Guest Posting today at We Heart Life

If you are looking for me today you can pop over to the lovely We Heart Life blog and find me regaling my tale of a horse riding adventure through the picturesque hills of Ceske Krumluv (with a hungover backpacker atop). I mean, what could possibly go wrong???

You may recall me sharing it earlier this month on NappyDaze but in case you missed it the first time around, feel free to saddle up and trot on over to lasso it before it races away...

Click here to be redirected

Grateful for Guardian Angels

If you ever needed proof that guardian angels walk amongst us, let me share a little story about the encounter an amazing man who, without their intervention, would not be here with us today.

It was a scorching hot summery Saturday and my Dad was busily working away on the family Farm, trying to keep it up to scratch while his own father lay ill in a Sydney hospital ward. He began to feel funny and, assuming dehydration was the culprit, started the long walk back through the paddocks bound for my Nan’s home.

Except he never quite made it, collapsing on the side of the country road.

Driving past at that exact moment, on a dusty road that never saw much traffic happened to be, of all people, a nurse. She was able to get him to the house and insisted on calling an ambulance.

Dad, of course, didn’t want any fuss. He thought he could have a long cool drink and sit it out, without the bother of doctors.

Mum arrived on the scene around the same time as the ambulance, and together they convinced Dad that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take a trip to the hospital to get checked out, seeing as though they were here in any case.

And I count my blessings every day that he agreed, that somewhere an angel decided it wasn’t his time to go, because en route to the hospital my beloved dad went into massive cardiac arrest and had to be brought back to life on the side of the Pacific Highway, with my poor mum following in the car behind.

10,000 miles away, on a bleak Saturday morning in London, my sister and I were nursing hangovers when we got an early morning long distance call from my uncle. I still remember thinking it was strange he was ringing and even though I was instantly alarmed I tried to be chatty and light in tone, wanting to prolong the inevitable bad news that was sure to come from this unusual phone call. I’d feared the worst from my Pop, who’d been ill. Never in a millions years did I expect him to phone and tell us we’d almost lost our Dad…

After a hysterical and truly terrifying 40 hours my sister and I managed to get the very last two seats on a Qantas flight home. And I literally mean the last two seats – the very back row – an endured an interminably long flight across the oceans, uncontactable and oh so far from home.

I’ll never forget the look on Dad’s face as we walked into that hospital ward. Despite being hooked up to a multitude of machines, and suddenly so frail and older beyond his years his eyes lit up like a starry night. And I knew then in that very moment we’d made the right decision to be there, even if the worst was over. I’ll never forget that image as long as I live.

The fact that our Dad is still here with us today is, to me, testament that guardian angels do exist. I don’t dare think about what would have happened if he’d refused to go to the hospital, if he’d not been found by a stranger on the side of the road. All the things he’d have missed, walking his two daughters down the aisle at their wedding, seeing his son achieve so much, the three grandchildren who absolutely adore the very essence of him, the amazing holidays he has taken with Mum since then… None would have been possible without the interception of angels who must have seen he’d still have so much living to do…

So on this special day I wish my beautiful Dad a very happy birthday… We are eternally grateful to your guardian angel you are here with us to celebrate another year.

The only way is online, baby...

Image from here

Recently the perfect storm greeted me, en route to buying groceries at my local shopping centre. It was wet, it was a Thursday, it was five weeks out from Christmas.

And empty car spots were as rare as an even tempered Kyle Sandilands.

I drove round and around that damn car park, at first assuming I’d eventually jag a spot. Until after the fourth loop I began to curse every single shopper who’d managed to secure what I couldn’t and promptly drove back out again, in a filthy mood to boot.

These actions then led me to a momentous decision – it was time to pop my online grocery shopping cherry! I’d give the guys at coles.com.au a gig and see if having my goodies delivered right to my door was actually less stressful than the events that had unfurled that foul Thursday.

Putting in my order was certainly easier than traipsing through the aisles with a wonky trolley and overtired child who demands we stop at every end row display of tempting toys on offer. All that was now required of me was to wait for delivery day and I ensured that I was home at the allocated timeslot.

