Project 365: Australia

Good friends Liz & Kate have just launched the Project 365: Australia website. The idea is pretty simple:

Project 365: Australia is a diabetes themed project aimed at raising awareness of diabetes in Australia. The idea behind Project 365: Australia is that the participants take one photo a day for a whole year. The subject of these photos will be something diabetes related - a photo of a glucometer, insulin pump or a finger prick test, for example. At the end of the project the participants are encouraged to collate all their photos and send to a local politician or even the Prime Minister.

So if you’re diabetic, go along and have a look and register. If not, it’s an intriguing idea nonetheless. I’ve decided I’m going to do my own Project 365 and simply take a photograph every day for the next year, so that by this time next year I’ll have a record of a-year-in-my-life. I was going to have them centre around my experience of ME/CFS and fibromyalgia, however I realised there isn’t much that I can actually photograph except maybe a handful of pills and a shot of healthy-looking legs. So I’m going to make my personal Project 365 a reflection of my entire life, with ME/CFS and fibromyalgia forming a part of it, but not a focal point. I’ll post some of them on here (if I remember) as I go.

Going once, going twice

In amongst all the end-of-semester madness, this Saturday we sold Pop’s house. There were something like 150 inspections of the property, 17 contracts handed out and countless enquiries. It went for auction at a very nice price at 11am on Saturday.

It was, predictably, difficult for all concerned.

Dad and I arrived at the house at a little after 9am, after dropping Sister at the local church for morning mass, and realised there was nothing much we could do so we drove to a local coffee shop where Dad’s old school friend works for a free coffee and a quick chat in the kitchen. After picking Sister up we returned to the house, where two of my aunts and one of my uncles were there waiting. By 10.30, punters had began to arrive for a final inspection so we locked our valuables in a cupboard and stood in the backyard, keeping out of people’s way as Jimmy (the realtor, another old school friend of Dad’s) worked his magic on the cloud.

More family arrived, another aunt and uncle, two cousin, and two children-of-cousins. We assembled in the front yard as the auctioneer started his spiel, explaining legislative requirements and giving a rundown on the house: five bedrooms, potential for city views if a second story added (subject to council approval), generous lounge room, detached lock up garage, detached purpose built workshop. Rah rah rah. Dad and I were crouched beside the veranda watching the crowd of fifty odd people, trying to work out how many were “ours” and how many were sticky-beaks, so that we could gauge how many were actually there to buy the house.

The auctioneer asked for an opening bid. Silence. Dad and I exchanged significant looks. “Six-fifty” someone shouted. “Fuck off” I whispered to Dad. He nodded his agreement. The auctioneer, who was impressively on-the-ball said “I’m sorry sir, I respect your bid, but I can’t accept it, it’s a little too low for this wonderful turn of the century federation style home with original fixtures…” and on the spiel went until “so, ladies and gentlemen, do I hear an opening bid?” A slightly shorter silence followed before someone called out “Seven-fifty!” Dad and I said to each other, almost in unison: “that’s more like it”.

After getting to around the 820 mark, the auction began to stall. “Ladies and gentlemen I have eight-twenty going once…” silence “eight-twenty going twice…” silence. I looked askance at Dad, this was well below the reserve, why was he doing the going once, going twice thing? “Eight-twenty going—” then another bid: eight thirty. “What the fuck are all these people doing here if no one wants to bid?” I said to no one in particular, perhaps a little too loudly.

This game continued until we hit the reserve. Jimmy came over and consulted with us, asking if we accepted the bid and were prepared to put the house on the market. Dad nodded and motioned a thumbs-up to the auctioneer and he announced “ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been informed the house is now on the market, we’re bidding for this beautiful federation property…” etc etc. Dad hung his head slightly. Although he had sunglasses on, I knew his eyes were welling up with tears.

