Autumn is coming, isn't it? Sometime soon, PLEASE.

Tomorrow is my darling grandie boy's 12th birthday. Yep 28th of FEB! We are pretty sorted for parcels after we finished off today with a bike chain lock thing and a wall fixing which will see his bike locked up outside and so release a bit of space in the lounge room. That can only be a good thing. Yeh we got him some fun bits and pieces too, cos everything practical would just be a bore.

It's supposed to be the end of summer and March 1 heralds the start of the cooler weather. Yippee!

And it has certainly been a bit cooler today. There was a sprinkle of rain overnight and just a bit of damp during the day, not even really enough to wash the windscreen, but the cloud cover has been pleasant.

Now don't get me wrong, I do very much love the loud, bright, vivid colours of OZ. Whenever I travel I'm pleased to be greeted by the COLOUR when I come home. The ads are louder and faster and colloquial and the primary colours do lively combat. But sometimes enough is more than too much and a day or 2 of London grey is a very pleasant change.

We watched the rugby replay this afternoon. The poms were playing the Italians at Twickenham. The day was overcast and misty and eventually the clouds opened, and it was lovely to be sitting under a similar sky.

And so I slumped into my chair for a little nanna snooze, when the scratchies snuck up on me. Yep unusually, the house was full of midges. Bugger.

It might be hard to believe, but we rarely get the biting little buggers IN the house. Yeh if you go out into the park, unprotected at dusk, then you are a bloody idiot, cos the midgies will just about pick you up and carry you off, and sometimes if we sit out on the deck in the evening there might be a little meal made of our feet. But somehow the little buggers usually know not to pop on passed the doorways.

Not today. Damn

So another lovely thing about the coming of winter is that these little fuckers hibernate somewhere far away from us, so there is a great deal to enjoy. Yep no biting turds and no sweating. Bring it on!

Happy birthday to my Darling Boy.

Notification to Threat in a single bound.

Three notices individually folded dropped on Friday.

My Darling Grandie Boy was thoroughly bemused this week as I told him a story about how a boy serenaded me at my house when I was only 12. He could have been laughing at the idea that his fat old greying wrinkled grandma was ever young enough or cute enough to attract such attention, or he might have been laughing at the whole idea of serenading - how embarrassment! or perhaps it was the image of a man his Mum remembers so fondly, just walking on out and then closing the door on the young man, I mean How RUDE! Yeh my darling Dad took no prisoners. Oh Well.

In any case laugh he did. And I have since spent time thinking that's as close to a stalker as I have blessedly ever come. Stories of women forced into hiding from their exs have filled the news this week, so I am definitely NOT lamenting the lack of attention, and I fear for these women when I hear their stories. It is high time the justice system worked in favour of the victims not the violent dangerous turds.

I got notices in the postbox yesterday and I was given to wondering about when good intentions turn sour and when lines are crossed, and if I can be wondering that then surely to shit the legal system in this country can too.

Yeh it's a shit segue but my mind is a bit all over the place, and I am definitely not comparing my lack of sleep due to noisy roadworks to the violence endured by so many women. This is just the flinging around of my mind caused by the fucking notices.

If you get a detailed text message inviting you to a party which doesn't sound like fun to you, from a person you don't like, then you can ignore it or politely send back a refusal, cos, 'you have to wash your hair or take your cat to the vet, or scrub the kitchen floor with a toothbrush'. Done and dealt with!

But then you get the exact same invitation. Now that's a little odd, but maybe the person hit re-send by mistake or they had forgotten that they had already sent the first one. Surely they haven't got the shits up because you didn't immediately go Yippee!

And then the exact same invitation is sent AGAIN.

Did the sender think that the third time would be the charm?

Did they send it 3 times by mistake?

Did they put some whacko in charge of the invitations?

Are things getting nasty and should you lock the front door?

The Department Of Transport and Main Roads sent THREE notices of the impending doom - next week's NIGHTWORKS.

One would have been plenty. It would have been fair warning that their sanctioned contractor was again going to be breaking the law and that sleep would once again be impossible. Yeh, ONE would have been plenty.

