Spring Cleaning can be a Bonus.

Because I a perennial whinger, I have not made a secret out of the shitful failures of my body over the last couple of years. All up, I have been pretty lucky, though perhaps not quite as lucky as I was today.

Over the weekend I was doing a bit of a spring clean and stumbled across 2 brand new bras, still with the swing tags and then a little later I found the online dockets from Myer. They weren't the right size, or maybe my boobs are not the right size, who knows anything, except that they didn't fit.

Seems in some sort of madness LAST YEAR, I ordered these things, online, in the wrong size and instead of sending them back, or taking them back, I hid them under a pile of other clothes and put it all in the too hard basket. I am a real bugger for doing this. Steve reckons I should win a medal for never returning online shit that is faulty or doesn't fit. So I probably just buried it all away so he couldn't say, ' I told you so.'

Anyway, even though it was a long shot, I took 'em back today with the paper work and my sad story about boob cutting etc. I just popped into Pac Fair because the place I park is right outside the Myer lingerie department.

I like to think that women who have not been lucky enough to have breast cancer would be allowed to return stuff after such a long time too, but I reckon that the yarn cannot have hurt.

The staff could not have been more helpful and I was able to exchange the tiny titty ones for wallopers that fit. How very cool and just in time to pack 'em up for my little holiday.

I was patient and pleasant and truly thankful for their help.

Of course it is no skin off their collective noses if they exchange stuff, it's not like there is a financial penalty, or Shylock is gonna come along and slice off a pound of their flesh, but it's my experience that in lots of places, all too often you get a hard time, if you try to return something, or if you complain about something. Yeh I know I have whinged about the misnomer that is customer service often enough.

But not today, not in Myer.

A girlfriend in the UK was lamenting last week that she had gone into Debenhams recently. She was looking for 'pretty bras'. I am only surmising that this might be cos she is getting sorted for her upcoming nuptials. Anyway the staff there gleefully told her that they don't have pretty bras in big sizes and she spent time tossing up whether to cry or smack someone in the head. I advised that slapping was in order.


Debenhams is a large UK department store similar to Myer and David Jones, and it seems that they must be missing the boat only catering to wee petite little titties. Good to know, so I wont bother heading in there any time soon.

If the lovely Jess was in Oz, I would send her to Myer in a heartbeat, cos they do have some pretty bras in all sizes. Yes the selection shrinks in direct proportion to swelling of the boobs, but there are some very pretty things there.

Now I don't expect that I will have any other exciting finds if I continue to spring clean, so I reckon I might just about be done til next year. Yippee for hiding things away and yippee to Myer at Pacific Fair for getting me sorted. Ta very much Ladies.

Are you planning on springing into cleaning any time soon?

The Gold Coast Show

I am a Brisvegas girl and going to the Ekka is what all Brissie kids did. It didn't used to cost a motza to go and we would all wander around getting sick on the rides and from all the hydrogenated fats we threw down our throats. We'd buy more show bags than we could reasonably carry and had a lunch of bits of cheese and sausage and stuff from the sample place.

I remember going with my lovely Dad and as a mad punter, he would hold point position at the U turn in Side Show Alley where there was an enormous lucky envelope stand. He would stand there and we kids would come and go and he would not be ready to leave until either his pockets were empty or he had won something from the top shelf. He didn't consider all the other dross he won on the way, A Win, so inevitably he was surrounded by all sorts of crap until he won the biggest bit of crap. You've gotta love a bloke who will bet on this sort of nonsense. I am pretty sure it was the Red Cross Stand, so I reckon they might have loved him too.

My Nanna would always go on People's day and take a thermos and a sanga and sit and watch the grand parade. I always wondered what was so exciting about cows.

I haven't been to the Ekka in more than 30 years. This year I felt guilty for not being a good Ma so I made a deal with Zig that I would take him next year but in the mean time I would get him a Show Bag from the Goldie Show. He asked for a WARHEADS one - I had to google it to find out what it was. Done and dusted!

So that's where I have been today and a bloody damn fine time I have had.

The crowds were not too terrible and the place not too big, it was all Goldilocks 'Just right'.

There is something quaint and old fashioned and at the same time buzzy and exciting about the place.

The celebration of local talents in the way of painting and crafts and cooking was fab, and I am pleased that people still enter into the spirit of trying out for the best scone at show. The CWA should be looking over their collective shoulders for competition from the blokes, who it seems can whip up a damn fine fruit cake or a  sponge.

I particularly enjoyed having a good look at the display of Wearable Art by St Stephen's College students. Their teachers and parents must all be very proud.

As luck would have it, or not, I was in time for a fashion parade of gear by local designers and from the front all the beach wear was fine, but I reckon one of the designers ran out of fabric and so the view from behind left nothing to the imagination, although in truth as all the models had their nipples covered, I suppose they were more fully dressed than is often the case at the beach.

I was reminded of an Ekka date - perhaps that last time I was there, when I was 15. He was a strange one alright. His surname was LUCK and I reckon he was hoping to prove that it was Luck by name and Luck by nature. He was disappointed. Ho Hum. I wonder whatever happened to him. One night he had 'borrowed' his bosses car and came for a visit. There was an enormous smash and crash and the whole family ran out onto the road, Dad was in his PJs ( he figured it was intimidating to the young fellas?) A drunk driver had collected the bosses car and all but wedged it into our house. Mister Luck was none too lucky and neither was his boss, cos the coppers came and the drunk was documented, so an insurance claim went by the board. Not much Luck anywhere that night.

The Side Show Alley was frantic and full of people of all ages either having a go or standing around trying to keep down their lunches. I thought that marketing people had had a field day re-branding rides from a different era. My old Cha Cha Cha is now the Cyber Party, although the good ol' Dodgems are still Dodgems. Reckon they might have gone with the idea that if it ain't broken don't fix it. Kids were having a hoot and the hot dates were on even in the afternoon. Romance is still on the menu at The Show - good to know.

The Piglet races was a wonderful addition. It's a great way to raise funds for charity and very good fun to watch, more so I imagine if you had been lucky enough to score a piggy in the lucky ticket dip. They are just so bloody cute - hard to believe they grow up to be bacon.

The How Much Wood Can a Wood Chuck Chop was entertaining and sweaty. Boy can those fellas swing an axe! It was such an education! I thought they just flung the metal around and the tree trunk flew off, but there is a lot of measuring and hammering of nails and drawing stuff, and then there are golfer type practice swings and then they are off and chopping. The commentators could give the NRL fellas a run for their money too.

