Tuesday, 29 December 2015

Breasts - Avoid the Quackery.

Please tell me just how far into this fantasy you'd be happy to slide before you hear warning bells.

You awaken one morning and for no reason at all you decide that it is time to take your boobs in hand - no not in a fooling around, feel good way, but the grown up, prevent any disaster, way. You might have no reason or symptom or family history to worry about or you might suddenly have become aware of a walloping great lump, in any case you have decided that attention is due.

By serendipitous coincidence you get a link on your facie page from someone you know, and one of the headlines reads, 'Mammograms cause Cancer'.

Shit really?

So you read on.

Dr Ben Johnson MD has written a book, 'The Secret of Health Breast Wisdom' ( Is that the correct title - doesn't seem to be grammatically correct but never mind.)

Earth Patriot (Who?) has posted the article from 'The Health Avengers' (Who again?) and it includes an interview with Dr Ben.

Dr Ben says, 'You are causing much more Breast Cancer with Mammograms than you are detecting.'

Dr Ben says mammograms cannot detect Breast cancers smaller than 1cm in size and by that time there is associated Lymph node infection and cancer cells are flying all around your body, in other words you are doomed so you'd better pick out your grave stone and set out the champers and canapes for the mourning hoards.

Dr Ben says the only way to identify Breast cancers too small to be detected with Mammograms is through THERMOGRAPHY.

Well being a carrier of boobies and not being a doctor you do some more research, cos who the hell knows what THERMOGRAPHY is when it's at home.

Infrared technology has been around since the 1970s. I am pretty sure we have all watched those action movies where the heroes pop on some night vision goggles so they can see the baddies coming, well this is sort of the same. Let's photograph our breasts so we can see the heat activated cancer cells a-coming pardner.

THERMOGRAPHY uses a flash camera to take piccies of your titties from various angles and works on the idea that if there are any pre-cancerous spots or in deed cancer splodges, well they will show up as hot spots because of the extra blood supply etc.

Well that sounds reasonable.

Of course localised infections and cysts etc would also show up as hot spots, and there is no differentiation but don't go into panic just yet.

So instead of getting the big squish you sit topless, in a room and acclimatise to the temperature and then someone takes some piccies. If they provided a cuppa and a biscuit it sounds like a really pleasant way to spend the morning. Yippee.

So you google where you can go for this beauty treatment.

You call the Mobile number cos that's all that was given and a female answers the phone with, 'Yes?'

You ask if this is the THERMOGRAPHY place and she says, 'Yes.'

It's a bit like pulling teeth but you continue even though you are beginning to imagine that she could just have easily answered the other phone - possibly a red one and started in on some lewd sex talk all the while scrubbing out her oven.

You ask for some details.

  • $190 with no Medicare or health fund rebate.
  • The procedure is explained and is as you have researched.
  • ( I forgot to ask about the qualifications of the person doing the clickity click of the camera nor did I ask about the qualifications of the person giving me all this info)
  • The images are sent off to THE USA TO BE ANALYSED, because this is not a recognised diagnostic tool in Australia so no-one knows what the images mean cos I guess no-one in Australia reckons it's worth their time doing the study.
  • Your report is sent back to you in about 2 weeks.
  • You get a rating of 1-5 depending on the severity of the heat in your boobs. ( I presume that no-one ever gets a 0-clean bill of breast health)
  • You take the report to your Holistic health provider or your Naturopath who will help you get your body back on track with hope and herbs - (yeh I added the hope bit)
  • It is apparently possible to cure estrogen driven Breast cancer by filling up on progesterone but there are other possible cures which can be outlined by your Person. 
Additional google research also explains that the procedure costs about $390 US in the States and that it is not covered by any health insurance there either.

It is recommended that women begin this diagnosis as early as 18 years old so there can be a base marker and that they should be tested every 6 months.

Are those bells ringing for you yet? Shit I feel like I am living in the Bell tower of a fucking great cathedral and it is constantly 12 midnight.

Does this sound like an excellent way to fleece women of a shed load of cash over the whole of their lives and provide little more than FUCK ALL in return?

The truth is that if you push on with your research, it is clear that even if you part with the wonga for this nonsense, if something is found YOU THEN NEED TO GO FOR - YOU GUESSED IT, A MAMMOGRAM.

I cannot be a statistical anomaly. 

I had 2 primary cancers detected  through mammograms, in very dense breast tissue when I was 32. Yes there was associated Lymph node action and I opted for surgery and chemo and radiation. These little suckers were very  aggressive cancers. Had I opted for a visit to a herbalist for some green stuff and and some mantras to chant, I am pretty sure I would not be writing this cos I WOULD BE DEAD.

2 and a half years ago I was diagnosed with another primary cancer in my other breast again through mammography investigation. This was so very tiny that it needed to be pinpointed via a hook wire prior to surgery and I was lucky enough this time to have no lymph node action, so old Dr Ben Johnson would be shocked to learn that tiny cancers can be detected through Mammograms and that a detected cancer is not a death sentence.

This scare mongering really is a disgrace.

I reckon that there is a strong similarity between herbie, green shit, snake oil, curers, and those less than honourable evangelists who ask for 20% of your wages to ensure a first class ride to heaven with a complimentary a quarter pounder with cheese thrown in for good measure.

I reckon the success of this sort of 'medical' attention is is predicated on fear. People's fear of dying, of disease, of doctors and of procedures they can't imagine or understand.

Of course my history is only anecdotal, but I am still here and I firmly believe that it is 100% due to my choosing mainstream medicine. There is no proof that I could find that would encourage me to suggest to my daughter that she follow this suggested, expensive, untested, smoke and mirrors, someone is making a motza out of this, less than satisfactory diagnostic ( I use the term loosely) method.

I am hoping that less discriminating women are not sent this crap in their Facebook updates.  

Seriously, get you tits out ladies and go the squish.  

Monday, 28 December 2015

Nimble Loans Bullshit

There's really something here that I just don't get. Our governments and councils can tell you where and how to put up a tent in your own back garden, and they can insist that you install a water tank in a new build and that it is connected to your washing machine tap, but when it comes to regulating the rip-off agents who prey on folk with fuck all anyway, well the powers that be just throw their hands up in the air and hide behind free enterprise philosophy and democratic choices.

Only a truly desperate person would consider applying for cash from these sorts of places. The establishment fees are appalling and the interest rates are just absolutely staggering gouging.

And then of course there are the shitful ads.

They all give me the screaming irrits, but the latest one which shows a young woman's home-coming after a holiday, is particularly irksome. She walks into the place where she is presumably listed on the lease and where she pays the rent, to be accosted by a few low life blood sucking arsewipes who have moved in while she was away, and she finds herself unceremoniously, powerlessly, evicted.

She needs money in a hurry to pay for moving costs and a deposit on a new place.

What the very fuck??

How it is OK to present women in this predicament beggars belief.

Who thought up this shit? I just do not for a millisecond reckon that a woman put forward this scenario.

So now poor people are being exploited and women in particular need to suck up whatever and cough up the cash under any shitful circumstance which sees men gleefully treating them like shit, and then they continue to pay through the nose for it all. Because of course women are powerless fools who have no mainstream choices and somehow deserve to be put out on the street by a bunch of dickhead men.

