Wednesday, 22 November 2017

Marriage Secrets

So Queen Bessie and ol' Phillip have been hitched for 70 years. Longer than I have been alive. And that is amazing to me!

I reckon the secret might be that they live in a 100 room palace and that limits the amount of time they have to be looking at each other's face and presumably they have their own bathroom so there is no time spent smelling the other's shit - yeh I reckon even royalty shit is a bit on the nose. But they do seem to happily rock along together. They seem to share private jokes and there is a certain whiff of leaning into each other that implies to me at least that they are happy and that's important.

I reckon that there are belly laughs a plenty after Bess has gently roused on 'Ol Phil for yet another of his famous UN PC gaffs. Yeh I reckon Bess is a belly laugher. She looks like she might, not often but certainly sometimes laugh til she wees herself ever so slightly.

And I reckon that they'd have their own private signals to let each other know when they are bored out of their gourd, or a sign to say, 'For fuck sake don't put that ridiculous dead skunk hat on' and another to ask for a walloping sherry top up. Yeh after 70 years, I rather doubt they need to actually speak out loud too much to make themselves understood.

I met a fella this week who over coffee regaled Stevie and me with the woes of his marriage. And they weren't even woes really, he was just matter of fact telling us stuff. Maybe he was just filling in the silences? I don't know what prompted his sharing.

'The Wife' sleeps somewhere else. She's a Born Again Christian. They never eat dinner together. He only ever watches sport on the tellie and she watches 'all the reality TV shit', - not on the same tellie obviously. Occasionally they go for lunch together, if there is someone else eating too.

Well this doesn't sound blissful to me. If I spent my days trying to avoid being in the same room as Stevie, then I reckon it would be time to piss off or at least pitch a tent and learn how to cook over an open fire and  shit in a bucket in the front yard. I don't reckon my belly could stand the stress of turning a corner and running into the person you are doing your level best to avoid.

And I suppose it's possible that he and she have played this avoid each other game long enough to be very good at it, but that's not a skill I want to cultivate.

Can you imagine the early days of this arrangement, when irritations are major and raw and hurting and I imagine shouting is reverberating around the rooms. One person heads for a shower and the other, knowing the cleansing habits of their lifetime partner, knows just when to 'accidentally' use the hot water in the kitchen so that cold water shrinks bollocks or maybe for variation, the cold water is stolen so that third degree burns means a trip to the hospital. I mean it all seems like that movie, 'War of the Roses' and I reckon it could get brutal. The mind games alone would be exhausting.

But perhaps these 2 people have played it all to the end game and have popped out the other side with a tacit understanding of how best to rub along without killing each other and maybe even providing for the possibility of occasional joy, even it is with other people.

That's not for me, but horses and course and all that I guess.

But compared to this, Bessie and 'Ol Phil have got it all sorted huh?

I have long thought 'Ol Phil was a bit nuts, but maybe he has just become so worn in to the royal life, like an old pair of cords, with the saggy smooth fabriced bum and stretched out knees and the holes in the pockets, that he can now get away with anything at all.

And the photos of 'em both this week are rather lovely. Good on 'em.

Oh and if you thought this was gonna be one of those advice posts, well think again. I sure as shit am not an expert.

Monday, 20 November 2017


The Painters are still in, but now they are inside, so Stevie's stress is really ramped up. He does not like people in his house, Sometimes I think he only just manages to put up with me in his house. But these fellas wore out their welcome sometime last week and now he's projecting his hatred of change onto Dog. 'She really hates change doesn't she?' But we are all sucking it and playing as nice as frayed tempers allow.

It was all agreed on a gentlemen's handshake. The boss sent a quote, we agreed it and I don't think any cash has passed between parties yet, but coffees have been drunk and silly stories exchange and there is no worry about being diddled and Stevie is pretty sure he'll get the job he wants cos he's on 'em like shit on an army blanket.

So we are all just cracking on, and hopefully by the end of the week the walls will be painted, no-one will have a flat nose and we'll have the house back to ourselves, blessed be. Ahh.

But yesterday our Sunday was disturbed, our loose schedule of doing fuck all turned upside down. Because a couple of real estate folk wandered on in - ok I knew they were coming because they had harangued me most of Saturday. The house is NOT on the market but if you give an agent a sniff, even only one nostril's worth, then there is just no getting rid of 'em.

So they trooped in with a bunch of people and then as they were all leaving a young fella said loudly that he was gonna make an offer? Really? He went off to their office and then I did what I do almost every Sunday afternoon and that is sank into the bath. I didn't expect anyone to be coming back with paper work to buy The Bug House after a 15 minute inspection on a Sunday afternoon. I know people have all sorts of cash stuffed into their pillow cases and frozen in ice cream tubs in the second freezer, along with some whole fishes and an assortment of body parts from thumbs to scalps, but I just didn't think any of this sounded likely.

The money on offer was too little by a good long way and the story about the contract and the finance and the time frame wandered around like a drunk fella at the end of a long night at the B and S Ball.

I was in the bath and felt bad that I had left Stevie to it, nah not really the bubbles were lovely and the book exciting,  and he is more patient with the bullshit, until he isn't then he really isn't patient at all. Finally he flung 'em outta the place and set to cooking his roast dinner - all part of the Sunday ritual.

Predictably there was a call back offering more money but still not enough and the conditions had wavered about like the arms of a faulty windmill in a cyclone. He was watching Saturday's rugby game and wanted rid of 'em so was Pommie rude not Aussie girl rude, but they did not call back.

What did give me the shits, was that they told us to stop the painting, that it was no longer necessary, except that no contracts were agreed and in any case, WE HAD AN AGREEMENT WITH THE PAINTERS.. How easy was it for the agents just to fuck over the painters?

I mean what did they really expect? That we'd cut the painters loose and stiff 'em for their cash all on the off chance that we believed that they were being truthful?

I don't know how anyone who would suggest that could ever be trusted.

Sunday, 19 November 2017

Falling down the Rabbit Hole

I'm Late, I'm Late for a very important date.... Hardly it's NOVEMBER!

It's the middle of November. Nah I am not sure of the date cos it doesn't matter, but after more than a week of playing find a room where there is no painter perving in the window I needed to get out yesterday. Oh and I know the painters are too busy cutting in and slopping paint about to care who is inside, but I feel like a fish in a bowl. Heaven help me next week when they set to changing the inside of the place. Breathe Breathe breathe.....

So I popped out to the shops yesterday.

Shopping is something I used to treat as an Olympic event. I could go all day and it didn't matter how obscure an item I was looking for, I could always find it, and them some other stuff too of course. No point going home until you literally could not carry another shopping bag.

But now I can hardly be bothered.

Well for a start, I need to pop on a bra, ugh! and make sure that my hair looks OK coming and going and sometimes even pop on a bit of lippy. Yeh that's the effort I make to go out in public these days, bra, spit flick the hair and some lippy, my lovely Nanna would be appalled. Going to town when I was a kid was all about the good shoes and pretty dress and it was planned like a military operation. Now so long as I have got my thongs on I am good to go.

So off I went. I wanted to get a couple of those pool chair lounge things that seem to blow up by whipping them around your head. Yeh they are probably not as efficient as I think, but I figured they'd be fun around the pool over Christmas with the kids. Ahh and so down the Rabbit hole I went.

The middle of November and already with the decos up and the santa shirts and the ho ho fucking ho.

I am not baahumbug about chrissie. I like it. But it's in fucking December.

So after a bit of crowd pushing, I settled in for a snack over looking Santa's grotto. It was about 11am I guess and the big red coated fella wasn't there yet, must have been caught up in all that sleigh traffic in the sky, but there was a line up out the door of people wanting to get their santa photos done, I guess so they could have 'em up on the fridge curling away until what June next year? Or maybe this is a new way of getting kids to behave. Stick that Santa pic on the fridge and every time it looks like there is gonna be a melt down, the parent just points and says ''Naughty kids get coal'

The kids were all getting grumpy and I could understand that. The kids who are employed to take the money and make the kids smile were all too busy to give a shit about the kids waiting. There was fluffing to be done and phones to be checked after all.