There are concert stages and animal petting and a free circus - more than enough to keep the kids entertained and there was something going on in the main drag up ramps and stuff and I guess that could have been cars or bikes or skateboards. I am sure that details for this would be online, but I didn't stop for that.

I am looking forward to the crackers tonight, cos we get a first class view from the balcony here at the Big House, and yes of course Dog will be cowering under the bed like the coward she is. Crackers for 3 nights on the trot, I think it's Christmas but she will be packing up ready to leave by the end of it all.

I didn't hear a cranky voice or a whingey kid all day, and people were rocking along with all manner of carnie type food and Show Bags were weighing down every other arm, so I reckon it must be a pretty good show this ol' Gold Coast Show of ours.

Amy from Gold Coast Show Marketing was kind enough to toss me a free entry ticket and so I have had an even better time than had I had to pay to get in.

Birkenstocks AHH

Almost a year ago when I booked my knee in for it's major service, and I swapped the calcium for titanium - I might have made that up, I made a small error in judgement in going to a Physio bloke who ended up making me cry, but before I kicked him into touch, obviously with my 'good' knee he told me my feet were rooted and that I needed to buy these Birkenstocks immediately.

Well Stevie marched me straight down there to the thong shop cos he figured that it was all a false economy to fix the knees if the feet then were fucked.

I bought the fabulous bright red pair that Stevie has still not tired of calling LOUD, and I happily admit that it took about a month of wearing 'em for a little while each day, to get to a point where the blisters had healed and my body was not rejecting the very idea of popping 'em on.

And since then I have worn 'em ALL DAY EVERY DAY. They are just bloody brilliant. My feet don't hurt and because they are bright I can usually find 'em regardless of the strange places that I find to leave 'em.

So as I am packing at least in my mind I had to have a good look at 'em and admit that they might have seen better days. I can hardly complain about the way they have stood up to constant wear and tear.

Never one to hesitate to go into a shoe shop, I trotted off happily today to just pick up another pair, so I can break 'em in before we go. There is a great range of new season's colours and I tried 'em all.

I like the way the red ones match everything I own. The new ones needed to be as versatile. The blue ones looked a bit shit on me - skin colour matters even with thongs so it seems, and the black ones were ok but a bit boring. There were pink ones which wouldn't look crash hot with red, and the new brown ones were skinny minis so no bloody good to me. I was about to give it away and get the black ones when I tried on the purple jobbies and was instantly sold.

The real beauty of these thongs is that if you have naughty feet, the thongs will train 'em up, just like obedience school for puppy dogs. There doesn't seem to be any need to wear these newbies in. They are already good to go.

Or maybe it's my feet that are good to go.

How are your feet?

(Carol I know!)

Mall Touts - how would you do it?

 

 

I wonder what sort of a stunt I might stoop to if my job involved getting quick stepping punters in a shopping mall, to stop long enough to hear my spiel.

After the crapola on the phone yesterday, I trooped off to the mall today to speak to a real person and the whole thing was sorted quick smart. Yippee!

However between the car park and the shop front there was some sort of kiosk staffed by youngsters, probably on holiday, probably not on any sort of base pay, almost certainly hawking something that I neither want or need.

I always feel sorry for these kids. What sort of a shitful life would it be. So I am not predictably rude to 'em. I just smile and say, 'No Thanks.' Yes I will admit that that's before they have finished their first sentence, but it means that neither of us have to break our stride. They can continue to canvas, well, I imagine tourists, but I am not sure cos I don't know what they are selling.

So it was today on my way TO the shop front. We all smiled and got on with things. Ah.

On the way back to the car however, I made the mistake of letting the girlie get out her first sentence, 'How are you today?' Shit, I answered before I could think not to. 'Yeh good thanks.'

Isn't it strange how this sort of exchange is Pavlovian. People ask 'How are you?' without the least little bit of interest in your answer and you answer, 'Good ta.' even if you are actually really bloody dreadful.

How much more honest it would be if we greeted strangers or relative strangers with, 'Hi, I'm in a hurry, don't speak to me please.' and then they could say, 'Hi, good I have no interest in you whatsoever so bugger off.' Yeh it sounds nasty, but at least it's honest

But I digress. So as the girlie got a response that was better than head, down eyes averted, 'No', she pushed on with the next part of the script she had been given.

1. Ask how the punter is.
2. Compliment them...

Well it was at this point that I felt really sorry for her, but admit that I did enjoy the fact that she was so obviously new to the gig that her ability to find something to complement me about was not as fluid as it might be, or maybe she was so shocked that I had not told her to bugger off that she was tilted a little off kilter. I reckon that these kids might do well to follow a sleazy bloke on the pull at any pub or club on a Friday evening. These fellas are good at the off the cuff crap.

Anyway, here she was faced with a responsive, old fat woman, so she looked me up and down and down and up and across and back, and she finally settled on, 'That's a pretty dress.' Unfortunately, it took her so long to come up with anything pleasant to say that I only heard it as it floated along on the aircon wave. Yep I was well gone. It did make me smile.

My dress today

I reckon she will be better next time.

I reckon she might eventually get up to a speed that might just detain a regular passer-by long enough for her to try out number 3 in the training manual - whatever that might be.

It did give me cause to ponder just how shithouse I must look that it took her quite so long to come up with anything nice to say.

I reckon  I should make a bit more of an effort so as not to scare the kids. I should but I rather doubt that's gonna happen anytime soon.

But none of this addresses what I would do to attract punters' attention. For that I might well have to delve into the memory banks of Kuta Beach or the side streets of Seoul. I think they try to give you stuff and then follow you all the while coming up with strange complements. I am not convinced that would work in a mall in Southport. Perhaps playing the pity card would be the way to go?

What would you do to get the punters to stop and listen to your spiel?

Premium number phone calls SHITTTTT - Potty mouth ahead.

I tried to find out about the cost and nature of Pet Insurance today, and that was a big mistake!

I filled out some crap online to get a quote from RSPCA pet insurance and got the price. I filled out some stuff on the BUPA Pet Insurance site and got a price.

I TRIED to fill in the stuff for MEDIBANK Private pet insurance and their site was so shit that it was not possible so then I had to ring their premium number and of course was on hold for fucking ever. I had been honest about being an existing customer requesting some info, and so the wait was interminable. I gave up and decided to test the theory that if I was looking to PAY them money rather than ask for something for the money they have already been paid, would the wait be quicker. So I keyed in that I was looking for a new policy - not entirely incorrect as I wanted details about their Pet Policies.