It hit me then too. This was really happening. From this point on, bids came thick and fast between two bidders, going up in $5000 increments. Finally the winner was declared and Dad was visibly upset. I stood up, awkwardly as my legs were not being co-operative at all, to give him a hug but I was beat by the gaggle of aunts and neighbours who were suddenly upon him saying both “congratulations” and “I’m sorry”.

It hit me, in six weeks this will no longer be ours. Already the house is so empty and has lost the ambience it once had when it was cluttered and distinctively Pop’s.

It turns out that the buyers, Judy and her husband, hadn’t even considered the suburb at all and it was just happenstance that she saw the listing online and drove over to have a look from the street. She was so impressed she called Jimmy on the spot and asked if she could have a look inside. He raced over, she fell in love, and the rest is history.

Dad and the winning couple sat at the dining room table with Jimmy to sign the preliminary paperwork. One of the buyers, Judy, introduced herself to us all saying that they are going to do the house up, not tear it down and rebuild. That made everyone feel much better. She added: “and you are all welcome to come by and have a look if you’d like”. I for one was really happy it won’t be torn down; it does need a lot of work, but it is a great house with a lot of memories for us all.

So in six weeks we will no longer own the house that has been the home-base for our large family for the last 70 years. The date of settlement is a few days after the anniversary of Pop’s passing. That’s going to be a fun week!

Update

Last week was my last week of lectures at uni; I am now in the “study vacation” (an oxymoron if ever I heard one) before exams next week. I have two exams, one on the Monday at 2pm, the other the following Saturday at 9am. If I find the masochist who put an exam on a Saturday I won’t be held responsible for my actions! So that is why I have been awol from the blog. I’ve also been involved in a dispute with Liz (in that she is in the dispute and I’ve been supporting her, not that the dispute has been between us), and the good old “big brother protector” has come out of me. Although she is always quick to point out that if anything I’m a “little brother protector”. Anyway I’ll try to keep posting over the exam period but I can’t promise anything radical. Oh and my printer up and died the other day. I’m not happy about that at all!

Random ramblings #17

This week I’ve been down to Pop’s house twice for general cleaning up. It’s so empty now, with only one piece of furniture in each room. Today we emptied out Pop’s workshop, taking a lathe to my cousin’s place. Dad and I arrived at Damien’s earlier than he did because he had to drop his mum off on the way, so we kept ourselves amused by conversing with the cat from nextdoor. It all started with her meowing at Dad, Dad meowing at her, her meowing at Dad again, and so forth. I was so captivated by this graceful creature that I whipped out my phone to take a few pictures. The one to the right is the best one I took.

I’ve finished all my assignments, I have one week of classes left, then a stuvac week (stuvac means study vacation—an oxymoron if ever I saw one), then two exams. I have one on a Monday at 9am (groan) and the other is the following Saturday at 1pm. I can’t wait for all to be over so I can go to the coast, go to the beach, maybe even visit Liz in Tasmania or my friends Kate & Lance in Queensland.

I put in my application for university housing on Thursday. I’ve spoken to both parents and they both think it’s a great idea and they’re willing to support me until I can get some government assistance when I turn 25 in 2009. Because I’m applying for special consideration I had to provide some kind of documentary evidence so I had a letter from my doctor and from the disabilities officer at uni. I handed them to the lady at the housing office and she said they were perfect. I asked when and how are offers made, she said that emails are sent out in the first week of January, but that I should find out sooner than that. This is a telling statement, because I know for a fact they don’t contact unsuccessful applicants because there are just so many of them. So I’m cautiously optimistic.

And in other news, imagine my surprise when I see that Best Gay Blogs has named this blog as “Blog of the Day” for the 18th October for my far too little, far too late post. Thanks so much guys, you made my day!

And that’s about it folks.

Far too little, far too late

John Howard’s backflip on the issue of Indigenous reconciliation puts Olympic gymnasts to shame.

