Tuesday, 27 June 2017

Winter gardening





Whew!, Where did those 24 little hours go ?

Kids arrived early, yippee.

Coffees and then lunch and Dog play and then into the garden.

My wee Fit Bit has been counting steps since my birthday and no I have not managed the recommended 10000. Usually I wander about 4000 to 6000 on a very busy day, and sometimes if I am buggered I am lucky to stretch to 2000, but yesterday I clocked up 8400 steps - 25% more than my best days. Well good on me huh? Except that I was rooooooted, and truth be told I did very little in the garden cos my Green Fingered Girl, took charge and lugged shit and re-potted shit and lugged it all back and then tidied up. She worked like a dog, while Dog kept well clear cos she feared getting in the way of the master.

Today we are gonna go at it again. I hope I survive.



Then we all took 2 hours to make Chicken Parmigiana. What a marathon! Special cheesy potatoes just in case there wasn't enough grease and calories in the slabs of crumbed delight, and we even made the tomato sauce from scratch too, bloody delicious. I reckon we all learnt a thing or 2. Did you know that when you crumb something it's best to leave it rest before you cook it so the crumbs have time to stick together? I have not ever crumbed anything so that was quite the revelation. It was all delicious although if I am honest, I might save the Parmi joy for trips to the pub, cos it's a messy time consuming exercise and whilst what we made was very much tastier than any I have eaten out, I don't think it's worth the trouble or the anxiety.

And then to bed. Ahhh Blessed relief.

My Fit Bit if also monitoring my sleep patterns.

It's quite interesting.

Yes I already knew I dragged my tired arse up to pee during the night. And I am sometimes awake and restless even when not peeing, I mean there's all those woes of the world that need solving isn't there?

But last night the awake restless time hit an all time high. 9 times so says the Fitty Bitty. Fucking hell! How many woes can there possibly be? What can cause that sort of disruption and consequent eyes on stalks fatigue this morning? What could it possibly be?

Yep it was more fucking road works, all fucking night and I reckon the timing of my wakefulness would correspond neatly with the noisiest bits of the work.

Saturday, 24 June 2017

The Holidays are romping towards the Big House.


Here's some of the box of plants that My Girl is gonna transform ..... 

It's been a whalloper of a week! Not like in times past, with the speed and madness of single motherhood, teen rearing, school marm, householder, cos that was a kind of busy that I can now, barely even contemplate. Nah my NOW busy ain't like it used to be.

I remember limping across the end of term finishing line, where if I was lucky there'd be no marking and maybe a bit of money to shout My Girl and me a bit of a blow out at the beach or the shops or something else fun fun fun. The madness would grind to an instant halt and PJ days vegging on movies and pancakes, were not out of the question

But back to this week. I did battle with the all too often mongrel whalloper truck relays up and back to Brisvegas, twice, once on my usual Tuesday to see the kids and again on Thursday so I could be very proud Ma at my Darling Boy's Tae Kwondo Grading. Just as an aside, am I the only one to notice the increased aggression from the truckies now that there are signs going up about how, come August, they will need to stay left, so there will be no more boy racers on 32 wheels, in the fast lane, but in the mean time, they are all over the road? Really am I the only one to notice?

I filmed just about the whole Grading and he was bloody brilliant - I admit that a couple of times, even though it was against the rules, I lost control and let out a few woop woop woops, especially as he slammed those thick boards, firstly with his hand and then with his foot. Brilliant!and he was so chuffed with himself when he was finished, Ahhh,  but not so euphoric that he forgot to ask me not to post any photos of him here. Yeh he's become shy. So you'll have to take my word for it about just how damn fine he was.

And then in preparation for the Kids' arrival on Monday, cos my Girl has offered her expertise in the garden, Stevie and I wandered around the garden centre - not being even close to expert, we were just guessing what might be ok. We got a bunch of stuff and now I am hoping that my girl will be able to simply transform my fish pond and help me to fix up the rest of the garden.

But this doesn't excite my Darling Boy really. He's not all that keen on yard work. He's got a plan to do some cooking while he's here. And he's been charged with finding a recipe for his very favourite, Chicken Parmigana. I have never cooked it but I reckon I can have a good guess about the ingredient list, so this is also on my prep list.

So the tireds hit like a brick today and my feet have been up and the tellie is working overtime, in preparation for the fabulous onslaught.

The holidays are now a time of noise and activity, and a bit of chaos. Yippee!

I have said it before and I'll say it again, I am so very lucky that I get to be Ma for the hols. I know lots of grand parents sometimes feel that their babysitting duties become a bit of a chore, but I am not ever gonna whinge about it. He's now the tallest in the family and I am just pleased that he's still happy to pay his old Ma a visit.

Bring on Monday.

Wednesday, 21 June 2017

Winter Solstice



I am sure it has not escaped readers' notice, but I am not a scientist. I hated everything about science at school - Needed to be in your class Ms Jess, and even though there was a strong sciencey bent in university geography studies, I can honestly say that if you want some science info, you'd better ask Google cos mostly I am clueless.

But I knew it was the winter solstice today and that always makes me a little sad, cos it heralds the lengthening of days and so the end of winter. Bugger! and I had only just started to get snuggly under a bit of a cover and even though I have found my woolie slippers I am not ready to file them away for another year just yet.

I know my mates in the UK are sweating up a storm in 30 degree heat and why not, it's summer huh? Except that the fridges there don't like the heat much and pubs have a little trouble keeping the bottles cold, and so even though they will be busy shedding clothes in public parks, they might also be having a little look heavenwards, thankful for the now shortening of their days.

The grass is always greener huh?

But I do love our winter. Nah it's not a Toronto winter, where your nose might fall off if you dare walk out to catch a bus or a streetcar and have to stand for more than a few seconds, and there is no snow to cause havoc on the roads - how I managed to slip slide in my car, through the back streets of London during the rare but wonderful snow storms, without slamming into any other cars is still a mystery to me.

But it's our winter.

It's just lovely, comfortable short days, and if I was given to walking out for exercise, I would be able to work quite a bit harder before sweating happened. There's the wonder about the need for a little coverlette on the bed, instead of searching for an extension lead for the pedestal fan and tossing water spray all over the sheets.

And it's school holidays and so we are getting sorted for a Grandie visit. Yippee! I rather doubt even he will be in the pool so movies and Dog and silly games will be the order of the day.

And then there is the State of Origin,  and that'll be exciting if the Queenslanders get their shit together tonight. Fingers crossed.

So even though the days are now getting longer there is still some winter to be enjoyed.

Pass me the blanket please.

Monday, 19 June 2017

Dreaming



Stevie, at my request, cos you know it would take a ridiculously brave individual to suggest loudly that I am lazy arse and that I should move it or lose it, got me a fit bit for my birthday, So I am keeping a bit of a look at just how little or much I walk every day. And here's where the Big House comes into it's own cos even on the most sedentary of days I manage to walk a kilometre or 2 just popping to the loo or the fridge.

Now you're supposed to aim for 10000 steps a day and so I put my target in at 2000. After all I didn't want to be kicking myself everyday for being a slacker, and bugger me most days the wee thing on my wrist goes off to tell me I have made the target. I mean good on me right?

The other thing it does, well I am sure there are lots of things but I just don't know what they are, cos counting steps and looking pink and cute is mostly what I care about, is it tracks sleep patterns.

Now I know I am easily awoken. This explains why Stevie's snoring sends me a mile away and why the night works so readily disturb me, but it's interesting to look at just how many times a night the THING reckons I am RESTLESS. Last night I was awake 2 times - yeh night time peeing is a bitch! and restless 10 times and then there is some sort of calculation about how much sleep I missed cos of all this activity. A lot as it happens. Oh well! I just don't know how the thing decides that I am restless, cos honestly if I had a bed as big as Straddie Island, I would roll around every square inch of in a usual night's slumber so if movement is the restless, well I am surprised it's only 10 times.