Well bend me over and bugger me senseless, I was answered IMMEDIATELY.

Yes I was short tempered. No she was not helpful. Yeh she said she was trying to be helpful, except that she got all uppity and brittle when I made it clear that she was refusing to answer my questions and that her bog standard blurb was just bullshit and not in the least bit helpful. She put me through to someone else - well not really she just shovelled me back into the rat maze,  where guess what, I was on fucking hold AGAIN. Yeh I hung up and am now reconciled to having to go into a shop tomorrow...

It is possible that there are far more people ringing wanting something for their money than people ringing to spend their money, and if this is the case then why in the bloody hell don't they rejig the people in the call centre?

I've worked in a call centre, and it sure ain't rocket science. I reckon it might even be possible to train people up to a point where they can answer a variety of queries. Wouldn't that just be a fucking revelation! Shit it might even reduce the abject fucking boredom they face day in day out. But better still it might provide some service... oh shit there's that word again.

Can anyone tell me whether these companies who are only contactable via premium 13 or 1300 numbers get a kick back from the calls? Is it in their financial interest to keep people on hold for hideous eternities playing company bullshit ads? If all this is true it would explain why their websites are so shit.. there is no profit in efficient use of the internet.

Ranty Pants Wedgie

There is no slow pleasant way of easing into this! There can be no languid soft seducing.

Bullies give me the fucking SHITS.

And when they go about their despicable business and easily manage to shove a gentle soul even further into a hole, well I want to ask if anyone has the names of people who break knee caps for a living. I am sooo angry that I reckon if I knew how, I might well wield that baseball bat myself.

There is no dealing with the bully - no that just sounds too school yard frightful, he's ABUSIVE, he's the abuser, not just a bully. Any attempt to bring some rationality to the table is met with a little crossness directed at me and a whole truck load of bile to the one already under a mountain of his crap.

I am afraid that the systems which are supposed to be in place to protect the bullied and the abused are just not effective. It all sounds so very fine on paper. But the actuality is that as soon as any complaint is raised the abuse becomes more frenzied and often it is not singularly directed so innocents get sprayed in the cross fire.

I am at a loss how to help. I thought I had been useful but he has bitten back, not me, cos he wouldn't dare and the acid I am generating might well have poisoned him - RESULT. No he has done what abusers do, he has directed all his shit to those least able to bat it back.

I want to have a little cry and punch him very hard in the bollocks, except that would mean actually having to touch the stinking filthy turd.

Loyalty Cards - How many have you got?

When I shop, I often go to Myer. It's close, it's clean and even in the mad post Christmas sales it doesn't look like a Chinese brothel on free night. I have their Myer One card and I use it, and then every now and then they send me a rewards card. Yeh I know, that's so I will go back and spend more money...I am not a complete idiot! But this time I was a winner winner 2 T shirts for free winner! I walked in, grabbed stuff I liked up to the value on the card and they stuffed it all into a baggie and I even left with the $1.35 still on the card. I mean let's face it, there is usually a catch in the fine print isn't there.

So it's a keeper this Myer One card, but let's look at the rest of  'em in my purse.

I have cards for clothing shops, which I go into, but do not enjoy and I can't bear the sycophantic bullshit of first names and chatter about previous purchases so now I am gonna finally throw 'em away cos I never use 'em cos it just takes longer at the til. Yes I shop there, but I am NOT a loyal follower mostly cos I go there under sufferance.

The Woolies one I use after every shop and I like that I get a discount on my petrol, although really filling the little Mazda from bone dry to overflowing saves bugger all. It does of course make a difference when Steve fills the  monster truck. And this is all pretty easy, so long as you remember to bring the card and you are near a Woolies garage. But all the other 'BIG DEAL' crappola is just too much trouble...log in for this, print out that, use this voucher before 5.15pm yesterday, I just truly can't be arsed. But the points from the groceries get toted onto the Qantas frequent fliers, so if I ever get sorted to use them well that will be a good day. Yeh the Woolies one can stay.

My Cinebuzz can stay too. When you go to get your ticket and you use the card they tell you if you have a freebie and that is a very nice surprise. It means that you can get a sundae for the price of the ticket, and what a delicious little treat that is.

The Virgin Velocity can stay, cos I am a Virgin girl. Really out of the Goldie they are the best, although I believe that Qantas has resumed service here in the bush so maybe they'd be worth a look next time. With those other cheapies you really get just a little less than you pay for and as a nutter traveller they're no good to me.

The Westpac credit card loyalty points have added up but all too often when I think of 'spending' them, it just becomes too difficult. I reckon someone should run a Sunday afternoon session about how to get the most out of 'em, cos I am more than a little cynical about getting too much for nothing. I did use the points once years ago, for a fully paid birthday surprise for Stevie. We flew to Cairns, hired a car, stayed in a luxury unit right on the beach all on points. So quite a lot for nothing at all - well Steve would say it comes at the expense of me using the plastic so often it's become thin and brittle, unlike my good self. But the trouble is that when you use the travel agents provided, they don't give you the best prices, so yeh I know I am spending points, but why can they not get the same fares and tariffs that are available to anyone online? That irrationally enough gave me the shits and I have not bothered again.

As there is no chance what-so-ever of getting rid of the credit cards, those points can just keep doing their thing.

I am pretty sure that there is still no such thing as a free lunch, but occasionally I remember with fondness a simpler time when store owners and workers provided good service to everyone cos let's face it, that was their job. There was no super service for people who had spent a lot of money, or who might have a lot of money to spend.

There was just good service.

No points or cash have been exchanged for this post.

Do you keep a track of your points?
Which are your favourite programmes?

Weddings

Have you been watching the shenanigans of the Sydney Semi-Mayor who illegally shut down a suburban street and issued 'Remove your Car' notices to residents and cancelled soccer games so his once blonde, now brunette, once Alice now Anthony - or something, I don't really remember her name, Bride to be could be driven along without impediment except for the cars of the millions of invited guests and so helicopters could land? If you haven't seen the actual footage, then imagine Tom Cruise in a Mission Impossible scene before the big fight at the end.

The scuttle just keeps exploding. Now there's stuff about his criminal dad and some law suit for millions over a dress and downsizing apartments in a new project he's sorting so that they are the size of luxury ensuites. Most of it has nothing to do with the actual wedding, but makes for excellent tellie.

