Dialing 000 - it's easier than you think.

These stairs were like Everest.

Whoever said you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

Well they are wrong.

Yesterday I learnt how to call an ambulance and get on into it and maneuver my way through the A & E of a public hospital.

Firstly what I learnt is that you have to be quite worked up before you can ring 000. Oh sure there are always gonna be those kids who prank call 'em and make a silly old nuisance of themselves and I suppose some lonely old folk might call up from time to time just to sort some company, but for most of us I reckon we have to feel pretty fucking terrible before getting out the dialing finger.

Did you know when you ring 000 that you are sent to a national answer phone place and then you have to choose, not only the emergency service of choice but also you state, and then you get to talk to a very calm person who takes all the details all the while sorting the Ambos to get a wriggle on. The lady on the phone could have been forgiven for thinking she was dealing with a nut job, cos I was having a little weep. She was excellent.

3 Ambos arrived. I figured that lady on the phone must have a crystal ball which told her I was a big fat heifer and so reinforcements were railed in. We talked and walked and they ran out this sci-fi trolley bed out of the back of the truck, which one of the Ambos told me had been weight tested to 200 KG so I shouldn't worry about breaking it.

I felt like I should have been giving all the neighbours a royal wave as I lowered myself onto the trolley and then whimpered myself into a lying position and then by magical levitation I was in the truck and watching Stevie and Dog disappear off the horizon.

I had not been able to walk, or bend or move for going on 3 days, so I figured I had broken or fractured my hip.

Last week I was sitting minding my own business when a big fucking bird flew into the house. It came right at me. I could swear that it hated me and was on a vendetta flight.

It seemed personal.

I threw myself onto the concrete floor and huddled my head under my arms, and curled into a ball, and tried to remember to keep breathing.

The fucking bird was going nuts, shitting and flapping all around the kitchen.

Stevie didn't know whether to see to me or rid the house of the flier. He watched the kitchen turn brown and opted to grab the bird.

My brave soldier sent that fucker packing. Ah Bless him.

With a bit of a struggle I was righted, and then I sort of forgot all about it, until all of a sudden I couldn't walk. I left it a couple of days cos you know, I don't like to troop off to the doctors for every little thing.

So I rang the lovely Dr Jane and wondered what to do. I was blubbering and knew that there was no way I could climb into Stevie's truck or slink into my baby to go driving for an Xray, so an Ambo was the only real option. I sort of had permission from Jane so then I dialed 000.

That might have been the bravest thing I have done all year - yeh I know it's only January.

I was wheeled into the Robina Hospital Emergency waiting area.

Years ago in London I arrived at the local hospital in the middle of a Heart Attack. The A & E was less than salubrious. I remember being told to take a seat amid a mass of people in various stages of decay and bleeding out, and I just stood there taking up as very little room as I could and just said, 'NO.' There is nothing quite like a stubborn woman having a heart attack. The place was dirty and when I was finally admitted the only folk who seemed to be working were indeed the cleaners but they were the same ones who sadly left half full wee bottles in the communal loos and wodges of bloody stuff - literally, under the beds. I don't suppose they were the ones who left the poor soul at the end of the ward, unshrouded and uncurtained, but it had to be someone's job to see to the dead people, surely.

Anyway all this was rushing through my head as I tried to concentrate on something other than the fucking pain in my hip.

The day after Australia Day might well not be the best time to head to the local hospital.

There were all manner of injuries sustained during drunken frivolity, injuries which had only begun to throb as the booze wore off. Head, feet, arms, chin - all busted up and purple, and a woman who was puking into her own bucket. She just lowered herself into a corner on the floor. I felt badly for her kids who were doing all the paper work for her - they were only babies - grown before their time.

The A & E doctor laughed at my bird story- in a friendly, embarrassed sort of way, and ordered Xrays and a CT scan. I educated him about CML and told him that a documented side effect of the drugs is BONE PAIN.

I was offered all manner of class A pain meds and settled on a panadol cos at least I knew what was in them.

The Xray was easy. Then a wait in the Short Stay ward. Nice bed. Very starched sheets.

The CT scan was easy. Then a longer wait in the Short Stay ward.

There was some food which I just do not want to dwell on and a lovely cuppa delivered by a chipper lady who swapped out my broken bikkies for some pristine ones. She was definitely a keeper.

We waited and waited.

I asked about the results and was told there was no fracture. YIPPEE!

I was told to wait for the doctor.

I am not a patient person.

I had been there for 6 hours and that was quite long enough.

WE packed my handie and were almost outta there when suddenly a Physio arrived with a pair of ancient crutches and stories about a mobility aid which could easily have seen her wearing one of those crutches as a necklace - not really she was fine, but the thought of a Zimmer frame was just too much to bare.

We told her we were going. She seemed surprised - surprised that we hadn't spoken to a doctor and surprised we were going.

She roused up some doctor who whilst he had the results of the Xrays and the CT knew nothing else. I gave him a quick education about CML and the drugs I take and we were outta there.

So it's excellent to know that my hips are intact.

It's less fucking fine to be able to add another side effect to my list.

This Bone Pain shit is right up there with the Shingles for pain in the arseness.

Today it seems to have improved, and whilst I am not back to running a 4 minute mile - as if! or spreading my knees further apart than is necessary when you play the pass the balloon game - don't go all smutty now! I am not diving through the meds drawer in search of anything full of  codeine.

That means it's a good day.

No fractures, so the fucking zimmer frame can wait for another day.