But last night was a dreamer's paradise.

The best one was all about a very large group of kids all of whom were prepped by my teaching partner and me for performance in a huge eisteddfod - is that really how you spell it? I could have sworn it had an R in there somewhere, I am trusting Google. It was all pretty frantic and kids came and went and we were trying to corral kids and teachers cos there seemed to be some big finale event where the whole school was to perform some bit of craziness. I reckon my arms and legs and probably my mouth were all going mad, cos I am a demonstrative sleeper - Yeh don't get too close in case I smack you one in the head as I fly about or swim the Channel or applaud like a crazy thing cos my lovely girl was a winner.

Yep towards the end of the dream, she rolled up all red faced and squealing with delight cos her group had won their section and she was  just so bloody excited. And here's the piece de resistence, her grand prize, in fact the prize for all the winners was a crocheted poncho! Yep they were all wearing 'em, bright yellow and cream ponchos! The colours left a great deal to be admired, but they were PONCHOS!

And so now apart from feeling a bit like shit cos of an energetic night's sleep of too few hours, I am left wondering if I should be transforming my long THING into a poncho cos after all the dream might have been giving me a big clue.

Do you remember your dreams?
Would you now be making a Poncho?

Sunday, 18 June 2017

Bruising

This is the culprit, the cause of the ache in my everywhere.


About a month ago I thought I'd have a little go at some crochet, I think I have mentioned this already. In any case, I bought up some wool and started and the thing is that as too often happens, the wee project has grown like topsy and now after many hours of stock still except for finger action I have a long long shawl thing that I am still managing to control and design and the most appalling pain across my back and shoulders and neck and into my head.

This all started out slowly enough and in my usual casual, blame it all on the meds manner, I just hoped it would go away, like the occasional skin flare ups or the belly aching or the bone pain or the other shit that goes along with the meds.

But this little unpleasant addition to the usual, well it just didn't go away. And it soo didn't go away, in fact it just got worse and worse, and so finally I figured that a little visit to Dr Jane was in order, but as luck would have it she was away on a holiday and I took that as a sign that the pain would just go away.

But it bloody wouldn't budge. Bloody stubborn shitful thing! Seriously if the mould in the bathroom was this bloody minded you'd have to sell up and move on.

So I popped off to see Sylvia the Therapeutic Massage woman at the physio place I go to.

I have seen her before. I like her cos she doesn't think it's odd that I bring my own coconut oil and just enjoy a lie still and a if I am honest, a little ZZZZZ off while she goes gently about her business. If I spill a little pile of spit onto the floor through the head hole, well she doesn't seem to mind that either.

But on Friday I went there and told her I was in a bit of pain and she had the usual furtile looking at movement restrictions and such like and then she got down to business.

She still used my coconut oil but that's where the similarity of the relaxing visits of yore ended.

She thumbed and elbowed and poked and prodded. I grunted and breathed and panted like I was having a baby, and not wanting to appear too whimpish, I only occasionally let her know that I was in serious pain. She giggled and regaled me with the noises other folk make when they are in pain.

I admit now that I don't give a shit what other noises fill the room from people who are hurting.

Because I was having a little bit of a cry my nose got all blocked up and so my breathing was all in and out of the mouth which was just as well cos otherwise there could have been a very big wet patch indeed on the carpet under the head hole, as it was there might have been just the teeniest little drip of snot involved.

When my hour was up, I was grateful.

I was disorientated and when I got home Stevie reckoned I looked like I had been 10 rounds with Tyson, except that my ears were intact.

We grabbed a burger for dinner and part way through I had to trundle off to find a planter stand cos a wave of nausea hit me like a brick.

And now, after a couple of days, when I thought perhaps all the pain from the massage might have done the trick, I am still just one big ache, and even with Stevie's colour blindness he can see bruising points all over my shoulders and up my neck.

So I am aching on the inside and on the outside. BONUS!


Wednesday, 14 June 2017

'Churchill'



I do love the way the Poms put movies together. They are mostly well written and well acted and beautifully shot. Yep they sure are well put together. And I am certain that it helps that I find the landscapes romantic and gentle and inviting and in such stark contrast to Oz, so it's all foreign and familiar at the same time.

Yep, I am always happy to pop off to the pictures to see a Pommie production.

So there I was today watching 'Churchill'.

Now maybe cos I am just an Aussie gal, my knowledge of British history is sadly lacking, but as luck would have there is another movie, 'Dunkirk' which featured as a trailer so I got a bit of info from that and then I just sat back and watched.

In typical Pom fashion, the cinematography is beautiful and I reckon Poms would be able to play 'I have been to that place', but not me, I could only sit back and think how lovely all the locations are.

But if I am honest I did become a little bored with it all. I just wanted the story to move along a bit faster, after all I wasn't there to see a travel doco, I wanted to hear the story.  If I was reading this I would have got to the point where I'd skip paragraphs and possibly whole pages cos I am impatient.

Anyway the movie covers the 4 days prior to D Day and even historical fools like me know something about that, so tension development was a bit of a stretch and I guess making 4 days into 2 hours is not all that easy either.

It is an intimate peek into Churchill's life and I was surprised to feel myself not liking him all that much. There are moments when he is positively yukky. And what I wondered is how was all this information gathered.

I was unaware that he gave the scotch more than a bit of a nudge. It seems he thought it was an entire food group, and I didn't know that he suffered from depression, and maybe he didn't cos his sort of depression was remarkably easy to cure in the movie, with a bit of a face slap from the Missus and some crying doe eyes of an office worker. But Churchill, the boozer,  battling the black dog, seems to be well documented.

It's possible that Mrs Churchill wrote a whole lot of journals but I rather doubt it, and I am pretty sure that Mr Churchill did not write about himself being a bit of a dick.

So where do all these personal details come from?

Alex von Tunzlemann, the author, dived into the private moments and of course poetic licence is allowed.

And then I wondered  whether other people watching the movie would be wondering the  same stuff, and I wondered if things had moved along a bit faster then I would not have had the time to wonder at all.

So now for a recommendation, or not..... I reckon I would be happy to watch it again on the tellie if I could skip through the ads or grab it on DVD, cos let's face it, a delay of a few more months is not gonna change the well documented outcome. I am not sure it's worth the ticket price at the pictures.

Sunday, 11 June 2017

A Story in 2 Halves.



Once upon a time a certain someone moved out of their house into a brand new - to them at least - flat. They had sourced a mortgage and furniture and all the usual shit that one has in their house, as well as stuff that is not necessary and perhaps some stuff that had been collected over a life time, both theirs and other people's, stuff that perhaps was gathered by mistake or by design or just by stealth. In any case there was much excitement cos they had their own flat and their own stuff and other people's stuff and a new sex partner and a job and plenty of cash for holidays and socialising. Yep all was good in their world.

And once upon another time, a different someone was forced out of their home, the one they had decorated and furnished and loved and paid for, and they were living day at a time on other people's couches.

Yeh this is not even a thinly veiled look at divorce.

And there are absolutely NO prizes for guessing which of these scenarios would best describe the outcome for most women.

Oh sure there are on occasions, splits which are reasonably amicable where assets are divided equally and splits which are not the result of the man sticking his revolting little cock into anything that'll have it. But I don't think that amicable is a common description for most divorces.

Yeh all too often it is the SHE, who is the person couch surfing after a dozen years of propping him up and supporting him and more than paying her way. Through the blindness of LOVE, she might have adopted his appalling debts as her own and now it is SHE who is left without the energy to go 10 rounds over a coffee cup, let alone trying to get what is reasonably owed to her.

She might have supported him for all the time he was unemployed after he was sacked in less than clear circumstances, all the while stoking the fires of his poor dented male ego

She might have supported him while he gained new qualifications and started up a new business, helping him celebrate every little win along the way.

She might have maintained the mortgage and all the household expenses and had no respite until finally, after a long long time, he found another job.

She might have paid and worried, and paid and worried.

