Bemusing

Not written by me

It's funny, when you meet a stranger (and this has happened at least three times recently) and you tell them that you write books for kids, their first response always seems to be an enthusiastic but slightly patronising, 'Good for you!'

And then they tend to follow up with: 'And do you draw the pictures yourself?'

Now, I wish that I were talented enough to create picture books -- or indeed, just pictures would be thrilling enough -- but why is there is this automatic assumption that kids' books equals picture books? All of these lovely strangers grew up reading. Surely they didn't all go straight from The Cat In the Hat to Wuthering Heights? One of them has children of her own, and one used to work in a book shop!

So -- bemused.

PS Happy International Left-Handers' Day -- especially to my sister, my daughter Alice and my friend Sandra. Hooray for lefties!

Australian Women Writers Challenge

I haven't signed up for this because I'm not a joiner. But other people, more conscientious than I, are doing it and more power to them, and it prompted me, just out of curiosity, to see just how many books by Australian women writers I have read this year. And it turns out it was more than I thought: enough to qualify me for the Franklin-fantastic (if I was energetic enough to write proper-length reviews).

A Small Free Kiss in the Dark: Glenda Millard
I put off reading this for ages because I'm a bit wary of post-apocalyptic, kids-in-a-war books; but this drew me in with the beauty and sweetness of Skip's narration and the warmth of the little displaced group that become his surrogate family. Not what I was expecting, but in a good way. (I should have known better, because I love Glenda Millard's beautiful writing.)


Act of Faith: Kelly Gardiner
It's 1640, and Isabella, the daughter of a radical scholar, is forced to flee to the Continent, where she falls in with the courageous printers who dare to spread books and ideas that the all-powerful Church doesn't necessarily approve of. I thoroughly enjoyed this window into a world that I don't know much about, and Kelly has obviously done heaps of research - the book wears it lightly, however, and Isabella is a brave and appealing heroine.


Stasiland: Anna Funder
Another one I put off reading because I thought it would be worthy but difficult. Man, was I wrong. This was supremely readable, an engaging and fascinating journey into the vanished world of East Germany -- disturbing but compulsive. When it's done well (like this, and Helen Garner) literary non-fiction might almost be my favourite genre. Now I have to read that novel that everyone's raving about...


Graffiti Moon: Cath Crowley
Part of me wanted to pick this book to pieces to find out how it worked, because this is bloody close to being a perfect YA novel. Gorgeous stuff, simple but poetic, set in a single night, not a word out of place. You could sing it. This gave me a severe case of writer's envy.


Pirate X: Sherryl Clark
Sherryl has packed in a lifetime's obsession with pirates into this children's novel. While some of the detail was really interesting, at times it felt a little over-stuffed with facts, to the detriment of the story's flow, and the time-slip mechanism that transported her contemporary protagonist back to the swashbucklers was slightly clunky. But anyone who loves pirates will find plenty to absorb them.


Listening to Country: Ros Moriarty
A moving account of a white Australian's journey through the physical and emotional landscape of her Aboriginal husband's family in the Tanami Desert in the Gulf of Carpentaria. Warm, generous, intimate, heart-breaking and ultimately inspiring.


Star Jumps: Lorraine Marwood
A slender volume of verse, telling the story of a rural family's struggle with drought, and the ties that bind them to the land and to each other, through the eyes of young daughter Ruby. Winner of the PM's Literary Award in 2009. Small but perfectly formed.

The Children of the King: Sonya Hartnett
This was a book I wished I'd written myself - it's wartime England, and city kids sent to the country discover two mysterious boys apparently hiding out on a ruined castle. But are the boys what they seem? Hartnett didn't handle the material the way I would have done myself -- so maybe I can still write my own version one day!


The FitzOsbornes at War: Michelle Cooper
Words cannot express the depth of pleasure that Michelle Cooper's Montmaray books have given me. Roll up the Mitford sisters with I Capture The Castle, and sprinkle some sparkles on top - consume in one bite. I've got my mum hooked on these as well. I cried reading this - not just because of what happens, but because it's all finished and there are no more.


Losing It: Julia Lawrinson
Four teenage girls vow to lose their virginity before Schoolies Week. This is a kind of Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants where the pants come off rather than being put on... It was an easy read, covered lots of bases and talked matter-of-factly and with humour about the temptations and mortifications of adolescent sex, which is probably something we need more of.


