Privatising Australia Post

Well really a private company could do no worse than the current shitful, service offered by Australia Post. They have outsourced the delivery of items to contractors and this has been the case for some long time now. As luck would have it, our fella is a lazy, good for bugger all, jobs worth, who after an imaginary altercation with Steve or someone else here at the house more than FIVE YEARS ago, now still refuses to deliver stuff at all. He just throws a delivery advice notice in the post box and runs along. I presume he gets paid regardless, so what does he care. I imagine he finishes very early and races home and puts he stinky feet up and spends his ill-gotten gains on online betting or porn. He certainly is not buying 'how to deliver stuff with attention to customer care' books.

So when I get the delivery card, which is more often than you might think cos I have a happy little habit of buying stuff unseen on line, I need to troop up to the local post office to collect it. The guy there, either knows me or is the most gormless cock or indeed both of these things. I give him the card, he asks for photographic ID, I ask why the delivery was not made and he gives some excuse which I negate. We have exactly the same dance every time. It could be 3 or 4 days in a row, if I think I have struck gold somewhere in the ether. I ask if he thinks that I have had good value for my postage dollar, he mumbles like a moron and I tell him I can't wait until Australia Post is privatised because efficiency could not possibly be worse, and he looks at me like I am speaking Chinese.

I guess what I wonder is who would reckon in this day of emails and internet everything, that buying Australia Post would be a worthwhile investment. But I really really hope that a sale is not only possible but imminent. I will happily be a parade of one, flag waving and gleefully chanting as they close the local shop and all those useless arseholes leave the building one last time, to head off to spend their undeserved redundancy packages and sign onto the dole.

That's the sad truth I guess, one way or another I will still be paying the blighters.

Women What Lunch

Women of a certain age are very lucky indeed, especially if they have reached that point where they just don't give a shit about the mindless opinions of others.

7 such women, well alright only 6 such and one strange one, lunched together today at The Southport Yacht Club. Over a couple of bottles of wine and some lovely fish and chips with a side of walnut salad just so we could pretend to be healthy, we put the world to rights. Of course there were many different solutions, at least one for each of us and we didn't worry about the audience's reception cos it didn't really matter if the others thought we were loopy. We were all happy in our own skin.

I guess by a little I might have been the youngest at the table, which is a rare novelty these days. And an at bay migraine left me more than a little fuzzy and wearing my dark glasses. Lunch passed in something of a pleasant hazy blur. What a diverse happy group we seemed. All of a sudden though, one woman up and dashed off with half a glass of wine to spare. We did not see her again. She just bolted and then perhaps sadly we all reverted to the epitome of 'Women what lunch' and we gossiped like maniacs about her. Well in truth, they all did, I could hardly contribute as I didn't know her from Adam, but I listened and enjoyed the bitching along with them all.

Jenny sitting next to me said half in jest that she was pleased that it was not her who had left first because then everyone would be sitting there bitching about her. And this was true. We all acknowledged that. The beauty is though not one of us could give a toss if we were the topic of gossip. Bring it on anytime!

We discussed the usual stuff, men, children, grandies, hormones or the lack of 'em, migraines and botox. The table was divided about botox as a wrinkle remedy but there was good curiosity about it being useful as a treatment for migraine. This is something Dr Jane and I are looking into. I reckon a wrinkle free face might well be just the happiest little side effect of botox for migraines. Dr Jane is pretty sure it will help. She suffers too and she looked at me last week and smiled and said, 'Look here is a face full of Botox.'  I reckon she looks pretty wonderful and no migraines. I can hardly wait to have a go. The older women were worried about the long term effects for women who are lining up to be jabbed routinely from their early 30s on. I see their point, but hold that whatever the repercussions, science will find a way to overcome anything awful, so go for it.

We gathered today because something shitful or odd or mean is going on with the AWL lunch group and those lunches are not going ahead at least it didn't this month, and if it is still a No Go next month we 7 are gonna meet up again, somewhere new and scare the staff and chatter.

I reckon it is possible that women live longer than men because they enjoy these meet ups where they swap longevity hints and release buckets of bitterness and bitching in a safe controlled environment where no one gets hurt.

Bongs and vandals

The Park next door which in an honest moment I really do believe is just an extension to my backyard, except that no rates or rent are due on it, and if it needs mowing I simply ring the Council instead of getting out the Victa,  is at the moment being taken over by rather undesirables.