Anyway all this palaver got me thinking. There is nearly always drama at weddings isn't there? I suppose in anything that takes so much planning, there is bound to be something that goes a little awry, perhaps not always $30,000 wedding dress awry but some little oopsie amid all the details. I am reminded of Charlotte's second wedding in Sex in the City.

The day before I got married at the ripe old age of 19, I was at the oldies place and Dad, not ever known for his tact, rang the soon to be father in law, to get his final RSVP. Information was not forthcoming, so Dad called him a dickhead and slammed the phone down. Yeh that was back in the day when such satisfaction could be won from slamming down the receiver. Pushing 'end call' just doesn't have the same ring to it. Dad was a stickler for all things pomp and ceremony and wanted the day to be perfect. An unfinalised seating plan was driving him nuts. Not that this is an excuse. He often called lots of people dickheads and worse.

Anyway minutes later the soon to be FIL rocketed up stomping along the front verandah, and smashed open the front door. He punched Dad in the head and only backed off as I reached for the phone to call the police. We managed to close the door on him as he continued to rant about being called a wog - I think his Spanish heritage really gave him the shits cos it's hard to mishear wog for dickhead, and then he went into a bigger rant about how I wasn't a virgin and that his son and I had been having it off at every opportunity. We were 19 after all, what did he expect? Soon enough he became bored with screaming at the door and mooched off, leaving us none the wiser about the seating plan.

I imagine that my soon to be husband's last night at home was none too pleasant.

The Big Day dawned bright and beautiful and stinky hot. Worries abounded about the outcome of the wog/dickhead saga.

He and the second wife were at the church looking like thunder. There was a court order that prohibited him from owning a gun, no I did not just make that up, and as I walked up passed him I was hoping he hadn't managed to get one on the black market.

Everyone figured that he had just put in an appearance and that the reception would be a step too far even for him.

2 burly mates of Dad in full evening dress, had however been prepped for possible trouble and unceremoniously threw the now Father in law out on his sorry behind and as he was going he was yelling to all the Spanish and Italian guests that Wogs weren't welcome.

It was quite the drama.

It made the lippy mark someone left all over the front of my white frock look unimportant. It made the wilting of the flowers in the 35 degree heat unimportant. It made the fact that my sister had refused to attend unimportant. It made the fact that the ensuing delay meant that the photos were taken in the garden, in the semi-dark with all of us bravely smiling through the swarming midges  and it somehow justified Dad and I sitting in the change room in my 'Going away outfit', downing a bottle of champers - the good stuff, and getting a bit giggly.

So here's the thing, if there is a really big drama on the big day, then that's a good thing, cos there will be some little ooopsies but they won't even be noticed after the Big thing.

And as for the Semi-Mayor, I am hoping that the big bad thing is still out there waiting for him, and I hope that his wait is not a long on.

Progress Splatter

Or maybe that should be spatter courtesy of CSI.

Change is exciting, so long as it is not the sort of change that acts like a rip-tide which drags you under and out into the never - never, abandoning you all alone with the sharks and feeling useless. You know the kind of change that delivers truly shitful news - like now you're gonna have to buy bras for mangled cancered boobs. Yep that is a change we can all live without, but good change is pretty fab.

There was a, well to be honest, a bit of a plain looking house across the road. I guess it had successfully kept dry a variety of families and I imagine there had been plenty of giggles and laughs and maybe some tears too. It wasn't the sort of place that yelled, 'Look at me look at me.'

Anyway, it is no longer.

The machines literally brought the traffic to a stop. Neighbours were keen for a sticky beak so not too troubled by delays.

Yesterday in the morning a walloping bit of kit moved in and knocked 7 bells out of it.

It was bloody exciting to watch! Progress.

It was like an 'Un-Sub' from 'Criminal Minds' going mad with a very sharp knife. Bits of body sprayed all over the place. There were bits of liver and lungs and left-over toe nail clippings. A forensic builder would have been able to identify the parts, but jigsaw puzzle parts it was not. There was no way this was ever gonna be re-built.  It was like some mad trifle of building materials. An autopsy pathology person would have more chance of re-assembling a body that had been put through a chipper, than a builder would have of putting this place back together. Ah, Progress.

Bricks and plaster and insulation swapped spit with electrical cables and the inevitable bits of broken shit pipes. It was a wonderful spectacle.

Rubble anyone?

When we built the Big House, it took a very long time, partly because it just does and partly because Steve was super fastidious and partly because we went away for 6 months in the middle of it and when we came back, Steve decided to do much of the work himself. Yep progress was slow but slow and steady can win the race. Slow Progress.

But so too can fast and furious. One little day later there was just a hole where the house used to be. Big trucks came and were filled up with a smorgasbord of now useless shit and now what remains is possibility.

At one point there were 3 of these monsters parked in and around the place. Bloody efficient this demolishing business.

I can't wait to see what the owners have in mind.

Gone House- like 'Gone Girl' but not as nutty.

There would be plenty of people who reckon this sort of progress is just an obscene waste of materials and money and human endeavour, but not me! I love to see this sort of change. Although oddly enough I am not in favour of some shoddy development at the end of the street which is designed to house transients and noise making students. That sort of change I can live without.  But that's a whole other story.

There can be little point in lamenting change. I reckon we can embrace it or bugger off and live in cave, or well, or just turn up our toes.

Spring is a Leaping

Yeh it seems that it's that time again. Time to be part of the mourning procession to bury Winter. Bugger Bugger Bugger I say!

It has just not been cold this year at all. I have worn my thongs every day and my London 'summer coat' has not had even one outing. Oh it's true to say that the swimming season came to an abrupt end and I am not yet back in the water, but a couple of days ago at the beach, the surf was warm enough to invite me in - no I didn't accept the call cos I had no togs and really the visitors to beach would have thanked no-one for a playful prance from  menopausal beached whale flinging arm wobbles. But as the waves did a little dance around my legs I was not whinging about the chilblains in my shins or the cold fed arthritis in my feet. Nah it felt bloody lovely.

SO winter has buggered off again. This means that time in the garden is necessary. I had a look and sure enough there were weeds where there should be other stuff, so I turned on the re-cycle water pump ( I wonder who has rationalised the electricity costs/production etc needed to run the water pump, with the environmental goodness of gathering up rain water.) and hosed up a storm. That way the weeds could be pulled easily. Oh be still my heart. How I love weeding - NOT.

The dirt and shit all wedges under my nails and it just feels dreadful. The head down arse up pose makes me go redder than usual in the face and this is at best less than attractive and at worst worrisome as a heart attack advertisement, and the sense of futility as awareness that this is an never ending job is more than a little irritating.
                                    