I’d purposely picked a work from home day to have my goods distributed so that I wasn’t caught out in the way couriers give you that ambiguous “9am – 5pm” endless stretch of time, however I was surprised when I suddenly realised my delivery window fast approaching its limit and still no goods had graced my kitchen bench. Almost on the dot of the three hour mark, I received a call from Customer Service announcing that there had been a delay and I’d not receive my order for another hour. While this was fine as I had no plans to be anywhere else but I could imagine it be a bone of contention for some. The silver lining though was the refund of my delivery fee (which while it is only a small amount, is what stopped me in the past from online shopping) so I was a placated customer.

Unpacking my goods however was a different story.

While I was mostly thrilled with the ease in which I’d now accumulated a fridge and freezer full of food, I did notice I’d received a substitute of one brand of item (even though I was sure I’d ticked no to that, but I could be wrong!), as well as the fact the mandarins I’d requested were not included, yet I’d still paid for them. I’d also not recalled selecting top loader washing powder when I was after the other type, yet that was what I’d been supplied.

However a quick call to the Customer Service gang again saw me refunded my missing mandarin money, but alas I’d have to take the washing powder back to a store for a refund end exchange. Which was fine, except it kind of defeats the purpose of online shopping if you still have to make a special trip to the shops…

All in all though I’d say it wasn’t a bad experience, when you consider it saved me from car park and overcrowded shopping centre rage. And mostly, it had lead me to the overall concluding message below:

Retailers, are you listening? THIS IS WHY CONSUMERS CHOOSE TO SHOP ONLINE! Sure, the prices are tempting, and there is the fact you can do it all from home without the need to extract yourself from your bathrobe and ugg boots. But most annoying of all is the lack of free freaking car spots in your teeny tiny car parks that are adjacent to your mammoth shopping centres. And I can only stand wasting so much time (and petrol) stalking shoppers as they leave the centre, only to be waived away five minutes after they’ve unpacked their trolley and announce “oh sorry, we aren’t done here yet…”

So now I’d love to know your online shopping tips – do you love or loathe the experience? And can you get a damn carpark weeks out from Christmas in your local shopping centre?!

Searching for a stylish Nappy Bag? Your chance to win!

It’s an age-old quandary for expectant parents the world over – forget your choice of cot or pram purchase. For the fashion savvy pregnant woman, it’s ALL about the type of Nappy Bag you wish to be seen with.

(Or maybe that was just me?)

I still recall the endless mission I undertook when I was shopping for this motherhood necessity. I searched tirelessly for an item that didn’t look so “mumsy”. Sure I know that was exactly what I was about to be, but as someone who’d long enjoyed a love affair with handbags, giving them up for a year while I toted around enough baby paraphernalia to enable me to start selling goods on the street corner, was a tricky task to undertake.

This is where two style conscious Sydney mothers, Megan & Renee, who faced the same issue, decided to swap frumpy for fashionable, creating a practical, yet desirable option you’d be proud to see swinging off the end of your stroller..

Enter “Stylish Little Me”, the sleek, sophisticated Nappy Bag that also serves a sensible purpose. Its light weight (1.2kgs!), has an external, detachable change mat, enough pockets so that everything has a home, but not so that you can never remember where the dummy has been stored. There is also the stunning design feature of the large eyelets, which fit perfectly over umbrella strollers. Never fear if you have a single bar pram – the extra long strap still fits nicely over it. You also have the choice of two classic colours (midnight blue or platinum grey). It comes cloaked in a 100% cotton baby wrap, and arrives beautifully gift wrapped on your doorstep days from ordering.

Best of all – and as my pregnant friend Danielle agreed - it does not look like a nappy bag!  Winning!

The RRP of the Stylish Little Me Nappy Bag is $199 (+ p&h) and can be ordered from their website www.stylishlittleme.com.au

Megan & Renee have also kindly offered to give one lucky blog reader of mine their very own slice of Mummy style and are giving away a Stylish Little Me Nappy Bag! Even if you aren’t in the market for one personally, think of how popular you will be if you present this to a friend at a baby shower or under the Christmas tree for an expecting family member!  And if you haven't finished your family but dread the thought of dragging out your old sad and stained one from before, consider this a nice keepsake to keep handy for when that time comes again...

All you need to do to be eligible is to make sure you are following my blog and leave me a comment below to tell me what your favourite aspect of this bag is. 

For an extra entry tweet this giveaway but be sure to use my @NappyDaze handle so I know you’ve done so, and come on back and tell me in a separate comment. 

