Monday, 29 May 2017

Me Fella's home

Here's my souvenir - a smiling Buddha, equipped with sharpened teeth and he's wearing a dress. 

Travelling through time zones is such a difficult concept to me. I just find the idea that somewhere else it's a different time, difficult, well very difficult, virtually fucking impossible. Not because I think the world is flat, or because I think I am the centre of the universe, well mostly I don't, it's just because I find it tricky to imagine.

So this little Stevie sojourn was to Thailand to visit with a mate of his and to go on a little tour around parts unexplored. Thailand is 3 hours behind the Big House, and for those who are similarly handicapped, that means that when it is my 9 o'clock in the morning, it is only 6am in Thailand, and that is much easier to work out than when Stevie is off in his homeland where the difference is 10 or 9 hours and when I have to take off 2 or 3 hours, or maybe I add them on, and then go to the other side of the day. It doesn't matter how often he heads away, I need to work out the formula again cos it doesn't stay in my head. And when I am in London and I am trying to Skype the kids, working in reverse does not come easily to me either.

I am a world time zone fucking idiot.

Anyway, even though he was at the blunt end of the plane and has had a ridiculously interrupted sleep as he ran like a maniac through Singapore's airports to find 2 trains to catch his connection to Brisvegas and then had dinner and avoided breakfast before getting on the train to the Goldie after hare-arsing through customs and immigration, he seems remarkably fresh. (It took him longer to get home by train, on the last leg of the journey than it did to get from Phuket to Singapore, but that's just an aside.)

Me, on the other hand, well I feel less than spritely. You see I waited up to hear if he made the Singapore connection which he obviously did, and then had trouble going to sleep, cos I wanted to be awake in time to send him a welcome home text at silly o'clock this morning, which I did.

And I sort of had a little schedule planned in my head that after I had sent that 'hello', I might snooze for a while and then get on with things, but bugger me if his plane wasn't Elliott Early and he had somehow vapourised himself through all the usual shit and was happily sitting on the train! Fucking hell! My 3 hours had become an hour and half so that meant screaming into action. Cos you know, I had to get sorted for my fella, and that meant I had to wash my hair and draw on some eyebrows, and find something half way decent to wear and down a cup of tea and tell Dog her Dad was coming home and make my way through school hour traffic without getting nicked for another speeding fine.

It was all pretty frantic.

He seems happy to be home, although there is a certain lean to his walk that tells me he needs some sleep, and I rather expect that he will slump in his chair tonight after his welcome home dinner, which unlike anything he's downed in the last 2 weeks, contains no chilli at all. He might be awoken by swearing at the tellie as I watch House Rules, because this was my dirty little secret, but whilst he was away it has been promoted to my dirty little obsession - watching it tomorrow or the next day just won't do.

Scents of slow cooked lamb in red wine and lashings of garlic are filling the house and Dog is a waggy tailed crazy girl cos her Dad is home.

All's good at the Big House.

Thursday, 25 May 2017

Old Style Dinner

When I was married - just a girl, we had a house with not much furniture and plenty of room and the thickest 70s shag pile carpet you have ever seen, courtesy of one of Dad's friends as a very flash wedding present. Ahhh. Bloody impractical of course, especially when you add in a naughty dog and a blind cat and 2 people not much fond of housework. It was a social place and a there was a core group of friends who were regular visitors. Lot of drinks and meals were consumed, but nobody had any money so food pickings were slim and the wine came in flagons, which then became planters. Ahh the 80s.

There were a number of recipes that became staples like Tuna Mornay which we all had a go at, deciding that the addition of a little horseradish was the piece de resistence. I think there was a can of tuna and a packet of cheap pasta and some milk and maybe a packet of french onion soup, but I could have just made that up. I think there was cheese on the top and then the whole thing was thrown in the oven while copious amounts of booze was downed and consequently any old shit would have tasted OK. This one pot wonder could be expanded to feed the many, Jesus would have been proud.

Occasionally, though if it was just him and me, and there was any money left in the cigar box at the end of the fortnight, I'd splurge on a can of asparagus and make a deluxe quiche. I don't know why asparagus was so expensive but it was, and still is so it seems, cos I am gonna step back in time today and make a quiche for my supper.

Since then it's been possible to buy fresh asparagus and that's what I have done. When in season, it's about my very favourite vegetable - versatile and tasty and somewhere in the back of my mind, even when it has only cost a few pennies cos it was growing like a grass weed and the farmers are pleased to get rid of it, even then I reckon it is a special treat. But today I didn't even look for a fresh bunch, I went straight for the can.

