Thursday, 14 December 2017

Christmas with a difference.

This is the full chrissie deco plan for this year.

Yep all the lovely bits that I carefully pack up each January and shove in 3 big boxes are taped up and ready for moving so about a week ago my girl presented me with these two drunken Santa salt and pepper shakers so there'd be some christmas cheer, where ever we land, even if it is wee. And on our way to coffee one morning this week or maybe last week, seriously time has been passing in a blurr, like a many many double voddies blurr, we saw these other lovely fellas at the florist and Stevie just plopped 'em on the table as a cool surprise and everyone who walked by commented on the resemblances. I am hoping that I am meant to be the red headed one although the greying beardy one is possibly the way I am feeling.

Christmas is just percolating away in the back of my head cos the front part is filled with cartons and chucking shit out. Stevie said yesterday he was gonna start calling me his little Portia. Well I heard Portia but he meant Porche and he then explained the link - Porche Boxster cos I always seem to have my head wedged in a carton. Anyway, I am hoping that by some sort of osmosis that unfortunately I do not believe in, by the 25th, I will have somehow managed to pull together a grand feast and at least some silly bits and pieces to wrap and then go the big rip. The obscene pile of brightly wrapped stuff will not be under the nonexistent tree this year. I reckon some IOUs might find their way into the custody of the gnomes and the drunken jolly Santas.

And that's OK. Cos what I am most excited about is that the kids 'll be able to pop over in the afternoon, without the stress of a drive which my girl does not enjoy, AT ALL. We can hit the pool and eat stuff and be silly and then they can trundle off home again. And everyone can sleep in their own bed and then if the kids want to pop back the next day and the next day, it's only a few minute's drive and if I want to drop something off to them or take dog for a visit to play with my Darling Boy, then it's not a whole day out and 'have I got enough petrol?' and 'I hope there is no smash on the M1 today!' 

Yeh I am getting very excited about 'going home'.

It's been 17 years since I lived in Brisvegas  and that's quite a long time, and I have been very happy laying my hat in different places for all these years, cos at heart I reckon I am truly a gypsy.

I was gonna say I love moving, but that's just bullshit. NOONE loves moving, it's a royal pain in the arse, but I do love exploring new houses and places and seeking out the best coffee and the freshest veg and the friendliest restaurants with the tastiest food, and the galleries and the theatres and, well stuff.

And all this exploring will still be necessary, even though I am going home, cos the place has sure changed. It's daunting and maybe a little tiring thinking about it all, but mostly it's exciting.

Roll on next week when the packing is finished and the boxes are delivered and our backs are to the fucking road works and we are tripping down a new street looking for a place that makes good coffee and of course is happy for Dog to sit at our feet. Yep Roll on indeed.

Wednesday, 13 December 2017

Moving - where's Betwitched when you need her?

Well shit, it's been more than 2 weeks of silence on here but not in my head, and of course no ceasing of the government abuse out on the fucking road - nah that's really ramped up since the government has decreed an opening grand reveal date and of course the union turds want their chrissie bonus.

The house sale went unconditional and the last 2 weeks seem to have trundled along in slow motion. Travel along the M1 to Brisvegas to view houses has been patience testing, but not as galling as being vetted by children in charge of some very dodgy houses to rent. We did get desperate after the stinky dirty one and the houseos one and the one with literally 100 steps straight up to the front door, Whew, I nearly gave that one a miss half way up. Landlords lied and changed their little minds and agents big noted themselves but we found a place, not quite where we want to be but needs must and all that.  Of course it is not without it's problems because the owners really want to sell it, not rent it, so it turned out that there is no power and no gas and not water meter and no wiring for TV or internet, and they wanted little codicils cos of dog which we just sucked up and signed. It has been a fight, and we are not in there yet, so fingers are firmly crossed.

It's difficult to find a house to rent when you have no references and no job and no interest in providing bank statements, or signing your life away and agreeing to remodel the whole house just because we have a dog, even though the mess left by the family with 3 children just simply beggared my belief.