Winner will be drawn by random.org on Saturday 3rd December at 9am. Australian residents only sorry.


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CONGRATULATIONS TO MELINDA FROM MUMMA IN HEELS WHO WAS OUR RANDOMLY SELECTED WINNER!

One is the loneliest number..

With the husband away on a holiday work trip last week, Master H decided that he'd like to help make up for this leave of absence by morphing into my silhouette, shadowing my every move.

When I was immersed in that blurry first year of parenting I remember reading all about the dreaded separation anxiety stage, where you baby suddenly begins to understand you are not one entity and that the two of you can actually co exist (even if it is much to their howling disgust).

But not once did I ever read about this notion rearing its ugly head when you child is 3… My son however, is proof it can – because every time I dared leave his line of eyesight it was met with tears and tantrums of disapproval that I’m sure the Husband heard from Melbourne.

Perhaps my Preschooler is just lonely; I’ll grant him that. He does enjoy playing with other children and is usually counted on to be quite sociable. But shouldn't children also enjoy a sense of solitude? Or is that just me?

Of course, his requirements for my exclusive attentions occurred at the exact same that I was trying to squeeze in a bit of extra work from home, meaning I needed to concentrate. We had some brief success when I told him to amuse himself while I worked; that was until I realised it was too quiet.  Upon investigation I found a maze of green garden string unravelled throughout the house. (And I am still looking for voluteers to re-ravel it, if there are any takers...)

Careful what you wish for, right?

Even trying to perform even the most mundane tasks, like attempting to tidy my messier than a war zone house was suddenly impossible. He literally had to be peeled off my leg while I tried to push the broom to sweep. And don’t get me started on how many times I started to write a blog, only to be stopped every sentence by an insistent little person who demanded my undivided attention be directed solely at him. 100% of the time. Without break. Yes, even when going to the toilet (and heck I thought those days were long gone…)

Even at nighttime, his desire for company still lingers “But Mummy you will make me so happy if you lay here with me for one little minute” he’ll beg sleepily. It tugs at my heart, it truly does. But when your every move the last 36 hours has been with him super glued to your side, you crave, you DESERVE one minute of peace. Hell, I even locked myself in the bathroom at one stage for 5 minutes just to remind myself to bbrreeaathe… 

So yes, the obvious issue is that the little man is just lonely.  And in lieu of having a brother or sister to play with that mantle has been handed to me.  Which would be fine, if I didn't have a million other commitments to get done during the day.

And before anyone glibly responds with the simple solution that we give him a sibling, I'll remind you that is easier said than done. 

Now is the time to speak (or forever hold your peace) and impart words of wisdom that will see my son happily ensconced in his own company once more... 

The Death Knell Doth Toll for Tiger...

Death came knocking at our door last week.

The bell did toll for Tiger, the Goldfish.

It was to be Master H’s first lesson is the classroom of life and death.

As with anything that involves either (a) grief or (b) gross-ness I got out of there fast as I could, and let the last rites and burial be left to the Husband and Son to oversee. Plus, fish aren’t really my forte. Perhaps if we had a cat it might be a different kettle of fish story…

As I fled from the scene of the fishy demise, I heard the husband muster up his gentlest, most serious daddy voice, asking his son to sit down and listen carefully. He them began to impart a lesson on all things life and death that has just befallen Tiger the Goldfish. From my limited viewpoint the child seemed more distracted than disappointed, but nonetheless, I thought I’d better be a responsible parent and follow up the occurrence early the next day.

“So baby, you know what happened to Tiger, don’t you?” I asked kindly, lest I conjure up any unpleasant leftover emotions from the night prior.

“Yeah. He’s dead,” came his completely disinterested, blunt reply. He didn’t even glance up from his Weet-bix, and his face was void from all emotion.

I thought I’d try another approach, perhaps a conversational one would get him talking…

“So you know what that means?”

“I tried to touch him and use magic make him alive but it didn’t work. He’s buried.” Again, no eye contact, and certainly no tears. Well, at least I’d be spared to undertake any grief counselling – I’d seen far more reaction to a plate of vegies served up at the dinner table than the loss of one of his pets. In fact, he’d been more distraught over losing his Lightning McQueen car weeks before…

I’d definitely not been so easily placated as a child we lost beloved pets. And oh my, there had been a few… At one stage we had our own version of Pet Cemetery happening in our back yard after a particularly rough trot of untimely demises…. So much so that the emotional toll meant my parents vowed if this next pet didn’t survive we’d had to go back to playing barbies instead.

