Friday, 18 August 2017

Nurses - Bloody Marvels!

Just at the back of Dog you can see my pillow and blow up bed. My arm fits between the slats for a middle of the night cuddle - not very nursey  of me but the best I can do.

Yep if there was any doubt about it before there sure as shit is none now, I could not be a nurse.

I'd just wander around the ward crying and being a big dick as I tried to ease the suffering of the sick folk or I'd be pissed off and abusive towards the demanding less sick folk with undue senses of entitlement.

Nurses are efficient in their care. They notice every little thing and because of their knowledge and training and experience, they are aware of even subtle changes in a patient's condition and so act on these changes promptly and confidently. Bloody good on 'em. They know stuff and can do stuff and do do stuff that I can only imagine, unless I am watching a hospital type bit of tellie, then I can give thought to how do they do all that work in those tight uniforms and doesn't all that hairspray fall into open wounds as they re-bandage stuff, but that's only on the tellie, cos Real Life Nurses are wonderful.

Dog is being shortchanged having me as her night nurse. Oh sure in an un-nursey way I am sleeping on the floor next to her from where I can hear every little movement and moan and snore or snort. 13 times last nmight so my fitty bitty tells me. Yeh I borrowed an air bed from my girl, I mean I am not completely nuts and we have concrete floors and I am a person! but that's where my nurseyness ends.

I figure she must be thirsty and she will lick a bit of water off my fingers, but she does this only under sufferance, and she must certainly be in pain - that I can easily understand, so I am not pushing hard for her to stand up and get going like a nurse might do. I am just cooing to her and trying to be kind, but I realise that KIND might well not be the best medicine but it's all I can manage, that and fixing her some lovely yoghurt and popping a bit of chicken stock in her water bowl. Yeh I am just making shit up.

I've been in hospital more times than I care to recall and none of it has been a picnic. When I was delivered of my first new knee, and things all went a little haywire with blisters the size of my head and a migraine that made me want to call it a day, one of the nurses was so so kind, that I must have fallen a little in love with her. When I got home and I could hobble a bit, I raced out and got her this enormous Villeroy and Boch spoon bowl thing. Mary Poppins singing 'A spoon full of sugar' drove me to this.  It was a ridiculously drug driven, over the top gesture, and when I delivered it to her some 6 weeks later, when I walked in under my own steam, clear headed and cynically normal,  I was embarrassed and so was she and I did a runner cos this pressie was a sign of being a bit nutty. I guess nurses might be used to patients returning with a little thank you box of Cadbury Roses for everyone to share - at least I like to think that patients offer something in appreciation of their nursing. In any case I hope she kept it and maybe smiles when she uses it, but perhaps more likely she left it in the ward kitchen and some daft cow planted a bit of something in it that has since died.

I liked hers so much that later I went and bought one for myself.

However, there can be no doubt that Nursing is a vocation, and like teaching, if it is not a calling then the work must be horrendous. And I don't mean that looking after Dog is terrible and I hate it, but it's my dirty little secret, I am counting the days til I am back upstairs in my own bed, and she is drinking on her own and hopefully eating a little something that is good for her.  

I can only have a lame stab at being the type of wonderful that is a Nurse.

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

Dancing Lessons

I wonder if you can imagine this space filled all the way around with a circle of pairs dancing. Sometimes there were so many people there that there needed to be 2 circles. It was a marvellous place.

I was surprised and delighted yesterday when my Darling Boy arrived home from school with a wee stolen flower for his Mum and when he slid it behind her ear I was filled with all the joys of spring. It was such an oldie worldie thing to do. Ahhh

And then he told me about the boy - girl dance classes they were having at school and I was transported back to a simpler time, when on a Friday evening a little herd of us would make the long trek from Wynnum up to the Big Smoke, Brisvegas to dance up a storm at the now long gone iconic CLOUDLAND. 

Yeh there was the usual jumping around and flinging of arms and long permed hair, type of dancing but there was also the Progressive ballroom type of dancing where you'd waltz around or Pride of Erin about and get a look at all the fellas there. Yep it was a different time. A time of innocence - Shit I am starting to sound like a Simon and Garfunkel tune. There wasn't a fear of being slipped a ruffie or an E tab and it was not a place for drunken louts. People just came to dance and maybe meet up with someone interesting. I never met anyone I wanted to see again, but I sure as shit loved that twirling all around the cavernous hall.

My Grandie said that some of the boys were being idiots cos of 'girl germs' but that he was enjoying it. 

Then I told him a yarn about how much many people enjoy a fella who can dance. And I told him that my lovely Dad taught me to dance the old style jig and that dancing with a fella who knew what he was doing was one of the highlights of my dating life.

I was at a dinner dance at the Gabba Cricket Grounds - no not out on the pitch, but in a huge function room which may or may not still be there. It was a very formal 'DO', Black Tie and long frock and high heels, and coiffured hair.  I don't remember my date's name, but I sure do remember being dressed to the nines and having him dance me all around the floor. As soon as I trusted that he knew what he was doing, and I allowed him to lead, the dancing was just bloody marvellous. Yeh I knew what I was doing, courtesy of my Dad, but that would have been of no use whatsoever if he hadn't had a clue. I put aside my 'I'll do it myself ' persona and let him be in charge, and even though I don't remember his name I can remember how good it felt to float all about the dance floor. Yeh I do love a bit of a dance.

Yesterday, I was quite taken with the idea that amid the computers and the social media storms and all the modern technology, there is still space for simple things like old fashioned dancing.

Ah just lovely.

And then he told me of the fun he was having in another class - maybe PE or maybe Drama or Dance who knows, where they are choreographing a modern abstract dance performance and when he demonstrated a bit of the CRAB dance, well let's just say I laughed up a lung and was pleased I was already seated. I am hoping that there is not much similarity between this Crabbing and his waltzing but the balancing of it all makes me smile.

Monday, 14 August 2017


This is today.. not bad. Some other days' results are pretty rubbish.

Spring has definitely sprung.

I popped off to the beach today to 'get in some steps' and it was warm. I popped on my silly hat and resolved not to be out at lunchtime for very much longer. The beach yomping has got to be a morning pass time as summer threatens. The water was not even the tiniest bit chilly and there were folk frolicking and fishing and yomping like me.

Out a ways passed the wave breaks was that big old shippy boaty thing that is sucking up the sand from out there and dumping it via a long boom closer in. This is quite the expensive process and I suppose it is working, but I would hardly be qualified to know. What I can say is that the sand in the wavey area where I was paddling, which is usually the 'hard sand' and therefore the best sand to walk on, especially for lazy cows like me, was not even close to 'hard' today. Nope it was sloppy and so getting my steps in was like wading through non-sticky mud. I reckon the number of steps my fitty bitty counted should have been doubled cos it was seriously hard slogging and then the steep profile of the beach, back up to the park was the final killer. I reckoned I was looking like a heart attack victim, by the time I reached the concrete path, and I can tell you I was very pleased for more than the obvious reason when my bum hit the loo.

The Fit Bit has pointed out just what a sedentary lazy tart I am. The theory is that we are all supposed to walk 10000 steps a day and I have not made that, not even once, not even on my busiest day, and some days when the tireds have slapped me around I have done very many fewer.

But it does lead me to be a bit competitive - not with anyone else, just me, and so I like to be able to tally up 300 minutes of active walking a week. Sometimes that is not easy to fit in. But a goal is a goal. Nah I am not smacking myself around too much if I fail - yeh that has happened, but it is helpful to have a record of achievement.

The walking along the beach is my favourite place, but I reckon I might have to go in search of some of that hard sand, cos as the sun is setting my legs are aching more than  my minutes of walking would indicate. Ho hum.

Saturday, 12 August 2017

Cruciate Disease

Bugger! Yep my lovely girl is broken. This Cruciate ripping is most common in dogs between 6 and 8 years old, so she should have been in the clear, but sadly that's not her story.

So after a week or maybe 2 of limping around, like I was doing before I got me some new knees, all the while, slurping up serious pain meds to no avail - her not me, it was finally off to the Vet.