Two would have been more than enough. Two could possibly have been a mistake made by 2 people delivering the notices and double dipping into our letterbox. Or it could have been designed to up the ante from warning to threat.

Three notices however - well that can only be inflammatory.

That's a, 'Ha fucking ha ha to you, we are gonna be getting our penalty night rates and you can just go suck the big one.'

I am not sure where their hatred and hostility comes from. They have their noses in the public purse trough and are getting excellent cash to do little more than fuck all and they know full well that the noise they are making is excessive, unreasonable and illegal, but still they think they can take the moral high ground and hate ME. Perhaps there is an intelligence test which must be failed before being rewarded with a job on this site, certainly their emotional intelligence is piss poor.

So now I can spend the weekend anticipating more shit next week. More noise - 24 hours a day. More rudeness and being ignored. More silence in lieu of requested information. More feeling nauseous and unwell. More hostility and hatred spewing forth from workers on the ponce. More visits by our local coppers. More of a whole lot of shit and nothing pleasant.

Spite can be the only reason why these notices dropped on Friday. Bastards!

Yeh there might be another explanation, but I doubt it. A gormless joyful little jig no doubt accompanied the notice.

Once more into the fray.

And if you think the woman next door needs your help please call the police and then give her a hand. So much better to be safe than sorry.

Laughing up a Lung

Go on, think about it, when was the last time you laughed so hard you cried, or maybe your knickers became a little damp?

I laugh easily and often.

Today we took off to the beach, Currumbin, to see the Elephant Rock. Dog went predictably nuts as she took a sniff of the salt and so she needed to be sorted before any coffee could be got.

It was a spectacular morning at the beach. She played like a maniac and after a brief wait for a table in the shade, we enjoyed our coffee and sweetie and then we were back to the beach.

Chuck the sand game is still a Dog favourite and then I sank into the sand and surf and the buffeting of the waves began. From this vantage point I could still chuck a bit of sand, even though Dog thought it was a bit odd. My arse wedged into a sand hole and I was rocked all around. As the water slapped my face and whipped me around, cork screwing my bum deeper into the pit, I just roared laughing.

Just a bloody marvelous way to spend the morning. Ah.

Home via Bernies Pet Barn Upton Street, to see if they could help us put some oxygen into the pond so the girls can hang in there until our new pump is delivered. And you know why I love going to the family run place not the  big shit franchise place across the street? It's that the Fish Guy, who has been giving me advice for years, thought it was best to lend us a pump until our new one arrives. Yep just a loaner, no charge, no signing our life away, just an understanding that we'll bring it back when we are done and he's happy that the girls are going to be able to breath through our pump disaster. That's real customer service huh?

It really is important to support the local folk whenever you can, and these people are definitely worth our loyalty.

And then to the loo as first priority when we walked in at home. Yeh I quietly lament the loss of a youthful bladder.

Well to say that a child would have been happy with their pop up sand box, would be an understatement. The black tiles turned white, and I laughed again. It's remarkable just how much sand can wedge its way up your goonoo inside your togs, without so much as a howdy-do.

And then I got the broom and dust pan, cos the clean up was not a laughing matter. Bugger.

Oh Well.

Debates

TMR Mantra I think. It's pretty simple huh?

It seems I have always been able to listen and pick holes in a bullshit statement. Of course this made me a gobby pain in the arse as a youngster. Passive resistance was not something I was any good at, so if I was told NO and I thought that was more than a little bit rubbish, I'd argue and pout and end with an affirmative action statement of what I was going to do. I didn't just smile and nod and then sneak around. I know lots of kids and adults too, use this method, but it was not for me.

Except for the knicker issue 1970.

The old woman just simply refused to consider anything other than huge old granny pants, just cos they were her bum covering of choice. Her bum sloppy cotton tales were good enough for her so she figured they were good enough for her girls too.

But in 1970, bikini knickers were all the rage. She refused to consider 'em so on my 11th or 12th birthday, all my girlfriends gave me a pair and still the old girl said NO. So I'd wear the old grannies to school and get changed and then I'd change back and then wash the little whisps in the shower and dry 'em under my pillow. So I guess that was a bit passive aggressive but it wasn't what was normal , for me.