 

                                            

Now don't feel to badly for me, cos it definitely is not a big job, I made pretty sure about that when I did the initial planting, but the fact that it needs doing at all is just another reason to lament the demise of winter.

I trimmed long straggly bits of branches and tossed around some slow release fertilizer and the I watered some more. ( Does it seem all a little self defeating to weed then put on fertilizer and water, so that more weeds can grow?)

While I was head down arse up, I noticed that some of the low ground cover thingamis, that I planted last year have spread and that means that without even trying to I HAVE GROWN SOME STUFF.

Does this make me a gardener?

Crowds and Conferences

Years ago, when I was married and skinny and mum to a baby, I was teaching at a bayside school in Brisvegas. It was not a happy happy time. I was, in typical Education Queensland fashion, teaching the wrong subjects to kids who didn't give a shit, in rooms that though new, were already run down. The Head of Department was getting his leg over one of the girls in the crowded staffroom, even though his wife was also on staff and for some reason, deflection most likely, told or implied that I was the lucky recipient of his attention. Being the newbie and the breaker-upperer of marriages did not make me miss popular. It took some time to work out why everyone was quite so brittle, and then the contract ended and I wooshed off somewhere else, with never a backward glance.

But all this wasn't the reason for my unhappiness, it was just the nature of school life in the 80s.

Once a week 2000 - yep 2000! kids would herd into quadrangle of melting bitumen, surrounded on all four sides by 2 floors of typically beige style buildings. They'd line up next to 200 teachers. We'd mark the rolls - big green folders we were constantly reminded were of significant legal importance and then listen to the banal ramblings of the headteacher or whoever was gonna wax lyrical from their shaded lofty position while the rest of us all but perished in the stifling heat.

I am not tall, and high school kids, especially year 12 boys are nearly always taller and bigger than me. I felt well and truly dwarfed.

Every week, my fear of a 2000 kids rioting grew.

The microphone grabbers were not entertaining, and the heat was appalling and I imagined easily that the kids could just decided one day to give it all a big miss and stampede outta there and I would be crushed in the crowd. It still beggars my belief that all those kids were so well behaved.

Being stampeded is the stuff of terrible nightmares. Not by elephants on the Serengeti, but by people trying to escape fire or fighting for the last cucumber sanga or finger bun.

So I knew that there was gonna be 700 people at this conference I went to on the weekend, and I was nervous about it, but pushed on anyway, how bloody brave huh?

The Meet the Newbies on Thursday afternoon saw about 3-400 strangers stuffed into a bar come nightclub and after a brief intro, a game of Guess Who began. Well the noise!! I stood as still as I could but was jostled and bumped. There was no chance of a personal bubble. That burst immediately. I played the game and did a runner. I was outta there, and home to Steve and dog and space and silence. AHH.

Friday morning I fronted up, grabbed a coffee and made sure of an aisle seat for the Key Note address.

700 people fitted easily into the auditorium and I was not too far from the doors and they weren't too far from the outside doors so all was well.

Most of the info was good and I reckon I have learnt quite a lot about blogging and stuff, but not as much as I might have done had I been able to network during the breaks.

As soon as it seemed that a session was about to close I ran on outta there, grabbed the first bit of truly delicious food I saw and escaped into the fresh air. I reckon an elephant might have made way for ME I was in such a determined hurry.

The Problogger Conference was very good. I am proud to say that I made it through to the penultimate session before I had to flee. I met some good people and some weird people ( I know I am probably on the weird list for some of 'em too - horses for course and all that )

The Royal Pines Golf Club was the perfect host. Nothing it seemed was too much trouble, the food was exciting - poached veal delicately sliced topped with tuna nicoise sauce was probably my favourite although all the sweeties were very scrummy, and the staff were efficient and friendly.

On reflection I am pleased that I pushed way out of my comfort zone and perhaps surprisingly, am considering going again next year, although I am aware of the difference between thought and reality.   

Road Works Signs

 

There should be obvious signs of Road works: People sweating up a storm, Engineers doing a lot of pointing, Big bit of equipment humming away, and the requisite traffic nightmare.

There are Road Works all along the M1 all the time.

I enjoy the drive to Brisvegas every week to see the Kidlies. As soon as I am out into the 110KPH zone, I set the Cruise Control and turn up the radio and sing along badly. I am not an aggressive driver. It takes way too much adrenalin to speed up the bum of someone who is poking along in the wrong lane and blast away and bully 'em til they move over. I just change lanes or hang back, cos I like to enjoy the ride.

That's not to say I am completely meek and mild, but I don't generally suffer road rage. When there is a traffic jam I go all 'Que Sera Sera' cos what else can you do. If it is miles and miles and I am gonna be late then that's different, then I have been know to thump the steering wheel and turn on talk back radio so I can rant at real people rather than the road.

But what does give me the screaming irrits is when you are driving along in the slow lane at night with the Cruise on and the volume thumping, you come across a big old sign WARNING of Road Works and telling you to slow down to 80KPH. Yep I slow down. Then a little while later there is another walloper sign ROAD WORKS SLOW DOWN 60KPH, and this time there is a sign indicating that the slow lane I am in is ending and so I need to slow down to 60 and move across.

Now the thing about driving at night is that it seems people reckon they are invisible so the speed limit is only a suggestion. 4 lanes of traffic all going like maniacs, except if you are in the really slow lane, there is no complaints cos there are plenty of overtaking options. This becomes more problematic when the lanes are reduced to 3 AND I slow down to 60KPH. There are headlights up my gunoo and fists waved in anger as I am swooshed passed.

Last night I followed the rules for some miles, before I did what everyone else was doing and that was IGNORE THE SIGNS.

There was no road works, no sweaty folk, no pointy pointers, no big machines, no blinding lights, and the only hint of a traffic holdups was, well, it was me!

There was no sign shouting that the road works were ended and that I might safely pull left into the slow people's lane. So I stayed too long giving people the shits.

Those bloody signs are a hazard. Warning drivers of a hazard where there is none is just crying WOLF.

Next week on my home and I see those signs I might only slow down to 80KPH and then the week after I might be like all those dicks last night getting up me, I might not slow down at all, or pull out.

Of course the trouble with crying WOLF is that if sometime in the future there is ever road works, who is gonna believe it? I could end up bumping into a bloke with a shovel or causing a major pile up as I try an emergency merge.

