C is for Clock Watching

This is sometimes a pretty volatile household. We don't need to look too far for an argument and because we are both not backward in coming forward, the neighbours must sometimes wonder if something is gonna get broken - nah not me or him but something.

We mostly agree on the big stuff, like politics and almost on religion, although Stevie's views are not quite as extreme as mine, and generally on people, although we are happy enough to give plenty of lea way for each other's choice in playmates. We like the same sort of foods and fancy going to the same sort of places and care equally little about what other people think. But Time is too often our undoing!

The clock is my favourite piece of household equipment. It has driven me my whole life. From the beautiful marcasite  watch from Nanna that I took off carefully so I could dive up to my armpits into the enormous vats of coleslaw and mix up that hideous mayo when I worked at Coles - yeh the one some fucker took from the kitchen ledge and then laughed behind their hands as I cried at it's loss, to the stopwatch timings at swimming, I have always been aware of time.

I was not one of those fashionably late - read bloody rude, brides, and my classes knew that on the very rare occasions I was late, that there was an excellent reason, probably about them and possibly arguing in their corner with the principal. My classes ran to time and I might not have complained about the lack of air con - but I did, or the sweat stink of the carpet, but I did, or the general lack of equipment, but I did always insisted on an operational government issue clock.

I used to play and teach THEATRE SPORTS. These are Drama Games designed around impromptu story telling in teams of up to 4, a bit like 'Whose Line Is it Anyway' on the tellie, except the games are timed, 1, 2 and 4 minutes. A lot of people would not think it worth even starting on a story in only 1 minute, but you'd be surprised just how much you can cram into it.

If the clock says 9.20 and I'll think 9.30, my car clock is 30 minutes fast, but somehow I have convinced myself that it is only 20 minutes ahead.

I am never late.

If I am running even close to late, that means I am not gonna be 10 minutes early, I get that sick nauseous feeling in my guts and my colour wanes and a nervous sheen appears on my top lip. Now at least, with the advent of mobile talking devices, I can ring or text to give notice that I might be running late. Warnings of my possible lateness have often been received by people still washing the sleep from their eyes, prior to shitting and shaving.

Ok it's all a bit nuts, and pedantic and frantic and often stressful, especially when balanced against Stevie's 'whenever' approach. He was infamous for being late almost all his life. I reckon his pommie mates probably lied to him about departure times so he'd make the rugby tour bus. So now I should be pleased that it's only a few minutes.

He has definitely improved, and that ain't easy as we get older.

Just as well really cos he's running out of time to get it right.

Birthdays

It's Stevie's birthday today! and those are very special days around here.

Cos even if it means that you are adding another year onto an already pretty impressive tally, well god knows it's better than the alternative.

There are beers with his name on 'em and with any luck at all a damn fine round of golf.

We have a tradition of giving cryptic clues so the recipients can guess the pressie. Steve's clues are always very clear and I can nearly always guess the parcel, maybe because I am a good guesser and maybe cos the clues are clear - that'll be the Engineer in him, but mine on the other hand are less clear, a bit murkie perhaps, sometimes even plain bloody obscure cos that's the nature of my mind.

Stevie agonises over the wrapping, and it's pretty clear that I do not, but we both spend time choosing great cards. Oh I know it's a waste of money, but I don't care. My lovely girl was here during the week and she spied my little bag of cards and she just shook her head with dismay when she saw that I had bought them from David Jones. She gets hers from the shit shop and spends time writing her message, but I like the artwork and the humour, so I guess it makes me lazy, but ho hum.

This year I have planned and sorted a big old tour from Adelaide to Melbourne for his birthday, so the parcels are just some silliness cos really you have to be able to 'go the big rip' on your special day. I reckon it should be some sort of a sign. If you are too feeble to go the rip, then maybe it's time to pop yourself into one of those retirement villages, where you slurp your wine through a straw and someone spoon feeds you cake. That does not sound too bad to me actually.