When she wouldn't let me wear what I wanted to wear I'd argue and debate and compromise, and it was this desire to be self directed that led me to work from the time I was 12. I did enjoy having my own cash so I could choose for myself.

And then there was the time she refused permission for me to get a fringe. Yeh I just grabbed the scissors and did it myself, my hair my choice, I figured. She did not grow to like it. Ho Hum. Eyebrows and leg hair went the same way.

It seemed I was pretty good at making an argument and this saw me in the debating team all the way through high school.

I was always Second Speaker, so I could have some of the speech written but there was plenty of room to go hard in the unplanned rebuttal. The fella who went First, liked to have his speech mostly sorted, and my friend who went Third was excellent at flying by the seat of her pants. I liked just a bit security with my adrenaline rush..

The thing about debating is that there are very clear and concise rules, covering timing and stuff like introducing new information, and then there were strategies that were helpful within the rules.

Our French teacher in years 11 and 12, Mr Whitmore, a Canadian import, was also our Debating coach. In the midst of reading Le Comte de Monte Cristo he'd call a time out and we'd plan the next debate strategy. How lucky was that ? The Senior School Debate team all in his little class. He was a wonderful fella with a mad mop of red curly hair and he taught us well, not just French and debating but life in general.

I went on to use his debate strategy when I was coaching teams later as a teacher, cos it made sense, it was reasoned and rational and more often than not it proved successful.

Unfortunately dealing with a Government department comes with no handbook. Bugger!

If ever a public servant gets over the belly laughed induced hernia resulting from laughing up a lung at some dumb punter stupid enough to try to wade through the  complaint process, and they take a few civic minded moments, they could pen a 'How To' for fools like me.

Anything that would help slog through the mire  would be a best seller.

HIDDEN FIGURES

Yep it's awards season and that means that on any given day, if energy levels permit, I am off to have a little look see at what might win.

Today, I am very pleased to say that firstly I had enough 'cinebuzz' points for a freebie and that I used it for this wonderful movie.

I like to believe that it's a pretty accurate account of the early space programme in the USA.

Things of course were cracking along under the direction of white-shirted, black tied fellas at the forefront, all the while women, some black and some white, were making wonderful inroads into the design and technology of it all.

The story is about a trio of black women who rose to prominence against the odds, not because they were militant coloured gals or hairy arm-pitted feministos, although these philosophies did drive them. Nah, they made waves because they were just so bloody wonderfully smart, and because they knew their own self worth and were not prepared to settle for less. They waged their own individual quiet tussles in a dignified and mostly calm manner.

The little microcosm that was NASA in the early 60s just became a paragon of tolerance, not because the folk were waving banners and marching up the High Street, but because it was expedient to be so. Separate Black White loos and coffee pots and Men only bastions just stood in the way of getting the job done.

Rationality and reason were the order of the day. Blessed BE.

So yeh I liked it.

It is well acted and shot and I loved all the references to the 1960s - the fashion, the cars, the politics, the tellies and the furniture and interiors, and as with most movies based on true stories the credits roll includes photos of the real girls and a bit about what they got up to after the movie timeframe.

This is worth a nod for awards night.

2 Dollar Sucky Sucky

The SUCKY SUCKY MACHINE - reckon it would put a vacuum cleaner to shame.

Last night we were catching up on 'I'm a Celebrity' jungle shit cos that's just how sad we are. I admit that we don't watch the whole lot. I take charge of the remote and whip through all the ads and the bits with the hosts and the 'coming up' and recapping shit so you can watch 90 minutes worth in about 15 minutes, but you have to be quick on the finger. Last night's disgusting, watch it from behind my hand, bit, was blindfolded feeding of truly awful shit. I heard them do OK, except for the first little throw up.

And I wondered if I could ever do that? Well the wondering took but milliseconds cos of course I couldn't. I like a bit of control, ok, a lot of control, and being blindfolded and force fed shit, even it is was full of fat and sugar, just isn't on my list of things to aspire to.

And then I wondered about those poor sods whose job it is to test for poisoning before someone famous or important or just idly rich and a bit insane, chows into a meal.

