Sunday, 22 January 2017

Police Encounter

She stood there, stoically in the pissing down rain huddled under her brolly.

She refused to move.

The police came.

The senior officer grabbed her roughly and shoved her onto the footpath.

She stood there, stoically in the pissing down rain, huddled under her brolly.

The Police disappeared and then returned.

Officer Bully Bill Barely a Beard angrily asked her what meds she was on and had she been diagnosed with mental illness.

Argie bargie ensued. Her smart mouth flowed.

Officer Older Gal, told her her behaviour was not normal because she wasn't being intimidated and going meekly where most folk go.

The officers were getting wound up. She was reluctant to dance to their tune. She just wanted to stand there and watch.

The rain had stopped.

Officer Bully Bill Barely a Beard AKA BBBaB, threatened to arrest her if she didn't move on.

She was standing on a public footpath.

Officer BBBaB issued a MOVE ON order and then with some difficulty in completing the maths equation of adding 6 hours to 9pm to come to a 3am end game, he set out the exclusion zone and pointed out it's perimetre.

The threats of arrest forced her to move.

Where was Mr Democracy in all this?

He had not been invited to the party.

Thursday, 19 January 2017

Shame on Georgiou Road Builders and the Queensland Main Roads Department

Remote controlled thumper and Darth Vader waving his big red stick

There must have been something wrong with the truck cos these 3 did not move from this spot in the hour I was there.

I like a party as much as the next gal. Oh I remember! The flashing lights and the thump thump thump that makes it's way from your feet to your chest. Back in younger days, I enjoyed perving on the smorgasbord of fellas lined up around the walls eyeing up the talent and doing fuck all else. We'd all crawl home at dawn and then there'd be that sort of jet lagged nauseous feeling plus a bit of a hangover for the rest of the day or maybe 2 depending on how far back into my youth I go. Yeh I do love a party. But I was only ever good for one a weekend, bit of a lightweight I know, but that was my lot.

The Party House which is the Road Works has come alive and their Do's have escalated in frequency.

I haven't slept since Sunday.

Yep Sunday was good.

Saturday was OK too.

Last week though was a melted mess of 'what the fuck are they doing NOW?

So I reckon in nearly a fortnight I have slept for 2 nights.

And that is just not enough!

I have lost my sense of humour.

I went looking for it at 2.30 this morning hoping that the fuckers working - not really working, I am being KIND, might have dug it up.

I have never seen so many men standing around doing utterly NOTHING in one place in my life and that might be because I am lucky enough to have only ever spent mere minutes at Centrelink, where these bozos, would, I am sure fit in very nicely.

The person in charge of this road project is protected by a cloak of secrecy. His name and contact details are held onto tighter a than good old girl's grab of an old man's cock. And the one thing that all the Main Road worker wankers that I have had anything to do with are good at, is reciting that they can do whatever they like cos it's in the agreement.

One fella today, whose name escaped me told me it was all just too bad that I lived where I do. Yep It's just too bad.

My State Member, Mr JP Langbroek got on the case today, and he got a letter back, lucky him I reckon, but in any case he forwarded it to me.

It was a revelation.

The Nightworks are only occassional!

The Noisy work is completed early in the evening so as not to disturb the locals.

Workers are instructed at the start of every night shift to be as quiet as possible so not to disturb.

The work is being done according to the agreement.

Well I'll be buggered.

The scuttle from the dickwads I have actually spoken to is that this site is gonna be Nighted - no not KNIGHTED until, 'September, or maybe October, depending on the weather and other delays.' This wee sentence they can remember and happily deliver in a loop. When I suggested that they actually learn to use their own brains in lieu of spewing forth sections of a manual, well I'd like to say they were offended, but actually I don't think they understood what I was getting at.

So Ho Hum to the OCCASSIONAL bullshit.

The loudest part of the work is the 'making good', repairing the mess that they make earlier. This requires thumpers - 2 of this evening and a remote control hideous noise thing and 2 front end loaders beeping and scraping and 3 tip trucks playing boy racer,  and 2 gormless fools on penalty rates scraping with a shovel even though they were told to keep it down to a dull roar and there is a nice quiet broom right next to 'em.