I don't enjoy government legislation and interference especially that which affects me when it's designed to somehow protect the dumbest and weakest, but it is a fact of life. How is it then that these sort of sharks are allowed to continue. Surely protecting folk who use these services should be more of a priority for the government than so much of their other bullshit regulations.

Every time I see one of these ads I fancy hurling something at the tellie, but then I'd have to buy a new one and for that I might need to apply for one of their shitty loans at the cost of something like $400 establishment fees and between 40 and 50% interest per year. That would be a very expensive bit of equipment.

I reckon at the very least each one of these ads should be followed by a government funded ad giving alternative choices and advising people to not touch these companies with a barge pole. That use of public money I could live with.

Sunday, 27 December 2015

Kite Surfing

With the afternoon breeze at the beach comes the fellas - I am pretty sure I haven't seen many girlies having a go which is a shame, riding on their surf kite things - the actual name of these things could be anything that covers a foot board like a snow board and a harness and a great big kite like paragliders use except that the shape is a little different. Anyway whatever it is really called, the floating kites tugging along big fellas who seem to be hanging on to within an inch of their lives, is just magical to watch.

We took off to Currumbin Beach yesterday afternoon and after dodging all the tourist drivers in their 'Rent a bombs' and folk who may of may not have blown the shit out of the coppers' breathaliser, we popped onto the beach. It was fabulously empty, and I sat amid the silly waves and played with Dog as the waves knocked the shit out of me and wedged sand where sand should not be wedged. It was great fun.

Then behind us arrived a gaggle of blokes with a shed load of gear. They PUMPED up the edges and battens of their kites and unraveled what seemed like miles of string and then attached it to various spots on the kite and then placed the board near the water and checked their harness and their mates connected kite to harness and board to - well I don't know where really, maybe up their whizzies? And then they were off.

We had sat waiting for some aerial action for many minutes. It's a slow old process this getting ready to glide over the surf. And then it became clear, this was wind surf kiting 101. There was a fella there chatting 15 to the dozen and when his chargers were out in the water, he waved like a manic and stromped all up and down the beach.

A couple of the blokes were - well without trying to be unkind, they were just bloody useless.

I have enjoyed watching the flying in and over the waves for years and it really seems so simple, but after watching yesterday I reckon it takes a long time to master.

It must take a great deal of upper body strength to manage it and I reckon it would be helpful to know something about sailing and surfing and of course being able to swim and fight off sharks would also be useful skills.

After watching these fellas I have come to the conclusion that I am never likely to have a go, let alone master the equipment which must surely cost 'em a fortune. For the same money, I would rather sit and watch 'em while sporting a designer handie, and possible a new car.

Saturday, 26 December 2015

Whew! It's over!

My Nanna was the quintessential Matriarch. When she said jump everyone jumped. She had done all the right things. She had married a bloke who went off to both wars and she stopped at home and waited for him. She had 4 kids though sadly her boy died when he was little but her other 3 had bred well so there was a large brood of grandies to keep her company too. She had plenty of love to go around and whilst I am sure she got cranky from time to time, it's not a glaring memory, mostly I just remember her as being lovely Nanna, the patient provider of all things sweet or wonderful.

Yes we jumped when she wanted us to but that was because we wanted to, not cos there was any great big wacking stick involved.

So Christmas saw the gaggle of family - aunts, uncles, and kids crammed into her house for a lunchtime meal which she had prepared. Back in the day when I'd had no choice, we had been herded off to church and sung some carols which apart from the words I quite liked a lot, still do really, we'd put on our best frock and proper shoes and gather up our bits and bobs of homemade stuff  and then head to Nanna's.

20 odd, and I do mean odd, strange, weird, and some a little bit scary, folk were wedged in for food and parcels and singing and games and more food. Sweat poured along with the beer and the wine and the cordial, and there was actual proper competition to see who would break a tooth on the sixpence in the pudding.

But today things are different and the only broken tooth was Dog's.

Yep that's how we spent the eve of the Big Day. Poor love had snapped a tooth in half, playing ball catch in the pool. She's a competitive thing and doesn't like to let anything passed her. I think I heard the sickening sound of the snap, but she didn't cry, she just kept licking her mouth as if she had eaten a thousand donuts. We finally were able to have a little look see and there it was a gaping space where her wee front tooth should be.

So off to the Vets. We were given 3 options. 1. Do nothing and risk a thumping infection as the root dies - oooh yuk, the pain is real!  2. Take her to a specialist orthodontist for dogs - who knew there was such a person? and have root canal work and get a crown made. Yeh just like a person, so she can keep her winning smile. 3. Have a bit of surgery to remove the tooth immediately so she should be good to eat up her chrissie treats in the morning.

Well we opted for number 3.

The people at the vets are wonderful. She was returned to us in the afternoon, still dopey from the anesthesia and the pain meds but she was OK and would be home to be on duty, in case Santa tried to blast his way through the doors.

She had a little bit of soft dinner and she slept up on the couch with me as always, except that she was too wobbly to drag all 4 legs up so needed a bit of help in the climb.

The pain meds had done the trick and by start of play on chrissie morning she was OK. She wasn't back to her normal boisterous best but she did manage to open her parcels and she enjoyed her smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for breakfast.

She was still a bit off with the fairies and lay on the floor using my feet as her pillow while we played our new games of Card Monopoly and Dominoes. This seems to be our tradition. We are both too old for all that modern games playing so oldies are still the best for us, even though we did move into the 21st century with the Monopoly cards.

We figured she needed a bit of air so we popped her in the truck and took her off to the big dog park. She happily chased the ball, while I played 'Make a million bubbles' I do love watching the bubbles fly in the air, and I often wonder what the secret is behind the detergent stuff that comes with the wands, cos ordinary stuff just doesn't cut it.

We weren't out for long cos she really wasn't up for it

Back home for more food and a bit of a sleep on the couch, - me and Dog, while Steve made his chrissie puzzle and cooked a wonderful roast dinner.

Dinner was a feast and Dog was back to almost normal.

When we left, the Vet gave us a bottle of Doggie pain meds, well when I say, GAVE I really mean sold us 40 bucks worth of drugs! For that sort of money you can buy a shed load of panadol, but I wouldn't be game to grind up a couple and slide it into her food like I might do for Zig, she's a dog and I guess she needs Doggie stuff. We haven't given her any and she seems to be OK. If some druggie breaks in and steals it they might well get more than they bargained for, cos I reckon it would knock out a horse - maybe I should find a dodgy street corner and see if I can unload it. I wonder what I would wear to a drug deal?

So chrissie is done and dusted for another year. Yippee. I can fold the tree away, do something creative with all the leftovers, and put the credit card into storage...oh who am I kidding, now it's the sales! Yippee. I do love a sale!

I hope there was no salmonella or broken teeth at your place.

Monday, 21 December 2015


The Big House is NOT playing host to the little family after all this year. Circumstances and kumquats have conspired to leave the festivities to Stevie and Dog and me.

So yes that's a pisser but the champagne flute being half full, it means that we can please ourselves without any compromise.

I am off with my very much shorter food shopping list on Wednesday.  The diet of sorts is gonna be chucked out the window and we will have any damn thing we please. Stevie has already stocked up the fridge with a lovely bottle of plonk and and I plan to be slurping the 'french stuff' morning noon and night. Yummo!