How must they feel every time they sit with spoon in hand and chomp up mouthful of potential industrial waste or chemical weaponry? I wonder if they have faith that the kitchen people are not in cahoots with possible assassins and so happily hoover up the calories all the while pocketing the danger money.

I wonder if the job of FOOD TESTER has ever been ratified by the 'Elf and Safety Police.

I wonder about the desperation of the folk applying for the job and then I can't help but wonder about the intelligence testing at the interview.

And then I wondered yet again about the OH&S people.

My experience with these people runs a bit like this. I was standing on a chair taking down some lights that had been draped across an original artwork, and the OH&S wanker sighted me and sited me and I got into all sorts of trouble. I had to attend OH&S  workshops as my punishment and of course I lasted there about a minute and a half. It was all just so much dross.

However I have it on good authority that occasionally some good can come from them.

Sometimes they actually force work places to adopt safe practices which are definitely designed to benefit the workers. I am not sure what sort of measures an OH&S person would impose on the food testers, perhaps they would just insist on a comfy chair and funeral insurance.

Stevie took on the role of OH&S today. He was thrilled to be elevated to such a lofty position.

The fuckers at the end of the road for the 5th time this week have been digging up the footpath, and even though I spied a shovel, they were of course using the Vacuum Excavation Machine tossing out 85-110 decibels.

There are no Ear Defenders in sight.

And now because I am not OH&S qualified I am gonna tell you some stuff from memory which might well be tainted by exposure to this shitting noise all fucking week.

2 minutes exposure to 110 BD has been associated with hearing loss.

The fucking literature goes on and on about increased stress, fatigue, disturbance of sleep, decreased concentration, and decreased mental performance, and some confusing scary complicated shit about hair cell damage and cell death. (Oh Yukky, I wonder if I should suggest that the Jungle people be fed a soup of sloughed out dead hair cells.)

The fella operating the SUCKY SUCKY, goes hard at it for hours at a time. I am guessing he's already deaf.

The Lolly Pop fella stands right next to the SUCKY SUCKY for hours at a time.

Stevie felt sorry for him this morning and so sidled up to him with the machine in full swing, putting his own hearing and mental capacity at risk and yelled to the Lolly Pop, Stop, Go, SLOW bloke,  that the noise from the machine was causing permanent hearing loss and that he aught to be wearing EAR DEFENDERS. The bloke yelled back, 'I can't wear ear defenders cos I am on traffic control and need to be able to hear other stuff, why don't you just go away.'

Well that wasn't much of a thank you I must say!

Bugger.....What did you say?

Middle Finger Salute

My Lovely Grandie Boy has started at High School.

He took off and refused to allow his Mum to walk him in - such is just how grown up he thinks he is, wishes he is, pretends he is.

I admit to having a silent little sob when I first saw him arriving home in his flash school uniform, and man sized proper shoes, lugging a back pack 5 times the size of my head, cos when he managed to shrug off said pack, I saw his shirt well and truly sweat stuck to his back. How hot that fabric must be? How unnecessary, but that's a conversation for another day.

Anyway he seemed to be fitting in well enough. He pretended to be calm and in control of everything but I reckon the fact that for the first time in his life his Mum now needs to wake him in a panic at 7.30 am speaks of how he might be sorting the stress of it all in his dreams. Sloping off up that big hill and rolling back down it, in this shitful heat, could also be what's leaving him pooped. Who's to really know.

Anyway last Tuesday, during a soccer game for sports, he managed to break the middle finger on his left hand, yep he's left handed.

Well that is just a big pisser!

First there were Xrays and then a hospital visit and a splint and another appointment at the specialist cos the break is somewhere near the growth plate and if he's not careful his finger won't grow properly and could be deformed when his MAN HANDS come in.

Well yeh, we all know that CAREFUL is not in a young fella's vocab.

He's got a custom made half plate thing that locks his last 3 fingers together. This is held in place by straps of velcro. He's meant to take the contraption off once a week to give his fingers a little bird bath.

Yeh right!

Leave a kid in charge of stuff like that and I reckon you are asking for trouble.

