Traditions?

There are lots of family habits which just by sheer repetition become tradition. Some of these make absolutely no sense at all like the 'tradition' that girls use the rake and the boys use the motor mower, this was my lovely Dad's sexist idea that women were good for bending over and sweeping and men were good at anything that had an engine. He and Jeremy Clarkson would have hit it off wonderfully well.

The Sunday Roast tradition in the UK which until recently, had been installed as the stuff of legend here too. I mean I see that in the UK, in the winter, if going to the local pub and sitting by the real fire and hoovering up roasted meat and all the trimmings at lunch time, which of course is in the middle of the afternoon, means that there is no cooking later on in the evening, then that's a good thing. But I think supper was always on offer and that just really delays the putting up of the feet and the veging in front of the tellie and the trying to forget about work-a-day-monday. And all too often the Sunday roast is prepared by the household cook, mostly the little woman and it's served up to the men folk as they tumble home, mostly pissed from the local and once the food is done the sober one - again usually the woman, gets to clean up all the mess cos there's work tomorrow - yeh I know, wasn't all that work too?

Steve immigrated to Oz and in best migrant form he brought with him some of his homeland traditions, and the sunday roast was one of 'em. I am the cook of the house, but if he wanted to bugger up my cheese toast sunday night tradition, and replace it with a roast dinner, then he had to learn to cook it himself, and boy did he! His roast dinner is bloody marvelous!

When I was a kid, the birthday person got to choose the menu for dinner and got the first bit of cake and was made a fuss of all day long. There were always parcels unwrapped at a silly hour on the bed. Perhaps because there were 3 kids, birthday parties were few and far between and I think that the memory of that lead me to my own tradition with my girl of a big wing ding every year. They were a long time in the planning and the cake making and the games prep and then traditionally I would be rooted by the end cos it's in the heat of February and it nearly always pissed down as a blessed relief in the afternoon. The style of the parties changed but party we did.

Today is a break in our tradition. For the first time Zig is not at home for his party. For the first time Bell and I are not being run raggered entertaining and feeding all those short people. Oh sure Bell has outdone herself making a Tardis Cake cos Dr Who is the flavour of the month, and there will no doubt be parcels when he gets home and there will be a sort of consolation dinner party at the local steaks joint tomorrow night with cake and candles and a coupla a mates, and the cakie sweeties are set for tomorrow's school visit, but I am missing the exhausting tradition and I know my Girl is sad about it too.

Change is inevitable, but sometimes it just gives me the shits.

One Person's trash is another's treasure.

As hard as it might be to believe this is the vacuum collected from the street parade.

Brisvegas it seems has a road-side collection of crap more often than you'd think is strictly necessary except that they also charge people to take their stuff to the ol' humpity bump, so I guess people just pile up their unwanted bits and pieces and wait for the notice through the post box that invites 'em to drag it all out of the dump-corner and onto the streets.

Some of these piles are so big that I am tempted to think that without the crap, people might well have spare rooms to rent out.

It is a festive time for fosicking. People mooch along and have a good nosey as they go, or they appoint spotters if they are driving.

My girl loves this time of year.

She spied 2 vacuum cleaners and dragged 'em home, only to discover they had both been raped of their power lead. BUGGER! Seems the copper in the cords might be of value. She popped 'em back out onto her pile. I suggested that Steve might be able to put in a new cord so we picked the best of the 2 and brought it back to the big house.

Steve pulled it apart. It was quite a learning experience and he could possible now be a qualified vacuum repair person. There is quite a lot of kit inside one of these machines.

We trooped off to Masters to get a replacement cord - $6 - pretty cheap for a new or newish vacuum. Yippee!

Some hours later after I ahd been in and out in and out, I was there for the final switching on. It worked. It did not sound good, infact it sounded poorly. Then there was a smell and some smoke and the smoke thickened. I panicked and pulled out the cord. The smell was strong. Yep I decided it was fucked. But Steve wanted to see what was smoking, and as he had worked out a quick way into it he pulled it apart again and turned it on. I was told if it caught fire not to throw water onto it - electrical advice and to try and smother it with a blanket. I was not best pleased to the 'elf and safety officer.

Yeh you guessed it, it burst into smoke again and this time he admitted defeat.

I wondered if it was possible to suggest to the council that they provide a couple of stickers, saying 'This is fucked' 'This is fixable' 'This is perfectly good I just don't want it anymore' That way people who want to nick the cords might leave well alone the things that are still in working order and time might not be wasted trying to fix that which is truly buggered.

As it was a toss up between playing with the electrics or gardening, Steve was not unhappy with his afternoon. He'd rather do just about anything than be on the dumb end of the ruler in the garden with me.

Kindles - Have you got one?

I read a lot, in the bath, waiting for a movie, chowing down on a scone and coffee afternoon tea, in bed, on public transport - well for full disclosure I should say on planes cos I am not enough of a public transport traveler for it to be a significant reading time. The buses here on the Goldie are irregular at best and too bloody expensive, and even though I do like the trams here, they aren't useful except for being a little joy ride. If I was in Brisvegas I would use the ferries all the time, but then that is just a fab way of getting around that I would be too busy looking around to want to dive into a book.