But now, before I start, I am trying to recall the recipe. I have a sheet of puff pastry, but think it should be short crust - never mind. Oh Well. And I have eggs and cream though maybe not enough. Oh Well and my can of asparagus and some pancetta instead of bacon - should be an OK substitute. and I think that's all there is to it. Blind bake the pastry then fill it up and bake it til it's cooked.

Fingers crossed it's OK, but if it's not then I reckon I can pick out the green stuff and feed it to Dog.

Wednesday, 24 May 2017

TV Round Up.

Any Aussies watching this show? Am I the only one who is shouting shit at these 2? Yeh I can see the dust too.

My Name is Sue and I am a TV tragic.

I will watch any old sort of shit, and if it is really shit shit shit, I will play channel shuffle and watch 2 or 3 or more lots of shit at once. Yeh I am an addict. I can't imagine a day when I don't have the box on. I speak to the characters and shout abuse at the ones I don't like. I rouse at news reports and reporting and loathe it when shit goes down on the tellie which is just too fantastic to be real, but is presented as absolutely authentic, cos I do hate it when the TV assumes I am some sort of dickhead. How very fucking dare that machine treat me like a fuckwit?

So I am about over the cooking shit shows cos they just make me feel lazy, which I am, and a shit cook which I am not always. I record Masterchef and whip right through it to the end to see the final dish and see who goes home. I am over all the pseudo tension build up of ooopies and mistakes or the fake confidences which are almost always followed by failures of biblical proportions, after all, pride cometh before a fall.

But I am still hooked on Survivor even after all these years and while I watch the recorded programmes so I can skip through the ads, I watch every conversation and spend time trying to work out what is gonna happen, and I like to watch it in a very timely fashion cos I like the tension of wondering, not the knowing cos I saw who was voted out on social media.

And I am embarrassed to admit this, but I have been reeled into HOUSE RULES, this season. Of course it is all bullshit. The people do about fuck all I reckon, oh they might slap around a little paint, and I believe that they do go to shops and buy stuff and then they carry some of it into the house and pop it into place. I don't believe that these people have been living in the houses. I believe that someone in TV land found the houses and made up a story and found some unemployed, or maybe unemployable folk who fancy getting their faces on the tellie for a couple of months. I believe that the directors and writers position the viewers to have sympathy for or love or hate the supposed renovators. Let's face it there has to always be a villain to keep us interested, so lines are written and rehearsed and delivered and edited, and played on the box, and we are encouraged to believe it's all true.

But I don't buy it.

Well except for those dreadful women Fi and Nicole. Yep I have totally bought into their bullshit. And I think it's cos they are old enough to know better. They are old enough to think for themselves. They are old enough to tell the TV people to fuck off when they come up with more and more extreme bullshit, and they are old enough to be able to work out just how they will be coming across on the box. SO as they are presenting as 2 just hateful, bitter, not very bright, bitches, some of it must be pretty close to the mark. I dislike these 2 A LOT, especially the long haired one. Yeh  admit I have been shouting at the tellie. I am wishing them all manner of misadventure. I'd like someone to come along in the dead of night and run a chalk coloured tattoo line right down their faces.

And I wouldn't mind if one of those ridiculous hard hats that they are all wearing was mysteriously filled with cat shit and piss and we could watch it drip down someone's face. There's an idea for the director...just a 'Thank You' will do.

My Name is Sue and yes I am a TV tragic.

Monday, 22 May 2017


Grade 1A Morningside SS 1965

Grade 7A Morningside SS 1971

A New Year's idea of mine was to find my old journals and include some of the entries here occasionally, and I reckon it is some sort of result that it has only taken me 5 months to unearth the box. Now I didn't say it was a GOOD result just some sort  and pretty piss poor comes to mind but Ho Hum.

As is often the case I guess, where I thought they were was not where they were, Bugger!, but as I had started I thought I'd have a good rummage around in the 'storage room' - yeh that's where I pop things that have no real home and more than likely should be given away or dumped - 2 big boxes of the grandie's baby toys comes to mind - any takers?

Anyway, I found 'em and I spent a somewhat tortured 6 hours reading a lot of 'em, cos I was quite prolific between 1990 and 2001. 10 years worth of stuff and as it mostly has to do with my girl and me and how we managed her girlhood, it's gonna remain private. I remember when I started writing, I figured that she might like at some point to read it and see if she reconciled the words and her memories and this became very important after I was first diagnosed with cancer in 1992. Any way it is all packed back up again and she can have it when I shuffle off, and read it or not as she sees fit.