And then I saw the jolly old soul dash out of a Myer and head for the lift. I waited for the Ho Ho Hos. NOTHING! Some elf must have been holding the lift for him so he was on a mission. And then I watched his GRAND ARRIVAL. Well it was more a push and a shove through the crowd of kids. There was still no HO HO HOs. He got to his seat and the first person in line dumped their baby on his lap and so the flashing of the credit cards began.

And had it been the 24th of December and this poor Santa had been peed on and spewed on and sneezed on and roused at by parents of kids who won't smile cos they are literally scared out of their wits, well I could understand him being a bit shirty. But this is only the beginning. I can only imagine what he's gonna be like in a month and half. Shit I am glad not to have to go anywhere near him.

Online shopping is looking better and better. Bare feet, messy hair and boobs swinging in the breeze.... bloody marvellous.

Tuesday, 14 November 2017

Goodbye to Colour

I don't reckon anyone coming to the house would be surprised to hear that I like a bit of colour. And blessed be so does Stevie.

When we were building this Big House, cos all the rooms are big and the ceilings are really tall we decided to be brave about the colour. We wanted to have just exactly what we wanted to have, and why not, it's unlikely we are ever gonna build anothery. So I set about designing the colours for the painters. They were thankfully very patient fellas, cos I decided just to make things tricky to use 3 different shades of the one colour for most of the walls, the brightest walls getting the darkest paint and the darkest rooms like the bathroom the lightest. It took a long time to decide and draw up the schedule and then they dutifully set about it.

And then I set my mind to adding some splashes. This is what really excited both of us. Stevie is colour blind, so I got paint pots and painted squares until he saw one that he liked. You see noone can tell what colour he thinks something is so we just kept changing things up until he found one he liked. They are pretty bold, and I like it.

This whole painting places all white just doesn't sit well with me. I reckon it lacks courage and imagination and effort.

However, as we have tried to sell the Big House for a month or 2 every year for the passed 3 years and we might try again next year, we got an Estate agent in for some advice. We told her to tell us why she thinks the house has not sold before and to be blunt.

Well all I can say is be careful what you wish for.

'You've got the colours all wrong, and people hate polished concrete floors and the carpet in the bedrooms is hideous.' and she nearly passed out in horror as she looked in the family bathroom, 'That is just sooo very wrong.' and she clung to the door jambs to steady herself.

Well fuck it. She also went on about how useless the kitchen was and how the pool needs to be 'softened'.

Fuck it indeed.

Well as luck would have it we have the painters in doing the outside of the place. I have probably gone wrong again and have picked dark grey and white. Oh well.

But after some consideration and that old definition of insanity - doing the same thing time and again and expecting a different outcome, we have bitten the bullet and decided to paint out all of my favourite coloured walls inside. Not to white, cos I just couldn't stand that but to the palest of the Ice colours on the rest of the walls. Goodbye teal, goodbye sea blue, goodbye Bell's purple, yep goodbye all the lovely. Oh well. Let's wait and see how it looks - just like every other house here on the Goldie I reckon but maybe that's what it takes to sell a house here. Oh well.

She did like my garden so I guess I did something right. Oh well. But the painters are going a bit hard at that too cos, yeh I know, they've got to get to the walls.

I'd have liked to have disappeared and come back when it's all done. It's a bit like cooking up a storm and leaving all the shit about. I really fancy just coming in for a feed, except that she critisised the kitchen too so it'd be a shocker to know that any food preparation is possible in there.

Oh well. Change is hard for us old gals.


Saturday, 11 November 2017


Mussels, mmmm you either love or hate 'em.

Or else you could be like me and just need to be in the mood for 'em.

Very often at cafes and restaurants they are served with a tomato and chili broth and that doesn't suit me, but when we see 'em with a cream and white wine sauce, if the mood is grabbing me, then we dig in.

I love to eat 'em with lashings of fresh crunchy bread dipped, ok sometimes double dipped into the broth. Stevie doesn't mind. I like knowing that if they are closed they are probably gonna make you sick so don't force 'em open cos there will be repercussions - all those men in Hollywood take note! So they are sort of foolproof.

I found a recipe and have set to occasionally cooking up a pot full.

It always causes some stress, cos I don't remember the recipe, except that it's pretty easy and very quick, so rather than look it up again and save the rising bile, I just make it up anew every time.

But essentially it's a very good knob of butter in a big pot and saute off some leeks or onions, finely chopped, then add a clove of crushed garlic and a generous splodge of nice white wine. Let that simmer til most of the smell of the wine is gone - just a minute or 2, add some chicken stock some cream and the de-bearded mussels. Pop the lid on and occasionally pick up the whole pot and give it a good swish around until the shells open - only a few minutes, and as the shells open they release all their sea water yumminess so no extra salt is needed. As soon as the shells open sit and eat.

Over cooked mussels are just plain nasty.

We had a hankering for my mussels last night.

Finding the bloody things took an age popping into different shops, but finally we sourced some, even though I admit to being a little suspicious about 'em, cos instead of fresh closed up jobbies I had always bought in the passed, these were vacuum packed pasteurised fellas. Now pasteurised means heated doesn't it? And I knew that it didn't take much heat to cook these guys, so I was concerned about dishing up overcooked lumps in a fine broth, but we pushed on, well actually we settled on 'em cos we were over trawling around looking for the usual stuff.

The broth was a winner and the dipping of the bread was yummo, but as I expected these 'elf and safety' pasteurised green lip mussels were rubbery hard lumps that were so unpalatable that even Dog rejected 'em.


Wednesday, 8 November 2017


No this is not what I am wearing. Breathe a sigh of relief NOW

Yippee. I am off to the wedding of a fabulous young woman this weekend. She is one of my girl's nearest and dearest and they have gotten up to a great deal of mischief and adventure in their years together.

She's had a baby and was in a big confuddle about what to do with him after the ceremony cos everyone had been told 'no babies or children', the expense was all getting out of hand. Anyway she figured she needed to lead by example but she wanted her little fella there for some of the pics. I have spent time wondering why she needed to worry so, even on her big day, but she has been on the receiving end of all sorts of shit about who's been invited and who hasn't and why kids can't come, and is she gonna organise babysitting - what a fucking cheek that one was huh? It should be just about what the couple want and everyone else can go suck a big one, but it is not turning out to be that way.

In any case, now I am the lucky one. Cos I get to go and watch this lovely woman who has grown up almost before my eyes, and her fella, get married and then after the photos, I am being entrusted with their precious boy, so the big people can go about having a damn fine knees up.

The little fella and I are gonna keep each other company and maybe share a pizza - he's only 6 months old so I guess he won't be tucking in too hard, and then I imagine he will have a bit of a sleep. But if he doesn't sleep and even if he throws a big old wobbly cos he's got the shits up with being dragged away from the festivities it'll be ok, cos I am happy to give him a cuddle and go for a bush walkabout and keep him as entertained as a 6 month old can be.

My Girl is pleased that she is all frocked up and organised right down to her accessories and has her 'Plus 1' promising to be on time.

2 years ago when we were back in the UK, I was so pleased to be invited to another lovely woman's big day, and big it certainly was. Poms do this early afternoon start, and then food and then kick on until the wee hours, exactly like 'Four Weddings and a Funeral'. They have staying power those Poms. People get mullered and dance, and I am only guessing now, but mischief is probably made under the tables close to knock off time. 

And lots of guests stayed overnight at the reception place and it just made me feel old feeling like shit the next morning at breakfast, looking at all these fresh faced things tucking into their bacon and eggs. Of course they could well have still been a little maggoty and I had jumped forward to hungover. Anyway spending a couple of days celebrating the nuptials was fab, and in the modern day when there are fewer fewer people bothering with the rings, I reckon that a celebration is in order.

Wish me luck on babysitting duty cos it has been a bloody long time since I held a little one, or changed a nappy, but I am betting that it's like riding a bike. Finger's crossed.

Thursday, 2 November 2017

To Fire or Be Fired, That's my question.

There are just never enough holes in the road especially when you can bill the tax payer for the use of a machine and a shift full of union workers. Let's have another hole whether the project needs one or not. More than a year in and the initial due date is just a distant memory, but still holes are being dug. Maybe they really are digging for diamonds. 