She might have become tired cos of work and the propping and the ego stroking and finally cos of the wondering where he was and what he was doing or who he was doing.

He could have squirreled away cash in hidden accounts held by people he could trust not to spend it, while he courted and bedded who the fuck knows, all the while making sure that his wife became a miserable soul. Yeh not much love left there huh?

He might have played hide the sausage with a work colleague while the wife cooked his dinner and kept house.

And given all this, He might have been fair and equitable when he desired divorce.

But this is not a fairy tale.

This is playing out right now, probably far more often than we think, and all too often it is the women who end up in dire economic situations when relationships die, even if they were not the ones wielding the murder weapon. How is this reasonable or fair or just?

If I had been caught out with my knicky noos all a kimbo and the smell of some other bloke wafting about me, then my conscience would kick in and I'd walk away with fuck all cos of the guilt. But too often it seems the one 'playing away' comes out on top - excuse the pun, and perhaps that's just cos they have had ample time to plan and scheme and the other poor soul is hit with a sucker punch and is an emotional basket case while things disintegrate around them and so they are just not up to the fight over the 'good towels' or the coffee machine. They haven't got a solicitor on speed dial and are not familiar with the ins and outs of the law. They are starting so far behind the cheater, that they are never gonna catch up.

Let's shine a spotlight on these turds who think they above reproach, above reasonable expectations, above treating others with dignity and fairness and let's NOT allow them to slide by thinking no-one has noticed, or that because no-one has said anything that it means their appalling behaviour is acceptable.

Let's shine a very bright light on 'em, and then walk away, leaving 'em to stand there alone, with only their sad little cocks to keep 'em company.

I hope yours falls off G!



Thursday, 8 June 2017

What is your favourite cake?


It was my birthday last weekend and my lovely girl made the drive down and arrived with a bloody marvelous cake. Her birthday cakes are legendary. She makes 'em from scratch and they are a diabetic's worst nightmare, because she decorates 'em with the birthday person's favourite sweeties. SO even though the cake was light as a feather, well actually light as any mud cake ever is, it was well and truly ladden with all things lovely. I licked the plate when I was finished. YUMMO!

But sadly I took a photo with my new phone that Stevie got me for said birthday and I have been waiting for it to sync up with my computer by magic ever since and so this is the excuse for no stories. But it seems there is more than one way to skin a cat - what a fucking terrible expression huh? who wants to skin a cat? and how many ways can there be? and who did the research anyway? So the photo is me holding my new phone with a photo of the cake, bloody hell. And if anyone has a simple solution for idiots to sync things up I'd be pleased to hear it.

Anyway I reckon my favourite cake is one made in my girl's kitchen, cos they are made with such love. She agonises over every detail and she starts with a picture in her mind of what she wants to create and is always critical of her efforts but she is the only one. She's been making people cakes for their birthdays for a long time. It's her present to 'em cos cash is light on. She always apologies for the that, and I just want to give her a bit of a tap when she does this cos I reckon the home made cake is the best pressie ever.  

Apart from a delicious cake, my birthday nearly always brings a few days of cooler weather which is bloody wonderful. I found my fake uggs and pulled a little blanket over my knees, just like an old person and am as happy as a pig in shit, and now when I have to shrug off my wee cocoon to pee or get a drink or whatever, I do so in the knowledge that at least I am getting some 'steps in'.

Cos my arse has become square and I asked Stevie for a 'Fitbit' for my birthday so I could appall myself about my abject slothfulness and maybe move about a bit more.

Yeh so things went like this. Lazy - Fitbit - new phone cos old one wouldn't work the Fitbit - no sync on computer - further slothful ways cos where's the point in moving?

But not really cos I have discovered that even on a lazy day here in the Big House, I walk about 4 km. How about that? I know it's not much cos 'they' reckon we should do about 10000 steps a day and I am only doing about 6000, but it's more than I thought - clearly not enough to walk off a big chunk of my lovely's cake but not too bad. And as I am competitive old thing, I can keep an eye on it and if I see me getting even more lazy, then I can think about stepping thing up - shitful pun I know.

I very much doubt that the idea of the things is to allow complacency, but it works for me.

6000 anythings in a day is a good day I reckon.


Saturday, 3 June 2017

Birthdays YUK




Years ago when it was my birthday a gaggle of us women would head out - near enough was close enough given the need to shuffle childless weekends and stuff, and we'd drink too much and flirt a little, OK maybe more than a little and did I mention drink too much? There was dancing and dare I say more drinking.

But in my 50s since my body has well and truly failed me, think rotting from the inside, now for my birthday I do something daring and OK more than a little strange, yeh I spend the day dying my hair an unlikely colour - Not permanently a strange colour just painted for a few washes, and then it will be it's old blonde, grey brown self again.

So tonight Stevie and I are gonna walk around to the local Thai place for dinner where I hope he's gonna show off all he learned while in that mother country and I'll have a glass or 2 of white wine and then we will toddle home where Dog will no doubt be pleased to see us, and tomorrow my lovely girl is coming for breakfast, and I am gonna feed her some pancakes cos recently they have become her favourite.

Except that this time I am not gonna use the recalled frozen fruit to make the compote. Last time the kids were here, while Stevie was away, I used this diseased stuff which was recalled just a couple of days ago, and then afterwards I was extremely unwell. I just put it down to the meds and when it all went away a few days later, I was pleased.

But yesterday I saw this recall and then I checked the batch number on the stuff I had left over in the freezer, and bugger me it was the self same stuff. Well I'll be fucked. 

I reckon I have got to my current decaying age without ever having something that needed to be recalled.

Stevie's car was recalled for something, I can't remember what, but it can't have been life threatening, but that's as close as it has come.

The warning is that the fruit which was processed in China, was filthy with shit - human, doesn't that just make you feel good? and so there is a threat that folk who have eaten it - that's MY FAMILY! - could have contracted Hepatitis A.

And so maybe for my birthday I could have given myself and the kids Hepatitis A. And so maybe I should google that and see if it is as bad as I think it is. And maybe I should mention it to the Doctors and get an extra test done just to be on the safe side.

Or maybe I can just ignore it, apart from buying real fruit again for the compote and making sure that in the future, I check out all the ingredient details in the small print, and only choose glass and kitchen flat packs made in China and leave the food well enough alone.

There you see there's the silver lining in the aging process, wisdom. Bloody marvelous huh?

Thursday, 1 June 2017

Ban the ...What the fuck are we Banning NOW?

This bag has been used twice, how often was that disposable nappy used?



'The Project', a sort of news come variety show on the tellie here every weeknight, has taken up arms against the sad old plastic bag. You know the ones I am talking about, the ones which hold your 300 bucks worth of groceries, yeh the ones into which the checkout person shovels your eggs along with the bottles of stuff, and they're the ones that catch all the spilled milk and scrambled shit so it doesn't all slop about in the back of your car, on your way home.

Yep 'The Project' folk have decided that it's time the government BANS something else.

I am so far fucking over BANNING shit.

I reckon people should get to choose.

You remember CHOOSING, for yourself?

These sanctimonious folk who find the humble plastic bag so offensive, well let them carry around a big old satchel just in case they fancy buying something and they don't want to have to juggle it and possibly drop it into the gutter where quite possibly a filled disposable nappy has floated.

Surely people can choose?

And perhaps we could all be encouraged to consider our 'footprint' when choosing, and you know what? I'd still choose the damn bag.

Unlike 'The Project' people, who (I don't know this for an absolute fact cos I haven't spent time drifting through their rubbish bins,) more than likely have used disposable nappies to collect their offsprings' shit and piss, I used 'wash 'em every fucking day after scraping off the shit nappies.' SO for every nappy I didn't use, surely I am entitled to a bag or 2? My 'Footprint' should allow that.