It's all a bit silly really, but what we have a hankering for is roast pork with crackling and the full range of roast veg, cos the veg has been on the banned list of the no carbs high protein formula. I am salivating just thinking about downing half a dozen of Stevie's roast spuds, yeh he cooks so I will be the one with my feet up, calling instructions for glass fillage from the pool. I am very much looking forward to it.

AN early pressie was delivered today from the cheery Dr Greg, who told us that the poison was doing a mighty job and had kicked the shit out of the platelet count and the number of mutant white cells had been given a good shoeing too.

Stevie had decided that if the number was anything at all less than the original 80 (11 is the high end of ok), he was gonna be happy, cos that was an improvement, but me, well I am a high achiever and I had decided that I wanted a score of 42 - an arbitrary number I picked out of my arse. (I think secretly Stevie was hoping for much better than 80, but he was just priming me in case of disappointment.)

So Dr smiley, did his best to open with usual small talk, but I just wanted the number. THIRTY FUCKING SIX. Now that's what I call excellent poison!

There is still quite a long way to go, but he reckons in a year or so all those fucking Philadelphia white cells should have been killed off. He was calmly positive about this. Of course I had to push it and ask if his initial prognosis of poison for life might be adjusted, but he said that people who have managed to get back to normal figures with no mutant white cells, who stopped taking the poison almost always relapsed almost immediately. 'So get used to it girl, suck it up,' I chanted to myself.

So I have already had my chrissy present. Yeh it came early and I don't usually count anything before the day as a real pressie, but this one is gonna be the exception.

Reckon Stevie was pretty excited too. Can't be easy for anyone to lurch from one bit of illness to another, especially when there is no control. He's a good boy really, just rocking along with it and learning to make the most irreverent jokes cos that's the way I like it.

I hope that everyone has all their shit sorted for a wonderful chrissie and for those that don't celebrate it at all, well I hope the break is peaceful and full of food anyway.

Here's cheers.

Sunday, 20 December 2015

Big Car Bullies

The Big House is the home of the little big cars. Steve has a monster truck which is excellent for moving his golf paraphernalia and DOG and for whipping along on those long stretches of empty beaches which is really one of my most favourite things to do. I have a little wee girlie just perfect for, well just about everything else. It's tiny so parking is easy-peasy but the hatch boot is plenty big enough to famously bring home a full sized bath when we were building. It has cruise control so I can avoid getting on the wrong side of the coppers as I tootled up and back to Brisvegas at least once a week, but Dog is not as keen on clambering into the back cos there is not room for her bed, although, she'd rather slum it in the littlie than stop at home on her own.

Because of the race up the motorway, my girl gets more of a workout than the monster, but if we are off into the wilds of fuck knows, then we take the big fella cos it's more likely to survive the drive and Dog is happier and that's important.

Steve'll drive mine but the number of times I have driven his, you can count on one hand. I just don't like it. It's too damn big to park and sometimes I feel like it doesn't even fit in the road lanes - yeh I know it does, but not by enough. If we are out in the bush and space seems limitless I am happy to put the foot down but definitely less so in civilisation.

What I have noticed on my race to Brisvegas, is that if I am to have any grief from any drivers it almost always is from some dick in a great big car. You know the walloping ute, randomly stacked with shit that is wobbling all around, that screams up your gunoo even though you are in the slow lane, and then tries to bully you into going faster than the limit, or the 32 wheeler bastards who are in 2 lanes and weaving into a third, lights on full beam, who are in such a hurry that they must almost certainly be transporting a vaccine to a dying patient somewhere in another state.

It seems to me that the bigger the car, the more chance of being bullied, I mean even if I fancied it, I rather doubt it would be possible for me in my little Mazda to bully anyone, except perhaps an old fella on a pushie, or a woman pushing an ancient stroller.

I reckon the bigger the car, the more invincible the driver feels.

I reckon the bigger the car, the greater the chance of being bullied.

I reckon the bigger the car / truck the greater the chance of it being driven by a dickhead.

Don't ask me where all this is coming from. It might be the very many near misses on the M1 or it might be the jolly great dickhead who very nearly wiped me out this morning when I went to collect my car abandoned last night at a local golf club.

Yeh I shouted, 'You're welcome Wanker' as I squidged over.

Friday, 18 December 2015


I am very busy waiting for Monday to come when hopefully there's some good news about my old blood cells behaving 'em selves. I've been downing the poison now for 2 weeks and that apparently is long enough to see if it is is gonna kill off the mutants - yeh I reckon it sounds like an episode of Star Trek too. So I popped off to the blood sucking shop and now the pathologists are busy checking on the little fuckers. Fingers crossed.

In the mean time, we were also waiting for the delivery of our new kettle. Hard to believe how exciting the lives of retired old folk are huh? The text said anytime today, so we waited in all day for an eventual 3 pm arrival. It is bloody pretty and the last one which did a little blow up earlier in the week kept us in tea and coffee for more than a dozen years, so Steve reckoned it was worth trawling online for an exact replacement. He's a good boy like that. Just an aside, it took 3 days to be delivered from the UK and it took 2 WEEKS  for Australia Post to deliver something weighing less than 500 grams to Perth. Work that out!!

So while we waited for the kettle while we were waiting for Monday News,  I steeped the fruit in a good lot of rather ordinary Brandy, so I can make my xmas cake tomorrow. Stevie does like an xmas cake, especially when I put the white icing on, so diet of not, we will have one to tuck into on the 25th. Yummo.

Then we got stuck into a little plan I had for putting up my new solar lights. Steve was initially reluctant about the weirdness I was suggesting, that is always on the cards when you mix an engineer and an arty farty,  but I think he is pretty happy with the results. Let's hope the lights come on when it's dark. When I wasn't on the idiot end of the tape measure, I furtled in my little garden.

You might remember how proud I was when I planted a couple of tomato plants a few weeks back, well they have taken off like topsy, and on close inspection I saw a couple of tiny weeny toms. I am just so bloody pleased with myself. An actual farmer - who'd have thunked it? Think I am gonna start chewing on some hay.

And in between I have managed to make up a recipe for some beef ribs. With any luck these might be the cherry on my day. They sure do smell great.

So it's been a pretty fine day of waiting.

What do you do to while away your days waiting?

Thursday, 17 December 2015

Wynnum Tree Climbing - Oh yeh!

Most of my growing up happened at Wynnum, a bayside suburb of Brisbane. It was quite the parochial backwater.

Back in the day the only real way of getting back into Brisvegas Town was on a rattle rock'n'roll old cattle train which was neither flash nor fast. Consequently mostly people stayed put and gossiped about their neighbours.

There were 2 high school and there was quite the partisan divide. I don't know why, but I don't reckon I knew anyone from Wynnum SHS but at Wynnum North SHS everyone seemed to know each other. The other school was not far away and we played sports against 'em but I didn't know 'em. This is striking me as more than a little odd as I am sitting here thinking about it.

Anyway my formative years were spent out of the house. We'd all meet up at the foreshores and play and chat and fool around. A lot of learning went on.

This is where I learnt to climb a tree . Yep skin was scraped and wind was knocked out but the views from the top were always worth the effort.

This is where I learnt to breath through my mouth to avoid the stink of the mudflats at low tide.

This is where I watched sabot racing friends whip all around the bay.