But in the same box was some shit from MY childhood.

The school photos just made me smile, and I wonder if people can find me among all those good looking kids. I'll give you a clue - I'm one of the girls.

And as I had a little nostalgic moment I recalled that the old woman used to make our uniforms. For some strange reason in year 5 she decided to make 'em with sleeves. Now puberty must have kicked in early for me, cos that was the year I began an imbalance between front and back and consequently I kept ripping the back of the sleeves. They would rip open if I played sport or danced or even just reached across the desk for a ruler. So the sleeves would rip and she would beat me, so I took to trying to stitch 'em up myself, but in the end there was more cotton stitching thread than fabric, so I wore a hot shitting jumper for most of the year. Ah the things you recall when going through old photos.

And then I found old school report cards.

Precious little shreds of paper, half an A4, folded again, divided into 3 terms. and kept for the whole year. My god I can only imagine the pressure on the teachers to get it right in term 3 cos I guess the 'no cross out' rule was still in play back then.

The comments made me laugh, and some of the maths. They give a percentage score for each subject and then for some strange reason - perhaps to show that the teachers could do some averaging themselves, they'd give an average percentage - but really what would that mean? Averaging Maths and English and Social study scores? Why?

One year I got 94% average and a comment 'Suzanne tends to be careless, and this is what loses her marks.' I mean fucking hell, 94% ain't too bad, how careless could I have been?

In anycase, the comment was probably echoed at home with darling Dad asking why I didn't get 100%

And I found most of my Girl's stuff too. I wondered if her father might have the couple of things that are missing, but if not then they are just gone forever.

And then I wondered why we keep all this shit.

The journals I can sort of justify, but only for my girl, but I bet most of us have old school reports and similar dross. Oh sure it is a pleasant enough way to spend a Sunday afternoon, but apart from that what's the point?

In my journals I was always lamenting the fact that I was too fat and that I was on this diet or going to that gym.

I only wish I was as fat as I thought I was at 40. Ho Hum.

Friday, 19 May 2017

'Don't Tell'

I love an Aussie film. I enjoy the accents and the vernacular and the colour and the settings and I have always been all about looking after the kids, so this movie was a Must See for me.

It starts by saying it is based on a true story, and even though this hit the news the year I transported myself to London for my 7 year sojourn, I do remember some stuff about it.

In 1990, a youngster was sent to boarding school from the family farm cos she was good at sports and within a semester she was a changed girl, begging to be allowed to stop at home. Her mum investigated and found nothing untoward at the school so wanting the best for her daughter, the kid was sent back, where her life became a living hell. No she didn't tell her mother, cos the bastard had told her not to tell.

This piece of filth was raping and 'having a go' at a number of the little girls and when it looked like he was gonna be caught out, he topped himself, gutless fuck, no loss to anyone I reckon.

So that's the background and the movie deals with a legal battle in 2001 with the now woman taking action against the school and the Anglican Church - all the way up to the Arch Bishop who was then THE FUCKING AUSTRALIAN GOVERNOR GENERAL!

I make lots of comments about the Catholic Church, and so I should apologise I guess, cos whilst I make anti Catholic remarks, in my mind I am really making comments about ALL ORGANISED RELIGIONS. - yeh that's any religion where you go to a building and someone is in charge and is telling you what to think and what to do and drawing up a schedule of penalties for not following their rules.

I fucking hate all that!

And it just gets to a point, as it did here in Toowoomba and it certainly is happening in Rome with that disgusting Pell turd, that all manner of appalling, truly abhorrent behaviour is tolerated and covered up in order to save the face of the religion.

Yeh how very NOT FUCKING Godly.

This is an excellent movie. There is fine attention to detail with fashion and cars and locations and the acting draws you in, in an unhurried and raw way.

It is not possible to say I enjoyed it, but I am very glad that I went along to see it, even if my doctor might have preferred not to see the raise in my blood pressure.

Wednesday, 17 May 2017

Chemo Brain V Alzheimers

It's all part of the routine: get up, have tea, down poison, get dressed, play with Dog in the park, go for coffee in the village. With Stevie away the routine continues, except earlier and without his ordering finesse.

Today I fancied breakfast, but I couldn't remember the words - Raisin Toast. So I ordered coffee and then had to mime and play guess the word with Laurence. Luckily she was happy to play.