He had a good fiddle - don't be rude, and gave us the verdict we had been trying very hard to ignore. We had all but convinced ourselves that the problem was the quality of the pain meds we bought online, instead of the stuff from the Vets because it was just so much cheaper. Steve was ready to have it tested to see what was in it. Yep we wanted to blame something, anything.

But it seems pretty clear that by just being herself, her leg has failed. Bugger indeed!

Next Thursday will be the start of a new life for our girl.

The operation fills me with an appalling deja vu. And I am aware that she will be in terrible pain afterwards. We need to get out heads around how we are gonna manage post surgery, because at the moment she is self moderating, well as much as a running chasing anything and everything dog can be. But after the surgery we are gonna have to set the rules and the limits and I am pretty sure that the willfulness of her is gonna prove to be problematic.

Mark the Vet, said she should be confined in a tiny room, and that would mean the downstairs bathroom, but I just can't see isolating her from her family. She would not do well not being where we are. We see that she needs to be contained and so we are gonna try to tether her to the dining table so she can be with us. Her bed can be right there too and her water and food bowl. Mark the Vet said we will need to put her on the lead to take her out for pees and poos, which she will not like cos you, know she's almost human and does enjoy a modicum of privacy when shitting.

But the biggest problem will be when we disappear up to bed. 

She will not be best pleased to be left on her own downstairs, but even if we managed to carry her up to bed - a squirming 28 kgs would be a challenge,  I couldn't trust that she will stay there. I can already hear her running down the stairs to chase a whatever, in the park. It might be that the couch will call us for a while anyway.

She will of course be sedated for the first little while, but as her leg improves, so too will her determination strengthen. She is a willful, strong minded, single minded, too often bloody minded Dog. Don't know where she learnt all that.  6 weeks of sedate, in house slothing about, will be a struggle for all of us.

I hope she forgives us. 

Wednesday, 9 August 2017


Do you know what? I can't see any reason at all why people get married. There, I said it out loud, well at least in this sized font.

Oh sure I got married once back in the dim dark ages. I chose to and so I did it. Certainly not for any religious reasons, even though it all happened in a church, with Father Fred waving about incense and blessing the rings and all that and people singing hymns and kneeling, all the while I was wondering if my, soon to be Father-in- law was gonna pull out a riffle and shoot me dead, and if my nearly husband had remembered to take the price stickers off his new shoes.

Yep it was all an excellent excuse to get on the piss and here's the real reason why I bothered, it was the only way my father would have countenanced me moving in with a fella. I was a child bride, only 19, and I couldn't see any other way of playing house, so I donned the white frock and the Ophelia headdress and trotted on down that aisle.

But well it didn't work out, and who could say they are surprised about that? 19 years old for fuck sake! Wilful and  naive. Perhaps the government should just stick it's fucking nose in there and say NO to any marriage if the participants are younger than say, 25 or have an IQ less than their shoe size, or if there is a family history of instability and divorce, or if the folk are too fat of too thin or too ugly or if there is inequality in the attractive quotient.

Or maybe the government should just butt the fuck out of marriage altogether.

I just don't see how the fuck it is anybody's business if 2 people want to get married. Oh sure I wonder why they bother, but am happy that there are lots of strange and bizarre reasons that push folk into the wearing of the rings. Yeh it's hopefully a more considered choice than white or dark chocolate but still, shouldn't it be a choice open to us all?

And how the fuck does someone else's marriage impact on anyone else, unless it's the bunny boiler crazy cow who wants to slice up the white dress and replace the bride's face with her own, or maybe there is some financial cut throat thing going on between the 4th spouse and the children from the second marriage, but all up, it impacts on ME, not at all, not one tiny teeny weeny bit. I just don't give a shit.

Oh sure I like to be invited and weddings are usually good for a bit of a knees up and a glass of bubbles, so don't think I want to ban 'em, just cos I don't really get it. Go your hardest I reckon, so long as everyone can go at it. And nah, I don't care if you marry a man or a woman or two men and and an elephant. If you fancy splitting up all your stuff with whoever if things don't work out, go for it - yeh Ok that's cynical even for me, but you get the idea.

I just don't get why Gay Marriage is such a divisive subject. And everyone has an opinion, but the loudest shouting is coming from the people who are against it and I just don't see how they figure it's their business. How can what a couple of fellas, or a couple of gals, who these objectors have never met, how can what these folk do impact on the objectors at all?  Perhaps it'd be different if Gay Marriages went hand in hand with painting your house bilious yellow or any rainbow combo - nah it wouldn't, it just wouldn't matter at all. I just wonder what the objectors' are fearful of? I wonder how they think that a lawful agreement between 2 people they don't know, is gonna impact on them.

I am easily irritated. Bully car drivers, arrogant doctors, useless waste of space road workers, and now politicians who just refuse to say what they think and where they stand on a very simple issue.

I have asked my Federal member Steven Ciobo directly 3 times where he stands and the political mumbo jumbo`replies just gives me the shits. The latest is he reckons he 'will honour the views of his electorate' but so far he is not forthcoming with how he is gathering that information and what that view is and what he's gonna do if that view is contrary to the Party line. All just political spin for 'mind your own fucking business'. Oh Dear! How much is this sort of representation costing us?

How much is this whole unnecessary tooing and froing costing us? I liked Magda Szubanski suggestion that we just take all the cash funding this debate and roll it right over to Aged Care and make the semantic adjustment and get on with things.

All this horse shit just makes Australians look like idiots.

Come on Canberra, pull your fucking finger out.

Monday, 7 August 2017

Admissions of a TV addict.

So while I wait and wait and wait til WILL AND GRACE is back on the tellie in September, I have been diving in to the era of the Reality, and again I am thankful for the recording part of my Fetch TV box. Yep that's what Optus supply to folk because their internet is so appalling that they need to get punters addicted to some other part of the deal so they don't kick off too much about an internet speed of less than 5 when much much fucking much faster is possible from Telstra. But the Fetch Box does allow us to record stuff and then watch it on speed dial - no ads and no repetition for idiots - you know 'Coming up.....and then after the ads a recap of what you have just watched twice! I reckon the directors of modern Reality shows must look at regular punters with utter disdain, cos they clearly reckon we have an attention span of less than 5 minutes and a short term memory span less effective than a gold fish. Or maybe they are on such a tight budget that they have had to work out ways to make 10 minutes of footage elastic enough to fill an hour slot.

Marco going off like a rocket in his little kitchen, plays while we have dinner,  while we record The Block, (although truthfully we only get interested in the 'grand reveals') and Australian Survivor - this one is my favourite. I have been watching this game on the tellie since it started, all those years ago. I like it cos very often stuff happens that is difficult to predict.

And I am happy to say that that Bachelor show where the women wear other people's clothes with the swing tags tucked in so they can be returned for a full refund, and they bitch about each other and the nastiest cow gets the most air time, and some bloke has all the power, is not on the radar. No judgement if you are watching, I just don't get it.

But we stumbled across 'The Good Fight' Wed 8.30pm SBS. This is a spin off from 'The Good Wife' which I thoroughly enjoyed. And after the first 2 episodes, I am hooked again. There's some of the old cast and the legal stuff continues. If you liked The Good Wife you might like to give this one a go.

And of course then there is my dirty little secret, 'Suits' which I record and watch on the sly cos Stevie is just not interested. I must admit though that as the Optus internet is becoming more and more inconsistent, I have missed the last 2 episodes - well parts of 'em anyway. And the skip and jump and now you see it and now you don't, recordings have beaten my patience. All the while Optus tell me that I should be thankful for the 'service' they provide - well that we pay for, cos well it's excellent! Just ask the person at the call centre in fuck knows where.

In any case when the tellie is behaving there is stuff showing that I am finding entertaining.

How about you? Have you signed up for Stan or Netflix or some other Pay TV?

Friday, 4 August 2017

Warts and all

Just say, 'Thank you' to the sock.