Seems that the fellas whose job it is to cover the signs go home early and put the rest of us at risk. Or maybe it was just yesterday and they had all skived off to the EKKA with their kids.

It's been a damn fine day.

Miami Headland today the tide was so low we walked around the corner to North Burleigh.

I always mourn the end of winter, except when you get days like this which demand sleeveless arm wobbley woos as you throw the ball or clumps of sand to Dog, at the beach that is all but empty of people and sand that is so squeaky that you just have to smile as you walk to water's edge.

It was bloody beautiful! A couple of hours watching the surf roll in wearing Dog ragged, soaking up a bit of the old vitamin D - who could complain about that?

Dog - how she loves the beach!

Stevie getting his feet wet.

Then it was the dreaded DENTIST! Even just a check-up sends me into conniptions. But today was easy. He poked and prodded and said that I am grinding away little corners that he can fix, and he warned of some needed soonish crown work - I am guessing that is not a euphemism for some flash tiara, but that's not for today. One more little visit to fix up some corners and I am good to go. Yippee. Reckon that it about the best news from Gavin the Dentist EVER, and he said that my old gum shield thing to slow down the night time grinding is still in one piece, so there's a saving of about $500. BONUS!

Reckon it looks a bit like a jewellery box...bit surprise if you were hoping for diamonds.

On my way back to the car I stumbled over a dress that had my name written all over it and it was on sale so BONUS again!

How pretty is this fabric?

But the biggest bonus of all was when I remembered that tomorrow is a holiday in Brisvegas and as Bell is working, it means that I get to spend the whole day with the delightful Zig! BONUS BONUS BONUS!

I'll be up and away at silly o'clock to make it on time, but it'll be worth it.

What to do on our special day? I reckon he will have a few ideas, so I'm not gonna agonise too much over it. I raised a girl so coming up with BOY things to do is out of my comfort zone. Yeh yeh yeh, I know there is plenty of cross over between BOY and GIRL things, but I am happy to have a go at real BOYSEY stuff if that's what he as in mind....all an adventure.

And the last bit of fabulous for the day is that we are having leftovers for dinner and whilst I still need to McGyver it a bit, I don't have to start from scratch. Yippee Yippee yip yip!

#PBevent

I am going to this conference. It starts on Thursday and goes through until Saturday.

There has been a great deal of Hooo Haaa about the right thing to wear and the perfectly designed business cards, and how best to take notes and where to plug in all the devices that people must surely be carrying via wheelbarrow, and which sub group might feel good to fall into as well as worries about what to eat and where to go and who will look after the kids.

I am excited to be going cos I think it'll be cool to eye spy some of the Bloggers whose work I read a lot and if I can learn how to Tweetie tweetie tweet tweet, then I will be a happy girl. It's not a long list of expectations is it?

I worry that everyone will know each other and that there might be some of that 'Mean Girl' action, although that is not my biggest worry. I am happy in my own skin so the meanness might or might not be going on and it's all too possible that I will miss it altogether, as a result of head up bum posture.

I worry about not being able to find a parking spot, so am contemplating sleeping in my car over night so not to miss out...well not really cos the place is only a few minutes from my house but I am reckoning on getting there a bit early to make sure I have somewhere to throw the little Mazda.

I worry about the lunch and morning tea etc, cos I don't reckon food needs to be or in deed should be a communal affair. I don't like stuff that has been breathed on by everyone at best and had little fingers thrust into it at worst. My strategy at buffets is to get there first, grab something that looks ok and never go back. If I choose badly, well bad luck. I am please that there is that lovely little coffee shop overlooking the fountain and the greens that will stop this old walloper from fading away to a shadow, (although that might mean that some more clothes will fit - so yippee to the buffet!) the deconstructed chocolate milkshake is just fab!

But mostly I am worried about getting there in time to get an aisle seat. People will get the shits up that I won't move along and because I will insist that they climb over me. It is too hard to explain that I can't sit in between people that I know and like and so I definitely can't sit between 2 strangers! I have reconciled myself to having someone behind and in front of me but to be completely surrounded on all sides, well that just sends me diving for the paper bag and makes me wonder if I should have had that script for valium filled.

I haven't anything SHINY for Friday night, but I have entered into the spirit of it all with a prop that I plan to carry proudly. That's as close as I can come to playing along.

I have just always been a pain in the arse at conferences.

That shitful student, always keen to annoy, just oozes out and is beyond control. It is interesting that all too often the worst students head off to the chalk cupboard when they need to make a living.

Anyway I am an old woman now, so maybe I will manage to hold it all together and behave like a normal human being for a couple of days.

And if all else fails I will be able to put myself on detention and go home.

Do you fart in the morning?

This is a silly old joke but it has kept me thinking today.

The BRAIN SAID - "Since I control everything and do all the thinking, I should be boss." THE FEET SAID - "Since I carry him everywhere he wants to go and get him in position to do what the brain wants, I should be boss." THE EYES SAID - "Since I must look out for all of you and tell you where the danger lurks, I should be boss." THE HANDS SAID - "Since I do all the work and earn all the money to keep the rest of you going, I should be boss." And the heart, lungs, and ears all say the same thing. Finally, the asshole spoke up and demanded to be boss. All the other laughed and laughed to think of an asshole being boss. The asshole was so angered that he balked and refused to function. Soon the brain was feverish, the eyes crossed and ached, the feet were too weak to walk, the hands hung limply at the sides, and the heart and lungs struggled to keep going. All pleaded with the brain to relent and let the asshole be boss, and so it happened. All the other parts did all the work and the asshole just bossed and passed out Shit. 

Then there is supposed to be some pithy comment about Bosses, But I like Bosses so I deleted that bit, but not my bum.

I know ladies aren't supposed to fart or talk about blowing off,  or notice when someone lets off a stinker, but as a result of my dismal results in the LADY survey, it should surprise no-one that, as it's on my mind today, that's what I am gonna chat about here.

Dog has taken to jumping into bed in wee hours probably cos it's been delightfully chilly. She snuggles up close and steals the covers and uses my feet as a pillow. Yeh, it's a 69er with Dog, so not as lovely as those languid late sunday mornings without children or the madness of any other time. But she is down the bum end and her arse is firing off right in my face.

I noticed this morning that a lot of farting was going on....her's are filthy stinkers and mine are surprisingly, rather lady-like silent and not smelly. or at least with my head on the right side of the covers, that's how it appears to me. She is blissfully unaware of the cloud she is creating.