This is where I spent long hours on my own thinking shit and wondering about the clouds.

This is where I smoked a lot of ciggies and then naively chewed up PK gum to hide the stink.

This is where I learnt the fine art of snogging, and where break ups and hook ups happened.

As I said a lot of learning went on.

There was nothing there, only trees and water and a run down cafe and the long pier from which we jumped recklessly risking life and limb.

Today I took Zig on a little date back to my childhood.

The tidal pool which was fine for cooling off in, but less than flash, has had a remarkable makeover, with concrete steps and stainless steel rails into it - all very safety sanitised. There are concrete paths north towards Lytton and south all the way to Lota, as well as all around the very flash and very large changing facilities and Unisex loos and the combo kids' playgrounds, yeh there was more than one. There is a car park and the shabby old cafes have been tarted up and offer alfresco dining.

Zig had a damn fine day. He swam and swam and then played for a long time on the climbing rope thing. I watched him meet new kids and hang upside down. He popped back to me every now and then to make sure I was watching not spending too much time on my phone.....Funny how they would trade you in for a bit of tech at home but outside they want your undivided attention.

Anyway on one of his visits back I suggested he give the tree a bit of a climb.

He started off a little unsteadily. He was wearing his thongs after all which I suggested might slow him down, but you know 10 year olds, they know it all. Up and up he went. He calculated at each turn whether he was gonna make it, if his legs were long enough, if he had a good enough grip and if the branch was gonna hold his weight. I contributed nothing, no advice and showed no fear. I worried that I might have to deliver him home dented, but the risk was worth it. This was kinesthetic problem solving at it's best. I thoroughly enjoyed watching.

The tree he climbed today was the only one to get a work out. Yeh they provided shade to us oldies but I did not see another leg being thrown over a branch, and that seems sad to me.

He plays 'Minecraft' and I know that there is some problem solving involved in it and his other XBOX games that I call crap, but it just isn't the same.

I am a practical learner. Yeh I can read and I can listen, but I learn best by doing, and as a Drama teacher I have watched kids with similar brains physically work things out, for more than 30 years.

I wonder what will be the upshot of all this techno learning at the expense of doing learning.

Wednesday, 16 December 2015

To Cafe, Latte, or Frappe, that is the question.

So how's this for a First World little problem...

For years I have been ordering a large skinny cappuccino with 2 shots. I have done this around the world and while the results have been variable the ordering has been easy.

But recently Steve and I have been considering the benefits of a no carb high protein, sort of a lifestyle and to be honest we are still thinking about this and we are wondering if chocolate and beer really are carbs or if they are only a little pretendy carbs. In any case I have made a switch in the ordering to just any old Cappa, so long as it has 2 shots cos from all accounts the fat content of full cream milk is not the problem and the sweet taste of the lactose in skim milk might be. I mean the caffeine is the important thing huh?

But as the heat begins to stiffle, I have made yet another change...Shit just how flexible have I become? So I have moved to a double shot over ice in a tall glass topped up with milk. Yeh I describe my order, except in the Village where Laurence knows what I like so I just ask for 'a cold one'. Some places say, 'Ah a cold Latte' some bugger it up altogether. Ho Hum.

But today another complication reared it's confusing head. At a girlie brunch I tried to order my 'cold one' and Maria asked for a Frappe. Well I didn't know what that was so once a description was provided I thought I'd give it a go. And it was bloody wonderful. I want to be able to make this at home! I am really hoping that this little nectar of the Gods is possible at the village, cos if it is then I will be able to indulge every day. How very yummy.

So to the recipe for a frappe. It wasn't an ASIO secret so the barista shared it. Put 2 shots of expresso and a little vanilla essence and some milk lots of ice into a blender. Whiz until it's at 'slurpie' consistency chuck it into a tall glass and suck through a straw. Ahhh. YUM

So now for the First World conundrum. WHAT to order and HOW to order it.

There are just so many options and when I only have ONE coffee a day (except on days when I have more), I want it to be a goodie.

I realise that this is not something that is ever gonna be discussed at the United Nations, but hey ho, it's still a tiny weeny dilemma that I will need to overcome every day. No-one is gonna die or become homeless and the Ozone Layer is not gonna collapse but I am not gonna apologise for spending a few minutes writing this or agonising over my options.

Do you have an everyday order or do you revel in possibilities?

Tuesday, 15 December 2015

'The Dressmaker'

I could well be one of the last people to get along to see this wonderful film cos it was released a while ago and for one reason or another I have been stymied at every attempt to see it. But not yesterday!

I finally made it.

I headed off to the new pictures at Pacific Fair - Events. This has only recently opened. The cost of the tickets reminded me of London - 20 bucks in the middle of the day to sit in the ordinary seats. The Gold lounge I think is something close to 40 bucks at night. So as the somewhat tired old Gold Lounge at Oz Fair is 20 bucks, I expected the ordinary seats here to be something a bit special, but they were just the usual old plastic crap. What a shame. The screen was pretty small too. Cinema 8. Maybe some of the others are bigger. The sound was good.

The new cinema in London's White City Westfield has been very well decked out with proper comfortable chairs at a steeper rake. It's all just more pleasant. I was sadly underwhelmed with the theatre, but certainly NOT the film.

If you have never visited an Aussie small town, I reckon 'The Dressmaker' will give a good indication of the petty minded, incestuous, mean spirited nature of the inbred, too gutless to leave locals.

How's that for inflammatory?

Of course this is fiction, except that it reminded me of a solo visit I made to Mareeba west of Cairns many years ago as a newly engaged city girl visiting my to be mother in law. Oh sure you say, 'What could possibly go wrong?'

I breezed into town looking foreign. I had a big mop of long permed hair that had not been treated kindly with any product so let's just say it was pretty wild, and in 70's fashion I wore as few clothes as possible and they were wildly loud and colourful. I am pretty sure that blue eye shadow would have been slathered willy nilly and I may have even been sporting my rafia daisy wheel bits of tat on my barefeet. I was conspicuous in the city too. People gawked and asked who the hell I was.

The to be MIL was more than a little odd and would have been rather more pleased had I been her son who she hadn't seen in a while cos he had been moved to the city by his father when he was a boy.

She introduced me around and set me up on a sort of catty date with some local Lothario, presumable trying to gather some shit news to poison the mind of my betrothed. We went to the Drive-in. He made a move. I was so surprised that I dropped my ciggie into my lap and rather than burn the shit out of my hippie little fake batik number, I whipped open the door and jumped out, making sure the flames were extinguished. Unfortunately in doing so, I smashed the edge of the door into the next door car door. The bloke was none too happy.

It didn't take even a dozen hours for this story to do the rounds of the whole town. I heard through the window a couple of old fellas talking to the to be MIL about this crazy bitch who had dented Sam's ( yeh I made that up - I don't remember his name ) car. I waited until all the details had been exchanged and then I wafted out flouncing my long blonde perm and jesus sandals to tell them that it was me, I was the crazy bitch about whom they were yakking. There was no point trying the smear the good name of the slutty bloke who had tried it on, I was a city gal and not to believed. I was only too happy when it was time to hop on that bus and head home, back to the anonymity of the big city.

But back to the movie. It was most entertaining. Kate Winslet  and Judy Davis were brilliant, and the others sort of rocked along somewhere between farce and real life. That Hemsworth fella is very good looking but not too believable but did I mention that he is very good looking?