Well if you are a regular to this little page you will know that I have been having treatment for an irritating little virus burrowing into my foot, cos I wrote about it and it is possible that it was that post that Neil Scales the Director General of the Queensland Department of Transport and Main Roads wasn't much fond of cos he used something on the blog as a excuse to cancel my meeting this week. "Your appointment has been cancelled because Mr Scales didn't like something he read on your blog"

Well I'll be fucked. Who'd have thunk it? An older fella, slurping lavishly from the public trough has time to trawl the internet and just stumbled across my little page...Oh I know...he's probably some paranoid fella who has a minion or 10 to do the trawling, but I suppose once hooked on their line, he might have had a wee peek at it himself. In any case it all just boosts my readership so I say 'Welcome TMR, and if you fancy leaving a comment go your hardest.'

But I digress.

When Dr Jane was burning and scraping she did notice the general state of my feet. She might have said something like, 'disgusting', and then cos she's efficient and all, she made an appointment with the podiatrist at the clinic.

I have never been to a Podiatrist.

Sure I have have had plenty of not into mani/pedis cos I like to do my own fingernails, but toes and corns and heel rot, well someone else is welcome to have a go at that.

I got a fungus in one of my big toenails once and because it spread to the other one when it was almost gone - tenacious little mushroom huh? it has been more than 2 years - yep 2 YEARS since I have painted my toenails, and in that time I have been trimming my own nails and using a blade to scrape off unwanted hard bits. But in truth I am not very thorough in the cutting or the scraping and my feet have gone down hill whilst I have been doing 'em.

So as I headed off yesterday morning, I said to Stevie that I was expecting to come home with pretty feet and that it would be a pleasant scent filled place with low lighting like a spa. Yeh NO.

He was chipper enough until I coped to the idea that I was expecting him to blade off dead skin and trim my nails. 'If you want a pedicure go the Chinese'. I think I might have offended him, so I settled back and let him do his investigations of pulse rates and flexibility - all good thanks for asking, and then he trimmed my nails - not as well as I do myself and then because he finally cracked onto the fact that I can't use chemical stuff cos of the meds and skin reaction mess, well then he had to have a go with a blade. He scraped away some dead stuff and even though he kept me waiting 15 minutes he needed to make up some time and didn't think it was right to keep someone else waiting while he scraped shit off my feet - maybe he had a point, he made another appointment to finish off and shoved me out the door, but not before he presented me with the tray filled with dead skin shavings. Pedicurists don't show you that shit! They just subtly sweep it out of the way and sooth you with a bit of a foot massage, ahhh. So I believed him when he said 'Podiatrists and not pedicurists'

And because my health insurance saw me walk out without his hand in my purse, I'll go back and let him finish up.

Stevie roared laughing at my disappointment.

Who has been to a Podiatrist?
What's the difference between a Podiatrist and a Chiropodist?
What could a greenie do with all that scraped dead skin?

Monday, 31 July 2017


1. A state of disorder due to absence or non-recognition of authority.
2. Absence of government and absolute freedom of the individual, regarded as a political ideal.

It should shock no-one who visits here, that I am not much fond of authority, and I have long believed that the government should just butt out of just about everything. Until very recently I thought they should only be involved in protecting the country from external invasion and maybe funding the police to keep murder from becoming every day like coffee and high sugar content sweets. Now I am not so sure about the police, so perhaps just the military then? Yeh I haven't got a fully fledged manifesto, just some random ideas.

I walked along the beach at the Spit yesterday with Dog. It was just bloody lovely. She shat twice and twice I bent over double to collect it up like her good human, not because it's the law but because I am a decent human being,  and then we romped into the surf a bit more. The dogs were all friendly and the people greeted each other with loud, Howdies and all was very fine. I reckon just about everyone there had brought their fur babies with 'em, and whilst it wasn't crowded like it sometimes is in the Summer, it was a bit hectic. But there were no tell tale piles of dog shit. Maybe the rules forced people to collect the turds and maybe it was just because they too were decent human beings, although when I recall the fully loaded nappies - yeh 2 of the stinkers thrown willy nilly near the bins in the park on Saturday, I wonder about general decency - collecting Dog shit is a necessity, but smearing the world with kids shit, well, maybe they thought they were doing us all a favour by sharing their bundle of joy's leftovers.
No rules would mean that we dog folk could spread out, after all there is something like 50 kms of beach here at the Goldie - plenty of room for us all, and those fuckers with the nappies could continue to be pigs, goose and gander.

And then I guess if there are no rules about beach useage, I couldn't whinge about old saggy balled blokes and pert boobed gals getting their gear off, or yahoos playing rugby or babies or anyone at all - goose and gander.

Yep it would mean taking the good with the bad, so when getting rid of rules perhaps we all need to be careful what we wish for.

Big rule changes are a bit tricky.

Mandatory voting? Yeh people should be interested in who and how the country runs, but if they are not, then forcing them to trundle through the cake stalls and snags to cast a donkey vote seems more than a little silly.

Government control over who can marry seems far from their 'Protect the country' remit. They should just butt out.

Blue and green should never be seen.....yep My darling Nanna would be appalled by the state of my house.

No white shoes after labour day - American I know, but fashion fascist anyone? I mean I don't have any white shoes, I barely have ANY shoes, I am a thong wearing woman, not an up the bum knicky noo wearer, a between the toes sandal gal, but if I had white shoes and I knew what Labour Day was about, I'd wear the damn shoes any time I liked, fuck the rules.

I have a little rule that Earl Grey Tea is only to be consumed between 3 and 4 pm. That's my wee regulation, just for me, although if we are ever at a cafe in the morning and you order a pot full of the stuff, expect a strange disapproving look cos I won't be able to help myself cos oooohhh YUK. But if I can shovel in all manner of hydrogenated fats and caffeine then I suppose you can please yourself with Earl Grey and a bowl of Acai - what the fuck is that anyway?

See eventually we'd get shit sorted. You could please yourself and so could I. Cos I reckon all those rules and regulations only keep us honest decent folk in line anyway.

Most of us do the right thing and the arsehats who don't, well they don't, with or without the laws.

We got a letter last week. It came with a Queensland Government stamp and looked all very official. I opened it without really looking especially given the bullshit going down here at the moment, and in doing so I broke the law.

Yep it was addressed to someone else. Ooops!

It was addressed to the son of the bloke we bought the house from, ALMOST A DECADE AGO. Yep he is using this address, even though he wasn't living here a decade ago, to register his cars and so when he parks up in the wrong place or I suppose if he gets caught on a speed camera then the shit comes here. I suppose similarly he uses this address on his licence and as applications for loans and so, when he defaults on the payments,  as is likely cos he doesn't think the rules apply to him, we can expect the repo blokes at the gate. I look forward to that!

He doesn't give a fuck about the rules or the laws.

And why should he? The government doesn't follow it's own rules and regulations, smart people with 2 passports forget about their nationality long enough to get 'emselves elected so they can chow down in the public money trough and public servants - misnomer I know, sign secret confidential contracts giving private permission to make as much noise and build in any manner at all regardless of impact or efficiency.

Is it any wonder that people like me are questioning the laws and have ceased to be intimidated by the law keepers?

Which laws give you the screaming irrits?

Friday, 28 July 2017

Warts - who's got 'em?

Obscure - think Toe Rags.

Now I reckon that if I could be a witch for a day, I might cackle as I fly around on my broom stick, furiously stabbing the air full of holes with my bent crooked pointy finger, shouting out Shakespearean curses and casting spells of 'Warty warty wart wart on you and you and you.' And if there was justice in the world, which I am fast coming to believe there is definitely NOT, then the worse your crimes, the bigger the warts and for all those turds at TMR and QPS, well the warts would be embedded into their private bits and pieces, and then could only be treated with scalpel blades and liquid nitrogen gas burning big holes and making festering blistery messes. And if that happened, well let's just say I would not be disappointed.

I have a wee wart on my foot which I have been trying to ignore for a while now, but as I had made an appointment to see the good Dr Jane while I was under the spell of the vertigo weasel and because it was for a few days hence and the vertigo had since left the building, and I didn't want to waste a visit, I stuck my foot up for inspection and she cracked on with smoting that fucker.