Churchill the cat then lived for 15 years. I was 23 when he’d died and I mourned him as much as any human who’d been in my world taken too soon.

Perhaps the pre-schooler is just too young to grasp the concept or perhaps my self-imposed exile from the scene made light of the whole scenario, leaving him less than concerned by it all. Whatever the case, we got off lightly with this first taste of pet bereavement. The Husband however, is gratefully accepting all messages of condolence and sympathy, should you wish to send some his way…

How did your first ever pet loss affect you? Have you had to deal with this lesson with children?

Grateful for good doctors and red jellybeans...

I’ve so much to be grateful for this week – in particular that there does exist a system where Doctors will see patients on short notice. Because normally you need to know a month in advance you are going to be sick in order to get an allocated appointment right? But to turn up WITHOUT a booking? Was that even possible? I’d suspected it might be the reason behind being forced to sit and read month old magazines for an hour longer than necessary but as yet had never had the necessity to investigate it such queue jumping actually existed.

Until this week. Twice, in the space of three days, just for good measure.

My story starts on Tuesday afternoon. Frantically racing the clock to get my desired amount of work done before collecting my son from his little school, my phone cut in to the quiet of the house.

It was day-care. They casually asked if I’d come and collect my son now. Confused, I said of course, but could I just finish off my work? In my stressed mind I was thinking, “are they trying to get the numbers down?”

But I’d missed the point – they didn’t want to alarm me but Master H had had himself a nasty fall. So bad that he’d knocked himself out, turned blue at the lips, and had his eyes roll back into his head.

I’ll never forget the scene that greeted me as I arrived; there is nothing quite as confronting as seeing your child lying completely still, white as a ghost, surrounded by numerous concerned faces. He wasn’t talking or moving – two very out of character actions for he.

Although there were no obvious injuries I had to take him immediately to my family Doctor for a once over. That’s the thing about concussion – it is hard to see if it may be lurking undetected.

Which is why, days later, I was driving like a crazy woman BACK to my local medical centre.

Friday morning and all was fine – or so I thought. It had been a few days since the fall and we were out of the danger zone (in which I barely slept, checking my son every two hours that first night) but suddenly he began to moan. We were on our way to our hairdresser. She took one look at his pale little face, shivering uncontrollably yet burning hot to the touch, and gently suggested I needed to get back to the Doctor.

I thought my heart might explode through my chest on that normally short, but on this occasion interminably long drive. In the backseat was my white faced, extremely disorientated son, who looked like he might pass out at any moment. His eyes kept threatening to roll back into his head but I was too scared to let him sleep in case he lost consciousness. By this stage he couldn’t speak, only emit a low pained wail.

Of course the local car park, which is shared with the Surgery, was brimming with shoppers. I swore at every one who jagged a park before me and was seconds away from putting the window down and screeching, “help!” when I finally found one. I then dodged and weaved like an Olympic decathlete my way through the busy car park traffic, my wailing boy in my arms, before tearfully brandished my sick child towards the Medical receptionist for the second time in three days and begged to see someone straight away.

While my son proceeded to scream down the surgery, he was immediately checked over and confirmed it was not related to concussion (or meningococcal, such was his delirium and high temp). Finally, after two unsuccessful attempts to get him to take some medication he cried himself to sleep in my arms. 

Cradling him for the next 40 minutes, so many thoughts clamoured for my attention.  Twice in one week I was given clarity on what it is that truly matters in my world.  So I hadn't quite achieved as much as I hoped in my working week, so my house was resembling the aftermath of a break and enter gone wrong, and yes, sleep as per usual had been in short supply... But what did it honestly matter? I was willing to trade everything in an instant for my boy as all sorts of terrifying thoughts flooded my overactive mind.

Finally, as the hour mark of monitoring passed, my boy was given a final check over and declared an ear infection the culprit. Although, the Doctor needed proof Harrison was no longer delirious and could string a sentence together. He proffered jellybeans in my boy’s direction.

“I’ll have a red one please,” he whispered. It was music to my ears.