A disposable nappy takes somewhere between 250 and 500 years to break down - same time as it happens for a grocery plastic bag. So I want to be able to choose the bag, cos unlike the nappy, which unless you are a very strange soul indeed, is definitely single use, I use the bags for all sorts of stuff. They are definitely not SINGLE USE here.

Our inside rubbish bin is designed to use these bags. Sure I could waddle out to the wheelie bin and toss every little bit of rubbish in there, unwrapped and festering and if everybody did this then maybe I could take up a job as the Pied Piper to rid the world of vermin.

I use these bags to wrap my smelly sneakers when packing a bag for holidays cos I don't want all of my clothes to smell of feet, and I am pretty sure that people I meet on my travels thank me for my kindness.

We collect up our lovely dog's shit in em but I guess instead we could just get a shovel and launch big old piles of the stuff straight over the fence onto the footpath, and if I was feeling kindly, perhaps I could make some sort of warning alarm to enable passersby to either run or put up an umbrella.

I even remember a woman making bread wrapper hats when I was a girl. She'd cut up the plastic bag wrappers into long strips and crochet it all into hats. Perhaps that's taking the reusing just a little far. I was pleased that she was not my mother.

But the point is that most of us are aware of the environment and do our bit. So what if I want to use plastic bags for my groceries. I wash in cold water, and have no heating in the house and only turn on the air con maybe twice a year, my dog eats just about every scrap of leftovers, I have even been known to grow my own tomatoes and my car is regularly serviced so it doesn't spew out fumes, and of course I washed all those fucking nappies. It's just a balancing act.

My 'Footprint' like most people my age, I reckon is far smaller than the clodhoppers of today. People calling for BANS should just BAN themselves.

In the UK, a number of stores have decided for themselves to not have bags, except that well of course they have bags, cos how else can their customers part with large lumps of wonga for their groceries if they then haven't got any way of getting the stuff home? Yeh they have bags, but instead of supplying them as a courtesy or a necessity, they are now charging for them. Sounds like Aldi huh? Go there, don't go there, it's your choice. Remember choosing?

I reckon that stores can please 'em selves, but calling for a universal BAN just gives me the shits.

I remember choosing fondly.






Tuesday, 30 May 2017

Social Media and Politicians



Nah this is NOT gonna be about that Twitter account of the small handed orange man, but please, someone stop him! For fuck sake!

I have been on the arse end of some very unpleasant social media comments because if you put your face out into the public arena and you make a statement, then people are bound to leap at ya and say mean shit from the safety of their study or lounge room or toilet - from where ever it is they spew bile. So I am getting better at firstly NOT reading the shit, and secondly, perhaps more wisely still, not replying to the shit.

I am all very keen to continue with discussions, even feisty heated ones so long as there is no name calling and personal meanness. I think that social media is an excellent tool for sharing opinions and information.

I follow a number of CML forums on Facebook and sometimes the posts are funny or informative or sad and sometimes they are entertaining and sometimes boring, and sometimes they ask for very specific advice and as there are not many of us with this fucking disease, we are mostly happy to share even disgusting details, if it might help alleviate another's concern and we share tips about timing and topical shit for rubbish skin and how to deal with the tireds and disappointing people cos we can't go somewhere or do something. In any case, this part of social media I find helpful.

And I follow an number of other groups and individuals on social media. Some are a bit famous, and some are funny and some I know very well and some I am yet to meet.

I enjoy my local MP John Paul Langbroek's posts and sometimes make a comment. He nearly always replies. I have met him, but we are not FRIENDS. I don't reckon he replies for any reason other than he's interested in the conversation, cos he's my MP and he feels he has an obligation to his constituents  and to fulfill that obligation, he needs to listen to 'em and understand their situation.

Out of utter frustration last week I found MARK BAILEY Minister for Main Roads on Facebook. I have been waiting for a response from him about the appalling secrecy involved in the government contracts with the local contractors, since FEBRUARY.

I 'liked' him on Facebook, even though I had never met him, mostly cos his office refuses to make an appointment for me to see him, and in truth, I very much doubt I would 'like' him, if we did meet up.

And because of that 'like' and the way Facebook works and because his press people pop shit up online presumably to make him seem cool and hip and groovy, I get updates about his gallivanting, and pictures of him with smiling youngsters wearing political slogans all over their chests. When I saw such a photo with a caption about how he loved being out and about listening to the concerns of his people, well my fingers went all a quiver, and not in that lazy morning before the sun comes up, good way.

I wondered about what to say, cos I certainly don't feel like he's given any consideration to my concerns. But you catch more flies with honey than vinegar so I was polite, not pleasant, but not down right rude either, and that's what I wanted to be.

I figured that his handlers would immediately remove my comment. But NO bugger me, I get a reply pretending to be from the man himself saying he'd look into it. So my itchy fingers went at it again.

And I don't suppose anyone will be surprised to hear that I am still waiting.

It will not surprise me if they/he unfriend me, and I will not be upset or wonder about it, cos as I said we were not and are not and will not be friends.

But it makes me wonder. Just like the Orange dick let loose on Twitter, how does anyone in politics make good mileage from social media? JPL seems to manage pretty well, but maybe that's cos his handlers jump onto any meanness with their delete finger at the ready.

But a reasonable rule for 'em might be just to NOT REPLY. Cos once there is something out there in the public domain it's impossible to get it back. Sure the servants of the public, and you know how loosely I use that term, sure they can deny receiving phone calls or emails or letters and pretend they responded but emails and letters have gone missing, they can put the phone down at anytime siting bad language or shouting as their excuse, they can speak in government bullshit speak and take a very long time saying less than nothing at all, cos even though they warn you that calls are recorded( wouldn't that be useful sometimes?) and you get automatic email responses, they just deny deny deny.

But with social media, well there's just no 'take backs'.

There is now a public record of Mark Bailey saying he would get back to me, that he'd look into the delay and there was an apology too. Of course this could be me overstepping what was actually said, cos he did not say he'd look into  the whole sorry mess - just the delay in responding, he didn't say he would ever answer my direct questions, he didn't say that he'd put a stop to the secret silent agreements that give governmental permission for appalling noise and outrageous behaviour, nah he didn't say much of anything at all.

So perhaps his minders are better at all this social media malarkey  than I gave 'em credit for.

FUCK!

Monday, 29 May 2017

Me Fella's home

Here's my souvenir - a smiling Buddha, equipped with sharpened teeth and he's wearing a dress. 


Travelling through time zones is such a difficult concept to me. I just find the idea that somewhere else it's a different time, difficult, well very difficult, virtually fucking impossible. Not because I think the world is flat, or because I think I am the centre of the universe, well mostly I don't, it's just because I find it tricky to imagine.

So this little Stevie sojourn was to Thailand to visit with a mate of his and to go on a little tour around parts unexplored. Thailand is 3 hours behind the Big House, and for those who are similarly handicapped, that means that when it is my 9 o'clock in the morning, it is only 6am in Thailand, and that is much easier to work out than when Stevie is off in his homeland where the difference is 10 or 9 hours and when I have to take off 2 or 3 hours, or maybe I add them on, and then go to the other side of the day. It doesn't matter how often he heads away, I need to work out the formula again cos it doesn't stay in my head. And when I am in London and I am trying to Skype the kids, working in reverse does not come easily to me either.

I am a world time zone fucking idiot.

Anyway, even though he was at the blunt end of the plane and has had a ridiculously interrupted sleep as he ran like a maniac through Singapore's airports to find 2 trains to catch his connection to Brisvegas and then had dinner and avoided breakfast before getting on the train to the Goldie after hare-arsing through customs and immigration, he seems remarkably fresh. (It took him longer to get home by train, on the last leg of the journey than it did to get from Phuket to Singapore, but that's just an aside.)

Me, on the other hand, well I feel less than spritely. You see I waited up to hear if he made the Singapore connection which he obviously did, and then had trouble going to sleep, cos I wanted to be awake in time to send him a welcome home text at silly o'clock this morning, which I did.