But getting rid of a wart is not as easy as orchestrating a meeting with a Queensland Minister during the 'Governing in the Regions' circus planned for next week, - which I must say was truly fucking hard work. I can only imagine that these ministers are truly just a gutless bunch cos whilst others were hearing of their success in winning a time, my requests were ignored. Yep I had to be completely bloody minded and more than a little sneaky, but finally I have secured a time slot for 10.30 am Tuesday, not to see the ACTUAL Minister of course cos he has been banished cos of corruption - yep his warts just got bigger, nah I have an appointment to see the Director General of TMR, the same bloke who was run out of the UK for all manner of suspect shit. Yeh I re4ckon his warts might be big too.

Similarly Dr Jane had to sneak up on the wart. Her first attack was slowly slowly catchy monkey and I thought, 'Oh that was Ok, so I can front up every week for 6 to 8 weeks for more of that'. But the second time she went at it, there was no sneaking up, it was the attack of the blade and the firing of the gas and I did a bit of birthing breathing and there was blood and my eyes might have leaked a little, and now 2 days later, it's still a little sore. Bugger.

Yep I am hoping that Tuesday's meeting will require some heavy breathing on their part. I say THEIR because even though I have asked to see but one person, already there is a posse of at least 3. We will just have to wait and see and in the mean time I hope my wart falls off sooner rather than later. I could leave it with 'em as a little token of my esteem.

Saturday, 22 July 2017

HARASSMENT - Are you the harasser or the harassed?

What's going on is not always clear.

When I was a girl, we lived about 8 or so houses from a train level crossing. The old brown cattle rattle trains connecting Wynnum to Brisvegas rumbled along, not as often as we'd all have liked, but often enough, and their arrival in both directions, coming and going, was announced by the less than melodic ding ding ding of the boom gates closing. It was LOUD.

However there was no point whinging about it cos the oldies had chosen to buy that house, so it was a matter of 'suck it up princess and get used to it' cos CHOICES had been made. And the noise was predictable and regular and eventually I heard the clang of the train arriving at 6am - no alarm clock needed and that was about all.

And when I first moved to London, I chose to live in a wee 2 up 2 down, house right under the flight path into Heathrow Airport. Now I haven't googled it but I believe that it is the busiest airport in the world, with planes landing and taking off every minute. And when I say 'right under the flight path', I mean I could have completed a survey on the tyre wear on the landing gear, on every plane. It was LOUD.

I turned the tellie up louder and got on with things, cos I had chosen to live there.

And anyway, you can get used to routine regular predictable noise.

I enjoy the vibrancy and the constant hum of urban life. I am city girl, but the sudden piercing of sirens always shocks me to wakefulness. I reckon it's impossible to get used to sudden noise at night.

All this is an intro to my having been accused this week of Harassment. Firstly by the body guard with a gun dressed as a police officer, and secondly by some stranger hiding behind his computer screen, or maybe his smart phone, I don't know his circumstances and don't care to know. What I do know is that he has some connection to TMR or the road workers or the police and has been provided my details by TMR or the police. Yeh that doesn't sound legal or right to me either, ho hum, oh well.

Harassment is against the law, so I suppose I should close up the house and pull down the blinds and ignore the gate bell or the phone for fear it's the folk in blue coming to throw me into the back of the paddy wagon. I wonder if they have finally sorted a little step so next time I can alight in a more lady like fashion?

24 hours a day, all week, terrible noise has seen very little sleep going on in this place, or indeed anywhere in the local neighbourhood. People are weepy tired.

I went out at 3 am on Thursday night or is that Friday morning, oh who knows? and there was a bloke dragging a thick hose across the pedestrian walk way right in front of me, so I stopped cos he didn't and when it seemed safe enough to walk on I did and said to him that it wasn't all that health and safety. I think he grunted. And while I walked because sleep was impossible, even though that's precisely exactly what I wanted to be doing, I came across a bloke in charge of 2 big bits of mechanical equipment tossing out more than 80 decibels, yeh I measured it. They were standing idle except for the noise. I asked if it was possible for him to turn them off while not in use please. 'NO'

And so I walked and walked and walked.

Apparently this constitutes HARASSMENT these days.

So suggesting that a neighbour turns the noise down at 3am is HARASSMENT? Not the noise you understand, that's OK, it's your request that it be turned off, that's the harassment.

It's a world gone mad.

I have had kids throw furniture at me, and swear at me and parents call me at home, and I have been punched by frustrated teenage boys and called all manner of names. I guess all that is HARASSMENT too.

Bugger,  what I should have done during my 30 years in the classroom was claim HARASSMENT and then I could have had a copper park up in my room with their lights strobing away even if it might cause Johnny to suffer an epileptic seizure. Cos surely a middle aged woman of very dubious fitness, faced daily, with 200 hormone riddled, sometimes feral kids, surely she needs protection. Surely she needs a body guard with a gun. Surely her need of protection is greater than a gaggle of road workers, who blessedly have masses of metal machines between them and a group of tired middle aged folk in their PJs.

If I had to put money on the greatest threat, my cash would be on the kids every day of the week and twice on Sundays.

The body guard comes at a cost of 150 bucks an hour, about 1500 bucks a shift. Just saying.

1500 bucks a night straight out of the public purse presumably because some worker has felt afraid for their life. I reckon they need to face a group of 30 year 9 boys, wanting to play footy, but instead are forced to read a bit of Shakespeare,  to get a handle on what real fear might be like, or maybe just a one on one with a kid coming down from a weekend of  drug cocktails and disappointment. Yeh good luck with that.

Perhaps the workers recognise that the noise they are making is extreme and perhaps they are wondering how long it would take for THEM to explode through lack of sleep and inability to function at work or just ordinary living.

Perhaps the workers reckon after more than a year they would crack and so they are afraid cos they figure if they are capable of seeking vigilantly justice, so too might this dangerous posse of middle aged, sleep deprived, PJ wearing, empty handed locals.

Harassment is bandied around a lot today, what one person considers harassment another might just disregard, it's all in the eye of the beholder.

The definition is benign at best - 'Unwelcome behaviour that offends, humiliates or intimidates'

So then anything that pisses you off is harassment!

The provider of that trolley with the wonky wheel at Woolies - Harasser!

The dog who sloppy-shat in a big pile that I stood in  - Harasser!

The year 9 boy who has not discovered the joy of deodorant - Harasser!

The body guard with a gun, following me too closely and threatening me, HARASSER!

I feel harassed by the noise and the disregard. I feel offending by the workers giving me The Bird and stalking me on line, threatening me with burst pipes and oozing sewerage.

Local people here have been afraid to have a voice. They privately admit to being totally intimidated by the workers, and feel exposed and afraid. There is enough bad shit going down and they fear further retaliation if they make their presence felt,and they see only humiliation coming from ignored complaints or requests for truthful information, delivered by those us who are less afraid.

So instead of hoping that a body guard with a gun will sufficiently intimidate local people into silence, or calling police on speed dial to throw unarmed, (not even a handbag!) middle aged women into the back of a paddy wagon in a bid to make them compliant, it is surely time that this government had a good hard look at exactly how it is spending our tax dollars, and questions WHO is being HARASSED and by whom.

Except that's not gonna happen - TMR  Ex Minister Mark Bailey - anyone?

Nah I can't see a time when there is ever gonna be an open transparent look at the way TMR is chewing up our cash.

Neither the neighbourhood street of my youth, or my airport hangout in London were strewn with local people waving their arms around and complaining about the noise, because they CHOSE to be there. Unlike the hapless, powerless locals here, who chose a bit of peace and quiet in the suburbs They are now bleary eyed and their teeth are bile stained from frustration because no-one in authority will step up and enforce Government approved EPA noise levels.

And don't even get us started on the ugliness of the monstrosity of a 56 metre wide expanse of bitumen and concrete, that's wide enough for 19 lanes of traffic! There will need to be water stations either side for pedestrians come the summer.

But that's a whole other story.

Tuesday, 18 July 2017

Masterchef - are you fucking kidding?

Last night's left overs ready for Nuking tonight.

