Phones - Then and Now

 

 

 

 

My Nanna had a big old clunky bakolite black phone like the red one here and it was seriously so heavy that you could knock out a small child and their au pair, if you were strong enough to be able to pick it up and swing it around. It was always a real moment of excitement if it rang and she let me answer it. That of course was only after a great deal of teaching and trying and role playing and yes, still getting it wrong occasionally and then she'd patiently start again. She was a good lady my Nanna.

 

Then she moved into the then current times and got a bright bloody green plastic thing which just wasn't as exciting. We had a white one I think at home. This was back in the day when dinosaurs roamed free and the cost of phone calls was pretty steep. And every call was identified on the bill and the accountant in my Dad saw him fine tooth comb that bill and go spastic about all the 'unauthorised' calls that we kids had snuck in while the parentals were out. We'd sit there and deny all knowledge of most of the calls, only fessing up to a few. He tried everything bless him, to keep a rein on the bill but with 5 people in the household, it got tricky. He set up a grid, where you just had to put a tick in the box if you called someone and when that proved ineffectual, he tried to insist that we all record every single phone number we called. I don't think he cared too much about the total on the bill, he just really wanted to be able to check that it was correct. Anyway, finally his irritation led him to putting a pad-lock on the phone! I reckon ours might well have been the only phone in the neighbourhood with this accessory. The phone bill of course dropped considerably once our usage was prevented and after that he figured that Telecom were probably getting it pretty right.

 

It was a simple, innocent, safe time really. If we wanted to call someone we'd do it within earshot of the whole family. There was no privacy or secrecy. Sometimes if I wanted to speak 'silly' to a boyfriend then a code was needed and that naturally had to be devised in advance. Phone dating - James Bond style - well hardly.

 

And so we take the giant leap to smart phones in public places with you tube videos playing at full volume and conference calls on speaker.

 

It makes me feel old to whinge about it.

 

I certainly have no interest in chasing down one of Nanna's old style phones but surely there could be some sort of happy medium.

 

I don't want others to hear my conversations, either live or via the ether, and I sure as shit don't want to hear someone else's tired old crap.

 

I reckon there should be a rule, if you are gonna use your phone in such a way that everyone within a 30 metre radius can hear it, then it must be shocking or entertaining or life changingly informative. If it is just gonna be that shitful tinny poor quality whine of the sound of someone stupid falling over something ridiculous, or a 3 way conversation about the price of disposable nappies, then for god sake go out into the park or the privacy of your own place so as to not inflict that level of wrist slitting, brain fogging mundanity  on the rest of us.

 

Oh shit I really am a grumpy old woman.  

Gray's Anatomy SPOILER ALERT!!

 

 

It seems hard to believe that "Grey's Anatomy has only been on our tellies for a decade. It certainly has become a part of the furniture at my place.

 

 

The characters have come and gone and generally speaking I have not been too moved by the deaths and the moving elsewheres, except maybe for George, who was always a favourite cos he was so conflicted and let's face it, just bloody unlucky. And Yang cos I did love the way she always told it how it was.

 

 

 

Some of the scenarios have been on the unbelievable side but that makes for watchable tellie. I sure as shit don't sit down to watch reality ER , even though I do watch some other reality crap, people's intestines spilling on the floor for real is just too much and hiding behind my hands for the gory bits would get to be more than a little tedious. 

 

So I suspend disbelief and laugh and cry and ponder and discuss. There are plenty of issues that could and perhaps should be family dinner conversations like organ donation and the use of heroic measures to prolong life.

 

 

But all that is secondary to my surprise when as a season end, Shonda Rhimes killed off Derek. I had already read about it online but during the episode, it seemed like maybe they had got it wrong, but no, thump and wack and he was gone.

 

 

I have enjoyed the love affair between Derek and Meredith. A lot of it has seemed possible, and just as they were finally getting their shit together he is shuffled off. Bugger!

 

 

 

 

I will be watching next season to see what happens next, but if the flawed Meredith doesn't live up to expectations then that might have to be the end for me. Oh who am I kidding, I suppose by the end of season 12 I will have become involved in a new story line and some new characters so will still be hooked.

 

I sometimes am tempted to put shit on folk who settle in to watch 'Home and Away' or 'Coronation Street', but really it is all cut from the same cloth.

 

Yep 'Grey's Anatomy' is just a soap, but cos I watch it I pretend it's a bit flasher than that. It surprising what you can convince yourself of in the name of intellectual superiority.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 





Twickenham here we come!