And I sort of had a little schedule planned in my head that after I had sent that 'hello', I might snooze for a while and then get on with things, but bugger me if his plane wasn't Elliott Early and he had somehow vapourised himself through all the usual shit and was happily sitting on the train! Fucking hell! My 3 hours had become an hour and half so that meant screaming into action. Cos you know, I had to get sorted for my fella, and that meant I had to wash my hair and draw on some eyebrows, and find something half way decent to wear and down a cup of tea and tell Dog her Dad was coming home and make my way through school hour traffic without getting nicked for another speeding fine.

It was all pretty frantic.

He seems happy to be home, although there is a certain lean to his walk that tells me he needs some sleep, and I rather expect that he will slump in his chair tonight after his welcome home dinner, which unlike anything he's downed in the last 2 weeks, contains no chilli at all. He might be awoken by swearing at the tellie as I watch House Rules, because this was my dirty little secret, but whilst he was away it has been promoted to my dirty little obsession - watching it tomorrow or the next day just won't do.

Scents of slow cooked lamb in red wine and lashings of garlic are filling the house and Dog is a waggy tailed crazy girl cos her Dad is home.

All's good at the Big House.

Thursday, 25 May 2017

Old Style Dinner



When I was married - just a girl, we had a house with not much furniture and plenty of room and the thickest 70s shag pile carpet you have ever seen, courtesy of one of Dad's friends as a very flash wedding present. Ahhh. Bloody impractical of course, especially when you add in a naughty dog and a blind cat and 2 people not much fond of housework. It was a social place and a there was a core group of friends who were regular visitors. Lot of drinks and meals were consumed, but nobody had any money so food pickings were slim and the wine came in flagons, which then became planters. Ahh the 80s.

There were a number of recipes that became staples like Tuna Mornay which we all had a go at, deciding that the addition of a little horseradish was the piece de resistence. I think there was a can of tuna and a packet of cheap pasta and some milk and maybe a packet of french onion soup, but I could have just made that up. I think there was cheese on the top and then the whole thing was thrown in the oven while copious amounts of booze was downed and consequently any old shit would have tasted OK. This one pot wonder could be expanded to feed the many, Jesus would have been proud.

Occasionally, though if it was just him and me, and there was any money left in the cigar box at the end of the fortnight, I'd splurge on a can of asparagus and make a deluxe quiche. I don't know why asparagus was so expensive but it was, and still is so it seems, cos I am gonna step back in time today and make a quiche for my supper.

Since then it's been possible to buy fresh asparagus and that's what I have done. When in season, it's about my very favourite vegetable - versatile and tasty and somewhere in the back of my mind, even when it has only cost a few pennies cos it was growing like a grass weed and the farmers are pleased to get rid of it, even then I reckon it is a special treat. But today I didn't even look for a fresh bunch, I went straight for the can.

But now, before I start, I am trying to recall the recipe. I have a sheet of puff pastry, but think it should be short crust - never mind. Oh Well. And I have eggs and cream though maybe not enough. Oh Well and my can of asparagus and some pancetta instead of bacon - should be an OK substitute. and I think that's all there is to it. Blind bake the pastry then fill it up and bake it til it's cooked.

Fingers crossed it's OK, but if it's not then I reckon I can pick out the green stuff and feed it to Dog.

Wednesday, 24 May 2017

TV Round Up.

Any Aussies watching this show? Am I the only one who is shouting shit at these 2? Yeh I can see the dust too.


My Name is Sue and I am a TV tragic.

I will watch any old sort of shit, and if it is really shit shit shit, I will play channel shuffle and watch 2 or 3 or more lots of shit at once. Yeh I am an addict. I can't imagine a day when I don't have the box on. I speak to the characters and shout abuse at the ones I don't like. I rouse at news reports and reporting and loathe it when shit goes down on the tellie which is just too fantastic to be real, but is presented as absolutely authentic, cos I do hate it when the TV assumes I am some sort of dickhead. How very fucking dare that machine treat me like a fuckwit?

So I am about over the cooking shit shows cos they just make me feel lazy, which I am, and a shit cook which I am not always. I record Masterchef and whip right through it to the end to see the final dish and see who goes home. I am over all the pseudo tension build up of ooopies and mistakes or the fake confidences which are almost always followed by failures of biblical proportions, after all, pride cometh before a fall.

But I am still hooked on Survivor even after all these years and while I watch the recorded programmes so I can skip through the ads, I watch every conversation and spend time trying to work out what is gonna happen, and I like to watch it in a very timely fashion cos I like the tension of wondering, not the knowing cos I saw who was voted out on social media.

And I am embarrassed to admit this, but I have been reeled into HOUSE RULES, this season. Of course it is all bullshit. The people do about fuck all I reckon, oh they might slap around a little paint, and I believe that they do go to shops and buy stuff and then they carry some of it into the house and pop it into place. I don't believe that these people have been living in the houses. I believe that someone in TV land found the houses and made up a story and found some unemployed, or maybe unemployable folk who fancy getting their faces on the tellie for a couple of months. I believe that the directors and writers position the viewers to have sympathy for or love or hate the supposed renovators. Let's face it there has to always be a villain to keep us interested, so lines are written and rehearsed and delivered and edited, and played on the box, and we are encouraged to believe it's all true.

But I don't buy it.

Well except for those dreadful women Fi and Nicole. Yep I have totally bought into their bullshit. And I think it's cos they are old enough to know better. They are old enough to think for themselves. They are old enough to tell the TV people to fuck off when they come up with more and more extreme bullshit, and they are old enough to be able to work out just how they will be coming across on the box. SO as they are presenting as 2 just hateful, bitter, not very bright, bitches, some of it must be pretty close to the mark. I dislike these 2 A LOT, especially the long haired one. Yeh  admit I have been shouting at the tellie. I am wishing them all manner of misadventure. I'd like someone to come along in the dead of night and run a chalk coloured tattoo line right down their faces.

And I wouldn't mind if one of those ridiculous hard hats that they are all wearing was mysteriously filled with cat shit and piss and we could watch it drip down someone's face. There's an idea for the director...just a 'Thank You' will do.

My Name is Sue and yes I am a TV tragic.

Monday, 22 May 2017

Nostalgia.

Grade 1A Morningside SS 1965

Grade 7A Morningside SS 1971


A New Year's idea of mine was to find my old journals and include some of the entries here occasionally, and I reckon it is some sort of result that it has only taken me 5 months to unearth the box. Now I didn't say it was a GOOD result just some sort  and pretty piss poor comes to mind but Ho Hum.

As is often the case I guess, where I thought they were was not where they were, Bugger!, but as I had started I thought I'd have a good rummage around in the 'storage room' - yeh that's where I pop things that have no real home and more than likely should be given away or dumped - 2 big boxes of the grandie's baby toys comes to mind - any takers?

Anyway, I found 'em and I spent a somewhat tortured 6 hours reading a lot of 'em, cos I was quite prolific between 1990 and 2001. 10 years worth of stuff and as it mostly has to do with my girl and me and how we managed her girlhood, it's gonna remain private. I remember when I started writing, I figured that she might like at some point to read it and see if she reconciled the words and her memories and this became very important after I was first diagnosed with cancer in 1992. Any way it is all packed back up again and she can have it when I shuffle off, and read it or not as she sees fit.

But in the same box was some shit from MY childhood.

The school photos just made me smile, and I wonder if people can find me among all those good looking kids. I'll give you a clue - I'm one of the girls.

And as I had a little nostalgic moment I recalled that the old woman used to make our uniforms. For some strange reason in year 5 she decided to make 'em with sleeves. Now puberty must have kicked in early for me, cos that was the year I began an imbalance between front and back and consequently I kept ripping the back of the sleeves. They would rip open if I played sport or danced or even just reached across the desk for a ruler. So the sleeves would rip and she would beat me, so I took to trying to stitch 'em up myself, but in the end there was more cotton stitching thread than fabric, so I wore a hot shitting jumper for most of the year. Ah the things you recall when going through old photos.