Noise management I fucking don't think so!

I took videos and photos as I stood there and I reckon they must have just been thrilled cos last week saw a bloke, presumably in his PJs, stand in the middle of the road, blocking the path of the trucks and the Loaders. So my obvious complaint was mild in comparison, although I am sure a couple of 'em would have liked to call the police and have me removed.

What beggars belief is that there are just so many of 'em standing around doing completely absolutely utterly fuck all. They stand in little groups of 2 or three and lean on things.

No fucking wonder it is taking so long.

No fucking wonder this Union driven Government is slowly going broke.

No fucking wonder I fancy taking a shovel and sticking it where the sun don't shine, and as it's night time I am spoiled for choice in this regard.  

It's now 4 am and I am not certain but I think maybe the shift is finished.

So now I can go to bed.

Fucking yippee!

Monday, 16 January 2017

Sherlock Holmes AKA Nosy Cow

I know this is not a Sherlock hat, but it's the one I wore today while we went a sleuthing.

Years ago we knew a couple who thought they fancied a sea change, well actually it was a paddock, snake and bad roads change, so they bought a shed on a big bit of land and then proceeded to be as happy as 2 people could be, all that way from a pub or a restaurant or a shoe shop or a doctor or whatever, except for shitting neighbours ticked off with the city-slickers who came to Hobby. Yep they settled in. They put in a loft bedroom and a kitchenette in the shed, along with salvaged air-con units and windows and doors removed from our place before we knocked it flat.

He bragged that their little idyll was a mere 30 minutes from town, but that must have been by helicopter cos I reckon it was more like and hour and a quarter. 

We visited a couple of times.

It was not my cup of tea.

A big argument ensued not about my beverage of choice, and we have not surprisingly never been invited back.

It's not the place I would ever just want to whip on by, cos it's so far fucking out of the way, but today we took off to Canungra for a coffee and a little look see and we thought we might test the old grey matter by trying to find our way back to this place. Again it's unlikely that anyone has ever just stumbled upon it. It takes some finding.

My phone maps showed a rough picture of where it might be and we typed something into the SatNav, and then disregarded her instructions altogether.

We forged slightly damp causeways and drove along some dirt tracks cos we went the wrong way.

A bit of tooing and froing and we stumbled upon it.

Again my phone was useful cos the phone number on the front fence was in my directory.

We were in the right place.

We had remembered how to get there.

Now it's not like finding a house in the burbs, where you can go by the design or the colour or the fence or the cars parked in the drive. This is out in the truly-ruly sticks, where trees grow and die and dams fill up and dry out and slummy looking houses are planted in tiny plots right next door to someone else's vast open space.

The shed was barely visible from the road and we wondered if there had been a little added to the side of it. We didn't see any cows, but imagine they could easily have been idling away the afternoon on the other side of the hill.

I can admit that I have not missed trecking out to this place. There have been things I miss as a result of the barny, but this bit of bush is definitely not on the list.

We saw a sneaky black snake making it's way across the road and after that I was done in. I wasn't getting out of the car and I was worried about - perhaps it's an urban myth, the snake wrapping itself around the tyre and finding its way inside. I really must google whether that's possible before I egt back in the truck.

We did see a rabbit or a hare hopping on its merry way and a lovely looking working dog, out for a bit of a stroll in between sorting the cows or whatever, and this was pleasant, but not even close to joyful enough to entice me back.   

I enjoy this sort of re-visiting.

I like to go back to my childhood home and see what I remember and what has changed and I always pop in to my old Brisvegas addresses if I am anywhere nearby, just to see if I can still recognise 'em. It's cool to note the changes and compare the now to the then. 

I don't know why today was the day to go well and truly bush, cos we have often tripped out to Canungra or The Beau and have not bothered. It could be something as simple as it was hot out and the aircon was pumping and Dog was happy so why not.

Maybe Sherlock could dig up a reason, or maybe Freud?

Do you like to go a Sleuthing?