He can't write - yeh not worried about that, on the contrary, it's all a bit of YIPPEE, but that's where the joy ends. No sport, no swimming, no Taekwondo and no eating up a 2 handed burger or even chopping into a sausage or easily use a knife and fork for any go at feeding himself.

And next week is school camp! I just can't see him asking someone to cut up his dinner for him. Shit he doesn't even want to ask his Mum in the privacy of his own house. So I can see him taking that thing off and leaving it off more than it's on.

The only thing that did in fact make him wonder was the idea that he might not be able to give anyone the finger if the break doesn't heal properly.

Yeh, he wasn't happy about the idea that he wouldn't be able to flip anyone the bird.

It's gratifying to think that the apple has not fallen far from the tree.

Big Middle Finger up to TMR and Georgiou Group

Healthy Obssession

Yeh ...No ... this is not a naughty pint of something delicious which leaves you feeling a bit floaty and smiley and perhaps a tad horny, this is a pint of the cold stuff straight out of the tape, H2O and I do try to fit in a good few of these suckers every day, cos they are healthy and good for you and keeps everything moving along, nothing to see here, keep moving along.

If I am truly thirsty, I can down a couple of mouthfuls straight from the tap, but let's face it, it doesn't taste too exciting and sometimes it just tastes really fucking awful, but somehow filling the glass with ice it all seems so much more grown up and special and yummy.

So here's cheers! 8 glasses a day!

As for anything else healthy, well I am quite the failure.

5 A DAY.
Nope. It's not cos I don't fancy fruit and veg, it's just that mostly by the time dinner comes I can't be bothered counting to 5, and as for making sure that all the colours of the rainbow hit the trolley, well actually that's Stevie's job and I cook whatever he brings home, except for the stuff that goes rotten and rancid in the fridge. We actually had a potato and an onion EXPLODE in the cupboard this week and I can tell you that shit really does stink! and the mess! and the veg box is still outside cos somehow I reckon it is still diseased and quite possibly I will never give it house space again. Oh Well. I do like that ad about the colours of stuff, but not enough to follow along. Tonight's dinner is beef and mushroom in red wine pie. I might get around to adding some frozen peas, but still the only way I am gonna make it to 5 a Day is if I mix up the colours of the Zupa Dupas I am chomping up. I wonder if the purple ones count as 2 - red and blue?

30 minutes of exercise 3 times a week.
I don't like to sweat. I need to have progressed through bright red in the face before sweating starts, so by the time I am all a glow, well I am just too fucking hot to move, and anyway it's been more than 30 degrees for what seems about 3 lifetimes and who can think about moving faster or further than waddling to the loo quickly and often - that's the upside of the drinking I guess. I suppose at a stretch I could pretend that floating around in the pool counts, but as I am so buoyant, absolutely no movement at all is required to stay afloat. Ah bliss.
We have been walking a little in the evening. It's a necessary part of data collection and photography and getting arrested after all, so I suppose I owe Georgiou Group a great big thank you for getting my arse up and outta the chair. What will I do come October, or Never Never when they are finished?
 
8 HOURS SLEEP.
Well if you have been following along you will know that I haven't slept more than 2 to 4 hours a night for the last month, except for the weekends when the bastard workers bugger off. So sadly this is just another fucking healthy fail, and the upshot of the far too little sleep is bags - not packed for a little holiday, the under eye ones which are less than attractive, and then there is the nausea from the tiredness and the clumsies and the shortness of temper. Yep it's hard to believe that I am becoming a bit ratty, a teeny weeny bit cranky, but weeks of 2 or 3 hours a night horizontal will do that to you. I reckon Georgiou Group owes me more than 100 hours sleep and after yesterday's meeting with Main Roads' workers, I can't see the wheels of Government ever working to help out, so by the Never Never the tally will be appalling.

There is no way that the benefits of  the midnight wanderings counter the lack of shut eye.

Ho hum.

Yeh I am not up to Oh WELL.

Integrity

1. Directions to Move on

More than a dozen years ago when I figured I wasn't quite busy enough working full time and raising a nearly woman, all the while earning about 2/3 of the money filling the pockets of Sign Swizzlers at road works - yeh I made that statistic up but I bet it's close, I took on the role of creating the school year book. Mostly this publication was, a memento for the seniors finishing up their secondary education.