Me: I want some ahhh, stuff, like, flat, with some sultanas.
Her: Raisin Toast!

There it was a fist pump moment as the order was made. Whew!

What a drag it is being temporarily unable to move a word from your brain to your mouth. If I was teaching, the kids would very soon think I was some sort of lunatic stupid fool. Yeh, see I miss Stevie cos he doesn't judge, he just waits for the words to find their new odd way from brain to tongue. It might be time to see about a new Sat Nav for my brain.

But I am not, at least I don't think I am, suffering from Alzheimers, cos whilst words sometimes go missing, my memory is still well honed.

So when some dick rang the bell this morning and told me he was here to do the tree lopping, I didn't hesitate for a minute. I KNEW I had never organised any such work.

Him: I'm here to do the tree lopping.
Me:   WHAT?
Him: You agreed to us doing some work.
Me:    You're WRONG.

Yeh I was surprised too that I didn't swear at him, but these sort of gypsy / pikey scams were pretty common in London and the arseholes were well known for doing all sorts of vandalism if their game was rudely rumbled so sometimes politeness is an advantage.

What worries me is I wonder how it would be if you were aware that you are sometimes a bit forgetful, and you think there is a chance that you did sign up for this work and you go out and let 'em in, cos you know it's possible, even though you don't recognise 'em at all, and then they smile and show you some dirty bit of an order form which shows an agreement for work for say $400. I reckon you'd be so consumed with trying to remember and feeling stupid that you wouldn't question it too much or look too closely at the order form and perhaps the only bright spot would be that you don't have the cash to hand, although these scammers would no doubt drive you to the ATM, before they buggered off after doing either no work or a shit job.

The Goldie is a city of scammers, but it doesn't have it all to itself, as I said door knocking shit happened all the time in London. But here on the Goldie we have an aging population. Oldies come to retire and put their feet up or stroll on the beaches and typically many minds ebb away with the tide.

This fella this morning probably has some percentage for success. Like maybe he needs to knock on 10 doors to land 1 sucker. Or maybe it's more?

But it wouldn't do anyone any harm to keep an eye out for strangers lobbing in to elderly neighbours' places, just to make sure that as far as we can, we are keeping the bastards honest. It doesn't need to be a full time occupation, but a bit of awareness never hurt.

And if you are having a conversation with an other ordinary looking soul and they go in search of a word, a bit of patience will be appreciated. Now I've got to get back to the .... um .... black...legs...sweet girl.......Ah DOG.

Monday, 15 May 2017


I do love a bit of sculpture, and this piece at Nobby's Beach always makes me smile.

Can you tell that Stevie and Dog and I were the inspiration?

Well except that Dog is almost never sitting still. She is mostly jumping around like a maniac, or tugging fiercely on the lead, or playing the sand game or shitting or squirting, or saving up her vomit for the back of the car like she did today. EWWWWW! 

She likes to go in Stevie's truck and I reckon she thinks she is slumming it when she has to go in my car, and if I thought she had a vindictive bone in her body, which I don't cos she never shits in my shoes or chews stuff up while I am out, then perhaps I would think she did this on purpose today, but I am pretty sure she found the whole thing appalling and was more than a little disgusted with herself.

But in the long run, let me just say, I'd rather Dog vomit any day over kid or drunk spew. There seems to be no stink and no bile acid immediately eating away at the metallic paint. I spewed out the car window once when I was suffering morning sickness and it really did the paint job no favours whatsoever. Ooops! Front and back doors splattered. Best paint stripper in then world. So the hatch boot has been pulled apart and scrubbed clean and I hope it dries, spit spot.

But back to the sculptures.

Can you see the resemblance between the people and Stevie and me?

Tall skinny athletic running folk. Yep that's me in my wildest dreams. 

However I reckon the only way we would ever look like that is if we were fleeing from danger, Stevie from a giant spider and me from a grasshopper or a bird. Yep, then we might be legging it like these 2 gazelle creatures.

I do like that the fella is looking back slightly, perhaps to see if he needs to kick on a bit to make sure that he wins, cos it wouldn't do his old male ego any good to be beaten by a girl, but if  Stevie and I were the inspiration then he'd be looking back to make sure that I  wasn't lagging too far behind, cos yeh, I am a bloody saddo slow coach.

The beach was beautiful this morning, wide and empty and as ever Piccolo Cafe served up a good coffee which I downed in the sunshine, sans the summer sweat. 

Dog and I both loved our little outing.