Recurring Dream of being lost and disorganised.

We said a silent goodbye to the little boy this week. Oh, heart in mouth, me not him.

On those lovely evenings when I can sleep cos the noise is ambient not industrial, I very often dream in vivid colour. The dreams are so very real, set in real places that I know well, and all too regularly I awake perhaps needing to pee, in real life as well as in the dream and I recall it all easily. Sometimes I try to go back to sleep so I can right any problems in the dream or just occasionally, enjoy the good times.

Very often, even though I am no longer teaching, I have dreams set in a school, quite regularly not one I taught in but where I actually went to school.

I dream that I am carrying a pile of books and I am looking for a classroom and a class and I am running all over the school. Panic rises as I can't find the room or the class and I am miles away from my staff room so I can't phone anyone or check on my paper timetable sticky taped to the wall above my desk - yes I am of that vintage.

Even though I am looking for my Drama class I know I am in the English Block or the Science Area, and I try to steer clear of the Admin Block for fear of getting into trouble.

Now I am not gonna pretend that I never made a late entry to class, but it was not the norm for me. I ran to time, had the required paper work complete and generally knew where each of the kids I was responsible for where, and mostly what they were doing. I was organised or super organised and very rarely I'll admit to having had no fucking clue what I was gonna do so just had to wing it, but all up I reckon I did a pretty good job.

So why would I be so very often having these dreams about being shit and lost and late?

Just occasionally it'd be cool to have a dream about being successful.

My darling Grandie started high school this week.

Yeh I know, it's a whole other conversation about why a government would settle on a return to school date in the week when there is a public holiday on a thursday, but let's leave that for another day.

The Darling boy is wonderfully tall and not surprisingly has quite the gobbie mouth, but he is still only11. He is still only a boy. He is still afraid of doing the wrong thing and he still wants to avoid trouble at all costs.

At the moment because there is no locker assigned, he carries his bag and his books and his lunch and his sport's clothes and sneakers and next week there will be a laptop and bag added to the mix. That's a lot! and it's a big step up from Primary school where it is all done for 'em. Big step, I reckon they need a long ladder and they need to scale it pronto - no safety rope or net.

He didn't have the right hat for sports - Mum wrote a note - Day 2 and the situation at the only uniform shop in the world where you can buy 'em is pretty dire, but he had a note. Whew! so no detention for uniform violation. He'd worn the only pair of thick white sports socks with the school letters printed on 'em in tiny font in a corner and there was no way they'd be washed and  dry for use again the next day, so ordinary white socks were sorted, except again he feared detention so a note was taken.

He might be the note KING.

I am not sure if he is running around wondering where the hell he is meant to be, and very possibly there is safety in numbers and he can herd along with the others, but if he is spending so much nervous energy worrying about where he is meant to be as he is about getting into strife about stuff beyond his control, I can imagine that his dreams might be as panic driven as mine.

I sure fucking hope not.

We know not to ask too many questions and to wait for details to percolate up in his brain, but I so want to grill him about everything.

He seems to be enjoying himself.

I sooo hope so.

Georgiou Group - SHUT DOWN!

This is the vac truck that slurps a trench at between 80 -115 decibels. Georgiou Group have  been using it day and night when a fella with a shovel would be quieter and far more efficient.

It's been quite a battle and the frustration has been agonising, in fact it has popped up all over Stevie in the form of painful Shingles, so now we are both medicated and neither of us in the way clearly described by the Georgiou workers to the local police. No not a nut case pill amongst us, although even if there were it should make no difference.

The appalling noise has been one thing. I mean imagine a jack hammer firing off right by your ear while you are strapped to a chair and the enemy interrogators are asking for your inside leg measurement, well I reckon it'd take but seconds before you spilled your guts and told 'em everything they wanted to know and then your mother's deepest darkest secrets just for good measure. All those spy films with pulling off of finger nails with rusty pliers or attaching electrodes to bollocks, well that's just all for effect, because the best form of torture is prolonged exposure to really loud thumping vibrating shit pitched NOISE.

I must have sent 2 dozen emails in complaint, and apart from JP Langbroek, our State pollie, I've got nothing back. Oh sure there is the automatic response which says to expect a reply in 15 working days, but no real response.

Phones have gone unanswered, people in person - though not very senior I must admit, have given gormless bullshit, to me and the police.

But yesterday we ramped up the offensive.

Stevie wrote emails signing off including his qualifications which read impressively if indeed these fools know anything about road engineering or qualifications or road building or noise.

I did a letter drop to neighbours giving them complaint contact possibilities, and I sent more than 100 emails to local people about the same, because both the Main Roads people who do actually answer the phone and of course the Georgiou liars who answer the phone have said that noone else has complained, and even though I thought that was extremely unlikely, I believed 'em cos I just do not expect people, in the course of their paid employment to be lying arse wipes turds. But you know what? Lots of those people have been ringing me and emailing me to tell of their complaint experience, none of which have been pleasant.

So late yesterday after 10 hours of far too loud vac machine sucking ( a little job which could have easily been knocked over by 2 blokes with shovels and brooms in less than half the time, in relative quiet - this is how Stevie would have sorted a little trench digging) a pleasant young bloke arrived with a metal shed and some sound equipment and he planted it right by our side fence. Alleylouya. (Yeh I am not religious and spell check didn't help me here, but I bet you get the idea.)

There should be church music playing and desperation has lead me to thinking about kneeling down and praying to this wonderful thing.