I like biographies and autobiographies, even though there is a problem with how the photos translate on the Kindle. I like mysteries and comedies and legal eagle stories, and just on that topic I am very pleased to have caught up on the whole story of 'Suits' and am now waiting to watch each update on a thursday evening. It's been around for quite a time and I am pleased that I have now a convert.

Usually the Kindle is perfect. It slides inconspicuously into my handie and it weighs less than a paper back. It comes with it's own back lighting so you can just close it up when you are done for the night instead of having to struggle up to turn off the light, and if you are feeling really truly lazy you can wedge it open and just fling a finger at it to turn a page. It certainly does not require breaking a sweat in these stinking evenings. Ordering books is simple and instant and sometimes I am cheeky and go into a bookstore and have a good look around and text myself the names of books that grab me and then go home and order 'em.

The trouble is that A. sometimes there is fine print which should be read, but which I never ever bother with, especially if I think I am getting a bargain, like a book is a big old freebie! If it sounds good and it's not gonna require a card swipe, well what's not to love? and B. Sometimes the format of the hard copy book is not even close to translated on the Kindle.

My latest book just finished and enjoyed well enough, suffered both A and B.

I snavelled it up for nothing and read it like a demon, even though understanding was complicated by time and place jumping with no notice. There were lots of characters and complications and all too often I had read a couple of paras before I cottoned that the last bit was the last bit and this was the new bit and then had to go back a couple of paras to get the idea. I am not sure why some sort of spacing wasn't possible, I imagine that a hard copy would have signified these changes by some scroll marking or a new page, and if I had stopped every time and wrote to the publisher about the typos and grammatical errors, I would still be reading the first part of the story.

Yeh that was the second problem. The story was chopped in half and if I wanted to find out how it ended, I had to buy part 2. I was not happy being held for ransom. I would have happily paid for the whole thing. When I read the synopsis it grabbed me and I would have had it. But I thought about it for a couple of days before I bit the bullet, because of the shitty format and the errors and because of the trickery.

I didn't see anything about the first bit being only a bit - well half really, but it might have been there in the fine print.

'The Second Amendment' by John Matthews is a thinly disguised discussion about how to change the Gun Laws in the USA. It's full of characters - both shady and and ruthless and smart and patriotic and it refers to what I imagine are actual Constitutional dilemmas.

Yes I would recommend this book but perhaps it might be better to borrow it from a Library - yeh what an old fashioned idea, or maybe buy it from a second handie if you stumble over it, cos I don't think it translates well on Kindle.

Birthdays, Growing up, but where has my mind gone?

It's the little fella's birthday this weekend, and for the first time in his life, his father is giving the party.  My gorgeous girl and I are feeling more than a little sad about it all, cos we are missing out on it and even though we have sorted to have a little dinner party with just a couple of his mates next Monday night, and Mum will still be sculpting a cake according to his specifications,  and we will of course still be taking treaties up to the school so he can be the stuff of kids' attention for at least as long as the sugar lasts, it is the end of an era.

He is off to High school next year and there will be no treaties day then. So this year is the last one. The last time when he is a little fella. Next year he might well be too big to allow an in public cuddle from Mummy or Ma and I just bet he will be too big and too cool for smooches and  games of 'Tickle me' will be a thing of history. I am planning to enjoy this last little bit of little fella-dom.

My lovely and I are gonna go and enroll him in his high school tomorrow, although I cannot remember exactly what is involved. I enrolled Belly in 4 different schools, but senility has set in and I have no recollection of what is involved. I reckon that proof of address will be needed cos the closest school, is by happy coincidence a real goodie, and is bound to be oversubscribed so some proof will be needed and as an old teacher I reckon it would be useful to bring along his last school report, so the high school will have some clue about what to expect from him. But really I am just making this up. I can't remember the process at all. He is excited about going to high school and so it will be cool to be able to let him know he is all set to go as part of his birthday parcels.

We all enjoyed the air con at Carindale shopping  centre last Tuesday and to keep us busy while we waited for it to be dinner time, we trooped along and Zig modeled next to any item which he thought might make a fine pressie. I was spoiled for choice! And because my mind is going the way of all sad limp organics, I took photos of everything on my phone. Yippee, cos that means that tomorrow when we go looking for the LIST, we can follow the photo cues, and end up with some great loot, and enjoy the air-con again.

Birthdays are a big deal in our family. It's all about the effort and thought and the cake must not just look good, it must be yummy, lucky that Belly is a master! So even though we are a bit locked out of the fun on the actual day this year., we are gonna make up for it when we all get together for some loud craziness and lots of food and plenty of candles and oodles of sugar.

Roll on the last year of the little fella, I'm gonna enjoy it all

Did you study science?

I have it, seems always been an arty farty with a maths rising, which means that the arts have always been my passion even though I have studied more than my share of mathematics and until I turned 40, when I decided out loud that I would never do maths again,  I was pretty good at it. Yeh I will put up half a finger and admit that still if needs must and all that, I can usually find the right answer, I just routinely choose not to bother.