And then there are the hours - not an exaggeration, I will never get back trying to get quotes from removalists. 

The first guy, with a long pole firmly wedged up his arse, told me that it was the most expensive time to move and we'd be lucky to have him. He was here for 2 hours and twice he launched into insurance sales speak, even though I bluntly - yeh it was as blunt as you might imagine it, told him not to bother. His quote came back and was more than 14 thousand dollars not including insurance! FUCK!

Next bloke was much more friendly and pragmatic and when he sent his quote it was about 5 grand plus a goodly sum to pack shit up.

And finally a fella I have known for a very long time quoted over the phone and I agreed and then later he popped out and had a look and we are all happily on the same page.

So I have been packing and chucking shit out. I am a good and ruthless purger. And I am a quick packer, perhaps because it is not a job I enjoy and so just want to get it over and done with as fast as I can.

I have 4 more days to shove anything we want to keep into a box and even though by far and away most of it is done, it's my experience that it's the last bits that are the most troublesome, so wish me luck.

Of course so close to chrissie means that something has had to give and sadly that is parcels and christmas foodie cheer.

I am truly hoping that the big smoke comes with 24 hour a day shopping so I might pop out at 2 am and perhaps avoid the crowds, cos that's just not something I fancy.

My eyes are drooping down lower than my boobs and my mind is so utterly frazzled that now would be an excellent time to try and sell me a bridge or a comfy looking place to sleep for about a year.

Yep that's what I fancy for chrissie, a full night of uninterrupted sleep. Ahhhh Bliss. Come on Santa do your best huh?

Tuesday, 28 November 2017

Mish mash

Oh my poor old head is doing somersaults. So much going on.

Harry and Meghan are engaged. Bloody pleasant news. Not surprising but smile making all the same. I hope that the wedding is a wonderful mix of royal and Hollywood. Reckon I might watch this one and hope for some shenanigans.

Don stinking roger Burke has been shamed AGAIN. I remember when this story broke the first time. Yeh it was a quiet little complaint from women and girls with not enough clout or kudos to do any harm, in an era when men were excused for being turds and bastards and power hunger shitfaces, because, oh you know they are just fellas. It is no wonder that women just sucked it up cos they weren't listened to then and are only just listened to now. I saw a saying on social media this week that went something like, 'I think people who say they don't understand why women didn't / don't come forward when these things happen, are lucky.' Yeh lucky and stupid. Bastard! 70 year old abusive turd.

The state election has been and gone and the result is still unknown, but it seems the Reds 'll get back in. Shit. That means no-one will monitor the lies and power of the Transport and Main Roads (TMR) fuckheads and they will be able to continue to spend public money in any inefficient manner they choose and continue to completely disregard the health and well being of the folk paying their wages.

It's interesting how personal politics can be. We had a bloke doing some work here on Saturday. He's been here lots of times. Oh OK I'll admit it, he comes and cleans my oven cos I am just too fucking lazy to do it myself. Hate me - don't hate - doesn't matter, cos my oven is returned to showroom quality and no amount of my elbow grease is ever gonna achieve that. Anyway while he worked, we chattered away about the election. He is a swinger. He voted for the Reds this time. Mostly cos of the connection he saw between the blues and the development on the Spit. He didn't care about the development so much as the idea that the council was gonna give away public land. He reckoned he would be much more OK with the development if the land was SOLD and then the public could benefit by way of a new police helicopter or the like, and he had a point. Giving away public land is just not on. So his vote was personal, although after he heard about the TMR shit fight outside our house he did say that had he not pre voted he would have voted for the Blues, based on my story. Who knows?

A mate of mine was hoping to be pre selected for the Reds and make his run but all that turned to shit too, party politics got in the way, and so now he will wait his turn I guess, and that's a shame, cos even though he's a Red and I am a Blue, I'd vote for him in a heart beat cos he would honestly represent me regardless of colour, and surely that's how it's meant to be. And my girl voted Blue possibly for the first time in her life cos she is so pissed about what's going on outside here. The fucker responsible for the mess here got re-elected. Bugger.