Sheepishly, I apologised to the Doctor for panicking and assuming this sudden onset of illness was related to the fall from earlier, fearing he'd thought I'd wasted his time. He was so kind, reassuring me I’d done the right thing. Which is what every paranoid Mummy needs to hear from a medical professional after such a scary incident. I’ll be eternally grateful for such kindness and dedication. And of course, red jellybeans, who brought the spring slowly back into my boy's step.

Eleven Eleven

Now, I’m no numerologist, but there’s a sequence of numbers that seem to follow me in life wherever I go. Of course you might rightly assume me as odd but regardless, the time 11.11 appears uncannily often in my world. And with calendars and clocks aligning to the once in a century occurrence of 11.11.11 today, I like so many others are honouring this event.

The celebrity world has a fixation with this idiosyncrasy as well. On a recent Ellen episode, one of her guests (Kellie Pickler) specifically chose the wedding date 1.1.11 because the number had such significance to her. And Ellen herself has admitted a fascination with the number, naming her record label eleveneleven in honour of it.

Likewise, I have a subconscious affinity with this spiritual sequence of numbers. Inexplicably (and as is the case with Ms DeGeneres as well!) I seem to have a knack of always looking at the clock when this numeric palindrome pops up on display. Call me crazy superstitious, but whenever it happens, an internal thought process is ignited and I am suddenly convinced all will be well in my world. I can be having a bad day, or worrying over an issue and if I happen to glance unwittingly at the time and its displaying as 11.11, then I suddenly am overcome with peace and a certainty all will work out as it was intended. Like I said, crazy. Spooky, no? 

Over the years it’s been too frequent an event to be pure coincidence. To this end, I undertook some reading on this phenomenon, and have had my suspicions confirmed.  It is a simple sign from spirit guides to let us know they walk with us, and wish only to help us.

We have had a pretty rough week this week, with my son giving me a couple of scares (that is a whole other blog post in itself – coming soon!) yet today I flipped out my phone to check if it was time to go and collect Harrison’s prescription from the chemist and there it was: 11.11 on 11.11.11. I felt peace again, the stresses of the morning slipping away. It was the intuitive signal I so needed.

Like any good medical practitioner, the Guides do follow ups as well. Hours later (like today) don’t be surprised if you glance at a clock and its 2.22. It’s their way of reinforcing the message you need to heed.

Many mystics agree it will always be a significant spiritual sequence so next time you see these digits pop up on the clock, take a moment to pause and reflect on what it was at that exact moment you were thinking, or make a wish. These numbers have power, they are a message. Don’t be afraid to harness it for yourself!

Are you a fellow 11:11 fan? Do you agree it is more than just coincidence?

Clutching at Straws

Have you checked out the latest I-AM Magazine? Here's what I contributed this past month:

Propped up at my kitchen bench, sat my insatiably curious 3 year old son, sipping his ‘”popper juice” (as its affectionately known to he) enjoying an afternoon snack. At his side was I, typing away furiously on my laptop, using one ear to listen to his non-stop chatter and attuning the other to my thoughts as I tried to release them from my mind and into my blog. Suddenly, there came a request for a straw from which to drink. I gave him an odd look, wondering where this previously unheard of notion could have originated. It had never been asked before.

Scrounging through the cupboards I managed to rustle up a brightly coloured straw that had somehow miraculously escaped my meticulous pantry overhaul of last month and plopped it into his cup. His blue eyes lit up like a flawless summery sky; you’d have thought I’d handed him a year’s worth of Christmas gifts such was the glistening glance of appreciation he gave it.

I turned my attention back to my task at hand until a peal of laughter filtered through the room. He was so utterly entranced by this seemingly simple activity of drinking through a straw that it made me stop in my tracks. Instead of trying to finish the piece I’d been trying all day to write I ceased work and concentrated on the sheer bliss that was now plastered across my son’s face.

In that moment it hit home to me about the humble pleasures of life and how adults all too easily miss them because of miring ourselves in work, guilt, chores – life!

It reminded me that it comes down to being present in the moment. I am guilty more often than I’d like to admit that while I may be physically present, my mind will whiz far away to the many apparently pressing issues that vie for my undivided attention. But, as my son showed me in that instance, is that every little minute counts. Each act should be soaked up as it happens. Sure, the tantrums (and daily teeth cleaning dramas) are certainly something I can’t stop and savour when they hit but there are other magical moments that shine in the life of a child that we could all heed.