Saturday, 14 January 2017

TRUMP V ELLIOTT Make up and stuff.

Melania Trump reckons it takes at least an hour and a quarter to slap a bit of lippy on, and because of this she is redesigning a room at the White House especially for this activity. The room needs to offer perfect light - not sure what that is - but I reckon anything can be bought for a price.

It is of course possible that this is all just utter cods' bollocks from a dishonest cheating American Press, but it seems plausible that a former makeup artist would want somewhere lovely to get out the paints. I wonder if she is gonna continue to paint him orange, and  I wonder if that's gonna stain the Whiteness of the place.

In any case, I began thinking about my rigorous beauty regime.

Bit of Lippy makes all the difference huh?

Yep that's the lazy cow extent of it. Slide on some lippy but only onto the bottom lip and then do a bit of smacking sound and wipe off anything that might have smudged onto my teeth.

If I am going on a date I will try and disguise some of the bags and wrinkles and adult pimply mess and sometimes if I can work up the enthusiasm and effort, I might try to colour in my eyes a smidge, but mostly I reckon I am so completely out of practice that clown makeup is the end result.
It's like anything. It takes practice to be good at it.

When I would head out to work with a full face on, I needed an extra 10 minutes of so, cos I was pretty quick and confidence comes with experience. Now that it is such a rarity it just is something that I need to work up to, like maybe I need to think about it at lunchtime and then have a little sleep and dream on it and then gather up the splodge and line it all up and turn on the fan cos it's a sweat making job. 

There are lots and lots of things I would rather do than colour in my face.

I start with the brown gloop, which my skin finds claustrophobic. I put it on and mostly then wipe it off and then when I am happy that my skin still looks like it did before, I put a line of green eye liner under each eye, a bit of mascara and then for the full effect, I rub some pink powder stuff on my eyelids with my finger. Oh and of course then there's the lippy. DONE.

So how the fuck does anyone spend more than an hour splashing shit about?

Firstly I don't want to look at myself close up for that long. They must be either very pleased and proud of themselves or they must spend a great deal of time sobbing about their flaws, and I guess if they do that then they need to spend even longer covering shit up.

I can be showered, including hair washing, and made up and dressed and outta the house in 30 minutes. If it's hot I might take a little long, but that's only cos the makeup ends up sliding down onto my chest and I need to mop it all up and start again. The starting again almost never happens.

And it's not cos I am not a girlie girl. I reckon I am. I just don't like the way the makeup feels on my face.

A lovely friend of mine, did my makeup one night many many years ago. I just let him go his hardest. I was going out to some sort of pseudo posh thing and thought an effort was required. He did the big Ta - Da reveal when he had finished, and I looked into the mirror and I didn't recognise myself. I didn't like feeling like a fraud. 

I could easily fall into a screaming irrit heap if I spend too long thinking about my face. Fuck knows it ain't what it used to be. But as it's the only one I have, it'll have to do, and I find it strangely comforting to be able to recognise myself when I see my reflection. 

The space filled by make up when I am travelling is approximately one hundredth of that used for the cartage of all the just-in-case drugs and all the usual shit. It just is not that important to me. 

And I suppose I am lucky, cos I am not the one looking at my face. And from my side I see the face of a young, wrinkle free, bright eyed, woman. 

Lucky me! 

Friday, 13 January 2017

Timezone and traffic.

It used to be called GRUNDIES.

I don't know why.

I can't remember if it was air conditioned or if indeed I even felt the heat way back when we would visit this place with my lovely Dad or years later with my girl in tow. Maybe that is the clear and absolute evidence of global warming NAY sayers need. 40 years ago the heat was not a consideration of anything at all, and now this grumpy sweating old cow looks for that tell tale sign of dripping condensation which slides down the walls and windows yelling, 'The air is cold, so come on in.'

Now I reckon, the biggest attraction of Grundies AKA Timezone, is that the cold air is pumped out and if you stayed long enough a light cardie might be in order. Yep in this stinking heat this place is a god send.