There are always the somewhat colourful characters who get about, like the odd fella who likes to poke through the dogshit filled bins in search of yesterday's newspapers. And today he was joined by the rough looking bloke who had a metal detector and a strange hammer digger thing which he used to dig sometimes quite big holes on the hunt I guess for buried treasure. We watched for ages and he found nothing but dirt.

But yesterday in the rain, cos I am such a good dog mummy, I was chucking the ball to Dog from the protection of one of the rotundas and there perched carefully beside the picnic stool was a well made, meant to be used often, bong. The dirty water spoke of some use and the discarded plastic bottles nearby told of smokers who are choosey. I wondered why these folk need to smoke their shit in the park, but mostly I just got pissed off cos Dog could have knocked it over and I am not sure what damage could be done to her by drinking the water, but I imagine it would not be the most healthy thing to do. While we were building the house, we found the hose shortened by some few inches on a fairly regular basis, so I have to imagine that the bongers are aging and have lacked the imagination or financial wherewithal to find a more salubrious place to pull their cones. That's just all a bit sad, but perhaps not as sad as they will be when they get there to discover that I binned the bong and all the reject plastic bottles too.

And today when Steve pointed out the swans and I went off with a half a loaf and a smile, I discovered that my chair was GONE!! Firstly I figured that some fucker had stolen it, but when I was at the end of the pontoon I saw it, thrown with force into the water. If pegging an aluminium chair ever becomes an Olympic event, the shitting thrower could become famous! Until then he / she is just a bloody nuisance. What sort of an arsehole does that? I can see how someone might want to nick a chair and use it to take a load off. It wasn't tied down and is pretty comfortable, but why would someone walk onto someone else's property and just chuck a chair away. Beggars belief!! Steve has spent an hour trying to scrape the barnacles off it and now I will have to leave it locked up inside the yard and carry it out as needed.

It's a shame that the smokers don't keep an eye out. If I thought they would help me, I would have left the bong, gift wrapped with a side of munchies.

Elastic Time and Zones

How does time get to be sooo elastic. It is of course not the least bit changeable except that we all know that a week at work is longer than a week on hols and the night before Christmas is the longest few hours of children's lives.

Steve is on his way home and he's been gone for a month. That's a pretty long time! Except that in many ways it has just runaway. I have been busy and he's been busy and time has just leaked. But now that he's on a plane it seems to be just dribbling by drop by drop.

I was OK working out where he was when I was working on UK time but once that was lost and he landed on UAE time I didn't have a clue. Truth be told I don't get time zones at all. I can understand that when it's daytime here, it's nighttime in the UK cos of where the sun is in relation to where we are, and I can see that there must be middle bits too, but the maths of it all - well really who came up with it all. And it can't be set in stone anyway, if mere politician mortals can choose to change the time for summer or winter or indeed not change it for summer.

Time certainly is elastic and at the moment it is being stretched to about the limit. At least I get to sleep for a good bit of Steve's 14 hours. He got on the plane at 10.25am UAE time - about 4.30pm here and he lands at 6am ish. No wonder jet lag is such a bitch!! He's flying nearly all night during the day time or maybe I made that bit up.

I feel a little nauseous just trying to work it all out, let alone living through it.

Pictorial Couple of Days.

 

Floors - Shit

 

 

 

Washing - Shit

 

 

Mowing - Fun

 

 

Grass is better, but not Ponsford Perfect.

 

 

Anzac Day Collection who'd believe that!

 

 

Thanks Nik

 

 

Op shop Hat has had a good work out.

 

 

The Girls are getting BIG

 

 

Ancient design still useful.

 

 

Bloody thing!!

 

 

Green Jumper Outing

 

 

Boxes finished.

 

 

Too sad for words - I know, but I love it and NO ADS.

 

 

Rod Stewart and dancing with the broom.

 

 

Keeping Dog trim

 



There's no prizes for guessing most of these, but the old green jumper will stump just about everyone I reckon.

More than 20 years ago, my lovely Dad died and my mother's largesse ran to this jumper and a hand made silk shirt that I also still have. Dad did what men of his era thought was their job and that is left the wife plenty and she thought a couple of bits of old clothes was a reasonable keep sake for me. The prodigal son fared far better. Ho hum.

Anyway, I set out last evening to watch 'The Cracker Competition' on the beach at Surfers Paradise. It had just started to rain as I got into the car. This was the first rain for weeks. Typical!! I thought.

I grabbed a scarf and thought it might be nice to take Dad's jumper for an outing.

I parked up illegally for the second time in the day and hoped for the best.

