THE ALLURE OF JOHNSONVILLE

Cap in hand I can honestly say that I have tried to like Johnsonville. I even looked at a couple of places to rent there. I was adamant that the health and wellbeing of James and Camille coupled with handy amenities took precedent over say, the vast hills of gorse that encircle the concrete slab of a shopping district which is only an exhaust fume's-breath from the motorway. No we didn't rent there. If we had I fear I would be undertaking the modern day equivalent of shooting myself in the leg to avoid front line duty in wartime.

Up until today trips to Johnsonville have been limited to supermarket expeditions. They've got a pretty good 24/7 Woolworth's and an average to crap Countdown. But I'll shop wherever the nappies are cheapest and this means, occasionally, Johnsonville. But today was different. No shopping list, only James, a train ride and me needing to check out the Johnsonville pool for pre-school swimming lessons.

To be fair the pool is okay - nothing too flash but I'll reserve judgement till we actually go and swim there. My attempts to get information on a pre-school swimming program were however unsuccessful. There was no written information at hand and after a flimsy excuse about new programs coming up and therefore a re-editing of material I was given a phone number to ring. Because the pool, the pool doesn't organise their own swimming lessons. When I enquired as to why, an officious looking man in a stiff shirt appeared and asked if 'everything was okay?'. His tone of voice suggested he was dealing with a drunkard trying to get into a bar as opposed to a father and son enquiring abbout paying to use the pool. I walked out of the door with the theme music from Curb Your Enthusiasm ringing in my ears and James tugging at my lapel. Like I said, judgement is reserved.

Squinting at the sun reflecting off the thousands of gorse flowers ringing Johnsonville like a crown of, er thorns I thought it might be nice to find a wee park for James to run around in. And here's where things come a bit unstuck; the only playground we could find existed inside the gargantuan McDonalds, the proud centrepoint of J'ville. As a matter of fact it was a big ask finding a blade of grass - every inch of land not built on has been lovingly laid over with robust, grey, concrete. Not to be outdone we decided to check out some roadworks. Diggers and dumptrucks are just about the most entertaining sight for young James and we were treated to a solid 4 minutes of dumptruck 'n bulldozer action before...all the workmen went to lunch. Bugger. Oh I nearly forgot, on the way to the roadworks we found another playground too, this one much smaller and located in the Burger King.

So. We've walked the length of the shopping district - correction, I've walked, James has sat atop my shoulders - and found not one but two playgrounds, no grass and some heavy machinery lying idle. Perhaps a coffee. Rest the legs and the shoulders, treat James to a fluffy and a marshmallow. And here is where the nightmare turns into a fully fledged, brutal horror. THERE ARE NO CAFES IN JOHNSONVILLE. Yes I know there is a Starbucks and do you honestly think that counts? Not in bloody Wellington it doesn't. In fact I don't think I've ever seen fewer 'bucks per head of population than down here. Also not counting are the three 'bars and cafes' I came across. Here's a hint as to why; all three had proudly flapping tarpaulins advertising cheap beer should you wish to start drinking before midday.

Thanks Johnsonville, I'll be back to see you when your nappies are on special.

The poor wee fella is full of cold tonight. He's coughing gently, persistently and the lack of breath is making his cheeks flushed, sticky with his tears. Its a very well known cliche, most recently uttered by Tony Soprano (as I recall it), that every parent would surely take their children's pain upon themselves rather than see them suffer. The fact that even Tony Soprano said it speak volumes about the power of the emotion - this is the captain of the New Jersey mafia talking here!

If I was pressed into saying what part of this job I find toughest, I'd say it is having to stay inside with a sick boy when the sun is hammering down and all James wants to do is anything that takes him outside. James LOVES being outside. Anything that involves (in his words) "getting the digger and digging a big hole and putting it in the dumptruck and breaking it up into little pieces whoooosh". The best place to do this is of course outside where he has access to spades, buckets and most importantly, soil.