But science is another kettle of fish altogether. I got to the ripe old age of 15 and celebrated that my last ever science class was well and truly behind me. I rejoiced that never again would I be faced with a rat pegged out on a board or a bunch of chemical shit that could potential blow up the desk, and the only reason I would ever have to look up into the night sky was to wonder if the moonlight was too bright to hide the making out going on at the back of the garden.

Yeh I hated science. Or maybe for full disclosure, I was not keen on the fella teaching it, perhaps because he was having something of a sordid affair with my best friend, but that's a whole other story.

In a sideways, sort of sly sneaky chinese water drip torture way, some science snuck in while I was looking at geomorphology and weather and climate and vegetation, but I pretended that that really didn't count, and when I was teaching all that stuff it was not easy to generate a great deal of enthusiasm for it. I was much more entertaining discussing the human geography issues than the environmental ones.

But I have recently been lamenting my lack of biology studies.

My fish, my girls, live in a fab pond, and they have grown to be bigguns over the years. No not big enough to sling on the BBQ wrapped in foil and stuffed with leeks and butter, but they are pretty big. The trouble is they do shit like mad and all this stink is supposed to be absorbed by the plants I have growing in the pond, except that I am not a gardener and the bloody things keep dying, so the shit builds up. Sometimes it is a bit on the nose.

So my mate at the fish shop said to put in some blue chocolate things every now and then and that maybe some snails would be good cos they eat up all the poo. Snails are cheap and you don't get too attached to 'em. The life cycle of mine seems to be, live in the pond, eat fish shit, get bigger, and then die and then I think the girls might have a go cos I find the empty shells and fling 'em onto the garden cos the calcium might be good for the plants...is that right?

But recently there have been these bunches of white splodge on the pond edge and on some of the plant leaves. Now my first thought was that they were the eggs of some awful insect and I was about to squash the shit out of those suckers, when I wondered if they might not be from the snails. Onto google and because I am a scientific idiot, I have found it hard to find out what the hell's going on. The closest I have been able to find today is that land snails are hermaphrodites, but fresh water ones need nookey to make eggs and that these eggs take about 4 weeks to turn into little snails which by the sounds of it, won't survive the girls, cos they are born with no shells. I guess my excitement about never having to buy snails again was premature.

I guess the real point is that even though I have not studied science per-say, just day to day living with occasionally removing your head from your arse, some science sort of tumbles in there.

Is there anything that you stubbornly refused to know about but now wish you hadn't? 

Finding your inner child.

Sand sculptures on display at Surfers Paradise.

It really wasn't the day for it, but we trooped off into town to have a little look at this year's sand sculptures. They really are bloody fabulous! We parked up and wandered past the tourist shit shops and dodged all the touts and got to the iconic sign at the beach and opted for a left turn. The displays are impressive. 

But, then the heat just seemed to slap us about the face and I turned beetroot. Steve reckons I was completely a-glow. So the rest of the sculptures had to wait for another day and we went in search of a coffee, but there was a pre-requisite of pumping air-con. 

It was like a case of Goldilocks, 'this one is too hot, this one's too crowded, and this one looks a bit shit'. But we found our way back to Max Benners, which without even the slightest hint of scientific research, I found to be the coldest along the highway and the various arcades.

So like little Miss Muffet I sat on my big fat bum under the cranked up air con vents that were seriously spilling out the chill and we chomped our way through some very chocolatey and I am sure low calorie, waffles smothered in melted choc and ice cream. The coffees were hardly important after that lot! But they were OK.

There's also a pop-up photographic exhibition which seemed to be like a treasure hunt. We successfully rumbled a couple of galleries and some of the photos really appealed. There are also inflatable fishy things hanging out of random buildings which are ok, but I felt that they looked a bit faded.

But really it was just too bloody hot, so it was home to the pool.

When is it gonna be winter?

Bugger.

This little fella is a snail in my fish pond and he moves faster than Oz Post and his shit eating makes more sense than government bureaucracy

Not unusually, I have jumped the gun with the Blogger Game. Yeh I am nuts about time and punctuality to the point where I reckon I might well make the leap into the coffin before my last breath leaks out, cos I really hate being LATE. But truth be told I wondered about how to 'play the game', and rather than spend the time required to work it out, I decided that I would make up some rules of my own, except that I do actually fancy playing along with some other folk just for a change. So I am gonna give this A to Z challenge thing a go in APRIL, along with all the other folk playing.

So back to the time obsession thing.

The poison I am taking as I have mentioned before, needs to come via a bunch of paper shufflers in Tasmania and there is or at least there was a turn around time or about 10 days, from when the specialist writes the request and pops it in the fucking post box, until it gets delivered and processed and then the approval is popped back in another fucking post box in Tasmania and then gets dropped off here on the Goldie.

Except that fucking AUSTRALIA POST's New Year's resolution was that they promised to take even fucking longer to deliver a letter and it's gonna charge - well I am not positive, but almost twice the price I think for that shitful service. So now there is a turnaround time of more than 3 weeks!

The trouble is that the order cannot leave the Doctor's office until the last script is filled and that gives only 30 pills' time for the script to be double posted and then filled.