Minutes after he installed it, and they saw it, the fucking noise STOPPED!

A man with a broom and a shovel appeared.

Then they all took off.

I had received an email from Georgiou about 10.30 in the morning outlining the work for the week and they said there would be 24 hour a day noise all week. I guess this is what galvanised us into action, cos 24 hour a day noise of 80 decibels and more, is more than anyone should endure.

We spent a lovely evening with friends having a scrummy dinner and Stevie had a few beers in celebration and then we rolled home. I pulled up at the work zone which was meant to be trenching in water pipes right across our street all night.

There was a Front end loader on a low rumble presumably trying to boost the ambient noise levels being recorded, and a bloke with his Darth Vader stick.

I parked up in the car par park which was part of my EXCLUSION ZONE as dictated by the police but the time frame had expired so I was pretty sure I was not gonna be arrested, and walked around to Bundall Road where I took a decibel reading of 80-82 and a photo of the equipment on a rumble doing nothing. I shouted out the reading to Stevie and next thing you know, even the Digger was gone from the street. The work zone was left empty and dark. Yep it was an ordinary suburban street.

Bloody brilliant.

Best night sleep I have had in weeks.

I would doubt it was so good for the folk living anywhere near Salerno Street cos the noise there I guess was on going. I would encourage you folk to ramp up your efforts. Insist on sound equipment to measure the noise at your houses. This is mandated in the Code of Practice. Down load a decibel reader on your phone.

The sound engineer, tested my phone app yesterday and it was as accurate as his, and even though he said the readings may not stand up some places, as they are accurate it would be difficult to ignore 'em altogether. Take readings, email 'em to yourself and anyone else who might help.

Remember that the formula for acceptable noise is 10 decibels higher than the RBL (usual noise) and 5 decibels more at night. That does not sound like a lot, but the scale is exponential.

Take the readings and take the photos and make the calls and send the emails and call me if you are gonna protest and I will join you. I rather doubt the police will send too many paddy wagons.

Of course Georgiou are now not working. I suppose that when my blessed sound monitoring device is gone they will be back at it again, but at least I am learning the complaint procedure and the machine should be there for at least 5 days so we will be that much closer to a TMR response - 15 working days and all that, and I know that there is an army albeit small, of local people who are equally pissed off.

Let Georgiou Group make their damn road, but let 'em make it according to the Code of Practice, and let 'em use some basic civility.

I am feeling hopeful, but that might just be the effects of a full night sleep.

Police Encounter

She stood there, stoically in the pissing down rain huddled under her brolly.

She refused to move.

The police came.

The senior officer grabbed her roughly and shoved her onto the footpath.

She stood there, stoically in the pissing down rain, huddled under her brolly.

The Police disappeared and then returned.

Officer Bully Bill Barely a Beard angrily asked her what meds she was on and had she been diagnosed with mental illness.

Argie bargie ensued. Her smart mouth flowed.

Officer Older Gal, told her her behaviour was not normal because she wasn't being intimidated and going meekly where most folk go.

The officers were getting wound up. She was reluctant to dance to their tune. She just wanted to stand there and watch.

The rain had stopped.

Officer Bully Bill Barely a Beard AKA BBBaB, threatened to arrest her if she didn't move on.

She was standing on a public footpath.

Officer BBBaB issued a MOVE ON order and then with some difficulty in completing the maths equation of adding 6 hours to 9pm to come to a 3am end game, he set out the exclusion zone and pointed out it's perimetre.

The threats of arrest forced her to move.

Where was Mr Democracy in all this?

He had not been invited to the party.

Shame on Georgiou Road Builders and the Queensland Main Roads Department

Remote controlled thumper and Darth Vader waving his big red stick

There must have been something wrong with the truck cos these 3 did not move from this spot in the hour I was there.

I like a party as much as the next gal. Oh I remember! The flashing lights and the thump thump thump that makes it's way from your feet to your chest. Back in younger days, I enjoyed perving on the smorgasbord of fellas lined up around the walls eyeing up the talent and doing fuck all else. We'd all crawl home at dawn and then there'd be that sort of jet lagged nauseous feeling plus a bit of a hangover for the rest of the day or maybe 2 depending on how far back into my youth I go. Yeh I do love a party. But I was only ever good for one a weekend, bit of a lightweight I know, but that was my lot.

The Party House which is the Road Works has come alive and their Do's have escalated in frequency.

I haven't slept since Sunday.

Yep Sunday was good.

Saturday was OK too.

Last week though was a melted mess of 'what the fuck are they doing NOW?

So I reckon in nearly a fortnight I have slept for 2 nights.

And that is just not enough!

I have lost my sense of humour.

I went looking for it at 2.30 this morning hoping that the fuckers working - not really working, I am being KIND, might have dug it up.

I have never seen so many men standing around doing utterly NOTHING in one place in my life and that might be because I am lucky enough to have only ever spent mere minutes at Centrelink, where these bozos, would, I am sure fit in very nicely.

The person in charge of this road project is protected by a cloak of secrecy. His name and contact details are held onto tighter a than good old girl's grab of an old man's cock. And the one thing that all the Main Road worker wankers that I have had anything to do with are good at, is reciting that they can do whatever they like cos it's in the agreement.

One fella today, whose name escaped me told me it was all just too bad that I lived where I do. Yep It's just too bad.

My State Member, Mr JP Langbroek got on the case today, and he got a letter back, lucky him I reckon, but in any case he forwarded it to me.

It was a revelation.