Howard announced, a few days ago, that “if re-elected, I will put to the Australian people within 18 months a referendum to formally recognise indigenous Australians in our constitution - their history as the first inhabitants of our country, their unique heritage of culture and languages, and their special, though not separate, place within a reconciled, indivisible nation”. He continued, “I would aim to introduce a bill that would include the preamble statement into parliament within the first 100 days of a new government” (source 1, source 2, source 3 and full speech).

This is coming from a man who has repeatedly refused to offer any gesture of apology, any formal or in-formal acknowledgement of past wrongs, and who attempted to thwart any progress or actions of others.

It’s a contentious issue, and one that is quite complex. At its height, in 2001, when Howard refused to walk over the harbour bridge as symbolic gesture of reconciliation, I was 17. I remember thinking, “Why should I apologise? I wasn’t the one who perpetrated the injustices against indigenous Australians.” But I’ve realised since then that such a simplistic view completely misses the point. Saying ‘sorry’ and reconciliation are not about personal or individual blame; they are about accepting the past and standing up as a representative for past governments, past peoples, and apologising for their blame. The government is bigger than the individuals that comprise it, and more enduring than the careers of its ministers. The present government is a continuation of the colonial government, in the same way that the present crop of “white Australians” (for want of a better term!) is a continuation of colonial “white settlers”. It’s about one group of people acknowledging another.

Howard wants a united Australia, in which Indigenous and “mainstream Australians” live in harmony with no social, racial or ideological disparities. Howard’s campaign slogan in 1996 was “for all of us”. He envisaged, I’m sure, an Australia in which everyone was equal and happy. Unfortunately, the “all of us” to which he alluded was the mythical “mainstream Australia”. There’s no such thing. “Mainstream Australia” is the white, middleclass, heterosexual male. If Howard is governing “for all of us” he certainly isn’t governing for me, nor for Indigenous Australians. While it’s a very worthwhile goal, and certainly a nice thought, it is totally out of touch with reality. The reality is that until there is reconciliation, and until there is same-sex equality for that matter, we can never be united.

There have been many misconceptions and myths about the reconciliation process. Many believe it will give rise to native title being invoked on privately held land. Many believe it will impinge on the rights of “mainstream Australians” (which is also a myth). Pauline Hanson has weighed in on the debate, scared her “rights” will be somehow impinged upon. These arguments miss the point too. Native title legislation is about crown land. Privately held land is not affected in any way and cannot be claimed.

So is this a real and considered move on Howard’s part, indicating that he is prepared for real reconciliation, or just a desperate election stunt? Either way, in my opinion, it’s far too little, far too late. Constitutional law experts have warned that 100 days is not enough time to craft an appropriately worded preamble. Does Howard really expect that promise (and we don’t know if it is a “core promise” or not) to hold a referendum about whether or not to implement a hastily drawn, non-binding, preamble with do anything to win Indigenous votes? If he is so contrite, why doesn’t he take on his leadership role, admit his mistakes in preventing reconciliation so long, and actually do something: say “sorry”.

That would win votes.

It suddenly seems empty

Pop’s house is going to be auctioned on the 27th of October. It’s almost empty, save for a few pieces of furniture that will eventually be donated to a charity, and a few bits and pieces that we are yet to take. For the past two weeks Dad and my aunt have been down there organising box upon box of “stuff”, deciding which “stuff” to keep (and who should keep it), which “stuff” to throw out, which “stuff” to sell, which “stuff” to donate.

Something has left my life,
And I don’t know where it went to.
Somebody caused me strife,
And it's not what I was seeking.

Pop was a hoarder. His home was always full of things, quirky little oddments that made it unique, things that made it his. But slowly, slowly, we’ve dismantled a home, with its 60-odd years of history, leaving an empty house, a shell of its former glory ready to be sold and carved up. I understand that this is how things work, and that ultimately the money my Dad inherits will benefit me, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I went down on Wednesday and Thursday afternoon this week, after uni, to help out. Though I knew perfectly well what was happening, and what had been happening since my last visit (which was well before the drug debacle), still I wasn’t prepared for such an empty house—a home no longer. The joy and warmth had gone, replaced by a cold austerity that was not Pop at all. It felt so strange. I felt his absence so keenly on Wednesday I had to excuse myself and sit for a moment to think and try to process what I was seeing and feeling.