My editorial was about INTEGRITY.

This wonderful group of nearly adults had endured 5 years of me banging on about THINKING FOR THEMSELVES.

I have spent more than 30 years encouraging and cajoling young people to question everything, to gather up facts by sifting through media bullshit and semantics and the bombastic delivery of crap from bullies and liars. It has always been more important for me to get kids to THINK than to RECALL facts, cos clearly being able to work things out for themselves was gonna be far more useful in the long run than remembering the date of some battle in some war or the formula for working out the volume of a non existent 4 dimensional figure.

This educational pedagogy has not always been greeted with joy because I suppose too many people find it a little scary or intimidating to think that folk will question and think and not blindly follow along and do as they are told.

Yep INTEGRITY is what I value more than anything else.

The ability to think rationally and reasonably and gather info and work things out and develop a personal belief, and then have the strength to stand up for what you believe - that's INTEGRITY.

Ability and Strength.

I very much doubt any of my success stories are employed by Georgiou Group or indeed the Gold Coast Police.

And shit, there it is, a swipe at the police that, all my life I never thought I would make. I have been their staunchest supporter, never tolerating the kids' slagging off about Police brutality or how they might be Police targets. I have always said I bet that people who whinge loudest about coppers would be the very first ones to call 'em for help if help was needed. I have had local coppers in to chat to kids and have presented 'em as people to be trusted and admired.

And now I am wondering about all that.

I am wondering because, without evidence or indeed any logical rational explanation I have had 2 weeks of coppers acting on the lies and bullshit of people who have everything to gain  by getting the police to shut me down, no evidence just bullshit.

I have been grabbed and woman handled and threatened and abused and finally arrested and locked in the back of a police car and then remarkably UNARRESTED.

Last night there was a big disturbance in the park. About 20-30 kids all drinking and playing music and chucking stuff around. Perhaps ordinarily I might have rung the police.

But not anymore.

I know there is a file on me about Move On orders and perimetres and I suppose my arrest details too. So how do you think Police are gonna react when I give my name and details, or if they ever pull me over for an RBT? Especially when it appears they ask rational reasonable questions last, if indeed at all.

I am a law abiding woman, but the police will be I am sure, happy if I live the rest of my life in fear of them and their almighty power.

But instead I am now learning about MOVE ON directions

Directions to Move on

​Directions to move on (see sections 44-48 of the Police Powers and Responsibilities Act 2000)

The term 'move on direction' means a direction given under the provisions of s. 48 of the Police Powers and Responsibilities Act 2000 (the Act). A move on direction is any direction which is reasonable in the circumstances but which does not interfere with a person's right of peaceful assembly, unless such interference is reasonably necessary in the interests of:

(i) public safety;

(ii) public order; or

(iii) the protection of the rights and freedoms of other persons (see s. 48 of the Act).

It does go on a bit, surprise surprise.

I am heartened to see the word REASONABLE repeated in this info. Although that does presuppose the ability to think and sift through bullshit.

Twice now I have been given a MOVE ON DIRECTION.

Apparently my right of peaceful assembly was interfering with public safety or public order or the rights and freedoms of others.

It could be REASONABLE to think that the thin strap on my dress could have snapped and in the millisecond it would have taken to cover up whatever breast was exposed, I suppose someone could have been forced to throw up in disgust and then I suppose one of the sign swizzlers could slip over in the spew and go out on a compo claim for back pain for the next dozen years. Or maybe the very sight of a partially exposed old woman titty could render someone blind, especially if we are living in Old Testament times. Yep that would interfere with the safety of others - 'Others' being road workers at 3.30 AM.

Or maybe I could have used my Smart Phone as a weapon? Is there an APP for that?

Perhaps the Police could REASONABLY think that I would just chuck my smart phone at someone, because of course it'd be reasonable to think that a 57 Year old woman would be able to hurl a little something over say 7 or 8 metres, with accuracy and sufficient force to critically injure someone, and she could manage this in the semi-dark at again, 3.30 AM. Or maybe better than my phone, maybe they reasonably thought I could do appalling damage chucking my thong, or be still my heart, BOTH of 'em!