The Nightworks are only occassional!

The Noisy work is completed early in the evening so as not to disturb the locals.

Workers are instructed at the start of every night shift to be as quiet as possible so not to disturb.

The work is being done according to the agreement.

Well I'll be buggered.

The scuttle from the dickwads I have actually spoken to is that this site is gonna be Nighted - no not KNIGHTED until, 'September, or maybe October, depending on the weather and other delays.' This wee sentence they can remember and happily deliver in a loop. When I suggested that they actually learn to use their own brains in lieu of spewing forth sections of a manual, well I'd like to say they were offended, but actually I don't think they understood what I was getting at.

So Ho Hum to the OCCASSIONAL bullshit.

The loudest part of the work is the 'making good', repairing the mess that they make earlier. This requires thumpers - 2 of this evening and a remote control hideous noise thing and 2 front end loaders beeping and scraping and 3 tip trucks playing boy racer,  and 2 gormless fools on penalty rates scraping with a shovel even though they were told to keep it down to a dull roar and there is a nice quiet broom right next to 'em.

Noise management I fucking don't think so!

I took videos and photos as I stood there and I reckon they must have just been thrilled cos last week saw a bloke, presumably in his PJs, stand in the middle of the road, blocking the path of the trucks and the Loaders. So my obvious complaint was mild in comparison, although I am sure a couple of 'em would have liked to call the police and have me removed.

What beggars belief is that there are just so many of 'em standing around doing completely absolutely utterly fuck all. They stand in little groups of 2 or three and lean on things.

No fucking wonder it is taking so long.

No fucking wonder this Union driven Government is slowly going broke.

No fucking wonder I fancy taking a shovel and sticking it where the sun don't shine, and as it's night time I am spoiled for choice in this regard.  

It's now 4 am and I am not certain but I think maybe the shift is finished.

So now I can go to bed.

Fucking yippee!

Sherlock Holmes AKA Nosy Cow

I know this is not a Sherlock hat, but it's the one I wore today while we went a sleuthing.

Years ago we knew a couple who thought they fancied a sea change, well actually it was a paddock, snake and bad roads change, so they bought a shed on a big bit of land and then proceeded to be as happy as 2 people could be, all that way from a pub or a restaurant or a shoe shop or a doctor or whatever, except for shitting neighbours ticked off with the city-slickers who came to Hobby. Yep they settled in. They put in a loft bedroom and a kitchenette in the shed, along with salvaged air-con units and windows and doors removed from our place before we knocked it flat.

He bragged that their little idyll was a mere 30 minutes from town, but that must have been by helicopter cos I reckon it was more like and hour and a quarter. 

We visited a couple of times.

It was not my cup of tea.

A big argument ensued not about my beverage of choice, and we have not surprisingly never been invited back.

It's not the place I would ever just want to whip on by, cos it's so far fucking out of the way, but today we took off to Canungra for a coffee and a little look see and we thought we might test the old grey matter by trying to find our way back to this place. Again it's unlikely that anyone has ever just stumbled upon it. It takes some finding.

My phone maps showed a rough picture of where it might be and we typed something into the SatNav, and then disregarded her instructions altogether.

We forged slightly damp causeways and drove along some dirt tracks cos we went the wrong way.

A bit of tooing and froing and we stumbled upon it.

Again my phone was useful cos the phone number on the front fence was in my directory.

We were in the right place.

We had remembered how to get there.

Now it's not like finding a house in the burbs, where you can go by the design or the colour or the fence or the cars parked in the drive. This is out in the truly-ruly sticks, where trees grow and die and dams fill up and dry out and slummy looking houses are planted in tiny plots right next door to someone else's vast open space.

The shed was barely visible from the road and we wondered if there had been a little added to the side of it. We didn't see any cows, but imagine they could easily have been idling away the afternoon on the other side of the hill.

I can admit that I have not missed trecking out to this place. There have been things I miss as a result of the barny, but this bit of bush is definitely not on the list.

We saw a sneaky black snake making it's way across the road and after that I was done in. I wasn't getting out of the car and I was worried about - perhaps it's an urban myth, the snake wrapping itself around the tyre and finding its way inside. I really must google whether that's possible before I egt back in the truck.

We did see a rabbit or a hare hopping on its merry way and a lovely looking working dog, out for a bit of a stroll in between sorting the cows or whatever, and this was pleasant, but not even close to joyful enough to entice me back.   

I enjoy this sort of re-visiting.

I like to go back to my childhood home and see what I remember and what has changed and I always pop in to my old Brisvegas addresses if I am anywhere nearby, just to see if I can still recognise 'em. It's cool to note the changes and compare the now to the then. 

I don't know why today was the day to go well and truly bush, cos we have often tripped out to Canungra or The Beau and have not bothered. It could be something as simple as it was hot out and the aircon was pumping and Dog was happy so why not.

Maybe Sherlock could dig up a reason, or maybe Freud?

Do you like to go a Sleuthing?

TRUMP V ELLIOTT Make up and stuff.

Melania Trump reckons it takes at least an hour and a quarter to slap a bit of lippy on, and because of this she is redesigning a room at the White House especially for this activity. The room needs to offer perfect light - not sure what that is - but I reckon anything can be bought for a price.

It is of course possible that this is all just utter cods' bollocks from a dishonest cheating American Press, but it seems plausible that a former makeup artist would want somewhere lovely to get out the paints. I wonder if she is gonna continue to paint him orange, and  I wonder if that's gonna stain the Whiteness of the place.