Say a prayer for me,
Help me to feel the strength I need.
My identity, has it been taken?
Is my heart breakin’ on me?

The back room: once the hub of the house with its formica breakfast table, Pop’s armchair and tape player for his recorded book, a pile of newspapers (already read but not ready to be thrown out yet). Now it’s empty. All that remains is an end table with a vase of flowers. It doesn’t even smell like Pop’s place anymore.

The kitchen: once a room of warmth and delicious smells, cupboards full of plates, utensils, Tupperware; the benches covered in jars of coffee, tea and sugar—ready for afternoon tea or Pop’s night-time cocoa. The room held the sun’s heat well into the night, making it the warmest in the house. Now it’s empty. The cupboards are bare, the drawers barren, the tea long since packed away.

Pop’s bedroom: once full of “stuff” ranging from old engineering and mechanics magazines to his collection of maps, a wardrobe full of clothes, a dresser full of his most prized possessions and other assorted miscellanea—war memorabilia from his service in the RAAF in WW2, old coins, spark plugs, double adapters and every telephone the house had ever had. Now it’s empty. All that remains is his bed and bedside light, mounted on the wall above it.

Pop’s workshop: once full of dazzling machinery, two metal cabinets full of assorted chuck keys, drill bits, screw drivers, imperial callipers, belt sanders, scraps of metal and the occasional porno shoved in the back. Now it’s empty. Totally empty. There’s nothing left.

All my plans fell through my hands,
They fell through my hands on me.
All my dreams it suddenly seems,
It suddenly seems
Empty.

So can I tell you a little bit about myself?

I’m feeling much better; the gastro seems to have been shat out long ago and I am now back to “normal”, such as “normal” is for me anyway.

Presently, I am indulging in a little wanton procrastination, when I really should be doing a 2000 word history essay on the Australian History Wars, or doing a linguistics assignment that I haven’t started yet but which is due on Friday. The history essay is a very interesting topic, one that has fascinated me even before I began this course, although I fear the essay doesn’t quite answer the question. At this late stage I just say “fuck it”. As long as I pass.

In other news, there is a very good chance I will be moving out of home next year! The university has a number of terrace houses in Darlington and Forest Lodge (a totally disingenuously named suburb; there are probably no lodges and definitely no forests within its boundaries). It looks like, with the help of the inheritance from Pop’s estate, Dad is prepared to support me next year while I’m 24, until I can qualify for Austudy when I turn 25. We discussed it at length in the car the other day and nutted out several possible scenarios, all with a bare minimum of convincing argument on my part. We haven’t let Mum in on it yet—that is a task for next week when I have more time to argue—but I’m sure once I point out that it will mean better health due to a drastic cut in commuting and the ability to pick up an extra subject with the time saved in transit, that she will (probably begrudgingly) see the merit in the plan.

Speaking of Pop, we have been involved in the somewhat sombre exercise of readying his home for auction, which will happen on the 27th of October. Dad is on holidays at the moment, so he’s been going down every day to clear things out (Mum thinks I am a hoarder, but Pop is the king) and fixing little bits and pieces to get the house ready. I haven’t had a chance to help out because of the drug debacle, gastro and homework but next week I plan on going down to take some photos and old letters for the family history project my cousin Damien and I are working on. It will be a difficult day on the 27th.

And lastly, I was able to attend the mentor training day on Saturday. It was a great day; I met lots of great people and enjoyed myself, despite being on a strict sao and vegemite diet (mandated by Dr Mum) while everyone else enjoyed really yummy looking sandwiches.