As if being unwell is not stressful enough, now I am counting how many pills I have left and am crossing off the days on the calendar waiting for the fucking bureaucracy and Oz Post to get their shits together.

Fucking hell! Why is all this necessary?

Why is it that it is legal to buy a house, or make a will, or get divorced via email, but the provision of proof of the need for a prescription needs to be posted snail mail? Really what the fuck is that about?

I have twice now written to the Federal Health Minister for an explanation, and thus far, I have had a phone call from a public servant and 2 letters from public servants outlining the system. Yes that would be the self same system that I have outlined and and am living through. Yeh that's the one I KNOW about.

Noone it seems, least of all Ms Ley the Minister in charge and I am clearly using the term loosely, is able to comprehend the nuance of my emails. They don't see the difference between a DESCRIPTION of the system and an EXPLANATION for the system. Or perhaps they do, but they just enjoy the game, the jerking around, perpetuating their piss-off factor.

Anyway the game is that I have 7 pills left and I spoke to the doctor this morning and he said that Tasmania received his request on the 11th of Feb and after it's approved, and attached to the snail's back it will take another 11 days to get here. Yeh that's getting right down to the wire!

And here's me, the crazy loon who never keeps anyone waiting, who will sit in my car for 30 minutes or longer if I have added in traffic considerations, rather than be late to ANYTHING. Yeh, me who always runs early, now I am counting down pills and days like some shit sort of ancient abacus.

So yes I am happy to wait until April to play the A to Z game now I know the rules, I am less fucking happy about having to play the poison shit Oz Post game.


What games give you the shits?

Audience?

So there is an online game for bloggers which wants people to write a story everyday using the alphabet as the stimulus. So, you know, you start at A and work your way through.

I thought this sounded a bit contrived to start with and I sent off a question about penalties for not managing the schedule and got nothing back, and it's supposed to be in March I think, but I am not sure, but anyway after some consideration I thought I'd give it a bit of a bash, cos contrived or not, it sounds a bit tricky and I do like a challenge, and as I don't play well with others, I am giving it a go on my own, unless anyone wants to join me?

So back to AAAudience.

No this is not what you might be expecting.

Yesterday I was out on the pool deck, using my brand new replacement for my favourite but broken gadget - the pressure washer. I love this machine. There is such a sense of achievement as you watch all that mold and shit fly off all the hard surfaces in the yard.

Now I would be kidding you to pretend that this fella is quiet, it makes a pretty big noise, not an obnoxious one like the leaf blower, but it's still loud. Loud enough to attract an audience in the park. The noise apparently upset a number of the local dogs, which should not come as any surprise given that my Dibley was well and truly cowering away from me.

What was disappointing was that whilst these folk stood and watched the black shit slid off the walls and the bat shit flew off the glass, there was no cheering when I finally turned the brute off. I rather expected that at least someone would have said 'Thank fuck for that!', but there was nothing.

It's hard to see the full benefit of your work while the surfaces are still wet, cos the stains sort of show up more, but this morning's look see has shown a big improvement. There are still marks but even with the clean grout the space looks so much better. Where is the cheer squad waving pom poms and doing the splits?

But the ultimate opinion is mine and there is no doubt inn my mind that it was worth the effort. Next time I connect it all up I am gonna give that fountain statue a good going over. That should bring a smile to her face.

So who wants to play A-Z?
And tomorrow is BBBBB That's pretty safe cos there aren't too many swear words that start with B

The Perfect Hamburger?

A group of us Locals got together for a catch-up and a giggle last night, and after starting with a couple of beers, in house, we wandered up the road to a newish place on Chevron Island called OBSESSION. It has made a bit of a name for itself because of its burgers.

Now I reckon that a burger needs to be able to be eaten by grabbing it and squashing it down and if there is no juice leaking out all over you clothes, or the plate if you have one, then it's not a real good one.

In my younger years, after a hectic night on the grog and the dance floor, I had been know to drag my weary arse out of bed at some ungodly hour and go looking for a MaccieDs. When I was first single again, it perhaps wasn't too coincidental that my flat was only 2 little streets away from the Golden arches, and so a roll down to the drive through with no car was not only possible but a pretty common event. The burger and chips and the ice cream sunday with extra chocolate sauce was my hangover cure of choice and whilst it all slid down easily enough, it was let's face pretty shit. There was no squashability required and the only drippage was the sunday as it melted if I was too slow shoveling in the rest of it. Yeh The Big Mac is not a burger of note in my humble opinion. It's has been a while since I have had the need to adjust my views but not long enough I reckon.

But last night's fare was much improved.

The menu is long and complicated and takes quite a lot of reading, seriously it would be easier just to ask for what you wanted on the bloody burger rather than plough through the twee names and descriptions. Not quite the 'War and Peace' manuscript, but close.

So I ordered the Russell Crowe- no, I don't know why it's called that! I asked for it without onion rings or pineapple. I don't know when pineapple ever added anything good to a sandwich or a burger. I like a bit of pineapple but on a Pav, not as part of the main meal, just the dessert.