In any case, I began thinking about my rigorous beauty regime.

Bit of Lippy makes all the difference huh?

Yep that's the lazy cow extent of it. Slide on some lippy but only onto the bottom lip and then do a bit of smacking sound and wipe off anything that might have smudged onto my teeth.

If I am going on a date I will try and disguise some of the bags and wrinkles and adult pimply mess and sometimes if I can work up the enthusiasm and effort, I might try to colour in my eyes a smidge, but mostly I reckon I am so completely out of practice that clown makeup is the end result.

It's like anything. It takes practice to be good at it.

When I would head out to work with a full face on, I needed an extra 10 minutes of so, cos I was pretty quick and confidence comes with experience. Now that it is such a rarity it just is something that I need to work up to, like maybe I need to think about it at lunchtime and then have a little sleep and dream on it and then gather up the splodge and line it all up and turn on the fan cos it's a sweat making job. 

There are lots and lots of things I would rather do than colour in my face.

I start with the brown gloop, which my skin finds claustrophobic. I put it on and mostly then wipe it off and then when I am happy that my skin still looks like it did before, I put a line of green eye liner under each eye, a bit of mascara and then for the full effect, I rub some pink powder stuff on my eyelids with my finger. Oh and of course then there's the lippy. DONE.

So how the fuck does anyone spend more than an hour splashing shit about?

Firstly I don't want to look at myself close up for that long. They must be either very pleased and proud of themselves or they must spend a great deal of time sobbing about their flaws, and I guess if they do that then they need to spend even longer covering shit up.

I can be showered, including hair washing, and made up and dressed and outta the house in 30 minutes. If it's hot I might take a little long, but that's only cos the makeup ends up sliding down onto my chest and I need to mop it all up and start again. The starting again almost never happens.

And it's not cos I am not a girlie girl. I reckon I am. I just don't like the way the makeup feels on my face.

A lovely friend of mine, did my makeup one night many many years ago. I just let him go his hardest. I was going out to some sort of pseudo posh thing and thought an effort was required. He did the big Ta - Da reveal when he had finished, and I looked into the mirror and I didn't recognise myself. I didn't like feeling like a fraud. 

I could easily fall into a screaming irrit heap if I spend too long thinking about my face. Fuck knows it ain't what it used to be. But as it's the only one I have, it'll have to do, and I find it strangely comforting to be able to recognise myself when I see my reflection. 

The space filled by make up when I am travelling is approximately one hundredth of that used for the cartage of all the just-in-case drugs and all the usual shit. It just is not that important to me. 

And I suppose I am lucky, cos I am not the one looking at my face. And from my side I see the face of a young, wrinkle free, bright eyed, woman. 

Lucky me! 

Timezone and traffic.

It used to be called GRUNDIES.

I don't know why.

I can't remember if it was air conditioned or if indeed I even felt the heat way back when we would visit this place with my lovely Dad or years later with my girl in tow. Maybe that is the clear and absolute evidence of global warming NAY sayers need. 40 years ago the heat was not a consideration of anything at all, and now this grumpy sweating old cow looks for that tell tale sign of dripping condensation which slides down the walls and windows yelling, 'The air is cold, so come on in.'

Now I reckon, the biggest attraction of Grundies AKA Timezone, is that the cold air is pumped out and if you stayed long enough a light cardie might be in order. Yep in this stinking heat this place is a god send.

The Grandie boy was due a treat. Yeh I know I reckon he is always due a treat, but that's cos he is the embodiment of all things treatie. Anyway a couple of hours of these arcade games, shoot 'em up, slam into 'em was in order, and I was not unhappy about enjoying the cold cold cold. Yummo.

As a Goldie Local, I do not often venture into Surfers Paradise. I can sort of see how visitors might be enamoured with the shit shops and the bars and the cafes and the touts selling tickets to all manner of attractions and tourist rip offs and of course the beach. But you know what, I can live without it.

We parked up and paid the maximum 2 hours - $7.20 I think it was and wandered over to the place.

Not surprisingly, we were early.

But we were first in line when it opened and we bought the swipe card and off he went to find his very favourite games.

I remember a more carnival atmosphere cos the games were manned by folk taking your money and if you won you got a toy or some piece of shit and years later maybe a handful of tickets that you could trade in for a piece of shit at the shit shop. My lovely Dad did like collecting those tickets!

But now it's all done with a swipe.

2 Hour cards give you a variety of stuff, 12 Red games - ticket winners - points make prizes, unlimited yellow games, and blessed be, these were Zig's choice and Dodgems and a Lazer force game which he said was very lame cos it was too early and so there were too few targets, and putt putt golf.

Well I started off like a good grandma. I watched him shoot the shit of stuff and then had to pop on my feministo hat and ask him what all that girlie posing bullshit was all about at the end of the shoot the bull game. I mean really what is that about? Why do kids need to have pole dancing girls celebrating the end of a shoot up?

What the very fuck is this about?

The lights and the conflicting noises seeped into my psyche and suddenly I needed to escape. Luckily we had already identified a meet up spot so I nicked off for a coffee and he continued on his spree of killing stuff and driving all manner of vehicles too quickly.

I found him again before his time was up and we played some of those old fashioned games together. He smashed some thing down with a gianormous hammer and we did target practice with cannons and I was shit and he was fabulous and then time had evapourated and he needed to cash in his swipey tickets and he came home with a whistle. Ah bloody marvelous and we made it back to the car with seconds to spare.