So that’s it for now. I think I better get back to the history stuff, before it gets any later and I end up staying up late, again. Hopefully next week I can write the next installment of A history of us.

Big baby

In all my time of illness, I like to think that for the most part at least I’ve taken it all with dignity and a philosophical attitude. Funny that it takes one simple bout of grastro to unglue my resolve and turn me into such a big fucking baby.

I’ve never denied being a “Mumma’s Boy”, nor have I denied having a Peter Pan Complex, but this is just ridiculous. I’m sipping lemonaide, praying not to throw up because if I do then all my meds come up with it and I get no pain relief, and nibbling vegemite saos like a chipmunk (the reason being, according to my mother, is that this way when you throw them up again they’re nice and mushy and not crunchy when coming up the oesophagus), and sulking. Lots of sulking. Before bed, I lay down next to Mum, who was in her bed reading. She stroked my hair and told me she loved me—which in and of itself isn’t strange—but this was like a little kid cuddling up to Mummy in the vain hope that she will miraculously make it all better. I’m old enough to know there’s nothing she can do beyond scold me when I break my lemonaide-sao diet, but I guess I slip into these fits of infancy when I’m like this. And the really weird part?—after the last three weeks of drug induced crapitude, this is the time I get like this. Go figure.

I’m even getting bitter about it. Mum, Dad and Sister had French omelettes tonight for dinner. I hate French omelettes, with a passion. Yet my mouth was watering and I was sulking in my room, lusting over this food I hate, eating saos. It’s just not fair!

Boo hoo. Ok I’m over it now…

Cherry on a mud pie

After a horrendous three weeks, I didn’t think things could possibly get any worse without the loss of a limb or something of that magnitude. I was wrong. I seem to have inexplicably and mysteriously picked up a bout of gastro.

Yesterday morning I woke up with just enough time to throw up my dinner from the night before. Thinking it was an isolated incident, I had saos with vegemite for lunch because it’s gentle on the stomach. Then, suddenly, I threw it all up again at about 6.30pm.

Mum ordered a strict diet of lemonaide, water and air for the next 48 hours: the gold-ole “24 hour bug” diet. Except since my immune system is so compromised we have to extend it to 48. Isn’t this the cherry on a real mud pie of a month!

And now for something completely political.

A friend pointed me in the direction of the Australian Citizenship Test. What a load of horseshit. When I saw the ads on TV I was wary; I knew it would be bad but I had no idea it would be this bad. The test is, for all intents and purposes, a trivia quiz on arbitrary bits of information loosely assembled around the nebulous theme of Australianness. The totally maddening part of it all is that the Australia to which the test alludes doesn’t actually exist.

The test is designed, ostensibly, to choose new citizens who share Australian values. In reality, it will only serve to enshrine an outdated monocultural, jingoistic view of the Australia that certain people wish existed. Does this remind anyone else of White Australia? It didn’t work then, why should it work now? This is just a wedge to keep out “un-Australian types” and to bolster support for the coalition in the federal election, in the hope that “mainstream Australia” will vote them back into power.

I have news for you: “mainstream Australia” doesn’t exist. Shit, even “Australianness” doesn’t exist if you really think about it. Take 100 random current citizens—if we are to assume they are all “Australian”, I defy the governmental powers-that-be to find a single common thread between them. It can’t be done because of the simple fact that Australia is a nation of immigrants; we are diverse and as such we have no one single “Australian” culture. Monocultural Aussie values are myth. A friend of mine summed it up beautifully by saying that to be Australian is to desire or to believe you are Australian. Whether you believe that or not, the point is that it cannot be measured or characterised by a simple multiple choice test.

Aside from the tenuous justification for the very existence of the test, the content is another indicator of the way the government feels about “Australianness”:

Indigeneity: question 1 denies the indigenous flag, but then question 2 asserts the inhabitation of indigenous Australians for 40,000 years (a token gesture, surely). What about:

• When were Indigenous Australians granted full commonwealth voting rights in Australia, by public referendum?
  a) 1901, b) 1922, c) 1962, d) 1972.
• Which legal fiction was used to justify the British invasion of Indigenous land in 1788?
  a) terra nullius, b) tierra del fuego, c) terra firma, d) terra australis.