Who knew a little slice of simple happiness could come through a straw? Not I, but I’ll drink to that!

Ladies & Gentlemen, Elvis has left the building...

Once upon a time,  a 22, carefree and silly young backpacker, was struck with an impulsive desire ( in spite of her seediness) to under take a spot of horse riding through the majestic forests and mountaintops that towered high above the beautiful Baroque township of Ceske Krumlov, nestled down in the South West of the Czech Republic. 

Because honestly – what could go wrong?

***********************************

Failing to rouse likewise enthusiasm amongst my fellow travellers, I was greeted with faces frowning in fear, cautiously inquiring “Do you think the horse will understand English still when you try to talk to it?". Nonchalantly I dismissed their frivolous worries with a breezy wave of my hand. Sure, it had been possibly 10 years since I'd seen myself in the saddle, but not much could have changed it that time, surely?

Arriving at the stables, and greeted in very broken English by the owner, I was led over and introduced to my trusty steed. And by steed I should clarify it was a slightly docile Bay horse that barely seemed to note I was there! He went by the moniker Elvis and as I slung myself up into the saddle with ease, the young girls who would be my guide (and by young they couldn’t have been older than 8 and 12!) gave me a brief run down which involved a lot of gesticulating and lost in translation instructions. Eventually we all smiled and shrugged and agreed to go, me following as they bounced effortlessly in their saddles, as if riding since before they could walk!

My "noble" steed

Now, Elvis didn’t seem so chuffed to have left the warm sanctuary of his Graceland stable as it was a monumental effort to get him to break into even a fast walk. And, considering I was keen for an adrenaline rush no amount of prodding and kicking on my part would get this old mare moving at any decent pace in his blue suede horse shoes. After casting a helpless look to the girls in front we dawdled along the road waiting in anticipation for some energy to filter through his horse veins.

This idleness, as it turned out, was a blessing in disguise as we had not gone far when Elvis took it upon himself to shy away much too nervously for my naive liking from a green rubber hose that stretched menacingly (in his eyes!) across the road. Backing up he whinnied loudly and turned abruptly away. The others, oblivious to this moment of panic, kept on riding ahead... Here is when I’d have been grateful for a Czech pocket dictionary, to grab the attention of my guides and shout “Uh, a little help here please before I’m taken back to the stables already?”

Finally they heard my plea and together we tried to get Elvis dancing over that hose, but he certainly was not in the mood to limbo. Finally, unceremoniously, he was dragged over by the reigns by the littlest (and less than impressed) guide.

So I’ll admit this unnerved me a little, but, squaring my shoulders, think to myself, “its okay, he is just a cautious horse and therefore catching sight of freedom and green rolling hills wont make him into a closet brumby”

Right?

We amble along until we reach a grassy hillside. The older girl turns to me, a hopeful smile spreading across her face and utters the word "trot". Pushing aside the gnawing fear, I smile boldly and nod, and Elvis and I are off, me bounding around in the saddle like a frog in a blender, trying to co-ordinate holding the reigns in the right place while keeping my feet securely in the stirrups and aiming to somehow stay up-right! Elvis, typically, and thankfully, tired quickly of this overdose of exertion and slowed to a safe stroll once we were 3/4 of the way to the top. I gave the girls a brave smile which I hoped detracted from the terror now creeping into my eyes and meandered through the countryside along until they were game enough to make the trotting motion again. I nodded grimly, bracing myself for the uncoordinated onslaught that was about to ensue from by perch on top of old Elvis. Off we went again, me still resembling someone suffering from a fit, when my foot came flying out of the stirrup and flailing about I managed to get Elvis to halt as I readjusted my now shaking self.

But then all fears vanished instantly. Before my eyes was most stunning sweeping view of the medieval World Heritage listed township of Ceske Krumlov. As we stopped and drank in the picture perfect scenery I was suddenly so glad I chose to be here. Grappling with Elvis (and my non-existent riding skills) was very worthwhile when you are treated to such exquisiteness.... So much so that by the time came for the third chant to trot, I was finally able to exert a little more grace whilst riding, and found myself smugly thinking I would show these girls yet I was no silly amateur...! 