So this is this was the formula. Arrive at 8.30am. Park up and pay for 2 hours starting at 9am. Get a 2 hour ticket at Time Zone and then high tail it back to the car before the traffic warden arrives. Yep we were a well oiled machine.  

Until that is we were driving back to Brisvegas and came to an absolute dead stop on the M1.

When we could, we went off grid and he used my phone map and gave excellent directions.

2 and a half hours for a 50 minute trip.

My legs were sponge when we pulled up.

Next car is gonna be an auto.

Tech V Pillow fights.

Ahhh the Summer.

Again we are the very lucky ducks cos the Grandie boy is here for so much of the hols and you could be forgiven for thinking that this long time might be at least a little fraught cos where do you find the common ground between Marvel - The Contest of Champions game on the whats-it and an old woman sitting around wondering if she smells like an old woman while reminiscing about 70's TV. But you know what, we manage to rub along quite nicely together.

This morning, after a night of fucking road works and a closed up house and the heat and consequent no or at least very little sleep we are all feeling a bit precious. Stevie is off to golf - I truly just do not know how he does it, cos nothing could entice me to chase some little white ball around in the heat, but hey ho, good for him and it probably accounts for why he's so much fitter than me. SO the Grandie boy and I are just on a go slow.

Now I know that 'SCREEN TIME' is a constant source of conflict in modern families, and I know this cos I read about it all the time on social media while I am tapping away on my wee girlie machine. But I don't find it all that tiresome. He's happy to play for a bit and then we have never had an almost teen melt down about turning the thing off. When enough is enough, off it goes and we go on with the next part of the adventure for the day, or else he gets a book or he plays with Dog or sits on the back deck and just goes where his mind takes him.

I sure don't feel like I am in competition with the 'Tablet'

This morning he was playing a game and I started pegging pillows at him. Just one then another until I was outta pillows and he had 'em all and was therefore in the box spot.It was no trouble for him ditch the gadget and start chucking 'em back. It was too hot and we were both too tired for an old fashioned full on pillow battle combat, but shit got thrown around and Dog dodged all the incoming and we laughed and laughed. 

Now I am often accused of having rose tinted glasses when it comes to my Darling Boy, cos I almost never have a cross word with him and perhaps that's the way he likes it. Parents are not that lucky. I am aware perhaps cos I am a parent and I do remember the, 'Can I Can I Can I' era very well. There are no trade offs for screen time here. He doesn't need to have made his bed or cleaned his room before he can rumble, cos all that is not important here, but at home I can see all sorts of sticking points. Chores V Screen. Homework V Screen. Shower V Screen. All manner of usual stuff V Screen. But here where the spoiling standard, there are no such trade offs, so 'Can I' is nealr yalways greeted with, 'Of course', and I guess there is the adventure of being somewhere new with other distractions which might lessen the, 'Can I's.

Anyway I don't feel like I am doing battle with the machine. I don't pretend to know how much is too much, any more than I know how much is too much time in the pool or playing with Dog.

How lucky am I that usual parenting limits do not apply to Grand parents? 

Yep it is certainly calmer and easier being Ma than Mummy.

Sussan Ley - fucking Politicians

Sussan Ley preparing to give Australia the finger.

I have been writing to Sussan Ley Minister for Health, well maybe she is now or maybe she's not, I'm not sure cos I read this morning that she had been stood down cos there'd been yet another fucking fiddle with tax payers money for a little private junket to the Goldie to add to her property portfolio. Anyway I have been writing to her for a fucking year now and have never received a response from her or her department.

I have questioned why the drugs for Leukaemia, my specialist prescribes, need to be approved by some clerk in Tasmania, and also why this whole procedure needs to be carried out at a snails pace via fucking Australia Post. Yeh she's obviously too fucking busy counting her rent cheques and balancing the accounts to bother with a response. I would have been better off stalking her and asking her in person on one of her tax funded trips up here to the Goldie.

I am just not sure what allows politicians to think that they are so far fucking above the law that they need binoculars to survey all their little ant minions. I mean what made Sussan Ley think she was never gonna be found out?

How could she think that even though stories appear almost daily about the corruption of individual polies and indeed whole fucking governments, that she'd be able to fly under the radar?

There can be 3 reasons I reckon.

STUPIDITY

ARROGANCE

LACK OF INTEGRITY

And she might well be a cake mixture of all 3.

I used to think and have said many many times that you get what you pay for with politicians. Pay peanuts, get monkeys. But the money paid fortnightly is hardly the thing that is most attractive about being in this game. It's the expenses that can be and are fiddled harder than a teenager's bits. It's the pensions that are so fucking extreme and immediate and available even all the while these folk too often have another job, all the while also paid for from the public purse.

We - the country, just can't afford all this shit. 200000 bucks for some penny anti councillor here on the Goldie who is not obliged to account for fuck all and that's just the bottom of the bucket.

The politicians are only interested in reelection so governing goes by the fucking board.

I am so fucking far over all of 'em.

Sussan Ley has landed right up my nose because she has never addressed my concerns. I imagine she has never addressed anyone else's either. So she's lied and stolen and lived like she's above the law, and she's been arrogant in her belief that she was not gonna get caught, and she lacks basic good manners in that return correspondence is not a requirement.

And all up it really doesn't matter anyway, cos even if she gets the shove, she walks away with a fucking unbelievable pension which she can access straight away. A cynic might think she has done all this on purpose, cos she just can't be bothered campaigning again already for the next election and besides the rental income from her flash Goldie properties is a good top up for her pension, or is that the other way around?

