that tub of lard, grease myself up and see if he fancies a wee wrestle.

Here he comes now...

Published in The Irregular newspaper, Kingfield, Maine, USA - November 2009

Bullying - Victims and Aggressors

Ah, holidays! Vacations...call them as you see fit. I love them. There just aren't enough of them, I'd say. But, as enjoyable as they are, they must always come to an end. Sad, but true. The worst thing about the end of any holiday, imho, are the aftershocks - the work that should have been done but hasn't been...

So, while I've been away, sunning my puny body and stocking up on the vitamin D, the work's been piling up. But I'm back and ready to go again...for a while, at least :-)

Before I left off, some friends very generously wrote some articles on a topic that's close to my heart: bullying. I'd like to introduce a 'new chum' of mine (as we say here in Australia) - Kara Tamanini, author and therapist, and founder of Kids Awareness Series. Kara's a licensed therapist who works with children and adolescents with a variety of childhood mental disorders, so I'm more than ready to listen to her advice and insights on the subject of bullying. Here's Kara's article, and I think you'll find it very interesting - I know I did; so, thank you, Kara.

Bullying-Who are the Victims and the Aggressors?
Bullying has become a very widespread problem in a number of countries and is usually not reported for fear of further reprisals for the victims. First, I think we should start with exactly what bullying is and where bullying typically occurs. Bullying, by definition is a repeated, harmful act and it involves an imbalance of power. Bullying involves either verbal, physical, or a psychological attack on a victim and usually involves an aggressor trying to intimidate someone that is perceived to be weaker than them and the victim usually does not fight back. Victims also tend to be either smaller, younger, or at some disadvantage when compared to their aggressor.

The act of bullying involves physical assault, attempts to intimidate the victim, spreading rumors about the victim throughout the school, demanding that the victim give money, or tripping them. There are a number of other acts of bullying, however these acts appear to be the most common. Those individuals that bully also tend to not only be aggressive in some way to the victim but also to his/her teacher, parents, and in most of their surroundings. In addition, most bullying will occur in the school setting and not to and from school, which is a common misconception.

A question that is often asked of me as a therapist is, “why would someone bully another person”, “what happened to him/her to make him act like that?” That is a question, for which there is no clear or easy answer. What research does show us is that children that bully others tend to be those children that have parents that use physical aggression or physical means in the home for discipline. The parents of the bully tend to be disconnected or “too busy” and are usually not an active participant in the child’s day to day life. The bully tends to what to be in complete control of others and feels happy and satisfied when they are able to belittle others and make those around them suffer. These are children that usually have parent’s that do not show them a lot of affectionate and modeling of appropriate social behaviors towards other children has not been taught to them. Bullies often have poor anger control and often are children that exhibit oppositional behaviors and are also often rude; disrespectful to adults and those that they perceive to be an authority figure. Unfortunately, these are children that have not been taught the proper tools at home in order to deal with their own anger, fears, and proper social mores and skills.

The victim, on the other hand, tends to be a child that is quiet; reserved and is an easy target. These are children that usually have poor social skills and have a difficult time “blending in” at a school setting. Other children usually perceive the victim as a child that is a “nerd” or that is very awkward and the victim rarely fights back or speaks up for themselves. The victim usually has parents that are very overprotective and as a result the victim has been isolated socially from their peers and does not know how to interact easily with others. These are children that are usually smaller and physically weaker than their aggressor and are anxious; very insecure children that tend to be very unsure of themselves on most levels. From a therapeutic standpoint, the victim is usually the individual that is seen in the treatment setting due to the significance of the symptoms of depression, anxiety, etc.. that the victim suffers. Unfortunately, most victims are not seen in treatment as a result of their reluctance to report the bullying behaviors and this does not usually occur until they are adults.

Awareness of this particular widespread problem is growing and research has shown that this problem has long-term effects on the victims. Children that have been bullied tend to grow up to be anxious; insecure adults that also have unresolved feelings of anger as a result of being victimized in their youth. The victim often suffers from low self-esteem and feelings of depression that can occur long into their adult years. In addition, children that have been the aggressors often feel tremendous anxiety and guilt as adults due to their bullying behaviors as children. Most bullies also tend to continue their bullying behaviors into adulthood and their aggressive and oppositional behaviors seem to last into their adulthood. Most of society, does not want to associate with a “bully” and those individuals often have difficulty maintaining appropriate and lasting relationships.

Sadly, most bullying behaviors go unreported by the victim for a variety of reasons. Most children that are victims fear that the bully will retaliate and make their lives “even worse than it already is” (a child I saw recently in therapy told me that). In addition, the victim does not want to tell their parents because they are ashamed and do not want “to worry” their parents. Most victims have been bullied so long that they think that reporting it would not change the bullying behavior and often they do not feel that the teachers or the principal of their school would take care of the problem for them.

Kara T. Tamanini, M.S., LMHC
Author and Therapist
Founder of Kids Awareness Series
www.KidsAwarenessSeries.com

Kara T. Tamanini is a licensed therapist that works with children/adolescents with a variety of childhood mental disorders.