Trivia: questions 3, 4, 7, 10, 11, 16, 17 and 19 are trivia—name the floral emblem, a popular sport, the animals on the coat of arms, the first PM, the national anthem, the meaning of ANZAC day, the year of European arrival, and Australia’s involvement in various wars. Why not:

• Which Australian cricketer is a sleazy adulterer? a) Don Bradman, b) Ricky Ponting, c) Shane Warner, d) Glen McGrath.
  

Geographical trivia: questions 6, 19 and 20 are geographical trivia—what is the capital of Australia, how many states and what is the largest river system in the country. While these are only marginally more useful than the pure trivia, why not ask the following, to show how Australian two of our most treasured landmarks are:

• Paul Strzelecki, the explorer who “discovered” Mt Kosciuszko, named it after:
  a) a Swedish military leader, b) a Russian national hero, c) an Australian bushranger, d) a Polish national hero.
  
• Who “discovered” Uluru, formerly known as Ayer’s Rock?
  a) Chief Secretary of South Australia, Sir Henry Ayers, b) the Pitjantjatjara people, c) Paul Strzelecki, a polish explorer, d) explorer Ernest Giles.
  

Political system: questions 5, 9, 12 and 13 are about the political system. These are arguably important for new citizens to know about, so I won’t mock them too much, other than to say that they are extremely ambiguous and a little misleading.

“Australian values”: questions 14 and 15 are ludicrous. I just don’t know where to begin on these two. So how about:

• Which Australian values were displayed in the Cronulla riots in 2005?
  a) tolerance of diversity, b) mateship, c) “a fair go”, d) none of the above.
• To be granted a fair go in Australia, ie to gain legal protection and social rewards, you must be:
  a) of Anglo-celtic appearance (ie white), b) heterosexual, c) male, d) all of the above.
  
• Australia was established as:
  a) a retreat for retired English nobility, b) a penal colony, c) a community of free farmers, d) all of the above.

I just can’t believe in this day and age the powers that be are still peddling the myth of a monocultural Australia. So sad really.

Memories

Funny how you can forget the bad times (or is it more a case of repressing the memory, I wonder) only to have the memories flood back when you revisit that place again.

The last 48 hours have been hell. I will spare you the unpleasant details, but to recap briefly—on Sunday my legs were killing me, due (I am guessing) to the paltry effect of the Tegretol having worn off since I stopped taking it on Saturday night. The pain was the worst it has ever been. I took as many pain killers as I could (legitimately) take but to no avail. So I double-dosed and started to feel some improvement, only to have it muted slightly by the blinding nausea the double dose brought about. The next day, Monday, I suddenly and quite inexplicably had the worst bout of diarrhoea I can remember. I’m still not sure where it came from but the point is that I couldn’t really eat much because as soon as I ate it, I shat it back out again. This continued all day and I quickly became dehydrated and weak.

By bedtime I felt very fragile. My head was finally less cloudy than it had been in weeks, which was great, but my body felt very weak. I hadn’t felt that weak in a long, long time. As I was drifting off to sleep I felt the urge to grab my teddy bear off my shelf and cuddle up to him, like the little kid I am at heart, as I fell asleep.

I remembered feeling this way, in a long forgotten time, and I remembered that I never really cuddled my teddy then… I usually lay on top of him—with him under my hip—or just had him perched on my chest with my arms by my side, because it hurt my arms having them raised above my heart when cuddling the teddy bear.

Funny what you remember, isn’t it?