The fashions were wonderful and there were twists and unexpected turns which kept the story moving along.

I am very pleased that I finally made it.

Monday, 14 December 2015

Anti-Vaxxers Pox Parties

Have you heard about how the Anti-Vaxxers are using facie to invite friends with children over to share the joy of the POX?

So at worst I suppose it goes like this:

I am an adult and I live in a democratic country and I choose to ignore the advantages of years of research and allow my kid/s to get sick with preventable diseases. When a POX comes upon my house I will invite others over share the joy, even though my kid feels unwell and even though these infected kids will go out in the world and quite possible infect old people. Bugger everyone else I will choose for myself and put my kids at risk cos they are too small to get a vote.

I just quite simply cannot get my head around it. I remember getting the POX. I remember just how very unwell I was, and I still have the scars to remind me of that awful time.

There was no POX VAX when my girl was little, if there was she'd have had it, and then she wouldn't have got the disease and then she wouldn't have given it to her father. I can tell you that adult POX is perhaps one of the worst things you can imagine. He had POX everywhere, face, tum, arms legs and even where the sun don't shine. It was appalling. He was seriously unwell for weeks.

So yes most kids survive it, although I guess the odd one suffers a bit of brain damage due to the fevers, which is all just a bit of collateral damage, but the spread is not restricted to kids.

And I think it is perfectly OK to stop any benefits these ANTI-VAXXERS might be receiving cos why should public money be spent on their very anti social choices? Why should they be able to grab public money and then put the public at risk?

I think if people want to choose to put at risk pregnant women and old people and babies - really the most vulnerable among us, then they can do it without feeding from the government trough. In fact I would go further, I reckon they should home school their off spring cos why should they be allowed to put at risk the populations at schools.

Sure, we live in a democracy and that means that people get to choose and decide FOR THEMSELVES. But we are also part of a community and that means we have a moral responsibility to be decent individuals. If we have a sniffle then we try not to sneeze all over the people on the bus, or leave infected tissues on the cafe table. We try to keep our germs to ourselves and stay home from school or work to help protect the well being of others.

What a shitful selfish POX ridden place it would be if we all decided that we would share it all.

I watch a lot of 'Law and Order'. I especially like the crooked headed Goran in Criminal Intent and there was a recent one where the guy with Aids was purposefully infecting women with the disease and he was brought up on charges. I am guessing that there might well be some truth to this, and if there isn't there should be.

No I am not suggesting that if you kiss your Grannie hello and later find out that you have the flu and then she gets the flu too, that you have committed some sort of criminal offense.It's the INTENT that I am wondering about. And I do question the psyche of a parent who purposefully goes out of their way to infect their child. Is that called Munchhausen disease?

Anyhow, I will not thank a parent if their purposefully ANTI-VAXXED kid infected with the POX touches me and puts me at risk. I have already had it and in theory you don't get it twice, but strange things have been know to happen.

For the sake of everyone please get your kids vaccinated.

Friday, 11 December 2015

Summer Storms

Surely I am not the only one to recall with great fondness and perhaps a scratching of the small scar on my arse, the wonder of the storms in my youth. No I haven't taken to bending over and proffering my bum up as a lucky Buddha scratching pole, I am just have a little remember.

I don't reckon the nature of the storms have changed much, but the attitude has done.

I grew up in the hilly suburbs of Brisvegas' inner east, and when it rained as now, it really pissed down. All too often, as now, the clouds burst just as school chucked out and that was just bloody marvelous, cos it meant that I could take my shoes and socks off, shove into my cardboard school port - which did not enjoy the rain as much as I did, and I could paddle all the way home.

When the rain season started, the gutters were just dried up tunnels of dust and leaves and people's rubbish, but after a month of rain and the on going sploodge of humidity, which saw mold growing on everything and I do mean everything, I reckon fungus on the whatsit was a common complaint at the Doctors from people who sat still for too long, a delightful film of slime would appear in the gutters.

Now I didn't have a skate board or a scooter or a pushie, mostly cos skate boards hadn't been invented and my older brother had the other stuff cos he was a boy and then when he broke 'em or sold or did whatever he did with 'em, well the oldies just decided that was it for us all.

So for most of the months of the year I just walked everywhere.

But in the stormy summer months it was possible to slide and slip and skate almost all the way home.

The rain would be driving hard into your face and barefooted I'd step into the slim and ski down the gutter. It was bloody brilliant fun. Yeh of course sometimes I fell over and then I'd slide on my cotton-tailed arse for some distance. The old woman was not thrilled with the holey undies. If I was having a clumsy half moment, I'd fall forward and end up with a bit of a gravel rash, and as I am writing I am remembering a particularly brutal patch all over my knees and legs which was filled with gravel and gunk. Yeh it was painful, but it didn't stop me going again.

One year there was a bit of a flood and I had to literally swim around the corner to meet up with mates.

But not anymore.

Storms of course still happen. Rain still pisses down.

The thunder and lightning scare the crap out of Dog.

Kids call or text their parents and they are collected from school.

People delay their travel to allow the storms to pass.

And bugger it, during yesterday's thumper, I insisted we get out of the pool in case there was a lightning strike and we'd get electrocuted. Fucking hell, I have officially become OLD.

We are thinking about getting the Grandie a Go-Cart for Christmas and I just wonder about how we will feel when, as is inevitable, he pops home with a gashed up leg or what ever.

My whole body is covered in scars which range from accidental to curative, but today's lot have mostly perfect little bodies, which of course is all very lovely, but doesn't speak too loudly of experience.

Wednesday, 9 December 2015

Ants must be communists.

There is another fucking invasion of stinking black ants here in the Big House. We have both become ruthless ant hunters armed with baits and ant sand and PeaBbea and some Mortein surface spray as well as lashing of water soaked paper towels and I even resorted to lighting a up a mozzie coil to see if that helps.

It's the maverick, 'all for one and one for all' attitude that makes me label the little fuckers as Communists. They have invaded the house in very large numbers, seems like bloody millions and they have taken some advice from a military aficionado cos they are this time, attacking on 2 fronts. Like the Russian army in the WWs life is cheap. They seem to reckon if a million plow on into the house and head towards the sugar and those huge humans kill off most of 'em at least a few might make it through and carry home something for the big boss.

Yeh it should be clear that I don't know much about ants or history or communism, but as the march continues this is all I can think of. It seems as futile as sending in poorly clothed and barely fed fellas to fight on the eastern front in the middle of the winter, like I saw in 'Dr Zhivago'.

The smell of the squashed and poisoned little soldiers is just bloody awful, and I keep wiping up the deadens but it seems that some of the little suckers have taken a leaf out of my survival book and they play dead until they figure I am not looking and then they try to scurry up my arm or away from the poison pouring predator.

My lovely girl who I always ask about animal and plant stuff, said that the more you kill 'em the more that the general sends in reinforcements and the stink they put out in their final moments is supposed to attract more fellas. Ant life is cheap so it seems, however the stuff used to kill 'em is not, but that's another story altogether.

I don't know why all of a sudden the Big House  has become the equivalent of the Goldie's European Front.