Elizabeth, our across the road neighbour, is getting on a bit and on Christmas day all but swam into her kitchen to make a cuppa - yep she was flooded - bloody pipes burst in the night and the place was buggered. Stevie had been in a couple of times to see how the repairs were going, but in the end it was just all too much. Really the place needed to be gutted - carpets, cupboards, furniture and all her stuff. But she is a tough old bird. She popped the place on the market, it sold in a day and now she is happily sipping an afternoon bevvie looking at her mountain view from the 18th floor in Southport. No garden, no maintenance, just pleasing herself. Sounds bloody marvelous to me.

So when I can't go the Big Rip I am gonna happily join her.

But that isn't today!

Today is parcels and golf and silliness and dinner and beers and wine and maybe if I get him drunk enough, a little dance.

What do you do for your birthday? 

A...Anti-Abortion Arsehole.

Well happy April first and so to starting the A to Z race. How very fucking lucky I feel that that tool Trump has given me my A story. He is such a wanker!

I referred to a kid as a wanker while I was teaching in London. I was not surprised that I was overheard by the kids, it might even have been my intention, cue coy face. Anyway his mother who was a piece of work herself, was not too amused and I managed to slide out of the mire by explaining to her that WANKER in Australia is  a compliment. 

I clearly was stretching the truth only a little, yeh like my belly skin was stretched only a little carrying a near 9 pounder. 

Here's Donald getting out of being labeled a wanker by explaining that his dick is, 'this small', so small in fact that he has to squint to see it. He is looking longingly at the 3/4 inch and in this candid moment we can see him lament the piddling size and also see a hint that he is exaggerating even to himself. Of course he pretends he's got a whopper by wearing a really really long stupid tie.

And so to his abortion tyraid of yesterday. 'I am Pro Life'. 'I am Pro Life' 'I am pro Life' 

He did so much back pedaling about punishing women who had abortions that the chain on his bike would have fallen off. 

He plans to ban abortions.  

He hates women.

'They will have to go back to a time where people will perhaps go to illegal places, but you have to ban them' 

'Women are essentially aesthetically pleasing objects'

'Sexual assault in the military is totally expected'

'Angelina Jolie has dated too many guys to be attractive'

'If Hillary Clinton can't satisfy her husband, what makes her think she can satisfy America?'

I was literally spoiled for choice when looking for obscene quotes that have either dribbled or been flung out of this fella's mouth. It seems pretty clear that the only people he can tolerate are old white rich blokes and he really doesn't care too much for them either. 

I just bet there are many many people secretly or otherwise wishing this wanker had gone the way of the backyard coathanger. Yeh it's graphic but I hit the point of no return in despising him yesterday with all this right wing authoritarian anti female bullshit.

I used to know a bloke who was equally appalling about everyone just on a smaller scale. He would sit at cafes and loudly lament the ugly fat people around him, or the useless black people who walked on by, or the miserly jews, in fact I don't think I ever heard him say anything good about anyone except himself. I mean this man had clung onto a very ordinary canvas he had painted when he was a boy, and that's ok, except that it precluded him ever hanging any other artwork cos it just wouldn't compare...ho hum. He used to say that he wasn't a racist, or in deed any sort of an IST cos he hated everyone equally. He's the sort of person who most likely is be a Trumpeter. 

I very much like to think this is a photo of this ugly man's face as he demonstrates how tough he is. He's telling that guy with the broom stick to shove it up further. 'Up up up! Go on, don't be a girl!' and in the next frame his teeth fly out. 

It's unlikely that this arsehole is ever gonna keep his mouth closed, but I am gonna do the best I can't to ignore him for the next month and write happy chipper little stories, but I can guarantee it. There is only so much sewerage you can ignore before it's time to start bucketing out.

The Boys!

Anyone who tells you that 4.30 am is a wonderful time of the day clearly does not suffer insomnia and are more than likely facing the dawn from the dark side. Ah yeh, I do remember those days of all night drinking and dancing and falling asleep as the sun poked up. There was a little patch of cold sand in Greece that had my name on it for 2 glorious weeks. A young gay fella and a Brazillian woman and I arrived in Mykanos hungover and sleepy and watched with rather stale amusement as the rest of the tourists played carousel roulette, waiting for their bags. We 3 stumbled onto the ferry towards Paros and then became firm holiday buddies. We dined and drank until sunup and slept a great deal during the day when it was too hot to be out in the sun anyway. Ah those beach sunrises....bloody beautiful!