And we might have sold the house without it even being on the market. There has been a daily last minute request for an extension on the date to 'go unconditional' It was supposed to be last Friday, and then it was meant to be yesterday and now maybe today. It's all a bit nerve racking cos we will need to find somewhere else to live and then pack up and move and the end game is before chrissie, so there's not much time. I think today might see an end to our patience. Watch this space.

And the painters are done and dusted. The outside looks bloody marvellous and the inside looks like everyone else's place, and we are tripping over paintings and furniture and shit, and not putting anything back in case the house really is sold, so it's a bit like living in toppsy-turvy world.

And I am off today to have a look at a couple of houses to rent in Brisvegas. I am being unusually optimistic.

Off I go. Fingers crossed.

And now my computer is shitting itself and won't let me pop in a photos. Ho Hum.

Saturday, 25 November 2017

Dog Killer

Dibley Dog is fine, but my friend's dog is no longer with us because it seems someone doesn't like the mating noises of crows.

A friend of mine has or rather had a gorgeous girlie dog. She was the joy of the family, spoiled and smiled at and with. She, the dog is /was such an integral part of the family, 3 generations of humans who all loved and cuddled and walked and fed and looked out for and after her. Yep she is/was a ridiculously well loved pet.

Until last week that is.

Last week, her dad took her out into the park and she had a bit of a chomp on something as dogs do, and very soon after they got home Dog became unwell and then was sick and taken to the vet but there was so much damage to her internal organs, poisoned, that there was no hope and so Dog died and her human family are heartbroken.

Her mum is a crying mess and her dad is scouting the neighbourhood looking for clues. He has put up fliers around the park warning other folk to be careful with their dogs. Now he's gathering details, and what is dribbling in from people on all sides of the park is disturbing and angry making and Mum who is a calm easy-going woman is now ready to smack someone with a shovel.

So here's a run down on the info gathered to date.

The park has many trees - not unusual for a park here.
In the trees live a murder of crows which may or may not be going hard at it cos it's the mating season.
One of the houses that front the park is owned by a person who rents out a room on AIR B&B.
Most of the reviews for this room are favourable except for 2 which whinged about the crows noise early in the morning. BUGGER!
Neighbours have seen the house owner feeding the crows, even though other neighbours have been party to whinge sessions with her about the crows.
Crows have been dropping dead all over the park.
There are photos of the house owner scooping up dead crows and shoving 'em in HER OWN RUBBISH BIN, on rubbish day, even though there are plenty of bins in the park.
A neighbour has scooped up a dead crow and has taken it for testing which is firstly expensive and secondly pretty slow.
The police have been informed and given all this info.

All this is circumstantial of course.

A second dog has died.

I wonder if there would be some action from the police if a kid had picked up the poison bates or the dead birds.

I know the police have plenty to do, especially in Schoolie madness, so what's the solution here?

A bit of vigilante  justice doesn't seem out of place to me.

What do you reckon?

Wednesday, 22 November 2017

Marriage Secrets

So Queen Bessie and ol' Phillip have been hitched for 70 years. Longer than I have been alive. And that is amazing to me!

I reckon the secret might be that they live in a 100 room palace and that limits the amount of time they have to be looking at each other's face and presumably they have their own bathroom so there is no time spent smelling the other's shit - yeh I reckon even royalty shit is a bit on the nose. But they do seem to happily rock along together. They seem to share private jokes and there is a certain whiff of leaning into each other that implies to me at least that they are happy and that's important.

I reckon that there are belly laughs a plenty after Bess has gently roused on 'Ol Phil for yet another of his famous UN PC gaffs. Yeh I reckon Bess is a belly laugher. She looks like she might, not often but certainly sometimes laugh til she wees herself ever so slightly.

And I reckon that they'd have their own private signals to let each other know when they are bored out of their gourd, or a sign to say, 'For fuck sake don't put that ridiculous dead skunk hat on' and another to ask for a walloping sherry top up. Yeh after 70 years, I rather doubt they need to actually speak out loud too much to make themselves understood.