The Lieutenant: Kate Grenville
Based on the true story of William Dawes and his tentative interactions with a young Aboriginal girl in the first days of the Sydney colony. A compact, beautifully written tale, though I was vaguely bothered by the fictionalisation of historical characters such as Arthur Philip and Bennelong. I guess Grenville had to protect herself, because she is writing fiction, not history; but the disguises were so transparent as to be practically invisible... Not sure what the answer is to this one.


The Barrumbi Kids: Leonie Norrington
A lively story about the adventures of a mixture of indigenous and white kids in an outback community. I really enjoyed this. Alice's class are reading this at school and she has found the beginning hard to get into, but I'm encouraging her to persist, because it's well worth it. A terrific introduction to Aboriginal Australia.


Love-Shy: Lili Wilkinson
A fun read. I'd never heard of love-shyness before, but after reading this, I suspect I have snagged myself a slightly love-shy man, which is no bad thing. I read bits out to him and he said, hmm! Which I'm taking as a yes. Lili does funny but meaningful YA so well... I dips me lid.

In fact I dips me lid to you all, women writers of Australia. And may there be many more of you!

Too Many Names?

Our family: K. Constable, A. Taylor-Constable, M. Taylor, E. Taylor-Constable

 There have been a couple of articles in The Age lately about names -- people changing their names, to be specific. To be even more specific, married people changing their names. To be more specific still, married women changing their names. Apparently about 90% of women change to their husband's surname when they tie the knot.

What's happened?? When I was a young thing, back in the hairy-legged 80s and 90s, we were all proud feminists who would never have considered even getting married, letting alone sacrificing our names on the altar of patriarchy. Okay, so I softened on the first point, but not on the second. It never even crossed my mind to change my surname. Maybe this was partly because I'd started getting published under my own name. Maybe it was partly because, frankly, I preferred the sound of my surname to his. But mostly it was because, well, Kate Constable is just who I am. Why on earth would I want to give that up?

Then there is the whole what-about-the-children debate. I was slightly startled to discover that only three percent of families take the same route we chose: the hyphen. I sort of understand why -- it's clunky, it's a lot to write on your pencil case, and what happens in the next generation? Are we dooming kids to producing families of Smith-Nguyen-Robinson-Portelli children?

It's true, Alice has only just mastered the spelling of her hyphenated five syllable surname, but she has adamantly rejected (in fact, both girls have) any suggestion of trimming back to one name or the other. We'd vaguely thought that one day the girls could choose to drop one half of the hyphen, but at this stage they hate that idea. But who knows what will happen if they decide to get married one day...

Interestingly, from a very small and unscientific sample, it seems most of the couples we know (the majority of whom are not formally married) have chosen the father's (or non-childbearing mother's) surname for the children. The other couples in our social set who have gone the hyphen option seem to be the formally married ones. (And each of those mums has stuck to her own surname, too.) I wonder what negotiations of identity and commitment and compromise went into those decisions?

I completely understand the whole "we want everyone to have the same name" argument. It's never been a problem for us, having three surnames in the family, but I can see the emotional appeal of being the XXX family. But still, why does XXX seem to end up being the man's name, nearly every time? Of course it's a matter of individual choice. But when 90% of people are making the same choice, you can't help asking why.