But those days are a distant memory now.

Sunrise today at the Big House and as to be expected, I was on my own and the silence was lovely, being awake of course gave me the shits but the calm was pleasant.

The smaller boys were up at 7 looking for food and we were ready for the off at a little after 8.

The Southport Parklands was about empty at the hour so we swam to the Lego man pontoon and the boys just had a hoot. Then they jumped and then they swam again. Home to the pool to replace the sea salt with pool salt and off to the village for some sugar for morning tea - please don't ever send me a diabetic kid to care for cos I just truly wouldn't have the capacity to say no to the donuts and milkshakes...that's my Ma story and I am sticking to it.

The heat of the day and they are playing on the I Pad and then there is a movie from the rental box in the village. Maybe then it will be cool enough to allow 'em back into the pool.

Dinner at the surf club tonight where they can play out on the beach after dinner. All pretty mellow really.

The bigger boys slept later and now the little big boy is off on an exploration of town adventure.  

Time for a little zzzz off for me maybe?

Do you enjoy a little Nanna Nap?

Dentists and modern science?

Just the background - like the opening gambit, the dynamic splatter is still to come.

It's NOT my turn, so no panic attacks today.

It's Stevie's turn. He's going for some root planing.

Now a few decades ago I could have convinced myself that any sort of rooting could be conjured to be sexy and smile making, but the very idea of having a dentist with his arms up to his elbows in your mouth shaving off bits of root / bone, well I am pulling that 'Ooooh Yuk' face and only Dog is here to see it.

Sounds completely fucking hideous!

It might just be panic attack avoiding wishful thinking, but I never really expect anything to got too terribly wrong with teeth and I don't know why, cos there sure has been a shitload of stuff go wrong with mine.

Oh sure I can see that holes need to be filled and sometimes wayward little fuckers need to be pulled out, but a couple of weeks ago Stevie had some sort of a shelf bit of tooth that was growing the wrong way,. This wasn't one of those useful types of shelves on which you can display important things like your Oscar or your 3rd place ribbon from the year 4 Tunnel Ball competition. Nope, this fucker had broken off and there were little bits of tooth floating around like flotsam in his gums. Now who would ever even dream up this shit? And I don't know what the 'Round the head' Xray showed but now some serious scraping is in order.

I reckon I would need to be sedated.

I suggested something softish for dinner but as his mate's boy is landing tonight, I think he wants to feed him up, so steaks are on the menu. I am making that face again just thinking about chewing it and all that extra scraping on the gums.

But it's all very modern isn't it.

In times past, teeth just rotted and fell out and in the recent past some dentures were shoveled in and the distant times gaps were tolerated or maybe even thought to be sexy?

But that's the way of the world I guess, years ago, I'd be dead and there'd have been no such stuff as blood tests and pathology to find out why.

Modern science is scary but wonderful too.

I have started a painting of pathology slides of leukemic bloods. They are beautiful. The Philadelphia white cells are pretty fierce and confronting, but I am looking forward to overlaying them on top of my opening gambit.

For any Pathologists out there, I am aware that I have taken an artist's liberty with the colour, but I have never been any good at following the rules or colouring by numbers.


How does modern science help you?
Does science scare you?

Visitors!

Oh dear, I thought it looked ok in real life, but this pic looks like I am setting up an old people's home lounge room. Hope I will be forgiven.

The Big House will be filled with testosterone tomorrow and that will be quite the shock to the usual . female domination of Dog and me.

The lovely Grandie is coming for a mini holiday and is bringing his mate for a bit of a wild old sleep over. I imagine that he has already told his friend that Ma is a push over and that they will be spoilt rotten and that anything they wish for, within reason of course, will be granted.

SO my so very recently reclaimed studio is having another makeover. I am moving in the pair of the big brown chair and setting up the little tellie and blowing up 2 air matresses so they can keep all their fartie smells and noise to themselves. Of course I am hoping that we do get to see 'em at least a little bit, for food I imagine and maybe the odd swim.