I met a fella this week who over coffee regaled Stevie and me with the woes of his marriage. And they weren't even woes really, he was just matter of fact telling us stuff. Maybe he was just filling in the silences? I don't know what prompted his sharing.

'The Wife' sleeps somewhere else. She's a Born Again Christian. They never eat dinner together. He only ever watches sport on the tellie and she watches 'all the reality TV shit', - not on the same tellie obviously. Occasionally they go for lunch together, if there is someone else eating too.

Well this doesn't sound blissful to me. If I spent my days trying to avoid being in the same room as Stevie, then I reckon it would be time to piss off or at least pitch a tent and learn how to cook over an open fire and  shit in a bucket in the front yard. I don't reckon my belly could stand the stress of turning a corner and running into the person you are doing your level best to avoid.

And I suppose it's possible that he and she have played this avoid each other game long enough to be very good at it, but that's not a skill I want to cultivate.

Can you imagine the early days of this arrangement, when irritations are major and raw and hurting and I imagine shouting is reverberating around the rooms. One person heads for a shower and the other, knowing the cleansing habits of their lifetime partner, knows just when to 'accidentally' use the hot water in the kitchen so that cold water shrinks bollocks or maybe for variation, the cold water is stolen so that third degree burns means a trip to the hospital. I mean it all seems like that movie, 'War of the Roses' and I reckon it could get brutal. The mind games alone would be exhausting.

But perhaps these 2 people have played it all to the end game and have popped out the other side with a tacit understanding of how best to rub along without killing each other and maybe even providing for the possibility of occasional joy, even it is with other people.

That's not for me, but horses and course and all that I guess.

But compared to this, Bessie and 'Ol Phil have got it all sorted huh?

I have long thought 'Ol Phil was a bit nuts, but maybe he has just become so worn in to the royal life, like an old pair of cords, with the saggy smooth fabriced bum and stretched out knees and the holes in the pockets, that he can now get away with anything at all.

And the photos of 'em both this week are rather lovely. Good on 'em.

Oh and if you thought this was gonna be one of those advice posts, well think again. I sure as shit am not an expert.

Monday, 20 November 2017


The Painters are still in, but now they are inside, so Stevie's stress is really ramped up. He does not like people in his house, Sometimes I think he only just manages to put up with me in his house. But these fellas wore out their welcome sometime last week and now he's projecting his hatred of change onto Dog. 'She really hates change doesn't she?' But we are all sucking it and playing as nice as frayed tempers allow.

It was all agreed on a gentlemen's handshake. The boss sent a quote, we agreed it and I don't think any cash has passed between parties yet, but coffees have been drunk and silly stories exchange and there is no worry about being diddled and Stevie is pretty sure he'll get the job he wants cos he's on 'em like shit on an army blanket.

So we are all just cracking on, and hopefully by the end of the week the walls will be painted, no-one will have a flat nose and we'll have the house back to ourselves, blessed be. Ahh.

But yesterday our Sunday was disturbed, our loose schedule of doing fuck all turned upside down. Because a couple of real estate folk wandered on in - ok I knew they were coming because they had harangued me most of Saturday. The house is NOT on the market but if you give an agent a sniff, even only one nostril's worth, then there is just no getting rid of 'em.

So they trooped in with a bunch of people and then as they were all leaving a young fella said loudly that he was gonna make an offer? Really? He went off to their office and then I did what I do almost every Sunday afternoon and that is sank into the bath. I didn't expect anyone to be coming back with paper work to buy The Bug House after a 15 minute inspection on a Sunday afternoon. I know people have all sorts of cash stuffed into their pillow cases and frozen in ice cream tubs in the second freezer, along with some whole fishes and an assortment of body parts from thumbs to scalps, but I just didn't think any of this sounded likely.

The money on offer was too little by a good long way and the story about the contract and the finance and the time frame wandered around like a drunk fella at the end of a long night at the B and S Ball.