19th July

2012 (aged 45)
Alice is counting the days till her 11th birthday. She's requested a countdown of her seven favourite meals for "birthday week." Tonight: potato and leek soup with garlic naan.
Very different from Evie who spent the week before her birthday sobbing, 'I don't want to be eight! I want to stay seven forever!"
2001 (aged 34)
Still no sign of movement down below - except that she has engaged and I'm getting the odd Braxton-Hicks twinge. A strange time, waiting, waiting. Every time I get up to go to the loo Mikey sits up in bed: "Are you okay? Is anything happening?" Oh hurry up little one. We want to meet you.
1996 (aged 29)
Nana died on Saturday morning.
Mum and Hilly both sick so it was me and Aunty Lois on either side of the bed all day Friday. The blind hand grasping, grasping for something to hang onto. She kept saying, Mama. Lois: I'll be your mama. Nana: No, you be my daughter. She said quite clearly, pension day yesterday. That made me laugh.
1994 (aged 27)
he wheels above her, unattainable as a comet
comets are only lumps of dirty snow
he didn't know when angels fall that they burn up before they hit the ground
1991( aged 24)
First night in Paris and I am rigid with terror. Absolutely stark staring bonkers with fear.
1990 (aged 23)
Had tea with C, B and B and got a bit thingy when they were all talking about their boyfriends and rode home and cried. Have had vivid and extravagant dreams -- is the oyster soup to blame??
1987 (aged 20)
Told B there was a danger I could fall for D... D thinks I'm still still in love with B, what a joke! What a pathetic little story our lives would make.
1986 (aged 19)
Up unreasonably early, worked. No 'Lawyers Guns & Money' so read the paper. Had horrible lunch. Met family at the Rivoli to see "Hannah and Her Sisters." Home by 1am.
1985 (aged 18)
No one to sit with Legal History -- no S, no J, no John Roskam... Met F, D and A at the Student Union, went in on tram to meet L, then on to the Myer Music Bowl to skate with KD, P and J and E and J. Went to Spaghetti Graffiti for hot chocolates. Can't afford to go out tonight. Feet blistered. Watched telly with PH.
1984 (aged 17)
Economics essay in class "Money supply and monetary policy"
Prepare 2 Latin chapters
Read ahead in Galileo
1983 (aged 16)
Scotch debate - meet in foyer at 2 PM    WE WON
Liberal death (Orchestra Room)
1979 (aged 12)
Basilinka Basiline Basilatka Pereghrone (Perethane) Victrova Vicravia (Valrava)
1978 (aged 11)
After lunch we went to traffic school. I only got a small go on a bike, because I used a wrong hand signal. They didn't have signals in New Guinea. When I get my bike, I must practise a lot! Weather: Sunny
1976 (aged 9)
Eva came. The Seddons came back.We got homework. Had sausages and chips for tea. Yum. At school we played "Dogs."

Bluffers' Guide To The Bulldogs Part 4

Another week, another defeat to the Western Bulldogs.

It's becoming a painful pattern this season. Earlier in the year we had a couple of gallant losses, near misses, and even some wins. But things are looking pretty dark and dismal down at the Kennel at the moment.

As a relatively new supporter, I've been spoiled the last few years. We've made the finals most years, we made three preliminary finals! Coming third or fourth was excitement enough for me (though not for many of the long-suffering Bulldog fans who have been waiting sixty years for another flag). Even when we lost, we usually looked like we were in it, and there was always hope that we'd come good next week.

Well, not now. We look bloody horrible. We are "rebuilding". We are "getting games into the kids". We don't need to tank for draft picks - we're just losing without even trying. We're at the bottom of the football cycle. It's no fun watching the Bulldogs at the moment. We look slow, clueless, unskilled and disorganised. I'm sure there is a long term plan for the team's development, but it's ugly to watch.

This is where, as a supporter, you have to make a hard decision. Do I jump off the bandwagon while it's struggling through the mire? Have I got better things to do with my time and money than sit through yet another flogging? Do I really want to put myself through that pain? I hate seeing my boys lose, knowing that whatever misery I'm feeling is amplified a hundred-fold for them. Being a football fan when your team is doing badly is the opposite of enjoyable.

It's tempting to walk away. To say, see you in five years -- when we've acquired some talented youngsters, when the coach's plan has gelled, when the kids we're blooding now have matured into senior players and gained some strength and confidence and experience.

The trouble is, with a club like the Bulldogs, in five years time there might not be a team to come back to.

Our membership is low. We are poor. A few years at the bottom of the ladder could kill us. If enough members walk away, we might not make it. We will drown.

So I've made my decision. I'll try to anaesthetise myself against the pain, but I'll hang in there. Because being a true supporter means loving your team even when they're awful. And when victory finally comes, it will be all the sweeter, and I can feel as if I've earned it too.

Unprecedented!

Apologies for the long silence. I have been trapped in the Long Tunnel of Flu, which is not a very nice place to spend the school holidays. All the other times in my life when I've dragged myself about the house, croaking pathetically, 'I've got the flu...' Nah. You know what? That wasn't flu. THIS was flu...

However, light is now visible and I expect to emerge any time now, bouncing with good health. (Actually I feel a bit like a child in a Noel Streatfeild novel who is pale and feeble and should be sent to the country for six weeks.)