Seriously I wish I had taken a photo of it cos a small family could move into a space smaller than what it took up on the plate. It was held together by a full size meat skewer and just as well. It was beyond squashable, but I was hungry and determined.

Out came the skewer and off came the top. I slide off the bacon and the soft fried egg and popped the top back on. I couldn't recall reading about the egg and might have asked for it be left off had I noticed it, but sliding it off atop the bacon strip was not too difficult and later one of the fellas chomped up the bacon so not too much was wasted.

There was a perfectly cooked beef patty, which unlike the chain store places has some good texture and the fulsome flavour of the griddle grease and a slight char. There was beetroot, and tomato and lettuce and cheese and some really yummy onion jam stuff and as I went the chomp, a big puddle of sauce and juice appeared on my plate.

There was one of those trendy little deep fat frier wire baskets with some sweet and ordinary potato chips. I would have preferred just the plain ones cos sweet potato is YUK and far too close to pumpkin for my liking and I didn't like it that they were touching, but you can hardly expect a restaurant to pander to everyone's little bit of craziness.

6 plates were were emptied apart from the juice soup.

The 5 of us who's meals arrived together were more than happy, the hungry little caterpillar who's burger had seemingly fallen into an abyss was less so. The staff did their best to fix the oopsie and took a little off the price of that one burger. Fair enough! ( I might not be thinking this if it had been my patience that was tested.)

This restaurant has taken over a much used space. Seems that restaurants change hands often on Chevron. They make great burgers so I really wish them well. If you are down this way, pop your reading glasses in your handie and give it a try, it's better by far than  stuff from the Arches, oh and if you are a chilli fan they have a burger challenge which you might find interesting.

How much Tellie is too much?

I have no memory of a life without a Tellie. I think in Australia, broadcasting started when I was born, maybe in celebration of the blessed event, but maybe not.

My lovely Dad was an early very keen convert from wireless to the box. He did have a very flash HMV stereo in a custom box with matching king-sized speakers and a little transistor radio which he manically tuned into on a Saturday afternoon for 'The Races', but his passion was for the tellie. It was on ALL THE TIME.

He'd get home from work and shower and climb into his sometimes cringe worthy Jarmies and plant his bum in his favourite chair and there he would stay. If our friends popped in he'd greet them with a smile and a seriously delivered, ' SSSHHHHH' and it wouldn't be until the ads that any conversation was allowed. The fact that he was in his PJs seemed less strange than his obsession with the box.

As soon as colour tellies came out we had one and video players and then there was the joy that can only be a remote control. Yeh the whole family was thrilled with that cos it meant that we kids didn't have to get up to change the channel, yippee for us and it meant that he could watch 2 or 3 shows at a time, yeh that's where I get it from.

Some pretty monumental evenings have passed by in front of the box, a boyfriend's car got totaled outside the house as it was smashed into and pushed almost into the front of the house by a speeding drunk. Dad waited for the ads before he popped out in his Pjs onto the road to view the damage and made the executive decision not to call the police cos if they guy was breathalised then his insurance would not cover the repairs, and then he went back to his show. All hell might be breaking loose but as there was no pause button on the box back in the day, he didn't want to miss a second.

When my to-be-husband rocked up one evening to ask for his permission to marry me, yeh how old fashioned was that! Dad sat there in his night shirt I think and the poor fella had to spit out his request during the ads. I suppose it gave everyone some thinking time before speaking in the next set of ads.

So I have grown up with a love for the box. The malaise I feel during the 'down time' over the summer is very real and my spirits are much improved as soon as the rating season starts in February.

The reality shows are recorded and watched in ridiculous fast forward and new shows are watched with anticipation akin to trying out a new ice cream flavour at Baskins.

So to the 'Here Comes the Habibs' which premiered last night. I thought it was just very disappointing. Often I got the very strong impression that it had been written and directed for a live Stage performance rather than tellie and I guess as a nod to the PC brigade the stereotypes were just all a bit bland. The dialogue seems to have been been agreed to by committee and so is not the least bit edgy. I am disappointed cos I rather thought this could have been an opportunity to break down some barriers.

I am soo pleased that technology now allows recording or 2 shows at a time cos it means that there is something in reserve for the dry spell, and no I don't believe I will be bothering recording the Habibs, once was more than enough for me.

Boating oopsie

In the news today was a story about a walloping cruise ship which got damaged in a storm and had to head back to port. I am not wanting to discourage punters from going for a ride, but who went on this ANYWAY? - more than 4000 paying customers and 1500 staff, that's who, all braver than me.

I mean it just doesn't look stable to me. It's too tall and skinny. I reckon really tall skinny people are far more likely to be blown over in the wind, and tall trees are likely to blow over and bend til they break, so even with my great respect for all things sciencey, I am just not surprised that the storm worried this giant fella, or is it grand dame, cos boats are always girlies?

I look at it and first I wonder about going on holiday with that many people. I mean that's the population of a good sized Queensland town and I sure as shit don't reckon too many of them country folk would want to pack up the whole town and take 'em on an adventure, cos there must be one or two nutters in the town, one or two people who never shower, one or two people who always win on the Keno and really rub it in. But my biggest problem would be that there would be a very large number of those folk who would be faster than me to the lifeboats. I would be left for dead, literally.