Who said you can't go back?

When I popped over to London, mostly for a bit of a giggle and to make sure that Bell was ok on her 'gap year' which lasted much longer than a year, I rented a house close to her work and at least on a map, not far from the school I was looking forward to playing at. I was wrong about the proximity to my work and so when the lease was up and I decided that I might stay longer and Bell went home, I moved to Twickenham, a suburb away from my school, and very civilised it was too. Pubs and restaurants and all sorts of shopping. I loved it there.

Sadly I was evicted from that house, which sounds like I was naughty, but really the home owner had taken the piss and had rented the house out on a long lease, while she went on holiday and she turfed me out with little notice cos her holiday was over. It seemed she did this often and the agents were aware of it and together they all really just took the piss. This is a whole other story, but it didn't kill my love for Twickenham.

I moved into another local house and loved it. Then I met Steve at  his rugby club some suburbs away and as things rocked along and I made plans to come back to Aus to sell up and then go back, we spent some time at his place in, well bugger me, Twickenham.

So I spent 6 months in Brisvegas and then moved into Steve's place in Twickenham.

It's a part of London that I got to know very well. I reckon it  might be because all too often parking proves to be a pain in the arse, and so walking the streets - no not to inflate my income, is more efficient if you just want to pop into the shops. This means that you get to see close up, all the little stores and houses and you work out which bus stop is the one most likely to be useful when you are on the night bus with one too many under your belt.

I know things have changed in the last few years but I reckon I can recall Twickenham streets better than my old neighbourhood in Brisvegas.

Anyway as circles turn, we have found, thanks to Matty, a flat in Twickenham for our stay in London later in the year.

We have booked our tickets and now we have a roof to look forward to, in a place that really feels to me like going home. I am so excited!

Roll on September. Yippee!

Remarkable! This pointer is almost exactly where the flat is. Isn't that just a bit of serendipity?

 

 

 

I am pretty sure the name is different, but the coffee used to be lovely and the French pastries were yummo.

 

 

 

A legendary late night watering hole.

Shopping - I am out of practice.

It's been a good long while, but today I was back in the saddle - no not on a horse or anything else that dirty little minds might run to, just back in the arms of the rarefied atmosphere of Robina Shopping Centre, where on a non school holiday, nearly winter, Wednesday, the push and shovel was a distant memory and the knees were given a damn fine workout.

Strangely enough, Darren the Yoga guru, asked me on Monday what exercise I did, and after I finished laughing up a lung, I told him I did NOTHING! and then inelegantly pirouetted to further emphasise my point. He asked incredulously, 'What You don't even WALK?'

So here I sit feeling very self satisfied after more than 4 hours of strolling and stopping and dodging and the odd little scuttle.

That means I exercised today. Good on me!!

The shopping was a bit of a failure as I got nothing on my very short list and stuff that wasn't on my list made the basket.

I went looking for some heated cup curling things and came up completely empty, so instead I managed product research of all things heated and curling. Who knew so many bits and bobs had been invented. And as the list of possibilities grew along with the dollars, I truly began to lament the impulsive act a few years ago which saw me chuck away my heated curling sticks which I had had forever and was comfortable with, just because I thought the electrics were probably dodgy.

You can curl your hair for anything from about 50 bucks but I reckon that the heat control on the cheapies might well see me sitting with hanks of burnt off hair on the floor and red welts on my scalp. Of course I could be wrong, but I lack the courage to buy one and stick my locks into it. Then there was a pricey bit of kit that sort of sucked your hair into oblivion and released on the beep beep beeps to produce some curls. I had a go on this one and the synthetic head hair got too hot for me to feel good about using it on my own. The demonstrator girl said she would happily do my hair for me, but as it is so abused and destroyed, I figured that I could hardly let her run the very real risk of breaking it all off and sending me out with a possible mowhawk, or worse, completely bald.

So I arrived home with my straight hair and a lot of info to consider and a swelled head knowing that my swanning around counted as exercise. 

It's not a bad way to get a workout.

Yoga, more like Yogi Bear.

Months ago while I was stupidly a paid up member at KUDOS health club - yeh that's the place where the owner called me a liar and ripped up our 'notice to quit' documents and then had to sticky tape them back together when I provided her evidence of her own lies and manipulations, yeh that's the place, well I went to my first ever YOGA class.

I am pretty flexible and apart from that I bring nothing at all to the fitness table, and at the time I had one new knee and one that was buggered completely cos my new one was still in the shop.