Something rather frightening and completely unexpected happened while I was trapped in the Long Tunnel. I lost the urge to read.

This has never happened before. I have never in my life felt so ill that reading was an impossibility. But worse, I didn't even want to read. It was awful. I was even too sick to watch TV!

Thank heavens for Radio National. When all you can do is lie on your back with your eyes closed, moaning gently and occasionally being racked by violent coughs, the radio is a true friend.

PS Something very nice did happen while I was trapped in the Tunnel of Flu: Crow Country was shortlisted for the WA Premier's Literary Awards! Congratulations to everyone else on the list, and it's especially cool to be there with Penni Russon's Only Ever Always.

Authors Love Alice

There seems to be something about the name Alice that writers can't resist. Obviously I find it appealing myself, since I used it not just for a book but for a real live daughter.

Did it all begin with Alice in Wonderland?

Then there was Go Ask Alice, and Alice Doesn't Live Here Any More...

But now there seem to be more Alices on the book shelves than ever before! Here's a sample:
Alice, I Think
Paper Alice
Alice Alone
Alice in Zombieland, Alice in Writerland, Alice in La La Land etc
The Agony of Alice
About Alice
Alice Parker's Metamorphosis
Dangerously Alice, Almost Alice and Intensely Alice
Finding Alice
Alice the Fairy
Alice Adams
Alice (numerous authors, including Sandra Wilson, Judith Hermann, Margarette Janoski, Myles Overton, EV Cunningham, Anne Worboys, Nancy Ross, Gary Smith, AK Albaari)
Alice and Aldo
A is For Alice
A Town Like Alice
The Liberation of Alice Love
Alice At Heart
Alice-Miranda At School
Hurry Up, Alice!
What Alice Forgot

... and that's without trying very hard.

A few years ago I started collecting second hand books with "Alice" and "Evie" in the titles. I soon amassed a shelf full of books for the former, but I had to give up when all I could find for Evie was Deliver Us From Evie, and I could see a recipe for resentment brewing.


Is there something about Alice, or do I just notice it more because I have one of my own? Has anyone observed any other popular literary names popping up?

New Photos

I know I am hardly Robinson Crusoe here, but I hate having my photo taken. I hate it to the point where there are virtually no existing photographs of me between the ages of about sixteen to thirty. Perhaps this is why I have been using the same publicity photo for the last ten years. However, following a recent incident when some librarians almost didn't let me inside for a book talk because I looked nothing like the photo they had pinned up on display, I recognised that it was time for an update.

 

In younger, more glamorous days!

There have been some shockers taken over the last few years:

There's an Evie's-eye-view of Cross Mum with multiple chins...

... or bleary and cross-eyed in pyjamas...

... or reading and red-nosed on the couch.

 When this is what I normally look like, can you blame me for engaging the services of a professional? Vicki Bell is our neighbour, an award-winning photographer, and the mum of Evie's friend from school. How lucky are we???

So this is the new official face of me:

There, that's better, isn't it! I look almost human!

Or maybe this one?

 What do you think?

Agatha Christie Is A Feminist!

Keen observers of my "What I'm Reading" list will have noticed that I'm on a bit of an Agatha Christie binge at the moment. This was undertaken originally for research purposes (yeah, right...) and facilitated by the purchase of a few nice fat anthologies from the library book sale. And of course, they are an undemanding, enjoyable read to curl up with at the end of a long day.

But this intensive Christie marathon has had an unexpected side effect. I've noticed that Agatha was a feminist. Yes, she has her shallow, stereotypical female characters: her thick-headed maids, her ditzy secretaries and her boring old ladies; and lots of books do end with a wedding on the horizon.

But I've been genuinely surprised to discover so many brave, smart, independent, witty, resourceful and daring heroines in Christie's pages. Emily Trefusis in The Sittaford Mystery, Victoria Jones in They Came To Baghdad, Frankie Derwent in Why Didn't They Ask Evans?, Bridget Conway in Murder Is Easy, Lucy Eylesbarrow in 4.50 From Paddington, all take control of the investigation. Often this woman will have a young man on hand to share the danger, but she is never subservient to him, and it's usually her insight and courage that saves the day.

(And I'm not even going to mention Miss Marple, the over-looked, under-estimated sleuth whose sharp wisdom is discounted because she is just a sweet old lady, and what would sweet old ladies know about life and human nature? Well, quite a lot, as it turns out.)