The Grandie boy was due a treat. Yeh I know I reckon he is always due a treat, but that's cos he is the embodiment of all things treatie. Anyway a couple of hours of these arcade games, shoot 'em up, slam into 'em was in order, and I was not unhappy about enjoying the cold cold cold. Yummo.

As a Goldie Local, I do not often venture into Surfers Paradise. I can sort of see how visitors might be enamoured with the shit shops and the bars and the cafes and the touts selling tickets to all manner of attractions and tourist rip offs and of course the beach. But you know what, I can live without it.

We parked up and paid the maximum 2 hours - $7.20 I think it was and wandered over to the place.

Not surprisingly, we were early.

But we were first in line when it opened and we bought the swipe card and off he went to find his very favourite games.

I remember a more carnival atmosphere cos the games were manned by folk taking your money and if you won you got a toy or some piece of shit and years later maybe a handful of tickets that you could trade in for a piece of shit at the shit shop. My lovely Dad did like collecting those tickets!

But now it's all done with a swipe.

2 Hour cards give you a variety of stuff, 12 Red games - ticket winners - points make prizes, unlimited yellow games, and blessed be, these were Zig's choice and Dodgems and a Lazer force game which he said was very lame cos it was too early and so there were too few targets, and putt putt golf.

Well I started off like a good grandma. I watched him shoot the shit of stuff and then had to pop on my feministo hat and ask him what all that girlie posing bullshit was all about at the end of the shoot the bull game. I mean really what is that about? Why do kids need to have pole dancing girls celebrating the end of a shoot up?

What the very fuck is this about?

The lights and the conflicting noises seeped into my psyche and suddenly I needed to escape. Luckily we had already identified a meet up spot so I nicked off for a coffee and he continued on his spree of killing stuff and driving all manner of vehicles too quickly.

I found him again before his time was up and we played some of those old fashioned games together. He smashed some thing down with a gianormous hammer and we did target practice with cannons and I was shit and he was fabulous and then time had evapourated and he needed to cash in his swipey tickets and he came home with a whistle. Ah bloody marvelous and we made it back to the car with seconds to spare.

So this is this was the formula. Arrive at 8.30am. Park up and pay for 2 hours starting at 9am. Get a 2 hour ticket at Time Zone and then high tail it back to the car before the traffic warden arrives. Yep we were a well oiled machine.  

Until that is we were driving back to Brisvegas and came to an absolute dead stop on the M1.

When we could, we went off grid and he used my phone map and gave excellent directions.

2 and a half hours for a 50 minute trip.

My legs were sponge when we pulled up.

Next car is gonna be an auto.

Wednesday, 11 January 2017

Tech V Pillow fights.

Ahhh the Summer.

Again we are the very lucky ducks cos the Grandie boy is here for so much of the hols and you could be forgiven for thinking that this long time might be at least a little fraught cos where do you find the common ground between Marvel - The Contest of Champions game on the whats-it and an old woman sitting around wondering if she smells like an old woman while reminiscing about 70's TV. But you know what, we manage to rub along quite nicely together.

This morning, after a night of fucking road works and a closed up house and the heat and consequent no or at least very little sleep we are all feeling a bit precious. Stevie is off to golf - I truly just do not know how he does it, cos nothing could entice me to chase some little white ball around in the heat, but hey ho, good for him and it probably accounts for why he's so much fitter than me. SO the Grandie boy and I are just on a go slow.

Now I know that 'SCREEN TIME' is a constant source of conflict in modern families, and I know this cos I read about it all the time on social media while I am tapping away on my wee girlie machine. But I don't find it all that tiresome. He's happy to play for a bit and then we have never had an almost teen melt down about turning the thing off. When enough is enough, off it goes and we go on with the next part of the adventure for the day, or else he gets a book or he plays with Dog or sits on the back deck and just goes where his mind takes him.

I sure don't feel like I am in competition with the 'Tablet'

This morning he was playing a game and I started pegging pillows at him. Just one then another until I was outta pillows and he had 'em all and was therefore in the box spot.It was no trouble for him ditch the gadget and start chucking 'em back. It was too hot and we were both too tired for an old fashioned full on pillow battle combat, but shit got thrown around and Dog dodged all the incoming and we laughed and laughed. 