And I am afraid of drowning.

There are lots of really truly awful ways to die. You could choke on a Lego block, or sit on an exploding cushion, or swallow a poisonous berry, or have one of those Amazonian parasitic fish swim up your urine stream and make house in your winkle, but worrying about drowning is the thing that keeps me up at night. The terror, the isolation, the sharks, the moment of recognising the inevitable, the very real fear I have of enclosed spaces and let's face it that ocean is a pretty big enclosed space. Oh please let me get hit by a bus, well not tomorrow you understand and perhaps not literally, but I'm sure you get the idea, I just really don't want to drown.

I watched 'Titanic' in a bar in Bali. The first night I was late and the movie was half way through. I watched anyway, even though I had missed the start and I am afraid of drowning. The next night I arrived early enough to see the start of the movie. Yeh it's an odd way to watch a movie but I was on holiday and pretty chilled. So I ordered a beer and felt pleased that I was watching what the whole world seemed to have already seen. But when the engineer / designer bloke lied about the number of lifeboats I really wanted to get out of my seat and punch him in the head. Even though realistically there would be no way of evacuating all the people quickly enough if the sodding boat was sinking. I wanted everyone to have a fighting chance.

And on this walloper boat that was troubled by wind this week - no it wasn't farting, I am just trying to underplay the storm, I can only imagine, even though I don't want to, the scramble and chaos of trying to evacuate 5000 people. There would be a mountain of bodies that would need to be climbed over before there was even a slim chance of scooting onto a lifie. Yeh that would be my choice I reckon. Bugger that Leo sinking feeling, please let me be crushed to death by people trying to avoid drowning.

How much of a protest do you have in you?

Today I got a brief  email half answer from my councillor, about the deceitful little two step that has not only allowed but funded the stinking shitful bike track right across the middle of the off the leash dog park next door.

He only answered 2 of my questions and has ignored the rest.

He finally copped that the request came 'from his office', not of course from HIM or HIS PA, but he has a very clever little OFFICE that can generate requests to the Parks people and fill in what I imagine are copious forms, all by itself, what a clever little office in deed.This after all the bullshit about it being a Parks Department initiative etc etc.

He bragged that the project came in under budget at a mere $20,000. And as there were between 3 and 5 workers - yeh I am using the term loosely, for 3 weeks, including I presume double time on Saturdays, then I imagine the budget didn't include labour. Either that or these poor fellows were working for not very much - anything of course is too much in my opinion. The woman at the Parks Department said that the council did not budget and quote like what happens in the 'real world', so what the $20,000 actually covered is anyone's guess - yeh neat round figure, I thought that too.

I have now heard 3 explanations from Mr Councillor of the $150,000 a year plus expenses fame.
The cementway is for:
Wheelchair access.
Safety for the park - to be fair that came from his fill-in PA.
A walking track.

Yeh no mention of it being a BIKE path, even though the woman from the council told me it was now a designated shared Pedestrian/Bike path, but this was the same woman who said she had been onsite in the park and was party to the design of the concrete monstrosity, but who oddly enough has such poor comprehension skills that the signs about it being an off the leash dog park were useless to her, so who the fuck knows what she really knows.

Perhaps there is a need in the council for someone to design signs with pictures only for those poor fucks who cannot read. Oh shit I have probably just given 'em an idea for the set up of a whole new department!

Social media debates this week have centred on what would be admirable qualities in politicians.

Well first and foremost I want someone who just tells the fucking truth!

I want someone who's first response is not to come up with a fabrication to protect their own arse, because they don't do or say anything that they need to hide.

I want someone who has a real interest in and proven ability to serve their constituents. Not some lying stinking arse who grabs at the public purse, not only with their 2 hands, but who lines up a backhoe and a tip truck, and goes the industrial siphon.

So this fella has a competitor in the up coming election race for Division 10. I had a look at her and even though anyone will get my vote ahead of the fella who has bald faced lied to me, I am concerned that the only thing I can remember about her is that she is a - yeh I have to whisper it, so lean in, she's a naturopath.

The race is between someone who has lied to my face or someone who lies to themselves. It will take me a while to come to grips with this choice.

In the mean time everywhere I go I am confronted with election signs for the fella. I want to get a spray can and write LIAR all over 'em.

Steve is worried that I will get arrested. I reckon it wouldn't happen cos the fella would have to lay charges I think, cos the signs are his property, but it would be a little unseemly for an old grannie to be dragged off to jail. So then I thought I could just make my own LIAR signs and pop them above or below his signs. Steve reckons they would cost a fortune and wouldn't last a minute.

It might be that I am more pissed off than anyone else because all the lies have been dropped into my inbox or my shell like ears, but I really feel I need to do something.

I have waged war via the online news but that is really just not satisfying enough.

I have looked into running against him, but honestly I have left it far too late. His competition started part way through last year, and I reckon it would take me til just a few days before the apocalypse to clean up my social media pages and wash my mouth out with enough soap to see me able to chat with my more conservative constituents, and there are sure plenty of them.

So my question is, What would you do?