It must be the season, ta very much Santa. There are the Christmas beetles doing a little kamikaze onto the polished concrete floor and those fucking great big fly in roaches are just hideous, not to mention the usual spiders and midgies and mozzies and flies.

As the insects move in I feel the jolly green giant rearing it's ugly head and I hope that all my friends living in the northern hemisphere where the snow is falling, are not taking for granted their multi-legged critter  free holiday season.

Tuesday, 8 December 2015

Danger at every turn?

Image result for cartoon shark attack sting ray

Some old bloke has been stung by a sting ray at Main Beach. The details are sketchy as you can see if you bother to open the link.


I just don't know how that happens. The water here in the canals and the river and the beach is so clear, and let's face it a sting ray is not too tiny weeny, that all I could think of was 'Should have gone to Specsavers'. Makes their ad at the beach volley ball, where that good looking but presumably blind bloke king hits a pigeon, well it makes it look possible.

We see stingrays in the canal from time to time, and there is certainly evidence of 'em sort of lumbered into the sand making a body sized pit which they leave behind at low tide.

I am not jumping into swim in the canal!

Kids do of course. As the holidays begin so too has the parade of rather indulged pre teens in their tinnys, hooning around dragging behind them some poor hapless mate all too often sitting on one of those ring things, presenting their pert little arses to all the dangers of the deep. I wonder if their parents know or care.

Steve and I discussed getting a canoe or a some other little paddle along vessel that could possibly hold us up, and apart from the fact that we seriously wondered about how much laziness we'd have to shake off to bother with it all, we also considered the very real possibility of falling out of it in the middle of the canal and then getting eaten up by a hungry if not to terribly discerning bullshark. We decided perhaps NOT.

I don't know anyone who has actually seen a bullshark in the canal, or caught one, or who has any first hand knowledge of a sighting, but the bloody things make the local news all the time, and the cynic in me wonders who profits from keeping people out of the water. Certainly when I was girl - back when cars were horses and we all peed outside, I swam in the canals all the time. Dad had a canoe that I would pop out on so I could perv into other people's backyards and I never worried that I would fall out, partly cos I was a kid and they don't plan well for disaster and partly because it wouldn't matter anyway cos I could swim up a storm and I'd just get back into it.

But whether all the shark talk and now the sting ray talk is all just urban legend or there is a very real danger out there, it is immaterial in the end because we are just too appalling lazy to clamber into a skinny bit of plastic and paddle ourselves around.

Ho hum, pass the chips.http://www.goldcoastbulletin.com.au/news/gold-coast/man-72-stung-by-stingray-at-main-beach/story-fnj94idh-122763654720

Monday, 7 December 2015

I do love a bit of technology.

Image result for cartoon granma remote programms kid

Sometimes when I am watching some story on the tellie about the antics of children - and by that I mean anyone younger than - oh let's say thirty, I feel like an absolute dinosaur, cos all too often I really haven't got the vaguest clue what the story is about and less clue about how to go about finding out about that which I am completely ignorant. I just make up what I reckon text speak might be and sometimes I have been known to make up my own little abbreviations in the hope that youngsters will think I am hip and cool and groovy, like I might send ATSBAD to let my girl know that I am shopping for a dress (at the shops buying a dress) but she thinks that I am being critical in a Bruv kinda way.  SO sometimes it all goes awry - yeh that's an old fashioned word cos I am an old gal.

But even though I feel like I am galloping in a bid just to keep up, I know the reality is that I am lagging. Ho fucking hum.

I might not understand 'em but new inventions and capabilities are just so bloody exciting.

I know there must be some folk who dream about a simpler 19th century life, but I am lazy and do not hanker for chamber pots and boned corsets and candle carrying and hand stitching clothes and all that other tedious shit that goes along with too little machinery. Give me a machine that makes  the tedious tasks quicker, easier and prefererably done by someone else, anyday.

And as for health care, well seriously who wants to go back to use of leeches and witchcraft?

In the late 1800s if Leukaemia was diagnosed at all, it was treated with ARSENIC, and we know that that shit'll kill ya. Damned if they did and damned if they didn't.

Since then there has been remarkable breakthroughs that just keep on coming. A new drug regime which sounds quite unpleasant was fine tuned in 1950s and in the 1980s ouchie bone marrow transplants were thought to be just the shot. But lucky for me, in 2010 a new drug that is supposed to be the 'silver bullet' for CML was approved for use. One little pill of Dasatinib a day, every day should see a return to normal shaped white blood cells in pretty short order and the number of these suckers clogging up my veins should drop down to allow everything to function normally again. Fucking Yippee!

It's new and the side-effects are encyclopedic in length and I did wonder whether it might be easier to chow down on the arsenic, but so far so good. Blood tests is a couple of weeks will determine the efficacy of the wee pill and with any luck at all by Zig and Belly's birthdays, I should be good to go.

Yippee for folk who push ahead with outside the box thinking. Maybe sometime soon someone will invent a one off treatment for toe jam and a miracle cure for wrinkles and a fat muncher that sloughs off kilos at a time, while you continue to hoover up choccies and champagne.

See even my techno wish list is not very advanced. Maybe I should be hoping for telekinetic travel - yeh I made that up, or wrinkle the nose, a la Bewitched, meal preparation, or bloodless operations, or flying cars.

I think pretty certainly Zig's adulthood will be vastly different from mine. How very exciting!

Saturday, 5 December 2015

Madam Bovary is not Simone de Beauvoir

I fancied a little movie marathon today so I popped over to the vid machine and picked a couple of pictures I haven't seen.

Just as an aside, am I the only one to lament the passing of the video shop? Oh sure the machines are convenient - there are 2 in the village shopping centre now, but I do miss wandering the shop aisles and selecting weird old movies and stacking up the boxes and getting some pile of sugar and hydrogenated fats, all ready for an estrogen fed afternoon. My girlie and I used to do this fairly often. Sometimes if cash did not allow for all the bought feasts, I'd whip up a batch of picklets and we'd lounge on the floor and gorge on an Aussie girls' version of devonshire tea, and very often we'd fall into a sugar coma mid film and have to start again.

I don't enjoy standing at the machine flicking through the titles so I usually settle on stuff pretty quickly. Today the second tile in was 'Madam Bovary'. Yep that would be good. Nothing like a bit of existentialism to brighten up a Saturday afternoon. Except of course I was having a complete brain melt.

I watched the movie. It is beautifully shot and the story line was ok. I was surprised that the historical era had been changed and I spent the whole film wondering when Jean Paul Sartre was gonna appear, but there was enough existential philosophy lived and discussed to convince me that I was not confused or worse still WRONG, it was just an odd interpretation of an unusual love story.

The credits rolled and then the penny dropped. It's amazing how dull your brain can be really - Bovary is not much like Beauvoir really. What a dick!

I am happy enough to have watched the film, even if I must admit that I slipped into nanna nap mode midway through and had to re-wind back to the bit I remembered. I would however have much preferred to see a movie showcasing the Sartre / Beauvoir romance, as I find their era, the philosophy, the fashions far more interesting.

I also picked up 'Birdman' which I wanted to see at the pictures, but just never got around to it. I reckon we might settle into it tonight after some BBQ snags., yep I am living dangerously! And then I have to remember to run both the vids back before the 24 hour bell chimes. I haven't read the fine print, but I bet there is some appalling penalty automatically applied to the old AMEX card - no flirting your way out overdue fines like in the old days.