My sad little Veg collection

Hello, My Name is Sue and I am a food finder and shover into my gobber. I do Love Food! All sorts of food. Fast food, slow food, out of a packet food, food cooked by others and sometimes food cooked by me.

I like salty and sweet and crunchy and sour and but admit that I am not too fond of slimy - is that even a foodie description? Well how the fuck would I know, I am not on Masterchef.

What I am not fond of at all, well ok what gives me the screaming irrits is all this masturbation about food.

Did you see Masterchef last night?

'Pearl on the Ocean Bed"

Fuck me, is that the new Disney movie?

Nah it was a whole lot of shit that I just didn't want to eat, tipped 'artistically' onto a plate. Philistine that I am, I didn't reckon it even looked good. When did tweezers become kitchen equipment George? Tweezers are for pulling out splinters or doing your eyebrows or harvesting those pesky menopausal whiskers. Tweezers are NOT for dishing out tucker.

And so I googled it and bugger me if it's not a 'real meal' - far far from a ready meal which you just shove into the nuker, but Pearl on the Ocean Bed is real.

There's some fancy schmancy place in Melbourne which serves it, but to go there, according to the Trip Advisor reviews, you have to pay for the whole lot in advance, including tip, yeh you have to PAY when you ring up for a reservation.

Well I'll be fucked!

Going for dinner has reached the lofty heights of theatre, where of course you have to pay for your tickets when booking. NO need to include a tip though, I guess if you fancy it you can just chuck flowers at the actors during the standing ovation at the end.

I mean what happens about Statutory Rights? What happens if the food is so gross that you puke up on the linen table clothes? There would be table clothes wouldn't there? Tough shit I guess, cos you came for the SENSORY EXPERIENCE, so stop your whinging huh? Yeh there is no refund at the theatre either. Oh well.

Now I admit that I only did the google while I was watching that NINJA show, bloody marvellous if you can record it and fast forward through all the crap and just get to watch these amazing athletes have a go at stuff that no amount of mechanical aide would help me pull off. Anyway my google search was sparse. But I couldn't find the price of this food. I suppose they tell you when you ring up for a reservation and they tick off the Mastercard numbers and you resign yourself to missing the mortgage payment this month.

I love going out for dinner. Sometimes it's for the food, and sometimes it's for the company, But I never want to look down at a plate of food and wonder what the fuck it is. I don't mind if there is a bit of garnish that I can't recognise or there is an ingredient in the sauce which is hard to identify, by I do not want to sit down to a meal that looks like it was made by and for a group of travelling Clingons.

Yeh I know, I am not a Masterchef. Stevie say he's glad about that.

Monday, 17 July 2017

Accordion cramming - How much do you do?

This looks pretty hectic to me, but in any case, I am just trying to use some photos of bits of paintings I have around the house, to brighten up my page. 

Not even 20 years ago interstate travel was an adventure. There was the planning and the looking in the NEWSPAPER - the what? to find some accommodation or preferably there might have  been some friend or distant relative who knew someone who's best friend's aunty had a couch going begging, and so, Yippee! The plane fares were astronomical and the packing took days.

It wasn't the sort of thing one did on a whim, although once, only once, when the husband was going to Melbourne for work, which he did a lot, I downed tools from my supply teaching gig and packed up the wee girl and all of our shit and in a minute's notice I loaded us onto the plane and met him in Melbourne town. That was avant garde and brave and exciting and I recall that week with great fondness, even today, more than 30 years later, Yeh I also remember her taking a big shit in one of the parks and using a leaf to wipe her bum, and jumping out of a tram at its terminus at somewhere which I suppose was less than salubrious cos the driver and the conductor went into coniptions yelling for us to come back to the tram, and in the end they held up their departure for long enough for me to have a bit of a look around. They didn't want to leave us out there, where ever THERE was. And I remember her crying from blocked ear tubes and throwing up from the turbulence on the way back, but ho hum, we'd been on an adventure. We had no idea what was there and no internet to give us a LONELY PLANET schedule for the week. I just popped her into her umbrella stroller and grabbed a bag and a tram ticket and we looked and laughed our way all around Melbourne in the bloody cold of winter. I have loved Melbourne ever since.

But enough of all this reminiscence. What I have been thinking about today is the way we take travel for granted today.

There is a Leukaemia Foundation meeting in Melbourne in September and I am interested in going.

It's only for a day.

And it's all so easy now isn't it. Fares are cheap and accomm is expensive but easy to find.

It's just not something I would have given thought to 20 or 30 years ago.

We really do try to cram a lot into our lives don't we?

Friday, 14 July 2017

Today's been a good'un

So I cracked an eyelid open this morning and waited, waited for the shitting headache and the topsy turvy walls of the last week. Sure I had been up a couple of times to pee - what's that all about Alfie? Just when you get to a point in your life when you need the sleep and are NOT doing the 'Mummy I threw up in my bed,' dance, you are awake with a fully laden bladder and the loo route on auto pilot, probably more than once but hopefully less than half a dozen times a night. Bugger. But I digress. Yeh I had been up a couple of times and was pleased to see that I made it to the loo without head butting any walls, but I was still apprehensive about being fully awake just in case the virtigo and the headaches were just sliding around on the floor waiting to attack.

But the sky was blue and the sun was shining and things, including walls and floors were all where they were meant to be, so all was very good with the world.

It's remarkable to me that this NORMAL shit that I take for granted was such a relief this morning.

No I didn't LEAP out of bed, but I did sit up and was cautiously chipper about the day. Fucking YIPPEE!

Poor old Dog has got a sore back leg again, so she needs a bit of a rest, but she's not much fond of that idea. Regardless of pain she just wants to run like a maniac after her ball, literally until she can run no more. But today she was forced to wander around the off leash dog area in the Botanical Gardens and the 3 of us enjoyed the outing. Yep I got some steps in and was thrilled to be able to enjoy the great outdoors under the pale winter blue sky. Ahh.

And I told Stevie that I'd make a roast chicken for dinner and that's still on my list, although I must admit that I am flagging a little now.

I know why people buy whole raw chickens, it's because they are so cheap, but in reality, it'd be far more energy - mine, efficient to just buy a ready cooked one. Are there still places like Big Rooter? Not here in the small country village of the Goldie I don't think, but maybe in the city?

Anyway I am getting ready to stuff it with a lemon and garlic and slather it with butter and shove it in the oven for 90 minutes - yeh she's a pretty big bird, and I'll make some cheater roast veg and call dinner done.

And then I am gonna slide into my chair and probably snooze away until bed time, cos whilst I feel better, I reckon the week from hell might just have taken it out of me a wee bit.

Seems ridiculous to me that now I consider today to be a good one. 5 Years ago I might have said, 'Oh fuck that was boring, let's do something fabulous tomorrow huh?' Times sure have changed.

Wednesday, 12 July 2017

Pissed as a Maggot.

Ain't that a quaint ol' Aussie expression. So pissed that you are flailing around on the ground, often slithering from one spot to another just like a maggot. I guess that's cos we Aussies are a literal lot. I mean, some of the other slang expressions for having one too many alcoholic beverages are a bit less graphically clear. I mean bollocky drunk - what does that mean? Testicles flobbling about? Isn't that the usual way they hang, at least when tethered?

Banjaxed, blathered, blotto, fleemered, hammered, jeremied, legless,  off me trolley, palintoshed, squiffy, stocious, yeh there are as many descriptions as places I have been trollied and tempted to chunder after one too many.

In my younger days going for a tipple sometimes turned into slurping from the fire hose and drinking til I fell over.

But actually I might have been mostly lucky cos I don't recall too many times where I actually fell over. Oh sure I remember clearly throwing cash at the cabbie and really legging it into the house so I could drive the big white bus until there was just no more juice to power it and I have slept the night curled up around the porcelain. And I remember dancing inelegantly on tables and beer kegs and occasionally being asked to vacate a club or drinking establishment.  Oh well.

But now I am not a big drinker, and given that this week I have been waking during the night and fumbling my way to the loo by bouncing off walls and tripping over shit like shoes and dirty wash that I failed to put away, it is probably just as well.