Now I am often accused of having rose tinted glasses when it comes to my Darling Boy, cos I almost never have a cross word with him and perhaps that's the way he likes it. Parents are not that lucky. I am aware perhaps cos I am a parent and I do remember the, 'Can I Can I Can I' era very well. There are no trade offs for screen time here. He doesn't need to have made his bed or cleaned his room before he can rumble, cos all that is not important here, but at home I can see all sorts of sticking points. Chores V Screen. Homework V Screen. Shower V Screen. All manner of usual stuff V Screen. But here where the spoiling standard, there are no such trade offs, so 'Can I' is nealr yalways greeted with, 'Of course', and I guess there is the adventure of being somewhere new with other distractions which might lessen the, 'Can I's.

Anyway I don't feel like I am doing battle with the machine. I don't pretend to know how much is too much, any more than I know how much is too much time in the pool or playing with Dog.

How lucky am I that usual parenting limits do not apply to Grand parents? 

Yep it is certainly calmer and easier being Ma than Mummy.

Monday, 9 January 2017

Sussan Ley - fucking Politicians

Image result for sussan ley images
Sussan Ley preparing to give Australia the finger.

I have been writing to Sussan Ley Minister for Health, well maybe she is now or maybe she's not, I'm not sure cos I read this morning that she had been stood down cos there'd been yet another fucking fiddle with tax payers money for a little private junket to the Goldie to add to her property portfolio. Anyway I have been writing to her for a fucking year now and have never received a response from her or her department.

I have questioned why the drugs for Leukaemia, my specialist prescribes, need to be approved by some clerk in Tasmania, and also why this whole procedure needs to be carried out at a snails pace via fucking Australia Post. Yeh she's obviously too fucking busy counting her rent cheques and balancing the accounts to bother with a response. I would have been better off stalking her and asking her in person on one of her tax funded trips up here to the Goldie.

I am just not sure what allows politicians to think that they are so far fucking above the law that they need binoculars to survey all their little ant minions. I mean what made Sussan Ley think she was never gonna be found out?

How could she think that even though stories appear almost daily about the corruption of individual polies and indeed whole fucking governments, that she'd be able to fly under the radar?

There can be 3 reasons I reckon.




And she might well be a cake mixture of all 3.

I used to think and have said many many times that you get what you pay for with politicians. Pay peanuts, get monkeys. But the money paid fortnightly is hardly the thing that is most attractive about being in this game. It's the expenses that can be and are fiddled harder than a teenager's bits. It's the pensions that are so fucking extreme and immediate and available even all the while these folk too often have another job, all the while also paid for from the public purse.

We - the country, just can't afford all this shit. 200000 bucks for some penny anti councillor here on the Goldie who is not obliged to account for fuck all and that's just the bottom of the bucket.

The politicians are only interested in reelection so governing goes by the fucking board.

I am so fucking far over all of 'em.

Sussan Ley has landed right up my nose because she has never addressed my concerns. I imagine she has never addressed anyone else's either. So she's lied and stolen and lived like she's above the law, and she's been arrogant in her belief that she was not gonna get caught, and she lacks basic good manners in that return correspondence is not a requirement.

And all up it really doesn't matter anyway, cos even if she gets the shove, she walks away with a fucking unbelievable pension which she can access straight away. A cynic might think she has done all this on purpose, cos she just can't be bothered campaigning again already for the next election and besides the rental income from her flash Goldie properties is a good top up for her pension, or is that the other way around?

I reckon it's time we started paying these fuckers at the end of their 4 year term, based on any good they have done while there, based on how many days they sat in parliament and how many times they presented a well thought out argument or plan of attack, and how much of their own money they spent in a bid to do this job. Yep maybe we should not pay 'em at all.  At least that way we'd get people with ideas they want to try out and people who really were interested in the job and people who wanted more than just a lifetime pension and the easy life.

Sussan Ley, under these terms would be leaving with the arse hanging out of her pants  and a hangdog look and an empty belly and good-fucking-ridance to her.