PS. I discovered that I have very nearly got my six-pack back, such as it is. Which is a very dubious accomplishment, let me tell you. I never worked for it; it existed before because I lost so much weight so quickly that there was just no fat covering my abdominal muscles (again, such as they are). I’m in two minds now as to whether its reappearance is a good thing or not…

Pretend scrabble

While feeling horrible, I like to spend my afternoon with Liz playing pretend scrabble on facebook. The object is make up legitimate sounding words using yours letters, play them on the scrabble board, and then provide a legitimate sounding definition to the other player.

Here are the two games we did yesterday:

Game 1
Across:

• Ahutikuc (noun) – synonymous with the Hakka before NZ football games—Liz.
• Orwrite (adj) – the state of being ‘alright’ in cockney London—Liz.
• Taxsaya (noun) – someone who works in the taxation office—Liz.
• Clubmale (noun) – any male who frequents nightclubs—Dan.
• Beng (noun) – a ‘bang’ in South Africa—Dan.
• Hoser (noun) – someone who hoses—Dan.
• Ioner (noun) – someone who plays with ions—Liz.
• Pegmen (noun pl.) – the little dolls that children make out of pegs in preschool—Dan.
• Voip (noun) – the sound made by drinks vending machines when they dispense cans of soft drink—Dan.
• Dizle (noun) – something totally wanky that Mark Holden would say on Australian Idle—Dan.
• Dizles (noun pl.) – plural of above—Liz.
• Saderquo (noun) – sadness that comes from maintaining the status quo to ones disadvantage—Dan.
• Saderquoee (noun) – one who feels saderquo—Dan.

Down:

• Atioxacs (invariable noun) – the study of attacks by oxen—Dan.
• Netin (verb) – the act of catching a fish with a net—Liz.
• Cavinnetin (verb) – the act of catching a fish with a net in a cave—Dan.
• Raoma (noun) – a dyslexic person who roams (note that a non-dyslexic person who roams is a roama)—Liz.
• Afury (noun) – fury felt a-walkin’, a-talkin’ or any other action that is preceded by ‘a’—Liz.
• Le (article) – form of “the” used when trying to sound French—Dan.
• Biddjest (adj.) – descriptive of someone who is the ‘bitchiest’, only much, much worse—Dan.
• Ni (excl.) – something the knights say—Dan.
• Go (imperative) – also said by knights, often followed by “get me a shrubbery!”—Dan.
• Helpp (excl.) – what someone who stutters says when in need of assistance—Liz.
• Gogof (noun) – a goggomobile for fish—Liz.
• Za (article) – form of “the” used when trying to sound German—Liz.
• Stuw (noun) – off stew—Liz.

Game 2
Across:

• Blehetin (noun) – a really boring bulletin—Liz.
• Barunryp (noun) – a tanked bunyip—Dan.
• Susyeeva (name) – a ‘modern’ name—Liz.
• Egqaleti (adj.) – describing the quality of eggs—Liz.
• Krice (noun) – Crunchy rice—Dan.
• Milkrice (noun) – Rice pudding—Liz.
• Rexwinjr (noun) – A king who whinges a lot—Dan.
• Zerocold (adj.) – 1. Describing something totally cold. 2. Describing something that is not cold at all—Liz.

Down:

• Woans (noun pl.) – loans granted from Elmer Fudd—Dan.
• Bubgagee (noun) – person who gauges the size of babies—Liz.
• Bubgageearopore (noun) – instrument used by the bubgagee to gauge the size of babies—Dan.
• Niphfaim (noun) – the fame (or ‘phfaim’) brought about by being a knight who says “ni”—Dan.
• Aquax (noun) – ajax and water—Dan.
• Massfeer (noun) – 1. a fear of Mass, 2. a group of people in fear—Liz.
• Lovanitt (adj.) – when something is loved—Liz.
• Idiotoz (invariable noun) – those people who think that adding an “o” to an English word makes its Spanish or Italian equivalent, or that adding a “z” to the end of words makes them look cool—Dan.
• Dild (noun) – A dildo from which no pleasure is derived—Dan.