And if its not gardening its the playground. The wee chap is remarkably proficient on the flying fox, the swings or the ladders - anything that gets him high off the ground. And speaking of playgrounds we have just this week discovered Jungle-Rama, a vast new rave coloured, largely inflated playground in Newtown. Its utterly brilliant and will happily keep James entertained at least till he's married.


But we haven't done any of that today. Couldn't even do the normal wet weather save. So when you can't take the wee chappie outside and the sun's shining and the dog is sulking and the boy is clinging - help! What do you do? You reach for the DVD remote folks and you call up Winnie The Pooh, and Tractor Tom and Thomas and Bananas Gorilla. I'm not proud of it... but it worked goddamit, it worked.

Camille pointed out to me that major sporting events like the Olympics came around more often than my blog posts. That hurt. It was also beginning to have more than a faint whiff of truth about it. So I've sucked in my post-dinner belly and shut the dog in the lounge; its time to polish a glass and pour out the inner thoughts of Khandallah's newest attraction, the stay-at-home Dad. Please, rest awhile and drink well.

Before I pop the cork as it were, some big news. HUGE, fact. Camille is very pregnant with our second child! If you don't know this already my sincerest apologies; new jobs, new city etc etc. Anyway, the pregnancy. 15 weeks pretty much today. The defining characteristic of this, our second impending miracle, is sickness. I can't say morning sickness as that does a disservice to afternoons, evenings and night times all of which are equally deserving in the sickness honour roll. My poor wife, she musters up enough energy to sound chirpy on the radio for 4 hours a day and spends the other 20 sleeping, eating (although not as much as we're led to believe) or lying on the couch. Thanks to a hefty supply of anti nausea pills and those nifty bands you put on your wrist to combat sea sickness the trips to the loo are abating. Michel, our Swiss obstetrician is confident Camille's fortunes (and stamina) will improve. Fingers and toes crossed huh? James, darling ebullient, jumping James, when told of the baby in Mummy's tummy said "Oh? Nice baby..", patted Camille's belly and went back to his Play-Doh.

Ah James. The apple of my eye. And, if I were to be completely literal, my job now. If I may say so myself one that I have taken to with much gusto. The last few weeks were preoccupied with setting up the family home; we found somewhere to live, unpacked all the boxes and connected all the amenities. Those weeks also saw us visited by nearest and dearest; visits that were vastly appreciated I might add. Such emotional stability as provided by family and friends comes in uber-handy when you've chucked in your job and moved away from the only city you've ever lived in. Thanks everyone for dropping by. So, visiting hours over and household framework nailed together the last couple of weeks have been spent bravely exploring new frontiers; father and son on a mission to...make friends. I've been helped in this mission by James almost daily uttering of the sentence "...and I'm going to go to kindy...and meet some new boys and girls and kids and ladies..." Quite.

Driving me is a desire to see James play with children his own age. As easy as it would be to sit home and watch Curious George or The Wiggly Christmas every day I don't want James growing up to be one of those children junk food legislation is aimed at. As for me making new friends, I am haunted by an early episode of Seinfeld when Jerry makes a new friend, a pro baseball player. Jerry is, predicatably, conflicted by this new friendship - who makes new friends when you're an adult? It feels weird. Neurotic perhaps but for better or for worse Sienfeld has left its mark on my own neuroses. To heck with it - I had to get out there and mingle with the Khandallah Mothers Scene if only for James' health and well-being. I am happy to report that it has, so far, been a total success. Just today we attended our first playgroup; a 2 hour session for parents to throw their offspring into a child friendly environment; toys toys toys, playgrounds, painting you name it. And mothers. Wall to wall mothers. Was I daunted? Yes. Was I overwhelmed? Definitely. Did James take to it like ducks to the wet stuff? You betcha. And I followed. I had no choice really. And how did it end? We were the last to leave and I'm not sure who dragged who back home - we both had a great time. To slather icing on an already sweeeet cake, we had our neighbour round for afternoon tea today, Helen and her 18 month old Lily. James and I met Helen and Lily in the park (as you do) and quickly ascertained that we a) both knew no one here and b) lived on the same street. Brilliant! I'll let Camille have the last word on this visit: "They were nice! You're allowed to hang out with them." Thanks my darling.