I have been fired twice in my life. Once when I was maybe 15, working at Coles or Woolies, I don't remember which. I was a checkout chick, and this was back in the day when every price had to be crunched into the register and all the groceries had to be pulled towards you by dragging a timber frame thing along the counter. Yeh I am that fucking old. So one day a clever clogs loaded her shit in so that I ended up with meat blood on my fingers and rather than transfer all that onto her new tea towels, I just asked her how much they were. Well bugger me, she lied, I believed her, and she got away with it, but my manager was not happy so I was sent to the deli where I spent time with my arms up the elbows in coleslaw until I was sacked for not coming in one Easter, when I just assumed they would have been closed. Fair enough, they had given me a chance and I buggered up again so offskie it was.

The other time I was at a Tyre shop. It was fucking filthy with a sawdust outhouse for a dunny. It flooded every time a dog peed too hard and the forecourt where the fellas fitted the tyres was a dirt track. So my job was to answer the phone, deal with customers, take the money, check inventories, and clean the place up. I set to it with all the energy of a 20 year old recent graduate who couldn't get a job teaching cos she wasn't a single man. Soon enough the office and the serving area was sparkling clean and I learned a lot about tyres. To the day, 6 months later, I was sacked, no reason given. It turned out that they had taken money from the government in some sort of employment scam and after 6 months the government money dried up so I was offskie again. Yeh this doesn't sound honest to me either, but whenever there is government money involved, I don't reckon corruption is far away. Ho hum.

I sucked it up after the deli sacking and I admit that I was pissed about the tyre place, but in comparison to sacking someone, being sacked is a skate.

I was responsible for a fella failing in his last year's teaching prac session. He was an older guy, who didn't take kindly to female instruction from a younger person. He was doing teaching cos he wanted the money and the holidays and those are good reasons, but for the money and the holidays there is an expectation that you work hard, you know your shit, you arrive on time and you comply with the usual procedural paper work even if it's banal and a little pointless. This guy knew NOTHING and refused to learn anything, he arrived late and never showed his lesson preparation. He had no interest in the kids or any ability to engage them. He refused to attempt any of the strategies I suggested. He just sat there with these kids and was an oxygen thief in the room. He'd done this for 3 years - no problem!

He was with me for 6 weeks. It was my job to teach him how to teach, but he just never showed any willing. In the end I failed him and that meant he failed the whole course. He was not happy. The Uni was not happy. I was not happy, but do you know who would have been happy? All the kids he never got to teach, they'd have been happy.

It was a nightmare failing him. I was scrutinised and made to justify myself. It was a very awkward time and I guess the awkward shitty time might have been what sometimes prompted conceded passes to be awarded rather failures. It would have been a lot easier. Not right but easier.

A lovely woman was falling apart in front of her classes. I was her faculty head. The Principal decided that I needed to do the dirty and I was told to record and gather data and notes of her failings in order for the school to sack her.

I sat in on her classes and noted that she was often late, sometimes didn't arrive at all, she taught the year 9s the year 8 course and the year 8s completed the same unit again and again on a loop. I tried to help. She and I were friends. But it all came to nought because it became very clear very quickly that she was failing the kids.

She was sacked. And soon after we heard that she had early onset galloping (I made that up - it's not a medical term) Alzheimer's. She was not well. We should have helped her more, but we did the right thing getting her out of the classroom. It was a terrible time, cos I felt guilty cos I knew her and liked her, but the kids deserved better.

I think it's very hard to sack someone today, what with 3 written warnings and the unions carrying on. And I reckon that's why there are so few jobs and so many contracts. It has to be at least in part because at the end of the contract, the worker can legally be waved goodbye.

But sackings are necessary. If a job is not being done well shouldn't someone be held responsible? Unless of course the fuck up is a part of the government quagmire, in which case it is all about sliding blame and hiding responsibility and camouflaging corruption and playing dumb. Accountability requires integrity and neither of those attributes seem to be part of government job criteria or tenders. If the government used the money they spent covering their arses and making good government funded fuck ups, we would all be far better off.

Tuesday, 31 October 2017


It's no secret that I go up to Brisvegas very week. The kids and I share a meal and more often than not a sing-along and a bit of a dance and oftentimes a tickle fest and roars of laughter and many cuddles,  and then we head off to WAAA ( better known as Taekwondo) where my girl and I revel in just how bloody marvellous the little big fella is becoming.

But this week it's Halloween and that's a big deal at their place but not at mine, so I suggested that I come up a different night and their little faces fell. Sadness wafted around 'em, and I thought all those bloody spirits I don't believe in were coming to whisk me away to the bah-humbug, anti-Halloween land.

When my girl was wee, there was no Ghost night. It just wasn't a 'thing'. And it simply boggles my mind that in 30 years Halloween has not just been taken up by the crazy witchy witchies from Macbeth, but by all and sundry. It is quite the community event in their area. Families dress up and trawl the streets in search of the best wrapped lollies and there is the odd garden decorated for oooohs and ahhhs.

This year the kids have decided to decorate and try to scare the shit of people. SO they have costumes and it is all quite the bit of urban theatre, what with Zig working out the best vantage point for his entrance and Bell working on becoming a moving-at-the-minute statue. Well bugger me if they didn't have a role planned for me. Oh sure there will be the obligatory cauldron of lollies and overseeing that has been my job in years gone by. Yep I am a qualified Trick or Treat decider. But this year the cauldron will be a booby trap, cos it's my job to sit on the balcony above it and launch water balloons at the kids who dare to put their hands out.

Yep, it's my job to wet people after Zig and Belly have done their best to make 'em pee their pants.

Never one to settle for ordinary, Zig suggested we put red food colouring in the water so it looked like blood. I am glad I decided to be a party to all the crazyness so I could at least say an emphatic NO to that. All these fine and dandy costumes and carefully applied makeup, being destroyed by the errant landing of water bombs is one thing, but being stained red, might not have left the parents well pleased.

So I have got my arsenal of water bombs ready to go and a few monster eyes for treaties and I will sit on the balcony dress in black and cackle like a witch as I lob the bombs. Yeh It's making me smile now that I have got my head around it.

And I am not expecting trouble cos let's face it, most of the costumes are home made and it'll be nearly 30 degrees so a bit of a shower will be a pleasant relief after all the up hill and down dale yomping.

I am taking my bubble machine and nothing can be bad if there are enough bubbles.

Saturday, 28 October 2017

Sophie and Stu

This may seem like a strange image, but all will become clear. Well maybe.

I have stuck my hand up and admitted to being a TV tragic before. And I might have let slip in passing that my guilty secret of late has been watching recorded episodes of Sophie Monk in the Bachelorette. Well as soon as Stu stepped off that helicopter as intruder number 3 or 4 or whatever, I was pretty sure he was gonna be 'the one'.

The thing is though, I didn't really care. I wasn't invested in the reality or otherwise of it all but I did spend some time questioning the motives of all of the players. In any case choose Sophie did and Stu was her pick.

I have seen only one interview with them both since the big announcement and seriously I just found it all more than a little cringe worthy. I mean people just spat out questions about wealth and sex and stuff that wouldn't be asked of even close friends and even thought I know they put their hands up for all this scrutiny, for reasons that just seriously boggle my mind, I still reckon they must be entitled to at least a modicum of 'That's not your business'.

And so today, not 2 days after their big announcement, some body language expert has supposedly had a look see at some photos and has declared the romance dead and buried.

No I didn't read the article and so didn't see the photos. But I will say that some days in hazy flattering light with a smeary lens, I can look like someone I recognise from younger years and other days, seriously the photos look like someone who by all rights should be long long in the ground. The point is, photos lie. People lie. Reality TV is full of lies and gossipy shit on social media or in shit rag publications are just full of lies.

Whether Sophie and Stu have been holed up in hotel rooms breaking headboards and chewing up room service sangas or whether they have not seen each other since or if they have seen each other but only over a bit of arvo-tea with some Earl Grey and a scone, well I just don't give a shit.

It was on the tellie and now it's done.