Now as I am going away in a few weeks, I'm not the least bit interested in the well-meaning advice of doctor types who might be about to recommend that I book in for a hose-pipe up the bum investigation. If there is anything untoward going on, well it'll just have to wait til I get back. I am gonna pack up my windy end and fart all the way to London.

It made me wonder this morning if in deed the bowel is the very first part of every body to awaken, and the blowing is it's way of letting everything else know, it's time to get going, not literally you understand, just get up and moving and on with the day. Dog does seem to be very keen to get out of the house in the mornings and at the risk of sounding like some sort of canine voyeur, I have noticed that she does head straight out for her  favourite bit of grass.

So, I not really interested in ALL the nasty details of what goes on in your bed in the AM hours, I just wondered if people, mostly fart in the morning?

Loyalty at what price?

There can be little doubt that if a place offers good service they are far more likely to retain their customers.

The Chemist in the Village has always been pretty good. Kelly is happy to have a look at lumps and bumps so long as it is not necessary to remove any clothes to get at 'em - yours not hers - she's a professional after all. And if she reckons there is something amiss then she will give best advice and sell you some salve or other and send you on your way.

A while back Stevie had a sore knee which I admit didn't generate a lot of sympathy from me, being the princess of the shit knees,  but his carry on got tedious so we took off and asked Kelly the Chemist. She barely touched it and went into a bit of a spasm cos there was a great big infection going on and even though we had no prescription we left with some top dog antibiotics and the number of an afterhours doctor who would pop out for nothing and issue the requisite paperwork. Suffice to say I felt like a bit of a shit head for my lack of sympathy. The Doctor came and agreed with Kelly's diagnosis and wrote the script which was promptly delivered so all the government boxes could be ticked. For those of you who are worried, Steve's knee is fine though I will admit that it took much longer than I had expected and I imagine that it was definitely sorer than I gave credit for, but that's cos I am a cow.

Yep, anyone would be bloody pleased with this service.

Except that a while back a woman I know told me that this chemist charges almost twice the price of the chemist around the corner for medicine stuff. I wondered about it for a while and then forgot.

Until today.

In a bid to start getting sorted for London, I gathered up all the 'justincase' scripts and the normal shit and took it all over. Kelly wasn't there and the place was heaving. Coffee was calling so it was all left in their capable hands and I went back later to collect the stuff. Some of it was they bagged up and some was on back order and the bloke tried to give me the wrong brand and it was all a bit of a debacle, but I splashed the plastic, paid for the lot, and carried half a load home, agreeing to pop back later for the rest.

Then I remembered the warning of the higher prices and when I got home I rang another chemist to get a price check. And bugger me if the stuff was in deed twice the price! I was 'not happy Jan'.

I tootled back to the village and rather than make a scene I spoke softly to the bloke, away from the other customers and told him that I had got comparative prices from the next closest chemist. He took my list and my handwritten notes and then, just to make sure that I was not a big fat liar, he rang to confirm the prices! I was not best pleased. He came back and agreed to charge me the same and so refunded the difference which was OK, except that then I began doing the math in my head - which is a painful exercise and something that I had decided was not going to happen ever again after I turned 40, and I turned a very unattractive puce colour cos the overcharging amounted to a very big bunch of wonga over the years.

We had well and truly paid for every bit of service and then some.

I guess if all had gone smoothly today I wouldn't have recalled the 'price war warning' but as things were pretty shit, I did remember, and unusually acted on it.

So now I am in a quandary. Do I suck it up and pay the ridiculous premium for the fine Kelly service, and the convenience of it being next to the coffee shop we are at everyday? Or do I take my business elsewhere?

I am undecided.

 

Do you have local shops which offer terrific service? Why not give 'em a shout out.
Is service more important than comparable pricing?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Names and my poor memory.

Are you good with people's names? I am just shit. You'd think that being a teacher for all those years, and being presented every year with 200 new faces, that I would have found a fool-proof way of remembering 'em all, but sadly that just wasn't the case.

There are all sorts of tricks, like noticing something about the new face and connecting it to the name, like maybe Peter with the pointy nose, or Georgina with the ginger hair. I'll admit that from time to time the links were not all that complimentary but happily I didn't say it out loud and often the mean things were the most effective. If I didn't learn 'em in the first couple of weeks, well I just didn't ever learn 'em and so there were a lot of loves, honeys, sweethearts, and under the breath turdies from time to time.

Anyway, I am now still shit at names.

If I am lucky when, by çdstealth or blind luck, I find out a name that I should already know, I am on my own, I can walk away like some crazy person repeating the name and making up some silly rhyme. This happened this week but I can't describe the circumstances cos then the person would know that even after 5 years I didn't know their name. But the cue for me is now something to do with Christmas and pressies so perhaps I will remember it now?

I think that I don't pay attention to names cos I am more interested in what people are saying and I have a good memory for faces and information, so I might say, ' Oh, over there that's um...oh, that the girl who thinks it's ok to leave her dog's shit for me to stand in cos it's good for the grass.' Yeh there are people like this and they are happy to say it out loud, so that's more memorable than a name. And then there's the bloke, ummm, nope the name's gone, but that's him, yeh he's the one who has really bad breath and unfortunately insists on giving a little cheek peck hello - back away now.

It'd be more complimentary to be remembered for something you've said or done rather than just for your name - just saying.

Spelling Bee tellie - poor bloody kids

The promos for this child abuse have been playing for a couple of weeks and I have found them so cringe worthy that I have needed to ferret out the remote and switch to another shit channel where the upset is other than children.

I just do not see what is in it for the kids. They will have been touted up to some shitful audition and I presume made to sit through some written spelling test and then some execs will have pondered over how photogenic they are, and how adorable or hate-mongering they are and then they will be tarted up to the max with clothes and makeup and forced to stand in a spotlight with music and people shouting and their parents standing in the wings while difficult words are chucked at them.

So for every kid who faces up to the cameras, there must be hundreds who have failed the smart / cute / ratings worthy tests. I feel for them. Can you imagine the drive home with these poor kids feeling like shit as their pushy parents suffer through the humiliation of having had their kids fail on such a public stage....and this is the drive home of the kids who didn't even make onto the tellie. What must it be like for the kids who mis-spell something on the national stage?

It's just cheap shit TV.

I hope not a soul watches it, although no doubt Ma and Pa of the winner will be telling everyone at the old people's home to tune in. I guess the losers will be less enthusiastically followed.

Don't you think we put our kids through enough bullshit?

Putting kids up for public humiliation that will live on in their memories is akin to abuse.

