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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Halloween

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sophie and Stu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love New Stuff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh I have been busy with some painting.

Yep it's been a good day.

Who are you gonna call?

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

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

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

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

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

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

So Stevie called 'em last night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gambling

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

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

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

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

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

And so we get to my point.

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

The ad just gives me the screaming irrits.

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

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

Europe here we come!

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

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

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

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

So now the exciting part of the planning happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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