Friday, 4 December 2015

T'is the Season

Time to dust it off and let the lights twinkle.

Last year's leftovers...Don't judge me!

I have a very little family, only 4 of us but we make quite the crowd around the tree for Christmas madness and this year we are even gonna manage to go nuts on the right day. Often times in the past due to usual blended shit, we have celebrated sometimes as late as in January, and that sort of sucks but it does allow pressie buying and trimmings selection during the sales.

I am not sure how large families manage. 

Some families I know run into the dozens, and they face Christmas like it is a military operation. Parcels are purchased starting on the Boxing Day sales for next year, there are lists and things crossed off as changes are made and people grow up or have sex change operations and the pile at the bottom of a rarely used cupboard grows from January through to December when wrapping is done and undone and it all starts again. I am in awe and exhausted in equal measure just thinking about it. The pile of loot is distributed by 2 Santas simultaneously 'Ho Ho Hoing' and flinging parcels quickly enough to keep everyone going the big rip until there is a mountain of wrapping and little hills of carefully stacked bits and bobs. And then the army of people need to be fed. ARGH!

Of course there are huge families who have seemingly got their efficient shit together and they run a Secret Santa where everyone just gets one pressie and everyone only has to buy one pressie. But this wonderful ideal all too often fails cos some cheap skate re-gifts some crap from the work do or buys something on sale which was on sale cos it had been sitting in the store since 1986 cos no-one wanted it then or since then. And sometimes the reverse can happen if you are lucky enough to be coupled up with your favourite rellie, you might be tempted to give 'em diamonds and pretend that you had only spent the requisite tenner. 

But for my little family, shopping is fun.

Today I ventured out to the new Pacific Fair Shopping Centre. It is still not finished but what has opened is pleasant enough. It wasn't too crowded, but I dare say that will all change once the kids are set free in a week or so.

I thought I'd pick up some festive staples like the crackers. I usually get these from the chuck out table in the sales, and come home with dozens of the suckers cos they were 90% off, and at that price I always splurge on the ones with the cool stuff in 'em and the good jokes. We all do like a cracker! But the full retail price of these bits of tat made me weak. I came home empty handed, and now need to front up again but at least now I am prepared. 

Reckon it is time for the tree to be dusted off and set up this weekend, and with the lights on a twinkle loop it will definitely feel like the mad season is marching at us full tilt.

No I didn't get parcels today. I usually wander and wait for inspiration to strike and unfortunately I came home unscathed. More mooching is therefore required

And then there is the little issue of FOOD. 

'Tomorrow is another day.' Thanks Scarlett. 

Wednesday, 2 December 2015

Bad Luck Causes Cancer

I like to live dangerously so stacked these bits up for a piccie.

There are lots and lots of things you can do that might result in buckets of Bad Luck, piling up at your door.

  • Numbers 4, 13, or 17 - (Just bloody don't go there, except that it's difficult to avoid if you were born on the Fourth of a month.
  • Stepping on a grave ( Oh Dear - not been too long since I spent a fine afternoon yomping all over Kensal Green Cemetery.)
  • Spilling salt (I cook therefore I throw salt)
  • Using an umbrella indoors ( who doesn't do this?)
  • Spitting ( Glad this is one I can cross off my list - bloody disgusting habit!)
  • Killing spiders ( I am an Aussie gal, I hunt spiders as part of my job description)
  • Putting shoes on the table - (How else do you clean 'em, or keep track of 'em. Sometimes I have so many pairs of thongs on the go that they make a bit of an Everest pile on the table.)
  • Turning a sliced loaf of bread upside down ( seriously some people have just too much time on their hands - who could have come up with this shit? It must be true cos I found it on The Google. And Yes I have done it - bugger!)
  • Saying "Pig" at sea (WTF)
  • Walking under a ladder, Breaking a mirror, passing a black cat - all oldies but goodies.
  • Sleeping on or under your dining table ( Well not in recent times but how long do you have to go back to tally up the bad luck events? I am sure we have all slept it off under a table once or twice)  
There are some seriously weird shit things that are supposed to bring bad luck and sadly I reckon I have been party to most of 'em.

So who could feign surprise when I was at the doctor's a couple of weeks ago and she told me, then he told, that I have Leukaemia - no surprise given the consensus was it was,'Just bad luck' but not welcome news either.

To say that I was pissed off could possibly be the understatement of the year!

I wonder about how Bad Luck accumulates... cos as this is the third lot of unrelated cancer I have had I must have been an absolute arsehole to more than just shoes and spiders and salt.

What I do know for sure is that people would not be wise to rub my belly Buddha style if they were hoping for good fortune, in fact perhaps I could whip up a sign warning people to stay away, or maybe get a facial tattoo out of moral obligation.  

The good news is that I have CML ( Chronic Myeloid Leukaemia ) so actually I am pretty lucky - Must be all those rabbits' feet, and shamrocks and sage and crystals I have hidden at the bottom of the garden in the little gnome shed.

So that's my shithouse news for Christmas. I certainly hope that Santa is gonna bring something marginally more pleasant down the old chimney.

No Hang Dog sad faces please.

Instead, let's see who can make me laugh by creating the most irreverent gag about over active mutant white blood cells.

Monday, 30 November 2015

Tomatoes in and fingers firmly crossed.

My lovely Dad was good at lots of things, usually things he wanted to be good at. Consequently, when it came to getting his hands dirty in the garden, well he wasn't exactly a green thumbed fella.

However I do remember that one year he planted some tomatoes and they were bloody wonderful. The smell of home grown tomatoes instantly takes me back to those childhood moments of chomping into the tommies straight from the plants.

I had planted these stupid China Doll things in my raised garden bed and my girl just roared laughing when she saw 'em - yeh I had planted 3! My Girl knows all stuff about plants and gardens and when she recovered from her howling, she told me that I had planted bloody great tress! I persisted with 'em and kept cutting 'em back, until today when I asked Steve to give me a hand to pull the fuckers out, so I could plant - some tomatoes!

The tape roots on the trees were huge, and I am hoping that we have pulled out enough of it so that the Tommies can grow without competition. I will water them and wait and see.

I tied 'em up with a pair of left over tights from London...Sexy toms indeed.

I also decided to see if I could do better with some Basil this time, and have shoved it in between 2 of the tomato plants. Fingers crossed that it does better than the last lot, which I managed to kill off in mere hours, never once sampling a fragrant leaf.

We pulled out all the mint that had grown like topsy and I planted some Parsley. Again fingers are crossed.

But I reckon if Dad could grow some tommies then maybe I can too, and anything else will just be a bonus.

Gardening done for the next little while.

Yeh my fingers are about as green as my lovely Dad's.

Saturday, 28 November 2015

The Mockingjay Part 2

We decided to escape the stinking heat yesterday and catch up with the last instalment in 'The Hunger Games'

Steve read the trilogy a good while back and he, unusually, really enjoyed the Sci-fi story.

It's not my cup of tea either - aliens and space ships and weird abilities and all that. I much prefer to loose myself in the possibility of fiction and I reckon all too often Sci-fi stuff is just a leap too far.

But I had seen the first 3 movies and have been looking forward to the release of this the last one.