Feeling that pissed in the middle of the night after an evening of such sedate suburban debauchery as hoovering up a roast dinner and suffering square arse from too many hours in front of the tellie, was a little disconcerting I can tell you, so I slid back under the covers and hoped that all would be righted by the morning.

But bugger me if the whole world wasn't still askew in the AM. The floor was all a kimbo and the walls were anything but vertical. I stumbled out of bed and the room whizzes hit me just like in days of old after one too many voddies. My head was aching and my stomach was heaving. What a pisser!
A bloody huge hangover and no booze silly fun - bugger!

This lasted until after lunchtime. The world flipflopped for a couple of hours and then wooliness took over.

Then the next night it was more of the same, and the morning was same, and again the cloud lifted by lunchtime.

And again this morning.

I am getting better at focusing and swallowing down the nausea.

Research since tells me that this sort of vertigo is a problem for quite a number of CML folk.

It's just another happy little side effect, although it might not even be a side effect, it might be a part of the fucking disease.

No-one really knows.

But what I do know is that the thrill of being this kinda out of control is wildly exaggerated. I don't fancy drinking myself into this sort of stupor ever again, even if it would mean that I'd at least for a short time be courageous enough to scamper upon to a sturdy table and kick up me heels.

Nah I'd prefer to be able to make my way to the loo without having to dodge imaginary obstacles.  

Monday, 10 July 2017

Design by Committee

More than enough concrete barriers on half the road. Committee approved work on Friday night - not planned or advised. 

It might not shock you to know that I do not play well with others. At school, group work nearly always gave me the shits, cos I just didn't like relying on someone else to do a bit of the work, and if I am gonna go for full disclosure, what I really didn't like was that when kids did their bit, they didn't do it the way I wanted it done, or the way I would have done it, or the way I told 'em to do it. If it was a project that I was interested in, I could be a little pushy, or maybe a little bit more than a little, yeh perhaps even Genghis Khan type pushy.

And I just don't know anyone who happily rolls over and allows adjustments to plans that they hold dear.

Painters collaborating beggar my belief. It's not common, but occasionally I'll see a painting accredited to 2 artists, and I just cant's see how that would work. 'You do that corner, I'll start over here and we'll meet in the middle'? or maybe 'I'll do the sky and you do the trees and perhaps we can get a sign writer in to do the letters on the street signs'? Cos even if they mix up the paints together and agree the colours and the context, what happens about individual style and technique and personal preference?

And architects, they can't do their best work in collaboration can they? A single vision is surely gonna make a more cohesive design. I am not saying that they can't ask colleagues about roofing materials and such like, but if someone does the west wing and someone else does the north wing, I reckon the whole thing will look a little like a platypus. You know, a bit of this and a bit of that, and it might be interesting but all up pretty ugly.

But I guess committees are a necessary evil today when most big projects are public purse funded. I mean who would put their hand up to be solely responsible for the design and outcome of a public project costing millions? That'd be one very brave, very thick skinned soul, yep TEFLON come to mind.

So instead, a committee is formed:
A Designer
An Engineer
A Feasibility Study person
An Accountant
A Statistician
A Herd of Health and Safety Gurus
A Union Rep
A Big Boys' Toys truck driver
A person with a shovel
A Gun toting body guard dressed as a police officer.
A Community Liason Officer
A Bullshit Spinner
And maybe a person who likes a flower.

And you gather all these folk in a better than average sized hall and give 'em a few big sheets of butchers' paper and a fat felt pen and say 'Go to it,  design me a road'. You break out the first of the cash from the public purse and you feed and water 'em all while they fiddle with the felt pens and fight over the small print.

They finally come up with a half arsed design - and I'm taking a liberty using the term design, which accommodates the needs of one legged, blind, bisexual platypuses first and foremost and then somewhere down the list, perhaps cars, and lastly, very lastly, no who am I kidding, no attention to the aesthetic is ever agreed, or even considered. Yep an ugly as a hat full of arseholes design is agreed, but the finer details are gonna be worked out as they go along, cos there are no more croissants and it's happy hour at the local so here's cheers huh?

Mistakes are routinely made and no wonder really when tape measures seem to be Noah's equipment and theodolites are passe because they are not nearly as accurate as say pacing out a number of heel to toe boot lengths and marking spots with a bit of spray paint. Yep that'll be good enough. And if, as it happens you have to dig up a hole 2 dozen times or a huge chunk of concrete is built in the wrong place, it doesn't matter cos someone else is paying for it, and in any case the whole project has been excellent for the economy cos scores upon scores of folk have been employed and are no longer scunging off the dole, instead the public money they are grabbing is paid to 'em because they are standing around leaning on a shovel and generally slowing progress down.

But I digress. The overall aesthetic is what I am wondering about.

The road widening is just fucking ugly, and the vast expanse of concrete and bitumen will create enough heat nine months of the year, that there should have been some sort of air heat transfer grabbing energy thing installed, or at least maybe some public saunas could have been installed on every corner. At the very least there will need to be health warning signs suggesting that old folk only cross at night to avoid exposure to heat and sun. I am guessing the Elf and Safety folk are already onto this. There's gonna be more than 8 lanes of traffic, and long bus lanes in both directions and there's already a 2 metre wide concrete walk path or maybe it's a bike track who knows, I guess it depends if a biker was more vocal on the committee than a person pushing a stroller or a wheel chair. And all of this in the suburbs of a smallish city of less than half a million people.

Yep this committee of people have not yet finished spending our money, but it's clear to me that there is no cash left to make a silk purse out of this pig's ear.

Sunday, 9 July 2017

Are you FUNNY?

This is my feet at the Grandie boy's TaeKwondo grading. He told me, 'No pictures on the blog please Ma'. Adolescence has begun.

Way way back in 2001, when I took off for what was gonna be a little year long junket to the UK, I had a bit of a bucket list sort of mapped out in my head. There were places I wanted to go and stuff I wanted to see and lots of stuff I wanted to do.

I must have been more sure of myself back then, yeh I lament the loss of that girl, cos on my list was to have a go at some stand up comedy.

It never happened, not because there was no opportunity, it didn't happen cos I chickened out and I reckon I chickened out cos, well cos I just can't tell a joke, never have been able to, I get the punch line all buggered up and if the gag is really funny, then I am already pissing myself laughing and the tag line is swallowed by giggles and nose snorting. People might end up laughing, but at me not the material, and not in a good way, oh dear.

Perhaps because of this I like comedians who tell funny stories, I like the clever segues and the backward links and ties. Kitty Flanagan does a stand up routine which leaves me rolling about. Her combo of physical and story telling appeals to me.

So I reckon fairly certainly I can say I am never gonna do any stand up. Bugger and Whew in equal measure.

My Grandie is similarly lacking in confidence to try stuff that could lead to a dose of adolescent ridicule, and in a bid to encourage him without just saying shit like, 'Don't be a girl.' ( Why is that not considered high praise I wonder? or 'Harden up with some cement' or whatever that shit expression is, I tell him a little yarn of my early womanhood. He does love it, or at least he says he does, when I tell him  a story.

I told him that when I was about 29 or so - yeh he does a little eye roll cos, well that's fucking ancient to a kid huh? I wanted to have a go at THEATRE SPORTS - a series of improvised story telling games, but I lacked courage, like the Lion in the old Wizard. Was it the Lion? Bugger see I am no longer either as fleet of foot or brain as the Lion. Oh well.

Anyway I told him I used to go to the workshops and sit in a corner. I remember being appallingly shy and intimidated. I told him I watched until I got a handle on the games and I watched until I realised that the only way I was gonna learn how to do this, was to have a go, and that yes when I started I was shit and there were many shit moments even long after I had become more comfortable with it, and then I told him that on my first big night on stage in front of paying guests, I was the JUDGE, dispensing scores - not a far cry from marking school performances really. I got all dressed up for the occasion, in flash 80's style and I entered the space waving like a queen, and as soon as I sat down in my place, the fucking zipper on my blue taffeta, tight as a fishes arse hole dress, the fucking zipper burst open and the only thing keeping my dignity remotely intact was a tiny hook and eye at the top. Faaaaarrrrk.