All things old are new again.

So when I was a youngster my hair was white and dead straight. It used to hang limply down and I liked to wear it long. The old woman and shearing event was mentioned in an earlier post.

I would tie it up in all sorts of weird ways and had an array of ribbons. When I was at the convent and swimming like a maniac, back in the day when satin ribbons were satin, the green dye ran all into my hair and for the whole of the summer my hair looked like it was trying out for a St Paddy's day award. Yeh the nuns were less than pleased, but I liked it.

As was the fashion in the 70's I trooped off for my very first perm as soon as my scholarship money came in. My straight long white blonde hair became a mane of fabulous. My dad famously uttered, ' That's just how I knew it was gonna look and hoped it wouldn't.' He was not amused. But he also did not approve of me wearing a batik skirt tied up under my arms. No bra and only a tiny pair of knickers between me and the world. He'd call out a reminder that I was not going to the beach, as I flip flopped and sashayed my way outta the house.

So for 10 glorious years I kidded myself that I had a truly luscious crop of hair.

Then I dyed it, became single - not because of the dye, it fell out and I dyed it some more. Once you have been bald, you sort of get over the need to have swathes of the stuff, and whilst I happily cop to being a habitual hair abuser. I am aware that really one process at a time is more than enough.
(Generally a decent hairdresser won't double up anyway so no perms over colour over bleach.)

But as the poison will have it my hair is falling into the shower again - fuck it! and it's gotten pretty thin at the front, so I asked about a bit of a perm. We reconciled that the fucking stuff is falling out anyway so if it breaks off  no harm no foul.

And Yippee so far so good. It will loosen up a bit after I wash it tomorrow but I am thrilled with it. When I pop a hat on, there is enough of a barrier between me and the straw to prevent scratches, and somehow it feels like the hat is less likely to fly off into the never never.

Annbrit reckon that we might be able to have a bash at some colour in a couple of weeks but I am now wondering after decades of colouring, what my natural hair colour might be. It might turn out to be hideous, but nothing so serious that a bottle of dye won't fix it.

It seems appropriate to include a little snap of me and  this young woman who's birthday it is today. Happy Birthday darling Belly. xx

How much abuse do you put your tresses through?

Does the fear of baldness keep you awake at night?

Byron Bay - a Village in 2 halves.

It's my girl's birthday weekend coming up and I figured that as our tastes are wildly different Byron Bay might be THE place to go for a parcel of compromise, you know something a bit hippy dippy alternate but also well made and not, well not from the shit shop.

Byron has rather exploded in size over the last few years, well maybe decade. And there are the cheap Bali-esque incense stinky clothes and colourful handies and thongs, and a quick stroll away you have your choice of hand woven silk and cotton Peruvian floor rugs for an appalling price. And in between there are in-between places where some of the stuff is cheap and cheerful and some of it is priced so to take your breath away along with the exaggerated swipe of your credit card.

You can buy incense and incense burners for about a penny or else you can part with large amounts of wonga for a designer candle or some of those oil reedy bottle things.

There are ethically produced bits and pieces and stuff that you just know has been thrown together by children who should be at school.

Diamonds sit happily side by side the plastic crap and designer food smells waft by the chippie.

Accommodation varies from flash to hostel and there are people who proudly parade along in their bare feet with their arse hanging out of their pants and they walk happily beside folk in designer bits and bobs. There are oldies and youngies and all sorts of accents and languages.

It is a wonderful place just to sit and people watch.

I am hoping that I have done OK on the birthday shopping, Sunday will be the acid test, cos she has not fallen far from the tree in terms of honest facial reactions.

If you are on the Goldie it's a very easy hour's drive on the motorway south. Take plenty of change for the parking cos the machines are still not taking a credit card swipe, and if you are gonna be a while and I really suggest that you are, park up just a little out of the main area where there is 4 hour parking ($3/hour)

If you are driving close by, why not pop in and stay for a couple of days, the beaches are lovely and there is plenty of accommodation to choose from.

I always love an outing to Byron.

How honest should Public Servants be?

It is no secret that the building of the shitting concrete path in the park has given me the screaming irrits. Today saw the completion of the 'JOB'. And boy have they ever done a 'job' on the rates payers!

Yep 2 and a half weeks of mostly 5 blokes a day to lay a couple hundred metres  (ball park figure), of unnecessary concrete. Private contractors would have eaten the job in a day, 2 at most, but for them they are working to the price, not looking to fill in their days as best they can without looking too much like the slacker public purse poncers we all think they are.

Today, their final day saw only a skeleton staff of 3 blokes. They took turns hosing a bit of grass. Apparently this was necessary so that RSI didn't become an issue, I made that bit up. Gotta love a bit of the old 'Elf and Safety huh?

The site hut and the porta-loo were taken away and now we are left with the length of cement already being marred by boy racer rubber marks.

So everyone knew how this was gonna play out. Except that I have been asking questions since the off, and the forthcoming answers have lacked consistency - yeh that's a teacher euphemism for great big fucking lies being swung about, in the hope that no-one would notice.