I reckon it's time we started paying these fuckers at the end of their 4 year term, based on any good they have done while there, based on how many days they sat in parliament and how many times they presented a well thought out argument or plan of attack, and how much of their own money they spent in a bid to do this job. Yep maybe we should not pay 'em at all.  At least that way we'd get people with ideas they want to try out and people who really were interested in the job and people who wanted more than just a lifetime pension and the easy life.

Sussan Ley, under these terms would be leaving with the arse hanging out of her pants  and a hangdog look and an empty belly and good-fucking-ridance to her.

Puzzles

Chrissie loot awaiting construction

For some years now I have been giving Stevie a little Nano Puzzle of something iconic, like the Opera House or London Bridge or a kangaroo, depending on what nationality is calling at the time. And it should be said that he doesn't always jump right into building the thing. Yeh the mood needs to grab him. And I can understand that cos the pieces are so tiny and all too often the infrastructure is also part of the puzzle - well no the guts of the kanga are not included, but there was a great deal of the Opera House innards that needs to be built, so it can't be done in a flash.

He likes 'em sitting on his desk.

When I was cleaning up for the fucking open house inspections, well I figured that they should go away cos they are just too easy to steal - yeh that's where my head goes when I think of a tribe of pervs coming a knocking, so I popped 'em into a drawer, but bugger it all, I broke 'em up a bit. Shit! And if it wasn't a bit of a pain putting 'em together one a time, I can only imagine this will be truly shitful cos now all the bits are mixed up.

Oops!The Bus survived but the Kanga is unrecognisable, and poor old Big Ben and the Opera House need more than a bit of Spackle repair. 

I imagine that these bits might stay smashed until we are settled elsewhere and maybe even then.

Zig's eyes became saucer like when he saw the Mini Cooper box Stevie got from Santa. I reckon almost certainly he figured a mistake had been made. I thought maybe Santa had thrown a spanner in the mix and that he thought maybe the 2 boys could work together or that as it required EXPERT brains maybe Zig would make it and it could sit on Stevie's desk. Who knows how it will work out. It's still in the box.

But what I do know is that I won't be jostling for construction pole position cos I just haven't got it in me. I am far too fucking impatient and am dreadful at following instructions. Shit I refuse to read how much bubble bath is enough, and as for food recipes, well I might follow 'em for a minute, but then boredom sets in and I just make it up.

I have watched Zig spend a whole day building a Lego thingie. He gets a real kick out of it, and so does Stevie once the things are finished.

But I can spend hours or days playing word games on the computer and before computers back in the days of newspaper deliveries and such, crosswords were fun, so I suppose puzzles are horses for courses.

And then of course there is the puzzle about 'why is it so?' 

But I reckon too much time spent on this will see fine collection of belly button fluff and fuck all else.

Do you enjoy a puzzle?

Job Satisfaction

Window washing is right up there on my list of what I don't want to do for a living.

There was a story circulating this week about some worker at a childcare centre, suing the employer cos she hurt her back changing a nappy. I didn't read more than the headline, so there could possibly have been some slim justification for the ridiculous sum being sought, but I rather doubt it. Me, I reckon I would be more likely to go after 'em cos of the assault on the olfactory senses or maybe a pulled stomach muscle from the dry retching, but I have changed enough nappies to not be worried about back ache. I can only imagine that looking after other people's babies could not have been high on this gal's list of dream jobs.

So I was given to wondering which jobs I would LEAST like to do.

My Lovely girl was sent, presumably as some sort of disastrous punishment, once to slop out food prep bins with industrial strength bleach and shit. There was no provision of safety gear, not even a pair of gloves and she was told that if she failed to attend work, her benefits would be stopped immediately. It seemed in its wisedom, Centrelink had registered her with a job search agency which specialised in finding work for MEN on PAROLE, and whilst I am not saying these fellas deserved this sort of work, I AM saying that my girl did definitely not! I remember it getting all very ugly and blessed be, that fucking place was closed down. I like to think that all the letters of complaint I wrote might have had something to do with the lockout, but who knows.

Anyway that job might be close to the top of my list.

I also don't ever want to have to clean up other people's bum holes, or vomit or pee, although if I had to choose, I would opt for the pee. I must have lived a charmed life as a teacher cos not once did a kid ever puke in my room. That would have no doubt set off a chain reaction, and generally speaking there was only ONE department issue waste bin per room, so that could have filled up quite quickly - yep let's change the subject, and I taught my girl to make it to the loo as soon as she could walk, so puke clean up appears nowhere on my CV.

We had window washers in this week in preparation for the fucking open houses over the next 3 weekends. In general I reckon this would not be the top of my YUK list, until I saw Stewie hanging from the ladder 30 feet up whilst giving specific complicated directions to someone ON THE PHONE. Nope, I don't want to be scaling a fucking ladder and wedging my body into the rungs in such a ways as to allow louvre polishing and phone chatting. Truly my toes are curling at the very thought.

Hasn't Stewie done a fine job?

I am guessing there are lost more jobs that I would just hate, in fact as I am a lazy don't work cow, the list is too long for me to bother recording. But these are a good start.

So how about you? What jobs do you want to avoid?

Digital cameras = easy Porn

Yeh these are the bottom of a drawer cos I am lazy and just use my phone.