I went on tellie when I was a kid, and told a joke.
'What's red and round and goes up and down?     A plum in a lift.'
I won a dressing table set with a blue brush and comb and mirror. I was about 9 I think. I remember it like it was yesterday. It's a happy memory cos I was a winner.

The poor losers will not, I fear, have such a Cherry Ripe moment, and if at some point down the line CSI are called in to investigate the death of an oldie who's been found choked to death on a dictionary, well let's just say that I won't be surprised.

 

 

 

How Lady Like are you?

 

I wonder how many people I could knock out with that hat?

A lovely woman I know in London posted this on Facie today.

http://quizdoo.com/how-ladylike-are-you/

Here's the quiz. It's like all those quizzes, probably full of shit, but it's quick and silly if you fancy having a go, to check how refined you are. Me? I was like molasses, not even golden syrup. I know women who are like raw sugar and castor sugar and even a couple who are icing sugar, but as it turns out, I am just a chunk of raw cane.

I answered the questions as honestly as possible even though I had to sometimes pick the 'best fit' answer, because really once or twice there was no right answer.

Anyway I got a paltry 10%!!

I know ladies don't use the F word and never ever the C word, but shit, how far down the road do you need to be to be a 10% er?

I am now scratching my armpit and plaiting my nose hair and hacking up a goolie as I contemplate this abject failure.

Ladies are graceful and dainty with every hair in perfect alignment. The suck it, fry it, sand it off, industries thrive on Ladies.

You can take a Lady anywhere, without fear of embarrassment or humiliation, and if you want someone to advise about table etiquette then a Lady's your gal. She will always have a lippy in her handie and said handie will be occasion specific and shoe appropriate.

All her bits will be in the proper place and she will smile beatifically through the most banal bullshit and will never disgrace herself by calling a spade a shovel. She will be perfectly turned out in every situation and has the wonderful knack of making  people feel at ease and important.

Yep, if this is a reasonable account of a lady, well it's no surprise that I got a stinky 10%.  A potty mouth is something of an understatement about my gob, and my favourite moment of every day is when I get to set the girls loose and shove the hateful bra down the back of the couch. I do occasionally venture out in public with 'em swinging free, but I am aware that this is frowned on behaviour, so  I need to be in the middle of a really big, 'don't give a shit fest' to go out and purposely scare the neighbours.

I am far more interested in being comfortable than being acceptable.

I do know a bit about table manners but actually don't give a shit if someone uses the wrong fork, and it is not a hangable offence to use paper serviettes or in deed a few squares of kitchen paper - better than the back of your sleeve I reckon. I've been know to rest my elbows on the table and in wild days past, more than just my elbows if you get my drift.

I look at ladies with awe, and wonder how they keep it all together, and why they keep it all together, and would love to be there when they forget to keep it all together.

Are you a little lady or a lout?

Dog and House sitters.

As we are off in a few weeks, it was time to bite then bullet and find people to love Dog while we are away and this time we wanted people to stay in the house, so Dog is in her own environment.

Last time was a nightmare. I found a family on Gumtree and we met them and were ok with leaving Dog there. We parted with large chunks of wonga and even though they had pulled a last minute swifty with an address change, we dropped off our lovely girl, only to be devastated by a whole bunch of crazy mean nastiness topped with a good dollop of greed and fraud, all delivered via text in the middle of the night to my London bed.

Thank heavens for Nikki and Susan and Yorke, who stepped up and rescued our girl and loved her til we got back. This rescue might well have been one of the kindest gestures I have every witnessed. 6 months is a long time to love another's dog and then hand her back but that's exactly what happened. And in the mean time we had fraudsters renting the big house treating it like shit and finally as they were moving out they nicked stuff and patchworked the colours on the walls. That little drama took months for the courts to sort.

So it's been 3 years since we needed someone else to love Dog.

We were nervous. We wanted people to move into the house and be home most of the time to just cuddle and love her.

We joined a House sitters site and I sent out invitations to various people - mostly retired couples who sounded like they'd be good.

We were being fussy, but after the debacle last time I don't reckon anyone would blame us.

And we stumbled upon John and Jan who were gonna be at the Goldie for a few months helping out their daughter and the more we heard the more the whole thing sounded perfect. We chatted and agreed. The whole arrangement is a fingers crossed barter - they pay no rent and they don't charge us for caring for Dog and the house is occupied. Winner winner chicken dinners all round.

We met the J's today and reckon we are all a good match. They played with Dog and seemed to be instantly drawn to her - how could any normal person not be? Yeh I know some people are not doggie folk but if they were pretending then they did a damn fine job of it.

I mean how unlucky would we need to be to be on the shit end of a swindle 2 out of 2 times?  

Fingers crossed we get home to a happy dog and a house full of furniture.

Do you love a SALE?

This is not a sponsored post, I just happened upon the MYER sale today and it was a serious aerobic and strength work out. I am bloody exhausted but smiling like a maniac.

I was gonna sew up a dress for the wedding we are off to in  a few weeks but I priced the fabric and thought I should have a look at the racks, before I participate in the crap shoot that home sewing can be.

And as I felt up to the mall madness this morning, I pulled on easy to take off stuff and headed out.

I do love a sale.

And today MYER is having a big one.

There were subtle little nondescript signs that needed close inspection, partly because I am blind and partly because it was hard to believe. You know the usual crappola fine print in the sales...discounts off full price items only etc but this was 50% off THE ALREADY DISCOUNTED PRICE! So some of the prices were right out of the 70s.

So let's have a little look huh?

Last year during one of my bargain frenzies at the second hand shops, I bought this denim coat ( the one on the left) for $35. I thought it was a good deal, even if it had been worn before, it wasn't worn out. Now the sleeves are only 3/4 length which is a bit odd but I liked it anyway and I have worn it now for 2 winters, such is the warm days here on the Goldie. But when I spied the one on the right with full length sleeves I thought maybe this would be London useful and guess what, brand new it was $22!

Now there can be no doubt that Myer is still making a bit of a profit at even $22, so in the end, really I just don't want to buy stuff at full wack.

I splashed the plastic and bought a dozen bits that I like a lot. Or at least I liked 'em in the change rooms where I have long believed there are skinnypretty mirrors and flattering lighting. I will throw 'em on for Stevie later and see how that goes. Some of the bounty is bound to be going back, but I reckon my suitcase will be pleased for a couple of new bits.

I believe there are sales on in every department at Myer, but I just couldn't carry any more bags, I mean there has to be moderation in everything including exercise.