There was plenty of room on the beach and enough spilt light to see people coming and going. The mood was festive and relaxed. There was a final Anzac Remembrance and the flags I saw lowered at dawn, were raised up and the crackers started!

It is no secret that I do love a cracker!! I love the feeling that I am up there flying through the air, all graceful and colourful. I love the smell and the vibration in my chest when they bang off. I love sitting in the dark and wondering what colour the next one will be. There is no part of a cracker night that I don't like.

Dad's green jumper liked the outing too.

The last display was the best.

If autumn ever arrives and the pool season closes, the green jumper might be trotted out again.

Apology

I was WRONG!!
I was WRONG!!
I was WRONG!!

At the risk of my apology sounding trite and insincere I will not do a Bart Simpson black board.

Yesterday I went on a bit or maybe more than a bit about Will calling our PM a president. I heard it twice and had convinced myself that I had heard this.

Today I finally found a full copy of his speech and bugger me if he was completely correct in his address. So sure I was about what I had heard, I had to play it 3 times before I was convinced of my error, I even looked to see if it had been dubbed over, yes his lips and sound were in sync so no subterfuge there.

I wholeheartedly apologise to Will and Kate and to any reader who thought I was infallible and has consequently repeated the story at the pub and got into a big betting situation and have subsequently lost their house, or their car or their favourite daughter. I am a FOOL and have made a mistake!! I certainly hope this is not a sign of things to come.

Him: Did you see that the blogger has posted an apology. Yippee!

Her: Yeh I did see that. Doesn't happen often does it that a mistake is owned and apologised for,

Him: She must be  a decent sort I suppose.

Her: Hey Mr Windsor don't go getting all sappy dog about some random blogger.

Him: No way Mrs Windsor, not when I have you by my side, and besides I did a quick Google search and she spends too much on shoes and clothes.

Her: Come here and snog me Mr Windsor. It's been lovely, but I am looking forward to getting back to Kensington and our own bed. mmm

Kate and Will part 2.

The online news today is full of PM Mr Abbott's slip. He needed some help with the protocol of titles and pronunciation.

In the 2010 film starring Australian Geoffrey Rush as King George VI's speech therapist, then Queen Elizabeth instructs Rush's character: "It's 'Your Majesty' the first time. After that, it's 'ma'am', as in 'ham'. Not 'ma'am', as in 'palm'".

Yeh he called Kate ma'am as in palm, but who really cares.

I am tempted to think that the bigger blunder might have been when Will referred to Mr Abbott as Mr President. I mean if he was Mr President that would put paid to all the royal pomp and ceremony and it wouldn't matter a damn how ma'am was said.

I watched Will's speech twice and heard the same thing twice, but a fella in the park argued that he was referring to the president of the senate. So now I am not as sure,  but it makes for a bit of a giggle anyway.

Less significant but a still little vexing was when Will confused a Bilby with a Wombat.

I am left wondering who does the prep work for these formal affairs. Everyone seems so much more at ease out in the yard, even if that means digging a hole with a big shovel while wearing skinny high heeled sandals...I am surprised that the 'Elf and Safety dick allowed that to go ahead!!

No-one seemed to be enjoying the formality at today's reception, and I reckon everyone would have been more comfy in an old 'School of Arts' building sitting around on mixed matched wonky chairs chomping up an egg and lettuce sanga. They could all be a bit more real and with less pressure to get it right, maybe they could all be a bit more smiley or actually laugh out loud.

So as they hit the bed tonight I reckon it might go a bit like this.

Him: Bugger!! I can't believe I said Mr President. Aussies don't sound the least bit like Yanks. I hope Grand mama isn't too pissed with me for fuelling the republican debate out here. And even if Oz does became a republic, I hope that means they will still swat our bums in cricket.

Her: Don't worry Mr Windsor, the ham / palm debate will rage on longer I am sure. Only the rabid lefties will carry on and they are not all our target audience.

Him: And I am sure I will be forgiven for making the Bilby / Wombat gaff. There are just so many weird arse animals here, I don't know how anyone keeps up.

Her: Set the alarm a bit earlier will you, cos I have to try and scrub all that dirt and shit off my heels. So I've planted one Old English Oak today, have you got anymore....wood for me to bury.

Him: Climb aboard Ma'am as in Ham, and help Your St George slay a dragon.

Her: That was yesterday you silly (peaks under the sheets)
Happy St George's Day to all the POOMMMMMMs AHHH.