I told him I didn't move at interval when there was typically loads of frivolity, and when the gig was done, I waited til the theatre was all but empty and then slunk off looking for my jeans. Oh Well.

But the point of my story was that even though I buggered up plenty of times after that, that's the time I remember and apart from my embarrassment, it wasn't all that bad, and I am very glad that I grew a pair and played on. And then his mum and I told him of lots of fun times playing the fool over the next few years.

He did his grading for Tae Kwondo a couple of weeks ago and to his consternation I admit to a couple of woops woops, so if he ever does decide to to something on a big stage he's just gonna have to suck it up and wave to Ma being a dick. No rehearsal needed for that.

Tuesday, 4 July 2017

Is Honesty the Best Policy?

Yeh this is our corner, last night. Looks like work to me.

Oh yeh we have all been guilty of those little adult white lies when asked 'Does my arse look big in this?' 'How does the dinner that I have taken 3 days to cook taste? Is it OK?' 'Who was that that just let one off?'

Yeh we all muddle the truth from time to time and at least with me if I do then it's to be a bit kind. 'Oh you haven't changed a bit.' 'This dinner is delightful, I would never have thought of making a dog turd and pebble pizza - very creative.'

But I am a bad liar. I have mentioned this before. I am mostly a bad liar cos I have no capacity to remember the lies and so apart from the fact the my face goes beetroot red, the next thing that falls out of my mouth nearly always makes a mockery of the lie, so I am always caught out and that shit feeling is something that I try very hard to avoid.

Perhaps because I am such a shit teller of porkies, I just do not EXPECT folk to lie, nah, I EXPECT people to tell the truth, and I expect truths especially if I am reading shit in a flier with a Government Logo - call me naive, call me stupid, but don't call me at night cos I can't hear the phone cos of the fucking noise going on outside.

Yesterday I got an email from the Department of Transport outlining this week's road work. It arrived at 12.07pm.

I was relieved that there were NO NIGHTWORKS planned for outside our place, Yippee. Yippee Yippee. Sure there was work planned for further up the road but selfishly I realised that that wasn't going to impact here.

In any case my relief was as short lived as a person doused in petrol waving a lighted candle.

At about 7pm, a police car parked up strobing its lights and an avalanche of hostile people and huge machines arrived to create a raucous.

I nearly cried.

It is just not possible that between noon and 7 there can have been such a radical change of plan, not least because, in theory, every time there is a road closure, permits need to be applied for and granted by the police. And planning and staffing and scheduling all those fucking machines and bitumen deliveries just don't happen at a moment's notice.

I went out and asked the police body guard fella, in the employ of Georgiou, if he could turn off the strobe. He said NO. Then he thought he'd give intimidating me a go. He crowded into my space and looked over my shoulder as I took photos, under different circumstances the hot breath down my neck could have been sexy. When I moved, he moved with me, like a fucking shadow. He didn't much like it when I referred to him as a body guard with a gun, and when he lied to me about his role being traffic control and I pointed out that that was not entirely accurate, he was less enamoured again. Yeh I might actually have used the term LIE. Ooops!

The merry-go-round is playing at full speed ahead and ear bleeding volume.

The lies are being rolled out by Georgiou and TMR, and I now just want to be relocated. There is provision for people adversely effected by the noise to be housed elsewhere but I've been told there is no money for that, only by the bottom of the totem pole gal cos that's as far as I've been permitted to climb today. I don't know what sort of footwear would be required to climb that greasy pole any further, but I know I haven't got anything even close to useful enough.

I have been told and my local MP has been told that the update notice is correct for tonight. But they lie more easily than I can shovel in sugar, so I very much expect to be out there again tonight. This is NOT a Ho Hum or an Oh Well. This is a FUUUUUUUCK.

What stops TMR telling the truth?
Why do TMR have to consistently lie and evade and avoid?
Why is it that dealing with TMR is like wading through a shit mire, when as a Public Body, their activities aught to be completely transparent?

This has been going on for 18 months. No wonder I am weeping.

Monday, 3 July 2017


Are you a good waiter?

No I don't mean one of those clever clogs with a good memory so there's no need to write down orders and who is able to pour a glass of champers from a full bottle all the while holding the bottom of said bottle with your thumb up it's what-sit. Nope those are definitely clever clever clogs, and if I wore a hat I'd take it off to them.

Nope not for me all that precision. I am always in awe of folk who can so seamlessly line plates up their arms, and the idea that I would ever be able to master the double spoon delivery of slippery shit into the exact right spot on the plate, well that's just the stuff of calm pleasant dreams, cos the reality is, is that I am more the slop it onto the plate kinda gal.

And as for their ability to smile and accept all manner of bullshit from dickhead punters all in a bid to pull the minimum wage, well I honestly do not aspire to that. I fear my tips would be few and probably my longevity in the job, limited, because my temperament or more likely just my temper would  see a stream of blue language and quite possibly a dribble of spit into food.

Nah, I would not be a good waiter, but I am pretty good at waiting.

I can while away hours reading, or surfing the old internet, or day dreaming, or people watching, or playing with dog, or watching the tellie, or sleeping while pretending to watch the tellie.

Today I am waiting - waiting for Stevie to get back from his current junket to NZ to watch a game of rugby and drink with his mates.

He's due in at later this afternoon.

That's quite a long wait, especially since my day started with a flying visit from Dog while it was still dark... no sleep in here... bugger.

I am doling out my little jobs so the whole day is covered.

Pick up all remaining dog shit - done

Wash hair - done

Check departure for first leg of journey - done

Calculate the time difference - oh who the fuck am I kidding, tried and failed.

Plant up last pond plant - done

Clean away all the takeaway containers and hide 'em in the wheelie bin - done

Wash up - done

Make special homecoming dinner: slow cooked lamb and beetroot - next on the list.

And then I have to get dressed - not up you understand, just dressed fit for going out in public, and that means finding a bra and perhaps swiping on some makeup - last thing before getting in the car cos it just wouldn't do to be too early and then fall asleep in front of the tellie - the drool is a makeup killer.

It's a pleasant day waiting for him to get back.

Sunday, 2 July 2017

What's your Formula for Happiness

I just got back from doing battle at Bunnings and Woolies.

Sundays in the holidays, the weather's close enough to perfect so what's not to smile about huh?

Well there seemed to be something in those fucking snags today, cos there was not much smiling or joy de vivre going on there. Mums were yelling at kids who, armed with those kid sized trolleys were running a muck and ramming old people's shins - read MY SHINS - little fuckers!, and there was a fella loudly on the phone to some co-worker telling him how to up the anti on Sunday billing and feeling very proud of himself , and there was an overwhelming number of staff all mauling their way to get to ya to help out. If they were Zombies it could have been a terrifying Sci-Fi moment.

The Bunnings at Mermaid Waters must have been newly opened and everyone was trying make a good impression, except that the inescapable truth is that the store is small - well smallish, and they have still tried to shovel in all the usual shit, so the aisles are narrow and the crowded feel that sends me into panic attack mode is easily measurable. And they didn't have my solar lights and I forgot anything else I might have wanted and did a runner, rubbing my shins and hoping not to get way laid by anyone else with a double stroller or a trolley.

It is not my happy place.

So to some shopping for groceries, also not my idea of how to bring a smile to the dial, but needs must and all that. Ho Hum and outta there. Yippee.

Yep it seems today, that the warmth of my car heading home is definitely my happy place.

But I was given to thinking about what equals happiness?

It's easy to list out stuff that DOESN'T make you happy, but a negative list is not the same.

I would prefer to be moving towards a smile than avoiding a grimace.

Dog took a flying leap onto my bed this morning, she snuggled right in next to me and promptly went back to sleep. Yeh I know that it was because it was only 10 degrees and she wanted to share my body heat, but it was still smile making.

I am wearing jeans and sleeves and am not sweating up a storm - how lucky that something as simple as the weather can bring happiness?

