Monday, 29 May 2017

Me Fella's home

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


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

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

I am a world time zone fucking idiot.

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

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

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

It was all pretty frantic.

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

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

All's good at the Big House.

Thursday, 25 May 2017

Old Style Dinner



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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, 24 May 2017

TV Round Up.

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


My Name is Sue and I am a TV tragic.

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

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

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

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

But I don't buy it.

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

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

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

Monday, 22 May 2017

Nostalgia.

Grade 1A Morningside SS 1965

Grade 7A Morningside SS 1971


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

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

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

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

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

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

And then I found old school report cards.

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

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

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

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

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

And then I wondered why we keep all this shit.

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

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

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

Friday, 19 May 2017

'Don't Tell'



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

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

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

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

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

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

I fucking hate all that!

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

Yeh how very NOT FUCKING Godly.

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

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

Wednesday, 17 May 2017

Chemo Brain V Alzheimers



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, 15 May 2017

Resemblances?



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

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

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

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

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

But back to the sculptures.

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

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

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

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

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

Dog and I both loved our little outing. 

Friday, 12 May 2017

Time to Quit



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

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

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

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

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

Surely I am not alone in this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, 10 May 2017

All Hale the Cool


Yippee to closing the door on the summer heat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

I just don't even want to imagine it.



Monday, 8 May 2017

Poaching

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


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

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

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

But recently some of the joy has been lost.

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

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

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

Yesterday I poached in lashings of coconut oil and oatmeal.

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

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

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

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

Sunday, 7 May 2017

Bastards.


This is our street corner after 21 'GOS'

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

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


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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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




Saturday, 6 May 2017

I am a slow starter.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, 4 May 2017

When is child abuse funny?


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PLEASE.

Monday, 1 May 2017

I don't understand Tattoos.


The real world has seemingly has passed me by cos it's a long weekend here in Queensland and I didn't even know it. The first I heard about it was when a friend of mine PINKY POINKER who writes a fabulous blog, www.pinkypoinker.com.au  mentioned it in relation to something else completely random and I have been back pedaling ever since.

So we went to the Spit cos there's a wonderful off leash dog zone as big and as wonderful as my lost mind.

Now I always come away from this place relaxed and calm and usually full of wonder.

Today I wondered how people just refuse to pick up their dog shit.

Oh sure very occasionally Dog will squirt out something closely resembling dirty mud water, cos the salt water she slurps up by the gallon goes right through her, and this is impossible to collect cos it disappears into the sand almost immediately. But when she drops a solid one, we are there with bags in hand.

Today there were 2 dogs galloping around and for our whole visit, we didn't see who they belonged to. The followed us up the beach and back again and stopped to play with random dogs and shit all the way. Yep little piles of Dog Dirt were left like Hanzel and Gretel's breadcrumbs, and when we left, these 2 dogs were still there unattended.

I have heard of people dropping off their kids at patrolled beaches and heading into the casino or the pub, but I am shocked at the idea that folk with dogs would be equally cavalier. Anyway it made me a little cross, cos these piles of poo give purpose to people's argument about no dogs on the beach and that is irritating. Oh Well.

And while we sat and watched the day away, I noticed people and their tattoos. Of course the beach is an excellent place for a tattoo perv.

I don't like tattoos.

I don't understand tattoos.

I am a flighty bitch and just know that I don't want to wear ANYTHING at all EVERY FUCKING DAY OF MY LIFE - Easily bored, I suppose.

And my eyesight, even with my specs is not good enough to distinguish the intricate details - surely there are details, so all too often the markings just look like dirt to me.

And then I wondered if the folk who get tattoos all up and down their legs, get 'em so they can see 'em or so everyone else can see 'em. Which way up is the right way up? And if the right way up is so everyone else can see it, what joy would there be in looking at an up-side-down something on your thigh everyday. Yeh I don't get it.

And then there are the piece meal bits with space and stuff missing and I just hope that one day the canvas will be completed, cos I don't get a bit of this here and a bit of that there. It's a bit like decorating a room and doing a bit of the wall and then the ceiling and then buying a chair and putting it next to salad bowl and a crossword puzzle. One thing at a time, and do it well I always say. I like it when a project is finished. I like drawing a line under things. I don't like half done.

Except half done would have been better than 'job done' on the bloke who was covered from arsehole to breakfast, all over his head and face and shoulders and chest, and then, well I just had to look away. Who does that to themselves?

I can sort understand someone trying to disguise and ugly scar with something pretty and I can certainly understand women who have had double mastectomies who get artistic things tattooed all over their chests, but this mutilation of your face, I just don't get it. I mean no-one is that ugly.

People gave him a very wide birth and perhaps if I was 'in the know' I might have been able to interpret the stuff all over his face, but he was just scary and that surely must have been his intention. 'Look at me! - Don't you dare fucking look at me!"

Once I had seen this fella the rest of the day's body 'art' was of very little significance.

I don't care that people get tattoos, their body and all that, but once done surely there is an expectation that people will perv, except that this bloke wanted people to look then look away. Intimidation! Seems like a permanent way of pointing a gun at the world.