Yeh I can't see this as REASONABLE either, unless it has appeared in some cartoon featuring geriatric superheros.

Further on in the document that is easily found if you have a truly empty few minutes that need filling, it says that the Police can issue a MOVE ON DIRECTION if they reasonably assume that prostitution is the intent of the perp. And perhaps this is where they were hanging their hats, cos I had nothing on me except a slip of fabric. Yeh I was a picture of slutty elegance, what with my bed hair and still intact gum shield that I wear to protect my teeth from undue teeth gnashing during times of stress. I suppose there is just no account for what some folk find sexy.

Or maybe it was all just a power rush.

A person in a uniform with a gun and a tazer and a microphone for calling backup, times 2, up against an unarmed sick fat old woman, clearly right out of bed who it would reasonable to assume would be much happier at home in bed asleep, but for the fucking noise!


Yeh I can just see police sitting around the coffee pot, chowing on some donuts ( American TV tragic I know), bragging about strong arming an old woman or arresting an old woman for standing on the footpath.

How proud they must be.

This would be my definition of a hollow victory, but then I am a teacher, not a copper.

Getting ARRESTED has never been on my bucket list.... however.

Georgiou Group Night works in clear contravention to the Government's Code of Practice.

I am doing the best I can to get some sleep. I am going like a maniac all day and trying to avoid that Nanna nap time in my lounge chair after lunch, although for full disclosure some days I am not all that successful in this. I watch banal bullshit on the tellie and then take myself off to bed at about 10pm. I try not to get caught up in what little bit of appalling shit is going on out in the street. Really I am doing the very best I can.

But last night, again the noise woke me at 3am!

There was simply no sleeping through it once it had disturbed me, so I got up threw on some clothes, and went out to collect readings and take a couple of piccies.

A big problem with the noise is that GEORGIOU GROUP seem to be unwilling to instruct their workers to adhere to the Code of Practice. They all know the work is far too loud to be carried out at night, but hey just don't give a shit. And they sooooo don't give a shit that even turning off idling engines is too much to ask.

The blonde in the skinny jeans is not happy that I am there.

Oh well.

At 3 am the front end loader, not in use, just parked up, is idling away at between 70 and 80 decibels.

I cross the road and the workers all stop using the pounding trench thing. I watch quiet investigation of soil core sampling, all the while the tip truck is idling away at about 75 decibels.

Just in case the blonde skinny jeans girl is unaware, I tell her of the idle sound level out put and suggest that it be turned off while not in use, out of deference to the residents. Hostile does not begin to describe the wrathful look I earned for that.

Oh well.

I crossed back to my street and again the work pulled to a stop. One bloke even got his little esky out of the back of a truck and had a little sit down. Ah Bless, I suppose he was a weary.

The roll on compactor machine launched itself across the main road and began to pound out on the refilled trench, 5 metres worth maybe - no I didn't measure it, or even step it out cos that would have required entering their work zone and that's a great big NO NO.

Blonde Skinny Jeans is still there with me, her in her zone and me on a public footpath. I tell her the output of sound from the compactor is more than 100 decibels.

Did I mention this is at 3.30AM ?

I had my readings but I wanted a photo of the machine. It was tooing and froing towards me and it's lights prohibited a good shot, so I crossed onto the middle of a round about, and this is when Blonde Skinny Jeans went off. She told me, in what capacity was never made clear, to get off the road. I was standing in the middle of a round about. I told her I wanted a photo, and that I wasn't on the road in any case.

When I had my pic, I moved to the other side of the road on the public footpath, well away from the precious work zone.

Little did I know, but Blonde Skinny Jeans had scurried off and called the police.

Oh well!

I was not and had not been breaking any laws, and I thought perhaps this time they would do something to ensure that these workers complied to the Code of Practice.

It's now 3.45am

I was harangued and told to go home. There were 2 male coppers. I reckon they were playing 'Good Cop - Bad Cop'

Bad Cop was unhappy that I was not intimidated by him, that I would not do as I was told, that I continued to say that I was well within my democratic civil rights to stand on the footpath.