Now I have turned my attention to a certain auction. Again I don't care WHO wins, I am curious about just how many people can be crammed into a room or be kept on hold who have 3 million dollars to spend on a house where the neighbours' conversations will be audible enough to make 'em part of your extended family. 15 million for 5 extremely cosy houses. That seems unlikely to me, but then it is REALITY TELLIE.

Wednesday, 25 October 2017

I love New Stuff

The friendly folk across the canal are in the middle of their house extension. Well I say in the middle of cos even though it doesn't look much yet, there has been quite a lot of work in preparation and then of course there has been a bit of the wet stuff which has held 'em up.

But today was cause for great excitement cos all the frames, well I don't know if ALL of the frames are up but a good lot of 'em I reckon, went up and all of a sudden the house is taking shape. The photo doesn't give a real sense of scale, so you'll just have to take my word for it when I say that the ceilings are gonna be wonderfully tall, unless the builders are all midgets cos I have been measuring in relation to their heights.

The bloke there has been working up a sweat along with his other tradies. He must be so thrilled with the progress.

I remember when we were building here, it seemed that nothing was happening and then all of a sudden there was the first floor and then nothing and then there was the second floor. When my grandie boy was very small he'd stay over once a week and he and I'd go to the beach and learn to swim and then head to the big House for morning tea with Pa and go for a bit of an explore. We'd climb the ladder and romp around on the first floor, stepping out his bedroom and looking at the view (me) and chatting to the builders (him)

People reckon that building your own house is about as stressful as it gets, and I can see that, cos there are so many choices and decisions. Stevie kept a firm grasp on all the details, he knew dimensions of stuff to the millimetre and the composition of every little thing. Bloody clever fella.

I swanned in and cleaned a little although to be fair Stevie had a firm grasp on the broom, but I could see if something was a little crooked or not quite centered, and was girlie enough for the fellas to fix stuff without too many grumbles, well except for the roofing bloke who was the cause of the temporary deafness of a whole siteful of blokes cos my language was so buckety in a call to him, that the fellas didn't know where to look. This was quite early on so maybe they were pleasant to me after that, cos they didn't want to be on the receiving end of my ire.

I undercoated and painted the manageable walls and rooms while the fellas popped off for a well earned beer and sometimes I would just sit around and enjoy the space. I had no trouble imagining the finished product well before the walls were all lined.

Anyway I have just been feeling a little nostalgic watching the building go up across the way.

Oh I have been busy with some painting.

Yep it's been a good day.

Tuesday, 24 October 2017

Who are you gonna call?

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Imagine a quiet night in on a Sunday. Your hubby has cooked a delicious roast dinner and the table is set and the wine is poured and then all hell breaks loose. What would you do?

Yes it's be ok to turn off all the lights and have a little curtain twitch to see if Armageddon is marching down the road.

Yes it'd be OK to close all your windows and doors and turn you own music up a notch, sit your arse down and tuck in.

Yes it's be OK to assume that the noise will stop soon.

Yes it would be OK to call the police especially as the noise is coming from a party house a street and a canal away and they have been at this before and the only thing that stops 'em is the flash of the police car lights.

It's no secret that I have been having an on going battle with the Broadbeach Police. I have been arrested twice and threatened and bullied and it will shock no-one that my details are registered with them, so you can just imagine what their reaction might be if I ring 'em to get some help. Yeh not good. This is not a wild guess or mad paranoia, cos I have tried once before and their reaction was such that I vowed not to ever bother again. I reckon my number is recognised and when I called 'em they just put me through to someone who offered no help whatsoever. Me calling the Broadbeach Police is as futile as whitewashing your fence in a hailstorm.

So Stevie called 'em last night.

Useless. They put him through to the 131444 number. Police Link. This might be something new.

If you ring 131444 you are answered by a lovely calm woman called Geraldine or Beatrice or something. She's sitting in some call centre in Brisbane. I don't think she is a copper, but she might be. She takes your details and asks if you are in any danger. If the answer is NO then I guess your request for help goes to the bottom of the pile, or is used to wipe a bum hole or maybe it's folded and folded and folded to be used to stabilse uneven table legs. Who knows what really happens.

What doesn't happen is a cop car being dispatched to shut down the noise.

So I rang 000 and they got the shits up cos it wasn't an emergency so guess what, they put me through to 131444. She took all my details and guess what happened next? NOTHING.

So 2 hours passed and Stevie rang again and I rang again and guess what happened next? NOTHING.

Stevie finally gave Broadbeach Police another go and told 'em he was gonna go around there and tell 'em to shut the fuck up all by himself. And guess what happened next? The fucking police finally did their job. And the the noise stopped.

It's a mystery as to why it takes more than 3 hours to get any police action, unless of course you are standing peacefully protesting about industrial road noise then the coppers arrive literally in minutes, like it's a murder scene or a war zone. I'd include a harmless bit of domestic violence in my list here, except that when I told Gertrude that I had heard 'FUCK OFF YOU CUNT' being yelled out and supposed that things were not wonderfully happy and genial, it made no damn difference to organising a call out at all. Yes I did hear that yelled out, if I was gonna make something up it quite possibly would have been worse.

I think that to get actual police attention in a timely manner you'd have to be a TMR employee ringing about a fat old woman taking photos, or be able to describe in detail the stabbing death in progress of, well maybe of a police officer. An average Joe Mary just wouldn't cut the mustard.

Do you remember hearing as a child that if you need help ask a Police officer? Yeh I know I have also waved that myth around with my Grandie when he was little. Sadly I am pretty sure he doesn't believe a word of it anymore.

Who can you call if you need help.... Ghostbusters?

Saturday, 21 October 2017


My lovely Dad would bet on just about anything. I have very strong memories of Saturday afternoons pussy footing about cos he had his ear stuck to the old hand held radio cheering on his horses, and of course his mood soared with wins and I suppose plummeted with the inevitable losses but I don't recall seeing that. His wins were legendary.

One afternoon he came home and for full disclosure I should mention that he'd had a few, but as a salve to the old woman, he gave her literally fists full of cash. This was back in the day when folding money in Oz was actually made of paper. Anyway they had a row, possibly about the state he was in and she got the shits up and tore every bill into tiny pieces. I'd have been impressed with her ire if in the next heart beat she was not set up on the dining table with a mountain of money bits and some sticky tape. She worked for hours doing that money jigsaw, and then she'd have pocketed the thousands. He didn't care about the money he cared about the winning.

Well except that the walk up flat that was our Goldie Getaway, which is now being replaced by 3 sky high towers at Broadbeach, was paid for with betting winnings. He seemed to be pretty lucky pretty often.

And as gambling became more run-of-the-mill, his smile widened. He'd buy lotto and keno and 'scratchies' and would be party to footy pools and The Dogs as well as his beloved horses. The horses were always his favourite, not 'The Melbourne Cup' though cos that was 'just for mugs'.

He started working as a bookies helper when he was a boy - always excellent with numbers, and then there was the trooping up to the TAB to place his bets and then with technology came his TAB phone betting account, and if he was alive today, no doubt he'd have every fucking betting App on his smart phone.

And so we get to my point.

Have you seen the ad on the tellie for NED? It's some betting App. I don't know how it works and don't care to know, especially as the ad shows a bunch of low-life scumbags lying and lazying about  a building site while the poor bastard paying them wanders around trying to work out why they are all idle except for their fingers on their phones. The turds play a game of 'There's a hole in my bucket dear Liza dear Liza,' blaming someone else for their lack of a start.

The ad just gives me the screaming irrits.

Under what sort of moral umbrella is it OK to scunge off the boss and lie to them and then gamble away the money you have just pilfered from them? At least we are saved from the usual bullshit slogan 'Gamble Responsibly' at the end of the ad, or maybe it is there but I am just too red in the face shouting at the tellie to hear it.

After a week of watching fuck all progress on the road, all I can think is that TMR workers all have this App and they spend their days taking the piss out of the tax payers who are ponying up their wages.

Wednesday, 18 October 2017

Europe here we come!

It's taken a while and it's a while til we head off, but we have got our tickets sorted and so at the end of May 2018 we will be jetting off for 6 weeks.

Many many bloody many calls and I have secured 2 return business tickets on points, on the days we wanted to go, with the connections which will see us just about running to make connections in Singapore. Yippee. No shit flights and no crappy connections in places no-one wants to go. Yippee indeed.