Caught up in a daydream featuring me as the princess of this gloriously old-world town, we snaked our way through the forest (straight from a Hans Christian Anderson storybook of course!). I was feeling extremely proud of myself for making the effort to be active (when it would have been so easy to be lazy, especially when the night before involved cheap beer!) and was so caught up in the magnitude of beauty I was experiencing, when all too late I became acutely aware that a rather large, heavy branch was looming at extremely close proximity to my face...

Frantically, (and all thoughts of being a graceful princess vanishing in a plume of fear) I tugged on the reigns, hoping that Elvis's reaction time would differ dramatically from his current tortoise timespan and we would veer left...... But, sadly, and typically, he was true to form and walked straight into it. Vanity struck, and I realised in an instant I didn’t much fancy spending the next 6 weeks of Summer Travels sporting one large ugly purple cut and bruised face, so my gut instinct was to lean back and hope I could limbo under it somehow...

Seems my dancing skills were as on par with my riding skills, because all of a sudden I found myself tangled in the furry undergrowth that spurted out from the limbs of the tree I was trying to sneak under.  Poor ol Elvis became just as disorientated as I flailed about on his back, struggling to stay on when he jerked harshly and I lost hold of the reigns, falling, falling, falling.... hurtling front first straight into one over sized puddle, filled murky water and oozing mud. Oh yes, Elvis had left the building - that building namely being me!

And while the sniggers settle, I can luckily proclaim the only thing broken was my pride, and along with it one massively bruised ego. I was quite a sight as I strolled on back to my hostel, caked in dry mud and looking quite a bit more harassed and haphazard than when I left earlier in the day, full of naïve hope…

The moral to the travel story? That is what you get for being so energetic and adventurous when nursing a hangover… Or perhaps, it was just one of those golden travel tales that, even 9 years on, still make you shake your head and smile. I like to think I was just "living while I was alive"...

Deb Webber & the business of bringing comfort & closure

The day I basked in the presence of Deb
Webber & appeared on KAK!

Can you imagine what it must be like being in the business of bringing comfort and closure to those who are shackled with grief?

That, to me, along with myriad of amazing traits Deb Webber has, is the most special gift of all to give.

On Wednesday night my Mum and I were invited to sit with 150 other hopefuls and again witnessed the divine, mind blowing experience that is an audience with renowned Medium Deb Webber.

It is so surreal to see her in action – it’s akin to watching a human puzzle be painstakingly put together, piece by informative piece. She is so attuned to everything, which I can imagine must be so draining; with so many people in her presence all there with the same hope.

To connect.

The gorgeous team at World Conscious Productions, Nat & Wendy, who run the tour (and made us feel so special on the night!), work well to not only hype the crowd up in as they introduce Deb, but also manage the expectations of the many who arrived with the anticipation of being granted a reading. Because everyone there, sceptic or not, wants that one last chance to re-establish a bond that has been severed by death. Some seek answers, but all seek solace in some shape.

I can only imagine how taxing it must be on Deb. The room is charged with hope and emotion, and sorrow, like a shawl seems to be draped on the shoulders of many. There were times in the room where we all seemed to hold our breath collectively, immersed in the suspense as she gleans a young boy is there with her to connect with a grieving mother, taken too soon by suicide.

What peace this Mum must feel now, getting that final union with her youngest son?

The Q & A in the second part of the show is where everyone can bask in the divine wisdom of Deb Webber. She imparts her knowledge of spirituality, psychic ability, after life, reincarnation with a flair that makes you laugh and an intelligence that makes you listen intently.

For me it was her explanation of grief which helped heal the hole in my heart. It is so true how we fixate on the ones who’ve left, in a way we’d have not normally have done so if they were still alive. And in her vast experience with death and afterlife she can wholeheartedly state that there is an abundance of bliss awaiting those souls we send towards the light. We can choose to hold on to all the angst and sadness, build a shine out of grief, or we can release the pain and reflect with fondness.

I’d never heard it explained quite so eloquently, with a reasoning that truly resonated. It was what I needed to hear. Imagine if I directed that stagnant energy to other areas of my life?

Naturally, we can’t all be guaranteed a reading but Mum & I agreed that the ones who needed it the most were the ones Deb was guided to. What everyone will be able to take away from attending such an event is that learning and evolving will take place. As long as you are there with an open heart and mind the lessons will flow.

Deb, I humbly thank you for the opportunity to be in your presence once again – my heart once more feels light.