I have been asking the Councillor about the costing and the process and the initial request and the need, and how come there was no notice given or advice taken from the locals.I sort of figured that as he was 'The Man', he was the bloke to go to.

Turns out he should have auditioned for Schultz in Hogan's Heros - you remember that big fat guy whose most repeated line was, 'I Know Nothing!!'

But today a woman who works at the Council rang me, because the Councillor had finally forwarded my list of questions to her and I suppose she thought I might easily be fobbed off with a Chatty Cathy few minutes, even though I had asked for a response in writing. Yeh no-one wants to put anything in writing anymore cos whilst it is all chatter boxy they can pretend that Joe Public was too stupid to understand and must have gotten it all wrong. If there is something in writing then it's less refutable.

So she said that the Councillor had requested the path and that he had used his little slush fund money to pay for it.

Did you know that the Gold Coast City Councillors get paid a rock bottom price of $150000 a year and that's without any 'expenses' they might run up. They get an office and clerical staff and just as a little bonus, cos they are such good honest reliable hardworking folk, the GCCC gives them $50000 EACH, a year to spend in their little area in anyway they see fit.

They don't, it seems need to justify how they spend it or explain why they spent it the way they did. They just have to spend it and as there is a council election this March the spending of it needed to be sooner rather than later, just in case they are not re-elected.

So My Councillor told me that the Parks People had decided that the park needed to be made accessible to Wheelies. Now I am not sure but perhaps the truth is that a Wheelie friend of his asked for the path and the Councillor had some unspent Public Money and so he thought, 'Why the fuck not? Gotta spend it somewhere!' Except that I don't believe that either, cos a couple of years ago it seems that someone local asked for a dropped curb to be built outside our place, supposedly  for women with strollers, but local scuttle said it was more about skate board access than anything else.
And now this little dropped curb footpath thing has been linked up to the concrete elephant that runs across the park. This is some coincidence huh?

And the Wheelie thing just sounds dodgy anyway. I have a friend in chair. Her good husband pushes her everywhere, cos there is no room at home for a hulking motorised jobbie. My friend still has no access to the park facilities. If she popped in at all we would have to leave her on the path as we took off to the rotunda or the viewing area, cos there is no pathway to these areas and even the smallest bumps are excruciating for her, so she can't go cross country. We could, I suppose, leave her out in the sun on the path and wave to her from a distance and shout out the local gossip, so she could feel included, but she might well not be best pleased.

Noo I don't believe that path was built for wheelies.

The wheelie bike marks already in evidence tell me, who might have really wanted the path.

The number of stories from people who all have their noses in the public trough, increases everyday. Some of the yarns are unlikely, some are contradictory and some could be sprouted by little green men wearing lopsided purple hats, for as believable as they are. All are designed to be arse covering and responsibility shedding.

A couple of times recently, readers have suggested that as this has so clearly given me the shits, that I should run in the election, which would be a reasonable reaction, except that I just don't have the stomach for it. I would speak without a filter and would not protect other Public Money feeders. I have a bucket mouth and a very short fuse and all too quickly the 'workers' would be advised not to take any of my calls. I would refuse to be a party to spending up $50,000 of other people's money on a personal whim, or to fund the bidding of friends. I would call things as I see 'em and as we all know that just cannot be allowed in politics on any level.

What's the biggest Lie you have heard recently?

How Fussy are you?

There's a Facebook quiz doing the rounds about fussy foodies. Well a couple of my girlies had had a go and popped their scores up for all to see. I reckon mostly people do these things and don't like the scores so never publish their results - of course that could just be me...shit is it really just me?

Anyway it all seemed pretty simple, just tick off the foods you don't eat. There was 87 in the list. I wondered why 87? It seemed like a very strange number to me. And as I worked down the list, ticking off anothery and anothery, I felt the list was a bit limited.

Cos my friends' scores were 7 and 9 and I got thirty-fucking-seven. I mean how is it possible for me to be the size I am when I don't eat about half of the stuff in the world?

Of course if you look at the list you can see that it is not at all comprehensive. Yeh it might mention bread - brown yuk, white yum, but that's where it stopped at the bakery door. No croissants or donuts or pies or cakes or bickies, and it mentioned olives and various dips, all yummo, but stopped short of things like Twisties and Pringles. If they had bothered to list all manner of sweeties my fussy percentage would have taken a nose dive.

But I guess if I am truly honest I am just the teeniest bit fussy about what goes into my gobhole. So as I settled in to watch who was going into the Jungle, 'I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here' I have yet again assumed the position. The one where I am hiding behind my hands cos I just can't watch people - celebrity or not, put strange shit anywhere near their mouths, and the idea that anyone would willingly shove their faces into bowls of wriggly critters is just truly yuk.

Out of 12 'Celebrities' I have heard of only 5. That might well be because I am not of the right vintage for the show. But I will watch it on fast forward cos whether or not these people are famous, what is entertaining to me, fussy fucker that I am, is what they will eat. Oh and as I am also not a camper, the very idea of long and short drop shared loos is appalling and entertaining at the same time.

I was left wondering whether or not these people had actually ever seen the show, cos even if I had to hide 'em up my whatsit, I would have taken in some ear plugs.