I have used points before. We went to Cairns one year and the flights and the car hire and the accommodation were all paid for on points. And I have gone shopping for shit that no-one really wants, but this is the first time I have used 'em all up in one foul hit, so please excuse me for feeling a little, well OK more than a little, nervous about it all.

Booking stuff on points is not for the feint hearted. You have to be considerably more than a little bloody minded and my advice would be to use the phone not the internet, cos the calls are recorded so what one person has promised has to be honoured, unless they have said you can have the plane when you are finished flying and that your pudding will be your body weight in chocolate mouse. But days of travel and confirmations versus waitlisted are honoured or at least that's my experience with SINGAPORE AIRLINES. Sure it has been a month of toing and froing but we are sorted. They are good people. They ring back when they say they are going to and they listen to call recordings to establish what has and hasn't be promised and then they issue the tickets, all confirmed.

So now the exciting part of the planning happens.

We will of course spend a week of so in London so Stevie can drink up with his mates, and we'll be there for the last week too, doing a deja vu, but the middle 4 weeks we are gonna do a train trip to wherever we fancy. AHHH!

I do love a train ride, and some of the journeys we are looking at sound bloody fantastic. One through the Alps, in some old train following slowly behind a goat herder - I might have made that bit up, clinging to the edge of the earth, makes Stevie almost shit his pants just thinking about it, but I reckon it sounds too good to miss, so it's on our list even if he has to spend the day wearing an eye mask and listening to Enya.

We are not drivers. Oh sure we drive. I know the M1 to Brisvegas ridiculously well, but driving is a means to an end. It brings no joy whatsoever, and whoever is driving gets to see bitumen and that's about all, so the train allows both of us to have a good look about even if Stevie will have to occasionally close his eyes.

Coincidentally most of the towns that are on our lists are 4 and a half hours apart - not the Alps train, - that's more like 10 hours. Stevie reckons that's a long time to be clinching his sphincter so we may break it up and stay overnight in a mountain village. Very nice too.

We haven't got a firm plan yet and maybe we wont have one even when we board the Eurostar and head for Germany, cos with smart phones and 4 and a half hours, planning will be possible on the run, well on our bums anyway. So we plan to start in Hamburg or maybe Hannover and end up in Rome and whatever else we see will be a big old bonus.

We lost a train once going from Budapest to Zagreb. It's a bit of a long story but anything other than loosing a whole train and our bags will be a bonus. The beers with the gun totting soldiers at the arse end of buggery in Eastern Europe and later the cackle of the farmers, remarkably assembled with our bags, all standing by the tracks in the middle of nowhere, where the train, full of chickens and truly wash deprived locals made an unscheduled stop, so the farmer strangers could return privileged stuff to strangers, remains an image in my mind, much more vivid than anything I have ever seen or posted on social media.

Yep that's the sort of adventure possible on a train.

Sunday, 15 October 2017

Bit of a holiday ?

This is my Nanna's old couch which started the lounge room re-do. Will we recover it or get a newie? We are saying goodbye to this old gal, the couch I have spent most of my life bum planting. Fare thee well.

It's amazing how quickly you can get out of a habit huh? For no good reason I just stopped tapping away almost a month ago and I don't know why.

I enjoy having a little say, unedited and uninterrupted, but then I didn't. Oh well.

It's been quite the month really.

Almost every week night there has been fucking road work noise and no satisfaction from the fuckers who are meant to be working for us, ho hum, all the same there I guess.

The lounge room has undergone a huge transformation and so now when we decide to give selling the Big House another go, people will see that the room is big enough for a football team to play charades while watching the tellie and getting pissed as rats. Buyers' imagination will not need to be extended passed the ends of their noses.

I have painted fences and planted up stuff on the deck and I have thoroughly enjoyed watching one of the trees grow literally a foot, well not a foot as in feet but as in 30 cm! How bloody clever am I? And whilst bragging about my Farmer Sue talents I am the proud grower of a crop of Lilies inside the house and a huge bush full of daisies and other things outside. Spring has sprung here well and truly.

Dog has recovered from her knee replacement surgery and whilst we are all still being careful she is already much improved on before the work so it's been a big winner. Yeh there is no more chasing the ball which was her favourite thing in the world, but she is back to playing and swimming and walking out so we are hoping she will get over the loss soon enough if we keep her distracted.

My Darling Boy finished with his yellow belt and is now proudly flashing his bright blue one. Very pretty indeed. This was not without incident as when Bell and I went off to watch we were told no parents were allowed in the room, consequently there was all manner or argy bargy outside the door as people jostled like hungry animals at a too small food trough. Not me though, I sat stony faced away from the melee, all those people shoving about sneezing and snorting were too much for me. But as you might expect I did not keep my discontent to myself and I do believe that respect and manners and decorum might have fallen from my mouth. The final explanation was that apparently some of the parents were getting busy loudly criticising the kids while they did their stuff, and so instead of telling those parents off or putting up a sign, or frogg marching them outta there like they do at the footy, it was decided that NO PARENTS would be allowed in. This seemed like over kill to me, and it has yet to be resolved, but at least now there is discussion about it. We'll see.

My mutants have been given a knocking and so for the first time I am in MMR Major Molecular Response, not the kids vaccine. That means I am at 0.04, nah that's not as good as 0.00 something but it's a hell of a lot better than my last one of 0.14, and so yippee to me and the drugs! Most people make it within a year and it has taken me more than 18 months, but ho hum, I had nothing better to do and there was nothing I could have done to hurry it up so Oh Well. I do believe that Dr Greg actually cracked a smile this time. Quite the result.

And I have started painting again. And not an image of mutant cells or something hideous. I am impatiently waiting for it to dry so I can go hard on the next layer, but I reckon it is gonna be joyful. I sure am enjoying the squirting and blowing and dripping. Yeh any fool could do it, but I am the fool at the moment. Ahh.

Doesn't sound like much of a month really, but the lounge required 2 trips to Ikea, 2 trips to a rug shop, 3 trips to Nick Scali and a bit of fisticuffs literally, and Stevie assembling the stuff and me cleaning out the store room so I could fit in all the other furniture. Nothing is ever easy is it? And the new arrangement is lovely and it required new art work so that was the push to get out the paints. What a fab excuse!

Really nothing sounds like much in the telling of the finished work, but whilst I haven't broken too much of a sweat except for painting the the fence and doing the furniture drag I have been as busy as I fancied being, especially as most afternoon I have been forced onto the couch, not the new one cos I don't want to get it dirty and Dog doesn't see it as anything other than a place to rest her molting body, and she is wherever I am, bless her. So afternoons I have been trying to catch up on lost sleep due to bullshit on the road - I can't even call it work, I work harder shoving furniture than these fellas do, and I am efficient and practical and I know what I am doing. Ho Hum And of course I have been running in with the body guards with guns dressed in the police uniforms paid for with Tax Dollars. No more arrests to mention to date so - WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER.

Saturday, 23 September 2017


How many ice creams do you have in your freezer?

Now if you are not a mad ice cream lover or if you prefer your pudding in a tub, or you are on some shitful diet which precludes one of the day's biggest highlights ( sorry to hear this - Bugger!) well then maybe the answer is a simple NONE, and you know this cos you haven't bought so  much as a box of Paddle Pops since 1972 when you need the sticks for a science project.

But ice cream is my bloody favourite end of day treat. I have been known to chow it down by the litre, especially if it's the good stuff, but at a tenner a tub, that's an expensive bit of pudding. I do love curling up in my chair and grabbing a spoon and hooking straight into the carton. Yeh Stevie doesn't eat it. Lucky huh cos otherwise I'd need to pop some in a bowl to avoid cross contamination.

My Lovely Girl and I were out for a girlie dinner at the pub on Tusday. The grandie boy was off on holidays with his father, so we pushed the boat out and ventured out into the public domain. She had steak and I had a seafood mix and then when we were done, she scouted out the desserts and we both decided just a bowl of ice cream would be lovely, but it needed to be a BIG bowl. The waiter understood, cos she was a bit of a creamy fiend too, and she did indeed deliver 2 walloping bowls full. It was OK but not the good stuff, not so bad as we left any though.