I am quite the prude. I've never been fond of flashing my bits, even when they were smaller and more pert. Oh sure when I was a gal and newly married, we had an Instamatic camera, but I honestly can't remember using it to take photos of anything other than pics of my lovely Dad at one of his birthday dinners. I am not sure why we had it really, cos it sure didn't produce rudey nudie pics, and I suppose that was what mostly they were used for so all that embarrassment at the chemist could be avoided. The film was stupidly expensive and so even pragmatically I saw very little point in having a gallery of closeups of that which I could see any old time, in the flesh.

But I have always had a good camera and I have chronicled just about every milestone. In 'the olden days' I'd have a camera locked and loaded with film and I was very selective about what to shoot, again cos the developing was so dear, and I can remember the excitement, of finishing a roll and finding there was enough money left at the end of a fortnight to take it off to the chemist. You wait around for a few days and then troop back in, fingers crossed and have a good peak through.

Occasionally there'd be NOTHING. Fuck! I must not have rolled the film on properly or some other glitch and all that cash and all that nervous energy in the waiting. Fuck indeed. And other times I would just sink into the memories of the images...Ahhh. I am so glad to have these photos.

Nowadays, says the old woman, photos are easy and seriously far less exciting. We mostly have thousands and thousands of images clogging up our electronic devices that we never look at. When it's as easy as taking 10 shots of the one flower or one plate of food, or one child sleeping, or one sunset or one whatever, then I reckon a lot of the magic is lost.

But the sort of photos that jumped into my mind this morning that prompted this post are nothing like these memory prodding jobbies.

Nope, I awoke with the thoughts of photos sent to hapless homeowners, from their bastard thieving house robbers, showing said robbers with the houseowners' toothbrushes sticking bristle end in up their bums.

Now this might have been a bit of urban myth, but the stories that did the rounds some years ago, detailing this sort of shitfulness have stayed with me. I mean can you imagine a month after a break in, when all the insurance shit is done and dusted and you have thrown out all the knicky noos that had been gone through and replaced your other bits and pieces that were nicked, and you were just about back to normal  and you get in the mail a photo of your toothbrush handle sticking out of some arsehole?

I reckon it would take a while to work out exactly what the fuck it was, but the dawning of it all would see you retching and crying and reaching for more than the Listerine.

Yep that's the sort of photography that was on my mine this morning, cos we have 3 weekends of Open Houses coming and seriously I have very little faith in people just coming in for a perv.

I know a deviant bloke who gets off going into people's homes and writing rude, abusive, disagreeable shit on the underside of their cupboards, or other obscure places, so when discovered the owners are left trying to solve his disgusting puzzle. I am pretty sure he has done it at my place, but as I caught him once, he may have given it up as a bad joke - here at least.

I am not looking forward to an onslaught of tyre kickers.

I hope there might be a couple of bonafide buyers.

And yes I am hiding the toothbrushes and putting in some movement activated surveillance cameras just in case.

2017 ?

Ouchie

I think we can all agree that resolutions are just bullshit, - banal choices made all too often after too many bubbles have popped and prior to the headache thumping.  As ever, the tellie is full of statistics for failure to stick to 'em. Oh sure these stats are made up over a bad cup of coffee after a big night at the company chrissie party where the boss was found necking the broom in the photocopy room. And anyway, even if everyone in the world had a 100% success rate, I still wouldn't bother cos, well mostly cos I am weak willed. But I can HOPE.

Hopes are the lazy person's resolutions. So I have a couple, and I am gonna mostly just sit back and see if they happen.

It's Stevie's YEAR this year. It's a biggie, and he reckons it's gonna be a fab one cos it has a 7 in it, even though no other year with a 7 in was memorable for him and he went through 'em all and he could remember anything spectacular. So the first on my wish list for 2017 is that this year with a 7 in is just bloody marvelous and he has a blast, and he gets to do exactly everything he wants to do and doesn't earn any more wrinkles worrying about me.

It would be so cool if we sell the big house and so have far fewer bathrooms to polish in '17. Think of the savings on cleaning products alone!

My darling grandie boy starts high school so my fingers are so firmly crossed that cramps have stiffened and numbness has taken their spots, that he has a smiling fun year, yeh also productive and all that educational stuff, but honestly I hope he just enjoys himself, cos fuck knows it's about time. And I am hoping that he spends just a month or 2 as tall as he is now, before he shoots up like a weed and takes over as the tallest in the family, although I rather doubt I can put enough weighty books on his head to achieve this.

For my Girl, I am hoping that she smiles more than she doesn't, and that she somehow manages to find those bright pink or purple steel cap boots she'd so love to wear to work. I am gonna start an ebay hunt as soon as I have finished here.

And for me, well I am hoping for better numbers.

Off shore Detention sorted - yep that'd be good.

Peace in the Middle East - yeh OK.

George Pell jailed - ho hum

Trump - oh who am I kidding

So hoping is all very well but unless it has to do with something you can actually direct, then you might as well just not bother, and so cut another bit of cake and shove it in your gob. Ah Lovely!

In the shortest term though what I am really hoping for is that the sunburn stupidly earned yesterday at the Recovery BBQ on The Mountain with Pinky Poinker and Scotto abates, cos it is bloody stingy, and I can hardly remember the last time I was burned cos I am usually so careful. Not a fucking good start to '17. Oh the BBQ was wonderfully cooked and prepared, what I mean is that I parked my brain somewhere else and I sure as shit hope it makes it's way back to me sometime soon, before I prune up altogether and forget my own name.

Cheers for '17