I know that they - being the syndicate producing the collection, wanted to make as much money as possible and I hope they have done, but the carving up of the last book into 2 chunks was a bit of a money grab too far I reckon. It could have been condensed into one longish movie, although god only knows how the young couple across from us would have coped cos as it was they were checking their phones and both ran out twice presumably to pee or poop out all that pop corn. For god's sake even my old body can control itself for 2 and half hours. Maybe they were unwell. I reckon there should be special screenings for young techies like there is for parents with screaming babies and old pensioners with bad hearing.

However I should get back to the movie.

I thoroughly enjoyed it. I bit at my fingers and hid behind my hands and at one particular point I had a little scream - yeh out loud. The youngsters across are probably writing about some crazy old screaming bitch at the pictures.

Jennifer Lawrence was excellent and Donald Southerland continued to make a suave baddie. I reckon the Hemsworth fellas is over-rated, and I can't remember the name of the actor who played Peeta, but he was mostly convincing. Julianne Moore was wonderful and the editor cleverly cobbled in snippets of Phillip Seymour Hoffman and I was pleased to see him included one last time.

I think the big problem with chopping up the final story is that it really doesn't stand on it's own. I could certainly not recommend it to anyone who hasn't seen the first 3 and a refresher of 'em before you go, wouldn't go astray.

With my feminist hat firmly wedged at a jaunty angle I must confess to being pleased that the leads apart from the baddie were all women.

We went to Australia Fair Gold Lounge and even though it's getting a bit tired, it is such good value for money. $20 a ticket plus the booking fee which just gives me the shits. I had a quick look at the new pictures at Pac Fair this morning and they want $20.50 to sit in cattle class. I didn't venture into the Gold area there.

Really I reckon I am gonna be happy to sit in the faded velour with the occasional worn out springs, especially over the summer in this stinking heat.

Friday, 27 November 2015

Do you get around in the nudie-noo?

The blind is up and I hope the neighbours were not.

This morning at some shitful o'clock, with the heat already building, quite a lovely breeze blew in from the south. Such was it's welcome, that the blind went all a quiver and started banging about. I watched lazily as it flew up and let the light in and then dropped back down with a bit of a thud. Of course no sleep was possible with the noise.

So then here was my dilemma, I could get up and close all the louvers and keep the blind silent and suffocate from the heat, or I could wind up the blind and enjoy the breeze, all the while scaring the neighbours with boob and belly flashing - cos clothes are superfluous when sleeping, and really no-one needs to see all that early in the morning.

Well the clock said that it wasn't yet 5.30am so I took a chance and launched myself towards the chain pulley thing and tugged at the blind, figuring that if anyone was up and looking out their windows at that ungodly hour, then they would be either bleary eyed, or pleased to be shocked into action for the day.

The view from my bed is at it's best at the moment with the flowering Poinciana but my neighbours across the road, possibly were treated to a less than attractive view as I jumped around and later when I got up properly, I did try to keep my back to 'em as I dragged on some clothes, cos afterall, we all have a back so who cares about backs, right?

Not too shabby a view huh?

There doesn't seem to be a great deal of nudie-noo action here in the suburbs, but friends who live in a city high rise see more than enough to make up for it. People in the city seem to reckon they are invisible just cos they don't have a yard. So it's not uncommon to see flashes of skin and from time to time actual RUMPITY going on on the balconies, but these folk must surely be doing it for a thrill or a laugh or a dare. I reckon if I lived in a city high rise, I might just sit all day and night and watch the neighbours and make up their back-stories, but I would have to do it from some little hidden corner cos I wouldn't want anyone watching me after all.

So I am left wondering how much nudity is normal?

Is it ok to dash from the shower sans towel?

Is it ok to walk completely starkers all day anywhere on the property, cos after all your home is your castle?

Is flashing your bits in front of the kids OK or in front of the dog?

Thursday, 26 November 2015

Schoolies Week

This is my year 12 photos. Might be a bit blurry like my vision today, but it's as clear as a bell in my mind.

If you are the parents of one of the few kids spirited off to the hospital for conditions undisclosed, or parents of one of the few who have been  arrested for being drunk or fighting or whatever, then maybe you will figure that this year's schoolies has been a bit shit. But as a resident living only a couple of Ks from the epicenter or the festivities, I reckon it has been going pretty well.

The local media is usually keen to hype up any of the naughtiness the kids get up to, but this year they have been pretty quiet.

My girl, who partied hard almost 15 years ago - yeah we chattered about that this week and at the ripe old age of 32, she felt like a grandmother, said this year's lot must be behaving themselves.

It made news this year, and possibly not for the first time, that undercover coppers were staking out the bottleos, and charging and fining anyone buying booze for minors. I get it. It's against the law to supply alcohol to minors. But as I heard this I drifted back to perhaps a simpler time 15 years ago.

I drove my Girl and 2 of her mates to their unit. It was right on the beach, just a few hundred yards north of Surfer's. They carried in their clothes and I carried in their cartons. We all got to and filled the fridge and they squealed like the youngsters they were, and I popped into the bedrooms and found waste baskets to place next to the beds in case of vomit misshaps. Not pleasant in the thinking but in an interest in collecting the bond, more than a little pragmatic.

I then surveyed the rest of the unit. No, I didn't care about the view, or the size of the tellie or how comfy the couch was, I was on the hunt for breakables. Yes I left 'em some glasses and some plates, but all decorative china and glassware and side lamps were stashed into cupboards so that if they stumbled after a couple, they only fell over. I left nothing expensive to break their falls.

I had been teaching seniors up to their graduations for 20 years, and knew well the shenanigans of final celebrations. I just wanted these kids to be as safe as I could make 'em.

Yes I knew they were gonna drink and get fall down drunk.

Yes I was worried sick about it.

Yes I made my girl promise to ring me every afternoon even for a second just to keep me sane.

Yes I knew I was breaking the law.

If my child was finishing school now I might be less happy about schoolies week, but only because I am an old gal now and quite removed from the reality of it all,  but I wouldn't stop 'em going. I am not sure why, but it has become a rite of passage.

For the vast majority of the kids this is just a week of letting loose. For many it's the first time away from parents and adults for an extended time and for most I bet it is a memory machine that will feed 'em til they are old enough to be thinking they are too old for all this.

When I finished school, it was all a bit anticlimactic cos some dickhead had taken it into his head to break into the science block on the night previous and do damage. Needless to say the police and the school authorities were about as happy about that as we were that our big day had been buggered up. The police investigated and the culprits were caught I think and the rest of us were marched off the school grounds - no pranks with glad wrap over the toilets, or putting bicycles on the roof, or songs from, 'To Sir With Love.' Just an unceremonious exit. Goodbye and good riddance.

We made hurried arrangements to meet up at the Wynnum foreshores after dark. A bonfire was built and 12 years' of school shit that our parents had not saved as precious mementos were used as fuel. We felt like we were being quite the rebels.

I don't think the police came along to move us on or douse the flames.

I remember it as being a burning ritual and quite cathartic as kids watched their failures burn alongside someone else's distinctions.

All life events need to be marked somehow. Of course we get to decide the HOW and the HOW for the end of 12 years of institutional marching is at the moment, a week in the sun.

I really hope that the last of their time is fun but uneventful - at least from this oldie's perspective.

Would you be happy to let your kids loose at the Goldie for a week?