In an attempt to avoid spending night after night sleeping sitting up, because there is a fine line between enough 'animal fat' and so much that heart burn is a bitch, Stevie often buys 4 packs of wonderful ice cream treats, and as the week disappears, I am always aware of exactly how many are left in the freezer.

I like to spend the day comfortable in the knowledge that at the going down of the sun and the slumping of my arse into my chair for my daily dose of shit TV, there will be a delicious treat which with any luck, will not be slopped all down the front of me - happens at least half the time, Oh Well!

But this week my mind has definitely left the building. 4 nights with no sleep at all, scrambling all over the loungeroom floor, will do that to the poor old grey matter. Last night Stevie set me up in his study on the floor with the doors closed and the radio on loud enough to cover the noise outside, and I don't know if it was the change in geography or just complete and utter debilitating exhaustion, but I did sleep, 9 glorious hours with only 8 times flailing about and 3 times fully awake for sometime, and I'll bet that was when the noise outside far exceeded the radio levels inside.

So I've been too tired to keep an ice cream tally which is usually as instinctive as breathing. BUGGER!

All I can say is that it's just as well that I am not in charge of heavy equipment cos then at best I would be doing a Georgiou level shit job, and at worst I could kill someone.

Sleep, it is something that we take for granted, and by we, I mean people who do not have babies and small children, cos I reckon sleep might just be a bit of a distant memory for them - I truly do not know how parents who work outside the home manage - just throwing clothes on and remembering to brush my teeth has been a struggle this week. I have not combed my hair, the washing has laid idle, and cooking has been done on auto pilot. If I had thrown being in charge of 200 kids into the mix, well all I can say is that havoc would have doubtless ensued.

TMR have refused all phone calls this week, with promises from the switch board person,  that someone would ring me back 'shortly'. The powerlessness and the inability to find anyone, anyone at all, willing to stand up and take responsibility for the construction planning and execution is as debilitating as the lack of sleep.

Will anyone give this tired woman with only 1 ice cream left a clue about how to actually discuss any of this with someone with seniority in a government department? PLEASE!

Tuesday, 19 September 2017

Queensland Police

Here's last night's 'work' and today NOTHING. Quiet during the day, all hell breaking loose at night.

'I have dealt with you before!'

Well what could this possibly have meant?

If it was cooed to you by your Pizza Shop owner, then you know that they recognise your voice and they know that you want a No. 5 regular with NO CAPSICUM. And all is well with the world, cos these folk make bloody marvellous Pizzas and there is never a dot of the red yukky stuff on 'em. I like it that they have 'dealt with me before'. It'd feel comfortable and cosy and just a little bit special.

When it's stuttered by the car mechanic place I can only imagine that they are a little nervous, because they know that even though I have been telling them for 10 YEARS to stop emailing me and texting me and calling me to tell me my car is due a service, they have never listened and they have emailed and texted and called me and this time wrote to me snail mail too, so they are waiting for me to go off a bit like a rocket. The whole slick as shit showroom type place staffed by people who haven't a clue about the actual running of your car, well it just gives me the shits. I'd much rather chat to a grubby person with a grease smeared face who has been up to their elbows in my engine, than some tosser in a suit, who wants to impress me with their ability to read the written word and take my money. The suited and booted and the flash 'grab the money' centre, just all adds to the cost. 

Yeh sometimes 'I have dealt with you before', delivered in a whisper almost under the breath indicates a modicum of fear or perhaps utter boredom with having to get on the bloody merry-go-round with this crazy cow again.

But what about if it was shouted at you across the street by a person in uniform, who perhaps, because they were waving about a red light, Darth Vader wand and who seemed to be deluded enough to believe that they are all powerful, the omnipotent traffic controller in a Queensland Police uniform, what about then?

I looked back at this woman who was directing traffic, who  was perhaps also charged with stopping said traffic so pedestrians might more safely make their way, and sure enough it was the woman who had grabbed me and shoved me about and questioned my sanity one rainy night about 7 or 8 months ago. 

I have not looked this up, but is part of the police mantra to PROTECT AND SERVE?

She saw us and ignored us, made no moves to stop traffic so we could safely cross the road, and so being 2 reasonably able bodied souls, we took it upon ourselves to walk across the road when it was safe to do so. 

Yeh, we looked Right then Left then Right again. Except that we really only looked right cos we were only going half way across and then we looked left and walked. 

Well that gave the god like one the shits didn't it. She started shouting at us that we were foolish, that she 'had dealt with me before'.

I asked if we were gonna be arrested again for crossing the road too slowly and Stevie just told her to piss off.

She fancied that we were gonna grant her all sorts of power, that we were gonna stand there on the side of the road like a pair of gormless fools, and wait for her to tell us that it was safe to cross. She thought we would only walk across at her behest. 

Yeh her 'I've dealt with you before' was supposed to be a threat. 

Ho hum.

Yeh the noise has started up again.

Work that could and should be done during the day is going ahead all night. 

Last night it drew out half a dozen locals. Perhaps the coppers need to send out more paddy wagons tonight cos the noise is supposed to be ongoing til Friday.

Saturday, 16 September 2017

Surplus Skin

I blame every little change in my body on The meds.

This is of course ridiculous and irrational and stupid.

But it saves me wondering what the fuck is going on and consequently having to head off to the doctor to see if anything is wrong. I don't want to go to the doctor cos I am not interested in any more bad news, and I am not sure that anybody ever hears good news there, so I just don't want to go.

So the meds are to blame for everything:

  • I poo too much - The meds
  • I poo too little - The meds
  • I burst into tears watching an ad on the tellie - The meds
  • I break a nail making the bed - The meds
  • The solar lights around the pool break - The meds
  • Dog needs an operation on her leg - The meds
  • Donald Trump is a dangerous fool - The meds
  • Some people are actually gonna vote NO in the non binding opinion gathering about Gay Marriage. - The meds. 
Of course there is an upside too cos I am still here and the numbers of mutants are under control. And maybe with a small mind set alteration I could see attributing other good things to The Meds too. I am gonna work on that.

But irrationality too often seems to be the order of the day. Bugger!

So I guess there is a chance that the surplus skin on my hands is caused by something other than The meds, but I just don't want to admit to it. 

I remember my lovely Nanna's hands and they seemed also to have too much skin, so I suppose it's possible that it's just an AGE thing. BUGGER! She would say better too much skin than not enough, but then she was alive during the Wars.

Skin is a remarkable organ...biggest in the body. It stretches and shrinks all our lives, until I guess it doesn't. Maybe it just gets the shits up with accommodating a bit of extra pud and then being required to shrink cos someone went on the Israeli, only apples that have committed suicide, and bacon after 5pm, diet.

Who could blame it for getting shitty? Puberty, pregnancy, kilos over, kilos under, a cut here, a scratch there, a rash there and some acne here, too much sun, too little moisturiser. It's a lot to ask.

But now as I am looking at my hands, I wonder if there isn't something we could do with all that extra skin, maybe small purses? or we could combine a few people's surplus into a patchwork handie?

Trouble with this idea is that a chunk would have to sliced off and sent to the tanners and what would happen to that old saying, 'I know it like the back of my hand'? 


Friday, 15 September 2017

Dating Now and Then

This is Stevie and me when we first started to live together, matching dressing gowns and pint cups of tea.  We still have those mugs, but not the robes.

Unless you NEVER tune into social media and you live under a rock and you have a hermit like existence, it is unlikely that you have lasted through the last few months - (I just made that up, cos I have no idea how long a big herd of women have been debasing themselves supposedly in a bid to capture their Prince Charming), without hearing shit about 'The Bachelor'. It's on at dinner time and if I have been slack about changing the channel or indeed pausing the box altogether, it drones on as we shovel in food and even the sound of bones being chewed clean or carrots being crunched, or Dog begging for left-overs, is not loud enough to out do it. 