And then I found old school report cards.

Precious little shreds of paper, half an A4, folded again, divided into 3 terms. and kept for the whole year. My god I can only imagine the pressure on the teachers to get it right in term 3 cos I guess the 'no cross out' rule was still in play back then.

The comments made me laugh, and some of the maths. They give a percentage score for each subject and then for some strange reason - perhaps to show that the teachers could do some averaging themselves, they'd give an average percentage - but really what would that mean? Averaging Maths and English and Social study scores? Why?

One year I got 94% average and a comment 'Suzanne tends to be careless, and this is what loses her marks.' I mean fucking hell, 94% ain't too bad, how careless could I have been?

In anycase, the comment was probably echoed at home with darling Dad asking why I didn't get 100%

And I found most of my Girl's stuff too. I wondered if her father might have the couple of things that are missing, but if not then they are just gone forever.

And then I wondered why we keep all this shit.

The journals I can sort of justify, but only for my girl, but I bet most of us have old school reports and similar dross. Oh sure it is a pleasant enough way to spend a Sunday afternoon, but apart from that what's the point?

In my journals I was always lamenting the fact that I was too fat and that I was on this diet or going to that gym.

I only wish I was as fat as I thought I was at 40. Ho Hum.

Friday, 19 May 2017

'Don't Tell'



I love an Aussie film. I enjoy the accents and the vernacular and the colour and the settings and I have always been all about looking after the kids, so this movie was a Must See for me.

It starts by saying it is based on a true story, and even though this hit the news the year I transported myself to London for my 7 year sojourn, I do remember some stuff about it.

In 1990, a youngster was sent to boarding school from the family farm cos she was good at sports and within a semester she was a changed girl, begging to be allowed to stop at home. Her mum investigated and found nothing untoward at the school so wanting the best for her daughter, the kid was sent back, where her life became a living hell. No she didn't tell her mother, cos the bastard had told her not to tell.

This piece of filth was raping and 'having a go' at a number of the little girls and when it looked like he was gonna be caught out, he topped himself, gutless fuck, no loss to anyone I reckon.

So that's the background and the movie deals with a legal battle in 2001 with the now woman taking action against the school and the Anglican Church - all the way up to the Arch Bishop who was then THE FUCKING AUSTRALIAN GOVERNOR GENERAL!

I make lots of comments about the Catholic Church, and so I should apologise I guess, cos whilst I make anti Catholic remarks, in my mind I am really making comments about ALL ORGANISED RELIGIONS. - yeh that's any religion where you go to a building and someone is in charge and is telling you what to think and what to do and drawing up a schedule of penalties for not following their rules.

I fucking hate all that!

And it just gets to a point, as it did here in Toowoomba and it certainly is happening in Rome with that disgusting Pell turd, that all manner of appalling, truly abhorrent behaviour is tolerated and covered up in order to save the face of the religion.

Yeh how very NOT FUCKING Godly.

This is an excellent movie. There is fine attention to detail with fashion and cars and locations and the acting draws you in, in an unhurried and raw way.

It is not possible to say I enjoyed it, but I am very glad that I went along to see it, even if my doctor might have preferred not to see the raise in my blood pressure.

Wednesday, 17 May 2017

Chemo Brain V Alzheimers



It's all part of the routine: get up, have tea, down poison, get dressed, play with Dog in the park, go for coffee in the village. With Stevie away the routine continues, except earlier and without his ordering finesse.

Today I fancied breakfast, but I couldn't remember the words - Raisin Toast. So I ordered coffee and then had to mime and play guess the word with Laurence. Luckily she was happy to play.

Me: I want some ahhh, stuff, like, flat, with some sultanas.
Her: Raisin Toast!

There it was a fist pump moment as the order was made. Whew!

What a drag it is being temporarily unable to move a word from your brain to your mouth. If I was teaching, the kids would very soon think I was some sort of lunatic stupid fool. Yeh, see I miss Stevie cos he doesn't judge, he just waits for the words to find their new odd way from brain to tongue. It might be time to see about a new Sat Nav for my brain.

But I am not, at least I don't think I am, suffering from Alzheimers, cos whilst words sometimes go missing, my memory is still well honed.

So when some dick rang the bell this morning and told me he was here to do the tree lopping, I didn't hesitate for a minute. I KNEW I had never organised any such work.

Him: I'm here to do the tree lopping.
Me:   WHAT?
Him: You agreed to us doing some work.
Me:    You're WRONG.

Yeh I was surprised too that I didn't swear at him, but these sort of gypsy / pikey scams were pretty common in London and the arseholes were well known for doing all sorts of vandalism if their game was rudely rumbled so sometimes politeness is an advantage.

What worries me is I wonder how it would be if you were aware that you are sometimes a bit forgetful, and you think there is a chance that you did sign up for this work and you go out and let 'em in, cos you know it's possible, even though you don't recognise 'em at all, and then they smile and show you some dirty bit of an order form which shows an agreement for work for say $400. I reckon you'd be so consumed with trying to remember and feeling stupid that you wouldn't question it too much or look too closely at the order form and perhaps the only bright spot would be that you don't have the cash to hand, although these scammers would no doubt drive you to the ATM, before they buggered off after doing either no work or a shit job.

The Goldie is a city of scammers, but it doesn't have it all to itself, as I said door knocking shit happened all the time in London. But here on the Goldie we have an aging population. Oldies come to retire and put their feet up or stroll on the beaches and typically many minds ebb away with the tide.

This fella this morning probably has some percentage for success. Like maybe he needs to knock on 10 doors to land 1 sucker. Or maybe it's more?

But it wouldn't do anyone any harm to keep an eye out for strangers lobbing in to elderly neighbours' places, just to make sure that as far as we can, we are keeping the bastards honest. It doesn't need to be a full time occupation, but a bit of awareness never hurt.

And if you are having a conversation with an other ordinary looking soul and they go in search of a word, a bit of patience will be appreciated. Now I've got to get back to the .... um .... black...legs...sweet girl.......Ah DOG.

Monday, 15 May 2017

Resemblances?



I do love a bit of sculpture, and this piece at Nobby's Beach always makes me smile.

Can you tell that Stevie and Dog and I were the inspiration?

Well except that Dog is almost never sitting still. She is mostly jumping around like a maniac, or tugging fiercely on the lead, or playing the sand game or shitting or squirting, or saving up her vomit for the back of the car like she did today. EWWWWW! 

She likes to go in Stevie's truck and I reckon she thinks she is slumming it when she has to go in my car, and if I thought she had a vindictive bone in her body, which I don't cos she never shits in my shoes or chews stuff up while I am out, then perhaps I would think she did this on purpose today, but I am pretty sure she found the whole thing appalling and was more than a little disgusted with herself.

But in the long run, let me just say, I'd rather Dog vomit any day over kid or drunk spew. There seems to be no stink and no bile acid immediately eating away at the metallic paint. I spewed out the car window once when I was suffering morning sickness and it really did the paint job no favours whatsoever. Ooops! Front and back doors splattered. Best paint stripper in then world. So the hatch boot has been pulled apart and scrubbed clean and I hope it dries, spit spot.

But back to the sculptures.

Can you see the resemblance between the people and Stevie and me?

Tall skinny athletic running folk. Yep that's me in my wildest dreams. 

However I reckon the only way we would ever look like that is if we were fleeing from danger, Stevie from a giant spider and me from a grasshopper or a bird. Yep, then we might be legging it like these 2 gazelle creatures.

I do like that the fella is looking back slightly, perhaps to see if he needs to kick on a bit to make sure that he wins, cos it wouldn't do his old male ego any good to be beaten by a girl, but if  Stevie and I were the inspiration then he'd be looking back to make sure that I  wasn't lagging too far behind, cos yeh, I am a bloody saddo slow coach.