I used to read a lot of Agatha Christie as a teenager. In later life, I was slightly scathing about the old girl. Well, Agatha, I apologise. Little did I realise that along with intriguing life-and-death puzzles and lots of incidental information about English society between the wars, you were providing me with some excellent female role models.

Thank you.

Doing My Block

Generally speaking, I find the lure of reality television relatively easy to resist. All those singing and dancing and cooking shows leave me frankly cold. I do have a soft spot for Wife Swap, but that's about it.

However I must confess I have been sucked in big time by The Block. And it's not just me; every night at seven o'Block (as Channel 9 jocularly calls it) our whole family clusters eagerly around the television for the next installment.

It all becomes much easier once you've picked a favourite couple to barrack for. We are definitely Team Dale and Sophie, won over by Sophie's quirky, creative flair and Dale's Oz-as, dry as toast wit. (Our favouritism was cemented when we learned that they had the excellent taste and good sense to purchase one of our dear friend Sandra Eterovic's pieces; it hasn't been on the show yet, but we won't miss it when it appears!) We love the way Dale matter-of-factly arranges flowers, and the way Sophie is resolutely hopeless with the power tools. We loved the suitcase drawers, the home-made glass jar chandelier, the way they aren't afraid to use wood instead of stainless steel.

We are also fond of nice guys Brad and Lara, and we shake our heads at the OTT follies of brothers Mike and Andrew (mirrored walls in the toilet? seriously?), and have watched with bemusement but no surprise as careful editing has transformed "Melbournites" Dan and Dani into super-competitive super-villains. (Why are Dan and Dani "Melbournites" -- described thusly no less than five times last night -- while Dale and Sophie, also from Melbourne, are apparently not? Is it because to the Sydney-based production staff, "Melbournite" is a term of abuse? Just wondering...)

There are only two weeks to go, Sandra's clock is still to come, and what on earth are we going to do at seven o'clock when it's all over??

31st May

2012 (aged 45)
Evie panicking about her birthday party. 'What if no one can come? What if everything goes wrong?' Mikey and I tried to reassure her, but honestly, with us as parents, what hope has she got?
1998 (aged 31)
Glasgow. Walked into town and saw 'Sliding Doors.' C studied for her vivas.
1996 (aged 29)
C & B having coffee; each blathering about her own problems and not listening to the other; periodically B pats C's hand and says, 'Darling, you're so beautiful' to disguise the fact that she hasn't heard a word C has said for the last five minutes.
B: (talking about K & L) It's so hard having two people in love with you...
C: (as a single and alone person) It'd be nice to have just one person in love with you... (meaning, even one)
B: (deep sigh) Yes! (meaning, yes, having 2 is so difficult & not seeing C's point at all...)
1991 (aged 24)
Second last day at work. I've been there three years and only the phone sales people know what I'm really like - cynical, swearing, running around, making sarcastic witty remarks, being emphatic. To everyone else I'm a little meek person, too shy to speak.
1986 (aged 19)
Ginned around. C rang, bored witless so asked her up for tea and the night. Experimented with liqueurs, played with the computer (ie drew pictures of The Man). Talked in bed until 1 am (mostly about The Man).
1985 (aged 18)
Last day before winter - drab and drizzling. Worked a bit in Nana's room, sat and brooded. Nana came to stay. Depressed over T moving out of college - how will I survive without the Threesome brightening up the place?
1981 (aged 14)
Tomorrow will be winter. Rehearsed by staying in bed all day.
1978 (aged 11)
We wrote things about feelings. I did loneliness. I think I got the feeling. We had Art. Mummy brought us to the library and I borrowed three books. I read them and watched T.V. Weather: chilly.
1977 (aged 10)
Scripture was fun. The news said it was the coldest day in 80 years! And it snowed quite near here! I wish it would snow here. Tomorrow's my PLC interview. I miss Eva, and maybe I won't ever see her again. Weather: FREEZING
1976 (aged 9)
I was sick in the morning and came in late. It really POURED. Went to the Public and School Library. Zarah came, for five minutes.

Mouse Tales

I opened the door of the rubbish bin cupboard yesterday and received a nasty surprise: a mouse looking up at me.