I am completely over the bullshit. The trite, editor fed lines, the contrived situations, the banal leaping off of shit in a bid to fulfil advertising and sponsorship obligations, all give me the screaming irrits, but mostly it's the way the women behave that I find truly appalling. Yeh I know they are ALL just playing their roles, they are all doing whatever it is that their contracts require, but I just can't fathom how, firstly anyone believes it's real, and secondly WHY they carry on as they do. Perpetuating shitty female stereotypes is something we can all do without.

Dating used to be an exciting adventure, and if you were really lucky you'd be forging a relationship with someone who is equally keen and hopefully hasn't come straight from having their tongue down some other girl's throat.

But the rules have changed.

Recently I sat in a posh restaurant for dinner and just observed the other diners. Yeh I had my phone and my Kindle, but my entertainment for the evening was perving on others.

There were large tables of visitors who could well have been part of a tour group, cos there seemed to be a leader who spoke enough English and could translate and order for everyone. I had a wee giggle to myself cos they all asked for and were provided with, chop sticks even though it was not an Asian restaurant. I laughed because where ever I go I have to ask for a knife and fork or a spoon cos I am hopeless with chop sticks. Horses for courses and all that.

There was an old married couple (I presumed married to each other, but perhaps they were participants in a long term affair, in any case they were very comfortable in each other's presence) who enjoyed sharing a bottle of wine and talked nonstop about day to day shit, nothing intimate, just daily banality, as they enjoyed the food they didn't cook themselves.

And then 2 well heeled young fellas bounced on in. They ordered cocktails and because I suffer from stereotype overload, I sort of thought perhaps they were a gay couple, until they settled into a break down of their dating life since last they had met. So definitely NOT a couple then, and probably not gay either.

They looked at the menu and asked the waiter for the price of the lobster. '$360' 

'Shit' I thought, 'Glad I am chewing up the prawns instead.'

The fellas were a little aghast but played it cool until the waiter went on to serve someone else. And then the bloke facing me was reminded of a recent date with a girl they both knew. Yeh the price was the trigger for the following story.

'I spent 400 bucks for dinner on our second date, cos I just wanted to root her.' 

I choked a little on my Pinot G.

They were both being so loud and forthright about it all.

'Yes, she is quite a bitch, but very good looking.'

And so this is what dating in 2017 is like huh?

I didn't listen to any more. I dragged out my phone and played 'Find a Word'. They told the waiter they weren't going to eat at all, just drink. I presumed he wasn't best pleased, but he did bring 'em another cocktail.

So if this is modern day dating, then perhaps 'The Bachelor' is not far off the mark.

Sophie Monk's 'Bachelorette' starts soon and I suppose given the huge amount of wonga that has been stumped up, she will do quite a lot of doing as she's told and I guess the fellas will do the male equivalent of bitchy back-stabbing, whatever that is, and if there is any love to be found, I imagine it will be between one of the fellas and someone on the production crew, but that will all be kept very quiet.

I doubt I have the energy to date even one bloke, let alone keep a dozen of more clear in my mind. 

All I can think of is that I hope no-one has a cold sore, cos this place would just be a herpes' paradise. 

Oooh YUK!  

Wednesday, 13 September 2017

Swell is on again.

This was my favourite. I think it was made of thin rolled concrete. The photo does not even come close to doing it justice. Pop along if you are local and let me know what you think.

I love this time of the year. It is not stinky hot and the skies are bright blue and it's time for the sculptures to be lined up at the beach at Currumbin.

There is really something here for everyone, and not everything is for everyone, just the way it should be I reckon. I have been more fond of stuff in previous years, but I have also been more nonplussed by stuff in previous years.

This was called 'Conversation' and it created such a peaceful mood. 2 women chatting in a pool, ahhhh.

Whilst dodging kids of all shapes and sizes is a pain in the arse, and you have to watch out for the inevitable soft serve spillage, I am very pleased that the teachers bother filling in all those fucking risk assessment forms and then march the kids about hoping like mad that they don't lose any, except if it's the big old pain in the arse kid, every class has one - just joking, cos that would have usually been me. All in an effort to ensure ALL the kids can experience some wonderful ART. I suppose when they get back to the classroom they will ask the kids which piece was their favourite and will encourage them to explain their choice and will also make it clear that there is no wrong answer, because ART is a personal experience. What someone likes another will hate and what someone will walk by not even noticing can draw long attention from another. I hope this happens and as I have a great deal of faith in teachers, I am pretty sure it does. Maybe the kids are even encouraged to build their own sculpture or draw it, or create a drama piece based on a particular shape. I would like to be a kid in that class.

Tuesday in Brisvegas, and my Darling Boy was rabbiting on about what sort of stuff he might like to take to school for lunch. Random I know, but he's growing like a weed and so food is never far from his mind. Apparently Coles is no longer making his favourite bread thing so the hunt is on for something else. In passing, he mentioned that whilst he was now allowed to take a muesli bar to school, a wee bag of nuts is prohibited.

He's in High School.

I wonder how long kids with these allergies need to be protected.

We got around to wondering how they go about shopping and using the escalators and doing ordinary things in public where there are no such bans.

And then I was struck by just how brave those teachers really are, taking their kids out of the sanitised school into the real world. They must be EPPI PENNED up the wazzoo.

I am very glad that I didn't ever have to learn how to stab a kid.

I hope, though very much doubt it, that the teachers had time to take a moment to find their favourite piece and that just visiting even for a few seconds brought a private bit of joy to them.

Here's to the artists - mostly my cup of tea and here a big cheers to the teachers who struggle for the good of the kids.

Friday, 8 September 2017

Solo 101

Always plant yourself in such a way as to make it very difficult for anyone else to sit next to you.

I chose to be a solo traveller when I was 30, well except that I was a single mother with no money and a mortgage running at 17% so cleaning other people's dunnies was a sideline in which I excelled just so I could keep food on the table and the odd pair of Italian shoes on my feet. Don't tell me that Kmart shoes would have done, cos I know that, but I was just struggling to have some of what I had when I was married. By all means judge away.

SO as it was my choice to go it alone, I obviously devised ways and means of doing it without having to tell too many people to fuck off, and without ever smacking anyone with a shovel, not that I didn't fancy doing that from time to time. Restraint was the order of the day, cos there sure wasn't gonna be any white knight riding in to save me if my mouth runneth over.

When my Lovely girl was visiting her dad, I would pop off to the pictures or the theatre or a cafe and I was more than happy to sit on my own. I have always had a thing about sitting on the aisle, laughingly explaining to people that if there was a fire, I could be the first one out, but the truth is that I am stupidly claustrophobic and so can only bare to be next to one person at a time, and it is more than a little helpful if I actually LIKE the person I am sitting by.

I know that the HOUSE seats at the theatre are in the middle of the row a few rows back, cos that's where the best view is, but I'll take the skewed view from the side every day of the week and twice on Sunday, or not go at all.

So in my 30s I hatched a devious and effective plan whereby I would book or grab the aisle seat and shove my handie on the seat next to me so I was on my own, Plenty of air not being contaminated by a stranger. I don't like polluted stranger air, or their possible bad breath or their BO or worse still their stinky farts exploding the remnants of last night's curry. And I don't enjoy that tussle of who owns the arm rest that seems to be a given when sitting next to some stranger in a public place.

So the handie was useful for more than just toting tampons and a lippy.

But last weekend in Melbourne I had forgotten my Solo Traveller rules. BUGGER!

Stevie has been my wing man for so long that I had forgotten about the usefulness of the handie.

On the plane down, it was OK cos I had stumped up the extra cash for a good seat and so I sat on the aisle and mostly ignored the bloke next to me.

The cabbie was an arsehole who drove far out of the way, even though I was pointing and say, 'We need to be going over there!' but when he finally dumped me at the hotel, I put on a sunny smile to greet the check in folk cos after all it wasn't their fault that the fucking plane was late and the cabbie was a turd, and I'd missed the Dior Exhibition.

On Saturday I tootled off to the Leukaemia Conference.

I knew that I needed to get in early to make sure that I had an aisle seat, even if that meant that I had people climbing over me to get to the central seats. This I know gives people the shits and some so much so that they rather purposely stomp all over your feet, but trodden on toes is a price I am happy to pay.

In the end I shuffled around a bit and settled on the aisle seat right in the front except that it was right on the side, so if the sprinkler system started up I would be up and out before anyone. There was no-one next to me cos obviously it was the shit spot, what with the oblique view of all the AV stuff. Yippee.