I don't imagine there will be much of slipping into my bed for a silly o'clock cuddle and game of Eye Spy, but people would argue that he is already to old for such nonsense.

His mate is silly fair and needs to be slathered at all times with factor 50. so I will need to be on my toes and Belly tells me that she is not sure about his swimming abilities so I suppose we will see how much of my life-saving skills I need to resurrect when he first dives in.

So that brings the male tally to 3 and the females only 2.

Except that one of Steve's mate's boys is also arriving tomorrow, so the balance will be well and truly skewed. Our last arrival is in his middle 20s and I don't know how much he has had to do with young boys but I imagine they will want to rough house and be silly and he might be tired after travelling the world for months and looking for a bit of a feet up before he goes on his merry way to work some farm near Bundy. Yeh he is a Pommie fella on walkabout.

So 3 generations of men in the house!

How will I cope?

By doing very much like I always do I dare say.

Ignore, adapt, go off like a rocket and then make a nice dinner.

What is the gender balance at your place?

Real Estate Moguls

Once upon a time there lived in the flash classy town of Melbourne a little lady. She had watched For Sale signs go up and down like yoyo's on their strings since was she was but a wee lass and had longed to be apart of the fun, until one wonderful Saturday, when it was her turn! She was the big old winner at an auction for a nice little cottage in Fitzroy, on the border with Brunswick, maybe it really was Brunswick, anyway it didn't matter cos she was a winner!

She set about setting it up so that nice decent folk would be able to rent it out for a few days while they wore their best clobber and enjoyed the romance and elegance of her town.

She charged top wack for a night or two and figured that that would separate the careful kindly folk from the dirty arseholes, but sadly she was wrong.

Once an elderly couple who had booked in for a week, just didn't show up. She was left in the lurch, the old man had died enroute, so the old lady was almost as woebegone as our heroine, who never made that mistake again cos she insisted that all her short term tenants paid in full, a month in advance and made it clear to them that if they changed their minds for whatever reason, she would just keep all their cash.

Another time, unfortunately the holiday makers were remiss in polishing the coffee machine to a sufficient shine and so she now charges for 3 hours cleaning, on top, in advance, and no the cleaning fee is not refunded if punters change their minds, even though no cleaning would be necessary if they didn't spend time in the cottage.

And along the way our little lady was clearly bitten on the arse by all manner of unscrupulous holidaying folk who did all manner of damage and so now she must charge a deposit of $500, which is of course refundable, except that there is no incoming or out going inventory so when she says that one of her Waterford glasses has been nicked, how can there be any argument? She sends a security code as a hearty welcome and so there is none of that messy dealing with actual people.

Our heroine has been lucky at auction 4 times and is running a damn fine little business. It's a shame that her book keeping skills are ever so slightly lacking in that she can send emails requesting more money, before she finds the time to receipt moneys received, but hey ho off to Melbourne we go.

In Adelaide there is a little lady with a flat to rent who sounds lovely on the phone. For a week's holiday she was happy to take a credit card number but not charge it, to confirm the booking, and efficiently popped a friendly email to me confirming everything, no bond was requested and no cleaning fee. She is looking forward to greeting us and showing us around.  I guess she figures that to run a little business there has to be some slight risk and there needs to be some outgoings to get the in comings, or maybe she does the cleaning herself, after all she may not be as posh as the little lady from Melbourne.    

Or maybe people who holiday in Melbourne are turds and folk who go to Adelaide are salt of the earth (what does that even mean?)

We had a holiday flat here on the Goldie for few years. There were managers in charge of the bookings. Sometimes after folk had been in and paid rent, we would still owe the managers money, cos they gave discounts on the rent and we paid for every-fucking-thing - cleaning, linen, towels, Welcome Packs, lightbulb changing at $50/hour etc etc, and when something got broken we paid for that too cos we didn't take a bond!! When it was costing us more than it made, we sold it, cos that was clearly just silly, but we always accepted that there would be some outgoings involved.

We have parted with a good chunk of wonga as a deposit for Melbourne and now are reading the fine print - yeh I know we should have read that first. The rest of the cash is gonna fly out next week. I fucking hope this place is a a bit of a palace, cos already I have a bit of a shit feeling.