Actually it wasn't a total surprise; I'd heard suspicious rattlings and rustlings from the kitchen that morning and tried to ignore them. I knew we had a rodent living inside the wall, but I didn't want to face the possibility that it had breached the barricades and entered the inner sanctum. Luckily Michael was home. He deftly caught the offender in a fishing net and carried it far, far away, then nailed up the hole in the back of the cupboard through which Mousey had entered.

I have a horror of mice, born of too many years of living in old, rundown share houses -- shared with more mice than people. In one house, the mice were so bold that we could sit on the couch and pelt them with oranges, and they would barely bother to look up. When I woke up to find mouse poo under my pillow, I moved out until we got traps and blocked up the gap under the stairs with steel wool. This was a tricky one because we were all vegetarians and, theoretically, animal-lovers. But I just can't love mice. I am unmoved by their so-called cuteness. They give me the creeps.

The only other time a mouse has managed to get into our current house, it fled behind the couch and then made a dash under the heater, which it no doubt hoped would be safe territory. Unfortunately the heater was on, it ran straight into a live wire and expired with a dramatic puff of smoke and an explosion of dust.

Another time, in Collingwood, I came home to discover a rat in the bathroom. No one else was home, so I blocked every doorway between the bathroom and my bedroom with towels and spent a sleepless night imagining it gnawing its way toward me. Luckily, when I ventured to open the door in the morning, it was dead on the bathmat. Hooray!

When it comes to mice, I am the traditional screaming female on the chair. I can't help it. My brave strong husband has to rescue me. BUT if it's a big hairy spider - then it will be the man of the house running away shrieking like a girl, and I will be the one trapping it under the glass and releasing it outside.

So what would you rather deal with -- a mouse or a spider?

A Night in the Country

Next week I will be on the road! I'll be visiting the Wimmera for a couple of days.

If you're in St Arnaud, drop by the library at 1.30pm on Tuesday 22nd May and say hello. Or if you happen to be in Horsham, and you're free in the evening, say around 7.30, you might like to swing by the Horsham library and have a chat.

My other sessions will be for schools, but I'm pretty sure those two are open for general punters.

See you there!

So I Went To The Library...

And I saw this on the shelf.

My first mistake was to pick it up and take it home.
My second mistake was to start reading...

...because I COULDN'T PUT IT DOWN!

Cooking dinner? Running baths? Supervising homework? Pah! Writing my own book? Trying to sort out an email fiasco? Who cares! Sleeping?? Forget it!!

I loved 'Brief History of Montmaray.' I adored 'FitzOsbornes in Exile.' But this third volume of Michelle Cooper's Montmaray Journals was the best of all.

Serious warning: I cried. A lot. Not always from happiness. But it's worth it, oh, it's worth it!

The Thrill of the Hunt

Earlier this year, I wrote a guest post on Michael Pryor's blog about one of my favourite books, Peter's Room by Antonia Forest. I mentioned the thrill of finding this rare book on the shelf of a Spanish restaurant in Collingwood, and actually being able to buy it for three dollars.

There is something very special about hunting down your favourite books -- not on eBay or Amazon, but out in the real world of second hand book shops and op shops. For years I dedicated myself to tracking down every book Iris Murdoch had ever written, which was no mean feat, as she wrote twenty-six novels in her long career. (The only one I'm missing is The Italian Girl, which I lent to someone years ago and never saw again.)

I found most of the Green Knowe books second hand; last year I picked up a volume of Joan Aiken short stories I had been searching for ever since I left Mt Hagen. But Antonia Forest is the toughest challenge. Most of her books have been out of print for years and are hideously difficult to find, even on the internet, where they regularly fetch prices of a hundred pounds or more.

Alas, I've only managed to acquire a few of her books. I found End Of Term in a charity shop in Oban, Scotland, in the 1990s. Peter's Room, as I said, surfaced miraculously in a Collingwood cafe a couple of years later. I succumbed and bought Autumn Term in a reprint edition and also The Ready Made Family, which I had never even read, for an exorbitant price online.

And then, just last weekend, I was browsing in a tiny second hand bookshop in Bacchus Marsh when I saw the magic words: Attic Term, Antonia Forest. I thought I was hallucinating. I clutched the book to my breast, scanning the bare two shelves of teenage books for any more, but that was it. Two dollars, people. Two dollars!

I've been exalting ever since. Now if only I could find Cricket Term...