There is food aplenty in the fridge and again tonight I do not need to actually COOK anything, even though with Stevie's return tomorrow the kitchen will need to be fired up again, I am gonna make hay while the sun shines and enjoy the empty kitchen syndrome for as long as I can. Ahhh Chicken enchiladas at nanna o'clock. Here's hoping that there's not too much onion....there's the rub with buying store have no real idea what's in it, but what the hell, I'm living on the wild side and I read the small print and saw NO ONION listed, so finger's crossed.

I'm a pretty simple gal when it comes to happiness. A good long snuggle - even if it's from Dog and a chuck in the oven dinner after an early sunset, all the while wearing tracky dacks and slippers. Bloody smile making formula that!

So  what simple things make you smile?

Saturday, 1 July 2017


Don't look for the flaws, just enjoy the Cousin It plant.

I am a fussy fucker, yeh a fussy complaining, notice the flaws pain in the arse. There's not much I do not notice. Reckon I have always been the same. Too often pointing out oopsies happens without thoughts of offence or consequences, 'Oh did you know your jumper is inside out?' 'You've got spinach in your teeth.' 'Are you going bald?' 'What sort of a shit hole is that? -pointing out a smallish caravan to owner or said van. and the ever present 'You missed a spot!'

Luckily,  I taught myself a bit of selective deafness while I was teaching, and it was pretty useful while raising a teenager too. Sometimes it's kinder to your blood pressure to NOT hear,'Oh for fuck sake this is boring.' or 'Shit I wish she'd just shut the fuck up' or any of the countless other bits of teen angst nonsense I have managed to ignore over the last 30 plus years.

In my mind I am a perfectionist, but my nowadays reality is that if I was only gonna settle for for completely bloody perfect, I would never haul arse out of the chair. It wouldn't be worth the expenditure of calories, cos I reckon my days of chasing that Holy Grail are sadly long gone.

Now I am just happy with near enough.

I can sweep the floor in about 45 minutes and it takes Stevie a full day to push the broom, cos he shifts every bit of furniture and doesn't leave one strand of dog hair anywhere. But I reckon to have collected some of the dust and fur is better than none at all, so WINNER!

And I am sorry to say that it's the same in the garden. The Kids and I put in a couple of huge days and shovelled and planted and surveyed and stuff, well all right My Girl did all that while I pointed and washed shit, and the results are fab.

After the clearing and before the planting


 But we didn't quite get finished, so I headed out again this morning to finish up.

I wonder if anyone ever thinks their garden is finished?

I dug up dead shit and planted new stuff and then had a bit of a prune deciding that the full bin was an indication of job done, and then pulled some weeds from the side garden. Sometimes distinguishing weeds from purposely planted grass stuff is not easy and in any case I just wanted it to be better than it was, not perfect. There is just not strength enough for all that palaver. The garden is now not weed free, but it's better now than before. Yippee!

Yep near enough is now good enough, ahhh Breathe.....ahhhh.

Maybe tomorrow I'll go to Bunnings for some solar lights so I can see the loveliness at night too, and I still need another big pot for one last plant for the pond....see the garden is never gonna be finished. Oh Well.

How about you - does your yearning for perfection hinder making a start?

Friday, 30 June 2017

Women's Literature - Marian Keyes

I do love getting my nose stuck in a book, and the Kindle has allowed me to be ridiculously lazy about it all. I can be lounging in the bath amid the coconut oil slick and oatmeal sludge and finish a book and go straight into shopping mode and before I can reach to top up the hot water, there's a lovely new book all ready to jump into.

Now I will admit that I sometimes miss that 'new book' smell, but I don't miss the weight of 'em or the pages falling out of 'em cos I've folded 'em in half too many times too roughly, and I really don't miss trying to find space on the crammed shelves to house 'em, or the extra packing boxes required to move 'em all from one places to another or just to lug 'em to the Op shops.

And I read all sorts of stuff - autobiographies, crime -who dunits, legal stuff, love stories, period dramas, political satires. Well anything really, and once I start a book I am loath to call it a day before I get to the end. If it starts out badly I just keep reading in the sometimes vain hope that it will improve. Sometimes the wait is LONG.

But the thing about the Kindle store is that it offers you titles it thinks you might like and if like me you have read a couple by the same author, then it's hard for the wee computer to let you forget about 'em, and so book lists grow like topsy.

I have read a good few  books by Marian Keyes, so when 'The Charming Man' was recommended by the little person in my machine, I stumped up the cash and am now mid way through it.

I like the diversity of Ms Keyes women, well, I think mostly they are white middle class Irish Lassies, but they have different personalities and their predicaments are relatable, to me at least, and the stories are wound around female relationships and their usual modern day urban dramas, sometimes involving men, and sometimes pondering where to go for a good hair cut.

Her books have been very easy reads, but this one I am struggling with for a couple of reasons.

The chapters roll along directed by different characters and I guess Ms Keyes was having a little experiment with using different writing styles, cos one of the character's ramblings appear in broken sentences, with so many words missing that I am spending a great deal of my time with my imaginary teacher's red pen, filling in all the blanks, and I don't enjoy this sort of reading. Yeh I left all that marking crap behind me some years ago. If I hadn't found that the next character spoke in full grammatically correct sentences I was gonna have to give the book a miss, but as luck would have it, only one of the women are driving me mad - I know - it's not a long road.

But the biggest problem for me is that the driving force behind the story is that these women have been flung together because of their shared misadventures with some bloke. Yep he is the driving force behind the whole damn thing. Is this Women's Literature?

Up until now I have enjoyed the female-centric nature of Ms Keyes' books. I have enjoyed the unravelling of their relationships and the knitting of new ones. Now I'd just like this fella to face smash a bus so the women can get on with other stuff, but as I am only a third of the way through it, I suppose he is gonna continue to lord it over 'em all for a good while yet. SHIT.

What are you reading at the moment?

Wednesday, 28 June 2017


Strange piccie but it might make sense as you read along.

I am pretty sure that My Girl has quite the number of whinges about her teenage years and maybe even some from before that, and maybe the complaints about her baby years are the ones that even today she has not been able to reconcile. Yeh I was one of those mothers who rang the other parents to make sure arrangements were all above board and I was the mother who'd tear arse around and honk loudly on the horn and then storm in and drag her out of places she was not supposed to be, and I was the mother who unashamedly manipulated to ensure the tiniest bit of modesty in an era when less was definitely the preferred way to go, and I was the mother giving all the girls a lift to wherever and all the way there, there'd be a lyrical barking of the rules about drinks and drugs and watching out for each other.

I was quite the embarrassment. Oh Well.

But the home rules were not always rational and reasoned.

You see, lean in cos I have to whisper cos it seems that it is almost akin to child abuse, yeh that's right, I was THE royal pain in the arse mum, cos there was a NO CARTOONS rule in our place. The remote made very short work of even the briefest ad for some moving drawing shit. I was quite obsessed about NOT seeing any of it.  It is quite possible that she has never got over it. But I just fucking hated 'em so they were a no-no, not in the house and certainly not at the pictures.

However Grandma is more pliable - ok I admit it, she's just a bloody push over. Anything My Darling Boy wants he can have.

So the holidays movie selection was entirely in his hands, and we trotted off today to see 'Despicable Me 3'. This was his choice. I thought he might like sit next to a snoring old gal while she slept through 'Transformers' or 'Spiderman', but the cartoon was his call.

And it must be said that 2017 animation is a far cry from all that 60's crap which may well have not been as shit as I remember. In any case, we enjoyed the movie.

It didn't take long to work out what might have happened in the first 2 instalments,

And I will admit that I even enjoyed the art work and the story rocked along at a pace. Yep it was good, far better than I thought it was gonna be.

Of course there were kids talking and kicking the back of my chair and some dick woman who was so engrossed with the movie, or maybe she had earplugs in? but incredibly she failed to hear her Mob going nuts, the first time and the second time and it wasn't until I turned around and stared daggers at her that she cottoned on to it and reached into her bag to turn the damn thing off, on the third ring a ding.

It was a lovely date day and if I can now just forget that in the pocket of his coat he has a tooth wrapped in the cinema ticket, the tooth that fell out midway through the movie....oooh yuk! then I can sit back and smile.