The beach was beautiful this morning, wide and empty and as ever Piccolo Cafe served up a good coffee which I downed in the sunshine, sans the summer sweat. 

Dog and I both loved our little outing. 

Friday, 12 May 2017

Time to Quit



I am not good at doing what I am not good at. I have always been the same. I am happy to have a go at new stuff, but if I don't cotton on right away, then I will give it a miss. Perhaps it has to do with a fear of public humiliation?

When I was but a wee slip of a girl, I wanted to learn to play squash. I'd sneak off for private lessons on deserted Sunday afternoons, so no-one could see and when I thought I had a handle on the game, I joined a competition team. Sure I buggered up sometimes, sometimes more than sometimes, but mostly I didn't do too badly.

I have somewhat famously thrown a whole meal at a wall in my own kitchen because I buggered it up after cooking all afternoon, but I learnt a lesson and now my pies are legendary - just ask Stevie, but my attempt at making Gozleme was such a disaster that I decided that a repeat performance was never gonna play.

I reckon you just know after one or two shots at something if you are gonna get the hang of it.

And the only way I could possible continue to go at something where failure was the only common denominator would be if I was getting paid huge chunks of wonga, and seriously maybe not even then, because you know - INTEGRITY,  and I know my ego would not allow me to front to work everyday and FAIL.

Surely I am not alone in this?

Fancy fronting to work and being told to mix up a cake batter and then throw it away, never getting the chance to pop it in the oven and actually bake the cake?

How about being told to tot up a column of figures and then forget the total never mind manipulating the figures in some game of beat the tax man scheme?

Or maybe you'd like to slice into someone's guts and stand around looking then just sew 'em back up? Now that sounds like a cancer diagnosis doesn't it? Shit I am very glad that is NOT my job. I reckon Doctors who do this must drink heavily or down happy pills or go for fun runs twice a day.

And how would any normal person manage being told to dig a hole, have a look, then fill it in again and then be told to come back tomorrow to do exactly the same thing again?

How many times do you reckon you would do this before the straw broke the camel?

If you are getting paid and need to make rent and have children to feed I guess you can suck it up for quite a while, weeks maybe? But surely unless you are some sort gormless fool who can't find their arse with both hands and a torch, or a masochist who enjoys feeling completely inept and impotent, or you are some vile subversive creature looking to bring down a whole country by exploiting Work Place Agreements, or you are just the laziest useless piece of shit waste of air standing incredulous that you even have a job, well then surely you'd SAY something, DO something, ANYTHING to get the job done.

The Main Roads Department has been responsible for digging up our suburban corner more than 23 times. Yeh there are the usual services which need to be tickled for the road works - power, communications, water, gas, but still I wondered if there had been some huge problem which had slowed the work. Perhaps the Chinese are digging from the other side and want to send in Whale ships to help Japan - ridiculous I know I am just being silly.

I asked The District Director, who has gone missing, only to be replaced by an Acting fella, who is too lazy or incompetent to write his own emails so has hand-balled that job off to someone else with no title, yeh I asked what problems they had faced on this corner. Surely there must be a massive complication, an intriguing puzzle never before seen or solved, but no the no title, fill in for the fill in, said,
'There have been no delays or additional requirements....When dealing with public utilities such as gas, water, electricity and data cables, contractors must take utmost care.....blah blah blah'

These people are being paid for 11 hour shifts and large herds of 'em have been sucking from the the public purse trough on this corner more than 23 times, and that's not because there has been any problems, it's because they are being 'careful'.

23 times - dig it up, have a look, fill it up, dig it up, have a look, fill it up, every time using a machine chucking out 100 Db in contravention of EPA guidelines. I reckon with a staff of say 15 people a shift, paying penalty rates cos of Night Works, the wage bill alone is in the range of $190,000! To dig a hole and move 4 or 5 services!  Of course if we added in the cost of the 'supervising' bosses' wages we might find ourselves throwing up into a bucket, or a hole somewhere, out of sheer incredulity. Yeh I know where there is a good one.

That's one fucking expensive hole huh? Aren't we all thrilled that this is how our tax money is spent?

And you know what? The job is still not done, so keep that abacus handy.

Wednesday, 10 May 2017

All Hale the Cool


Yippee to closing the door on the summer heat.

Yep it's time to dig out something a little fluffy and to snuggle up.

But it's not like we have to stuff a cupboard with supplies and hibernate for the winter. Nope. Not here at the Goldie. Here it's still thongs and shorts and walks at the beach, paddling and playing the 'Sand Game' with Dog during the day and donning a pair of less than sexy socks and a layer or two at night.

In London I had a rule that I'd wear sandals until the last holidays before winter just in an effort to extend the summer and this sometimes meant bare toes in the snow. Some people saw this as a little odd. My expectations then were different. 10 degrees C was considered positively balmy, and now I reckon 10 degrees is just a little chilly.

Sandals were finally swapped for boots and I had quite the range. Flat, low, high, cheap, stupid expensive and in about every colour, but you know what, even though I whinge about the heat here and I reminisce fondly about the long cold grey winter months, I don't fancy wearing boots anymore. I am not at all sure I'd be able to squash my feet into 'em after all these years of thongs and bare feet.

So no boots, but scarfs and wraps and little blankets over knees at night. Bloody bliss.

And loads of slow cooked dinners with scrummy sauces and loads of veg.

And closed windows to keep the bloody road works noise out.

Shorter days and pale blue skies, well except for today cos it's raining and I like the grey closed in rainy skies too.

From this vantage I cannot recall ever whining about the long cold wet winters in London, but it must have worn a bit thin, cos a number of the paintings we have hanging were chosen in a bid to eliminate the gloom.

We were driving home one Sunday with the top down and we stumbled across an art show out in the boondocks countryside somewhere and we popped in and fell for a couple of wildly bright paintings, I said to Stevie that if we hung these in the house we'd never notice the blahs of winter. So we paid for 'em and then faced the very real problem of fitting them into the back seat of the car, and then yep, you guessed it, it started to rain. I can't remember HOW we got 'em home but I'm glad we did, cos even here on the other side of the world they brighten things up.



Boredom must consume folk who live in places with no seasonal variety. 

I just don't even want to imagine it.



Monday, 8 May 2017

Poaching

Good Old Uncle Toby's Oats is the piece de resistance.


It is no secret that Sundays are bath days. This is not to say that for the rest of the week I just get about progressively more stinky from one day to the next and waft powder into my hair whilst sticking snuff shit up by nose - no I am not gonna make a comment about all those cocaine losers over the weekend. No during the week I just throw myself through the shower, which is a perfunctory task and brings very little joy - not none but not much. So on Sundays I slide into a bath, yes, sometimes for hours at a time.

Stevie has always spoiled me with all manner of bath stuff, smelly stuff that is sometimes so cloying and lovely that I can still smell it in the bathroom on Wednesday. AHHH just lovely.

I like a deep hot soak with millions of bubbles and I light a candle for extra pong. I load up with my Kindle and sometimes a glass of stuff and maybe some sweeties or some cheese. People could be forgiven for thinking that I was actually moving into the bathroom, never to return.

But recently some of the joy has been lost.

The Poison Meds are playing havoc with lots of parts of me and also of course killing off the mutants. On an ordinary day I might have 3 or 4 side effects not really worth banging on about, sometimes I have to call an ambo cos I am crying with fucking hip pain. But generally I am pretty good - Stevie might beg to differ.

But the constant thing is that my skin is a bloody desert disaster. I have been downing antihistamines since the beginning of this little adventure cos I broke out in very attractive rashes and old gal acne, and the little orange pills stop me from scratching the be-shitter out of everywhwere, and I do mean EVERYWHERE. But ultimately, there are still occasional little upsets and my skin all over has taken on that crepey crappy thin scaley look and little bits flake off into the breeze. Yeh Hansel and Gretel would have been pleased for the help, when they ran out of breadcrumbs.