I told Bad Cop that I would not go back onto the round about as this seemed to be the sticking point.

He said that he didn't believe me.

Now that's just RUDE. He doesn't know me, he has no evidence that I am a lying toe rag, but because of his arbitrary decision to label me as a big fat liar liar pants on fire, he figured he had the right to tell me to go home.

I refused.

He threatened to arrest me. I said arrest me. We went back and forth like a child on a swing, until I walked to the police car and said something like, let's get on with it.

For full disclosure, I should say that anyone with mobility issues aught ask to sit in the front seat of the cop car, cos there sure ain't much room in the back. In the end I had to lie across the seat a la Cleopatra in the grapes eating scene, cos my knees, just wouldn't bend well enough to fit the space.

Oh well.

Now as I am not au fait with arrest procedures, I was a little surprised that they could take my phone and lock me in the back of the car and subject me to the lack of air and the shit music playing loudly in the front and not tell me what I was being charged with. Again I am no legal eagle as Bad Cop purported to be, but I just do not believe that pissing off Blonde Skinny Jeans is an arrest-able offence.

They spoke to someone, more senior I suppose, and decided to deliver me home - 50 metres down the road. They had to deliver me to someone, like a parcel from TNT. Bad Cop pushed on the buzzer...brave man, getting Stevie up at 4 am to take delivery of his woman like she was an unordered pizza.

They UN-ARRESTED me. Yeh that's what they called it.

It felt like harassment to me.

Next time I have asked Stevie to refuse to sign for the delivery.

Next time I should be able to cross going to the klink off my bucket list.

Oh well.

Sex on a First Date?

Do you reckon TV land is ever gonna cover dating of Old Folk?

I fell into 'Married at First Sight' last night.

I think it's an interesting sort of experiment that of course has been practised in one form or another for - well probably forever. The arrangers might have changed but the random coupling of people thrown together to form a family, well this is not new.

The folk who have signed up for the show, I suppose all have their own motives. Some maybe just want to get their faces on the Tellie, cos they rather fancy the chance of media fame or maybe a shot at a role in 'Home and Away' or 'Neighbours', or 'I'm a Celebrity', but at least outwardly they all say they are looking for love, THE one, their one true and final forever soul mate.

And you know what, I really do wish 'em well.

They sound like they have all had a red hot go at the usual dating methods. Nah not only the ones I remember: getting pissed at the pub and falling over someone and then weeks later maybe getting a phone call if they can remember your name and the number correctly and you happen to be home when they call, or answering an ad in the newspaper and calling up and leaving a message on some random answer phone. Nope, they have all done some internet searching and swiped right or left on Tinder - yeh I say that like I know what I am talking about but really it's just spewing the remembered jargon from too much time watching reality TV.

But what I wondered last night, as these fabulously pretty skinny folk coupled up, was what chance is there for similarly desperate blimpy plain old codgers. And I thanked my lucky stars that I know for absolutely certain that I will never never have to face this sort of shit again. Never am I gonna have to style up for a Tinder photos and spend time swiping away.

Stevie and I almost literally fell over each other the day in 2003 when England won the Rugby World Cup. We weren't on the hunt, we weren't madly horny, we didn't want to manipulate a visa extension or dual nationality, and more than likely we'd never have met at all if the Aussie boys had cracked a win. But meet we did and that was it really.

This morning after I had managed a more thorough detailing of yesterday's breast squishing results, which weren't clean and clear, and I had typically gone off on one about how I'd be all very Angelina cavalier about getting 'em both lopped off, but I wasn't gonna front up for more tests right away, well, cos I just don't want to, he said, ' Ok, but it'd be nice if you were still around in 15 or 20 years.'

Well how sweet is that!

We aren't a sentimental pair.

We just rub along, preferring to be together than on our own, and in my case at least, on my own is the only other option, cos chasing someone else down is just never gonna happen.

I am not sure if the psychologists from 'Married at First Sight' would have matched us up, but I am very glad that serendipity did.

MWAHHH Mr P.

Go on, take a second to say how you met your mate.