Or so I thought.

Just before the Key Note Address, a somewhat strange, rather stinky, very snuffly sneezing coughing bloke sat RIGHT FUCKING NEXT TO ME. I had forgotten solo traveller 101 and my handie was perched on my lap not the seat next to me. Bugger.

Not only was he RIGHT FUCKING NEXT TO ME, he was swilling around his disease and germs and then suddenly and loudly he wanted a run down of, 'Your life with cancer so far?'

'I don't want to discuss it.' would have stopped most people in their tracks but not this fella.

But the conversation attempts were not nearly as disconcerting as his appalling habit of sticking his fingers - yes plural!  up his nose, perhaps in search of diamonds and then wiping the slurry all up and down his trousers. I am not fucking joking!. Even in the dark I could clearly see the wet lines on his pants. Perhaps he was striving for some pin stripe look, but then the stripes turned to puddles and then lakes!

Now I am just your normal middle classed gal with decent manners, and a potty mouth. I tried to inconspicuously scout out another seat, but in the dark and as it needed to be on the aisle, this was not easy. I knew if I just hopped up and moved, firstly EVERYONE would see me and secondly, this guy would just think I am a rude snobby bitch. Why this was important to me I don't know.

Finally after his fruitless panning session which resulted in sodden snot stained trousers, I could bear it no longer and I stood up and shuffled my way to the entrance aisle and stood and listened. Ahh plenty of room, even if there was no chair.

This was a pretty extreme revision lesson of how to travel on your own.

But I am happy to say that I am a reasonably quick study and after lunch, I found the right room and went in early and sat on an aisle seat and my handie and umbrella sat defiantly on the seat next to me. People may have wanted that seat but it was just too fucking bad.

My handie enjoyed her sightseeing adventure on the tram sitting the the seat right next to me, ignoring the sometimes pleading looks from fellow travellers.  

Ahh all was well in my world, until we were delayed again on the plane home and the family of 4 behind me used up far more than their share of the air, but that's a whole other story.

Thursday, 7 September 2017

Fear Not for the Future.

Travel around Melbourne is easy peasy, and for some even easier still.

Anyone who fears for the future at the hands of the Youth of Today, should be looking more closely at these wonderful, versatile talented folk.

Recently I wrote about not being clumsy. Well at least I figured mostly I am not clumsy. But CLUMSY is a pretty broad term I reckon.

Does not falling flat on your face when you put 2 feet on the ground in the morning as you stagger out of bed, make you NOT CLUMSY?

Does being able to push a wonky wheeled trolley around Woolies without waylaying into whatever fucking useless display special is taking up far too much room at the end of every aisle, make you NOT CLUMSY?

Or do you need to be able to dance Swan Lake and not just in the chorus line, or carry multiple dishes up your arms to deliver food simultaneously to the masses, to be considered NOT CLUMSY?

Last weekend while I was in Melbourne, I sat on the tram going any damn place I pleased,  and felt well and truly smug about myself. I had topped up my 'myki' travel card,  navigated to where I wanted to be and found the right tram and was proudly just sitting there minding my own business, enjoying the sights of suburban Melbourne. I had my handie thrown across my chest so both hands were free to wave or scratch or pull the dinger or whatever, and my miki was tucked into the top pocket of my coat so I could and did, hop on and off the trams with the ease and grace of a gazelle.  

Or so I thought.

At one point a young woman climbed aboard, and made me feel like a clutz, like a bull in a china shop, like a drunk blind person wandering through the expensive glassware section of David Jones when the fire alarm rings and everyone is in panic.

She climbed on, touched her card to the scanner and found herself a seat.

So far she could be me.

But then I checked her out.

In her hands she held, under complete calm control, her tiny handie. It wasn't one of those ones like mine, that was wrapped around my shoulders. Yep she had this wee item somehow balanced on 2 fingers. Bloody clever I reckon.

And she of course had her card and was also keeping up to date on her smart phone. Thumbs were flying in response to something that was making her smile.

So she sat opposite me clutching her handie and her card and was busy on her phone, but that my friends is not where it ends.

She was also very clearly enjoying her lunch - and sanga and a bottle of water.

It was not a safe sort of sanga that I might have chosen to chew up on a tram. No it wasn't a lame old vegemite on white bread with the crusts on adding to the rigidity of the whole thing, tucked snugly into a paqer bag, type sanga.

Nope it was a fully ladden jobbie with egg and mayo and chicken and some green stuff. The filling was about 2 times thicker than the bread holding it all in place. It looked like the crusts were gone, maybe she had already chewed 'em off like I'd go at a corn on the cob, in any case the whole thing looked bloody delicious and dangerous and fragile to me, and was all but the cause of a panic attack as I waited and waited and waited.

I waited for an explosion of sanga stuffing onto the floor.

She brilliantly continued the balletic job of handie and card and communication and sanga and water. She was a sight to behold. She chewed up and finger chattered and chewed up some more. She dropped not a crumb and I'll just bet that her comments and replies were spell checked and perfect too.

Let's not fear for a minute about the future. While there are folk like this wonderful young woman who can achieve all this on public transport with such composure, we are in very good hands.

In comparison just imagine me sitting there amid what would have inevitably been my spilt picnic, with other travellers slipping sidewards on the coleslaw and scraping salad from their shoes, and if by some unbelievable stretch of the imagination I managed to also use my phone, I can only guess it would have been to call someone asking for help, cos I sure as shit would have needed it.

Yep we are in good hands indeed.

Wednesday, 6 September 2017

Pooh - no not Bear.

If you are squeamish or eating then maybe read this a little later.

Over a cuppa this morning Stevie told me a less than salubrious tale. His mate at the Golf club was in the loo taking a dump. Yeh I had to stop there too cos I am not a fan of shitting anywhere but at home, but he found himself in the cubicle with his pants at his ankles and he spotted something amiss. Not in his knickers, but on the floor, wedged into a corner. Now I reckon it takes quite a brave soul to investigate an unidentified lump of strange, wedged into the corner of a public loo, even if that loo is at a golf club, so this fella must be from hardy stock.

He did a bit of a poke about, with what was not revealed - maybe a 4 iron or a wood? but presumably that was after he had finished his business and had pulled up his pants. His investigation revealed a fully loaded pair of undies. Well how's that for well and truly yukky? And then he was in a quandary, should he pick up the poohy mess and be the good Samaritan or should he kicked it all carefully back from whence it came and pretend he hadn't seen it? For me maybe the third option would have been to lose my lunch over the top of it all to camouflage it, and then drive quickly home for a weep and a little lie down, and maybe a Valium if only I had some.

What would you have done?

And what would you have done had you been the knicky-noo loader?

I reckon most people don't give long thought to this sort of a problem, but as shitting urgency is perhaps the least favourable side effect of my meds, and I have been caught unawares miles from my own loo, I have a little emergency plan swimming in the back of my mind.

About once a month, I try not to travel many metres from home, but there is no forewarning to the impending disaster, it strikes without fanfare or notice.

Yesterday I was enjoying a visit with my lovely Girl and all of a sudden it was the afternoon from hell, especially as there is one loo in her rather small flat and when I needed to go, woe-be-tide anyone between me and the porcelain. At one point, my darling Boy was in the shower and had to dart out, dripping wet, draped in a towel. It all became quite comical.

I wondered if I was gonna make it home.

I had a sanguine plan. If I did shit myself while scooting down the M1 at 110 km per hour, I would just pull over when I could, take off as much affected clothing as possible and clean myself as best I could, and then sit naked arsed on a piece of newspaper and finish driving home. Yeh I would have dumped the mess against the guard rail. They weren't my favourite shorts anyway.

But had I had a little oopsie at my Golf Club I would NOT have kicked the offending pile into a corner. I'd have felt obliged to scoop it all up and chuck it in the bin, although I suppose then I'd have run the very real chance of being caught with my hands full, by Murphy would predict, my least favourite person, and he'd have gone out spruiking the details and no-one would have ever shaken my hand again.

Shit is like Vegemite. It's bloody remarkable just how far it spreads.