I was in the bath and felt bad that I had left Stevie to it, nah not really the bubbles were lovely and the book exciting,  and he is more patient with the bullshit, until he isn't then he really isn't patient at all. Finally he flung 'em outta the place and set to cooking his roast dinner - all part of the Sunday ritual.

Predictably there was a call back offering more money but still not enough and the conditions had wavered about like the arms of a faulty windmill in a cyclone. He was watching Saturday's rugby game and wanted rid of 'em so was Pommie rude not Aussie girl rude, but they did not call back.

What did give me the shits, was that they told us to stop the painting, that it was no longer necessary, except that no contracts were agreed and in any case, WE HAD AN AGREEMENT WITH THE PAINTERS.. How easy was it for the agents just to fuck over the painters?

I mean what did they really expect? That we'd cut the painters loose and stiff 'em for their cash all on the off chance that we believed that they were being truthful?

I don't know how anyone who would suggest that could ever be trusted.

Sunday, 19 November 2017

Falling down the Rabbit Hole

I'm Late, I'm Late for a very important date.... Hardly it's NOVEMBER!

It's the middle of November. Nah I am not sure of the date cos it doesn't matter, but after more than a week of playing find a room where there is no painter perving in the window I needed to get out yesterday. Oh and I know the painters are too busy cutting in and slopping paint about to care who is inside, but I feel like a fish in a bowl. Heaven help me next week when they set to changing the inside of the place. Breathe Breathe breathe.....

So I popped out to the shops yesterday.

Shopping is something I used to treat as an Olympic event. I could go all day and it didn't matter how obscure an item I was looking for, I could always find it, and them some other stuff too of course. No point going home until you literally could not carry another shopping bag.

But now I can hardly be bothered.

Well for a start, I need to pop on a bra, ugh! and make sure that my hair looks OK coming and going and sometimes even pop on a bit of lippy. Yeh that's the effort I make to go out in public these days, bra, spit flick the hair and some lippy, my lovely Nanna would be appalled. Going to town when I was a kid was all about the good shoes and pretty dress and it was planned like a military operation. Now so long as I have got my thongs on I am good to go.

So off I went. I wanted to get a couple of those pool chair lounge things that seem to blow up by whipping them around your head. Yeh they are probably not as efficient as I think, but I figured they'd be fun around the pool over Christmas with the kids. Ahh and so down the Rabbit hole I went.

The middle of November and already with the decos up and the santa shirts and the ho ho fucking ho.

I am not baahumbug about chrissie. I like it. But it's in fucking December.

So after a bit of crowd pushing, I settled in for a snack over looking Santa's grotto. It was about 11am I guess and the big red coated fella wasn't there yet, must have been caught up in all that sleigh traffic in the sky, but there was a line up out the door of people wanting to get their santa photos done, I guess so they could have 'em up on the fridge curling away until what June next year? Or maybe this is a new way of getting kids to behave. Stick that Santa pic on the fridge and every time it looks like there is gonna be a melt down, the parent just points and says ''Naughty kids get coal'

The kids were all getting grumpy and I could understand that. The kids who are employed to take the money and make the kids smile were all too busy to give a shit about the kids waiting. There was fluffing to be done and phones to be checked after all.

And then I saw the jolly old soul dash out of a Myer and head for the lift. I waited for the Ho Ho Hos. NOTHING! Some elf must have been holding the lift for him so he was on a mission. And then I watched his GRAND ARRIVAL. Well it was more a push and a shove through the crowd of kids. There was still no HO HO HOs. He got to his seat and the first person in line dumped their baby on his lap and so the flashing of the credit cards began.

And had it been the 24th of December and this poor Santa had been peed on and spewed on and sneezed on and roused at by parents of kids who won't smile cos they are literally scared out of their wits, well I could understand him being a bit shirty. But this is only the beginning. I can only imagine what he's gonna be like in a month and half. Shit I am glad not to have to go anywhere near him.

Online shopping is looking better and better. Bare feet, messy hair and boobs swinging in the breeze.... bloody marvellous.