So hours in a decadent chemically scented hot as Hades tub, is more than a little counter effective in treating the scale and the scratch.

Yesterday I poached in lashings of coconut oil and oatmeal.

2 heaped tablespoons of solid coconut oil - 4 I guess if it is melted, and a cup of oats stuffed into a sock held closed with a hair tie, all shoved into the bath, and in you slide. Slide is seriously what you do, so unless you want a real reason to call the Ambos cos you broke your bum bone or something else - so do be careful.

The water can't be 'Frog Jump Out' hot but it's still pretty relaxing. The candle was on and the kindle was charged and soak away I did. Not for a marathon - Stevie was surprised when I re-entered the world before my usual time, but today, I have not been scratching up a storm, so maybe a final change was necessary.

I have been slopping on the coconut oil on and off for a year, but I haven't really wanted to say goodbye to my divine Sundays with all the gorgeous potions. However it seems like it might be necessary. Bugger.

I sidled up to Stevie to give him a whiff of my new bath perfume and he said I smelt like soap. I guess that's better than stinking of stale sweat. I thought I smelt like an old fashioned bakery. Tomatoes V Tomatoes

Sunday, 7 May 2017

Bastards.


This is our street corner after 21 'GOS'

The Footpath here is not as smooth as this photos implies.

They are now chucking random bits of ply wood over the holes.


This is the year of the Battle with the Bastards, and after yesterday's post about Rocky 4, I rather like the idea of being able to give these areswipes' noses a bit of a tickle.

I thought things had calmed down and rather hopefully or naively or stupidly, guessed that we might have even had a little win, but NO, TMR has started up again! Friday night at 11.45 PM - yeh that's right, at a quarter to the witching hour they parked up their fucking Vacumm Excavation truck and dug another hole in the footpath. Of course they could have done this work during the DAY and of course they could have used a person with a shovel, but why let some consideration for the health and well being of the locals get in the way of being total fucking bastards?

This followed on from, or might have been because of - depending on the degree of paranoia you permit, an email I sent last week asking what trouble or problem they were having. In an idle moment I sat and counted back in my diarised notes and found that these fuckwits have dug up the corner of my street 21 - yep TWENTY-ONE times, and still they have not finished. And 21 times is a conservative count cos I am sure I have missed recording some of the attempts when I was just too tired to lift a pen, and I was away for a while too.

So they dig it up, have a look and a little shoulder shrug, and fill it up again. By the looks of the mess they have left this time, they are not bothering too much with the filling up and if this is their effort at 'making good' the footpath, I await news of a law suit filed by an old person less fleet of foot, who has gone for a tumble.



The District Director of TMR has been replaced by another job's worth who is now Acting District Director, and the cynic in me wonders if this is just more of a ploy to hinder any honest forthright dialogue with this appalling government department. He sent back a shitful stupid response but finished off saying that this work is going to go on until late 2017. Hmmm. It was meant to be September and then that stretched to October, but that is clearly no longer the end date. Just more shit for longer! Yeh I know all government departments are all the same, but I only really have experience with this lot, unless you count the police department, which it seems is run by TMR anyway.

So the new fella sprouted the same old shit the other fella started with 5 months ago.

The merry-go-round is making me nauseous, nauseous but not surprised. Ho Hum

The Bulletin Newspaper has been following up and is now looking into the methods and the obscene waste of tax payer money, and I think they might also be having a little look see at what role the police play in this very sleazy wee dance. I am still waiting to hear if the police are going to continue to pursue the infringement notice they issued me on the first of March, for 'Walking too slowly across the road'. I guess it will depend on just how much TMR wants the $48 fine. I do wonder how long it takes to make a decision about this - perhaps as long as it takes TMR to relocate a few services in a suburban street?

Stevie is getting nervous cos if they are starting up again I might head out and get myself arrested while he is away. He hopes that if I go out there I will take Dog cos the coppers might be less keen to chuck a dog in the paddy wagon. I wonder what the procedure will be if no-one is available to take delivery of me.

I must remember to tuck a credit card up my whatsit just in case huh?




Saturday, 6 May 2017

I am a slow starter.

It's a bit obscure but this is a clue about the movie watching today.


Saturdays are self indulgent quiet affairs here in the Big House. Stevie heads off to do battle with the little white ball and I please myself.

Except that today the ironing basket was hollering at me and because sometimes there is just no escaping it, I sucked it up and set up for my most loathed pass time.

The only half decent thing about ironing shit is that I can catch up on rubbish TV.

Over the last few weeks I have fallen upon a bit of Rocky action as I played the Tellie shuffle, while lounging the afternoon away on the couch, and there it was again today.

Somehow I have never seen any of these movies all the way through, so I settled in to have a look see. The clothes were all hanging and looking good, so I had my computer on my lap and was reading stuff and playing some cards, and shoveling in food and drink,  but mostly I suspended disbelief and grunted with each punch, and hid behind my hands and just so didn't enjoy all that brutality.

I can't or rather will not, watch boxing on the tellie and would just never go to a bout live cos well, just yukky no, so I am not sure what I expected really, cos god knows the possibility of a Stallone Oscar winning performance was pretty small.

But I will say that those fellas were definitely FIT. Or maybe they were enhanced? I don't now and I suppose it is all so long ago that no-one would care now anyway.

And as I rather doubt that Mr Stallone or the Mr Lundgren - Russian Giant, would have been experts at pulling their punches, some of that action really must have hurt like hell. Yeh of course the blood and guts would have been applied but it looked pretty real to me. Blood and spit flying is not pretty.

I don't know if there is a Rocky 5 or 6 or 11, but I rather think that I have seen enough. Spoiler alert! I was surprised that the first fight today finished in a funeral, but the final outcome was no surprise, so I am tempted to think that if you have seen one of these movies, you might well have seen 'em all.

Have you seen all these movies?
Would you sit through a Rocky Marathon?

Thursday, 4 May 2017

When is child abuse funny?


There has been this You tube story rattling along this week about some shitful American couple who blended their families to become anything BUT the Brady Bunch. I don't even know how they did it, or more importantly WHY they did it but they set up a You Tube channel and put up videos of them abusing their blended 5 children.

Well I'll be fucked! and not just because such people do such dreadful things but because they managed to find 75000 similarly flawed fuckers to subscribe to their channel and at last reporting they were raking in $350000 a year from this disgusting little venture.

I looked at a montage vid before the details came to light, and to my untrained eye, there did not seem to be too much joking going on. Taunting and sadness and frustration and physical abuse. I willed it to stop. I was lucky cos I could turn it off. But what of the kids?

I read today the the birth mother of the 2 smallest kids has taken them back and there is an odd explanation for how she gave 'em up in the first place, but ho hum - shoes and walking a mile comes to mind. But the other 3 belong to the woman in the filming family so I guess they are stuck and as the targets of most of the abuse are now out of the house, I guess they might all be watching their backs hoping that they are not next.

And so all this is appalling, of course. But how come it went on for so long?

I don't know anything about You Tube except that occasionally there are very funny vids of monkeys throwing their own shit at grandma, and as I was not the Ma in focus, I laughed up a lung. But I reckon that there must be some content filter which edits out some stuff - naked romping with animals maybe? or overt violence maybe? or rape scenes? I fucking hope so, cos this is available to EVERYONE, yeh kids and all!

So my question, on a par with what the very fuck is wrong with those parents, is how is it that these violent degrading videos of children  are permitted to be aired on a free for all site and for such a lengthy period?

How are filters applied? I am not at all tech savvy so perhaps there is a programme which can be used to pick up this footage, or maybe the computer just cottons on to milliseconds of too much nakidity. I really don't know. But if, as I imagine, PEOPLE are in charge of the filters, then what the fuck was wrong with the people who looked at this shit and thought, ' Oh Well, it's harmless cos the parents are filming it all - must be crocodile tears from the kids, let it run.'

I would be very pleased if anyone who knows about You Tube Filtering could explain it to me.

PLEASE.