To say I struggled would be the biggest understatement since someone said, 'Perhaps' to Kim Kardashian, when she asked 'Does my bum looks big in this?' I was like a beached whale rolling and grunting for air. The room was filled with women and men of the beautiful kind. All with their hair in place and colour matched gym gear and all that lycra was stretched seamlessly over flexed muscles and evenly breath controlled diaphragms. I didn't have my glasses on so couldn't see clearly the wonder woman who lead the class and I took my lead from the folk around who were sardine wedged into the space and who looked less than happy to have to include someone who clearly should have been having a go in the privacy of her own bedroom for years before venturing into the public domain.

The torture leader suggested in a none to subtle fashion that her class wasn't for everyone and that she really thought I would be happier elsewhere.

Years ago a head teacher stood proudly at a staff meeting and when asked what she would do if a staff member had facial piercings or visible tattoos, she said those same appalling words, 'I'd find them a place they would be happier.' I know it means piss em off cos they don't fit the preferred aesthetic.

So I didn't go back to Kudos. Nothing could entice me to suffer that humiliation again, even if I would have quite liked to make a bit of a stand, my bloody knees just weren't up to the challenge.

Anyway, as the memory had faded, hard to believe just how vibrant it must have been huh? I dragged Steve along to the PCYC today to have a go again. Darren greeted us with a smile and hand shake and a calm approach to all the broken bits we have. There was plenty of room and we laid out the mats and our own towels and got stuck in.

Darren was full of suggestions about how to modify the movements and no one was bothered by the lack of glamour or the grunting or the inability or the towering up of mat rolls needed to sit and knell and generally have a go.

I knelt on one and both knees for the first time in a decade!! Yeh it hurt. Hurt like hell! But somewhere in that odd dank dark little space I found the courage to put the metal to the test. I am aching now and I suppose tomorrow will not be any better, but it feels good to have found some forgotten muscles.

Darren in his cargo shorts and tee shirt might have just changed my mind. Maybe YOGA can be for everyone.

Him indoors said I have been crabbie this week.

Autumn is thinking about peaking about the sun and that is the highlight of the week. Cooler evenings are a blessed relief even if the days are still hot. And that's the good news this week.

 

Here's the list of some of the things that have got my heart racing and not in a good way,  and no they aren't in order of shits giving. It's all very random

 

 

 

Unnecessary packaging of the smallest wheel of very ordinary cheese. More 'stuff' than cheese. IRRITATING!

 

The finished product! Here's the Root Barrier. Left a couple of inches out of the ground, just far enough to trip me up as I go out the gate. Really the fellas were as good as gold and they said this was standard procedure. I question the procedure. It does now run almost the full length of the fence, so that should slow the Moreton Bay Fig Fuckers down a bit.

 

 

Can't even begin to discuss this week's shitful antics of a certain sperm donor. Ripping up a photo brings nothing close to satisfaction. Where's my shovel?

 

Migraine - enough said.

 

Revolting Greg Bird got what he deserved. Well almost anyway. What a despicable excuse for a man he is. Most 'on reports' in the NRL, if something underhand is happening on the field, you can generally bet the house that Bird is involved, he pisses on police cars and is suspected of trafficking drugs. How does anyone think this could be a good role model for our kids.

Council - More 'Yes Minister'.

Back a few years ago, when my face was less creased and I had my own knees, our side wall / fence fell down with a little help of age, collision, and invasive tree roots. This is according to the Ombudsman who oversaw our complaint with our insurance company.

As any good neighbours, we first approached the Gold Coast City Council cos the damage was caused by their boy racer mowers and their tree roots.

We tooed and froed for a while and the stone walling ( excuse the pun ) and outright lies were all too much for me so we sought help from our insurance people. Initially they were fine. They lined up engineers and quotes and then I suppose they fell off their collective chairs at the price and  decided to make things difficult. We finally had a little win.

But bugger me if the tree roots are attacking the fence AGAIN. The boy racers have played dodgems too and I am worried that the whole bloody thing is gonna topple AGAIN.

Boy Racer drag marks on the wall.

 

 

I wasn't too worried cos 2 different Arborists from the council had been out tree inspecting and looping and had had a look and said that a ROOT BARRIER was needed and they would sort it. Well yippee!

I trusted that it was all in hand. About 5 weeks ago, obviously because I fancied getting the blood pressure up and removing the need for blusher, I rang to see how things were going. And then I rang AGAIN. And then I rang AGAIN.

After yesterday's call, a bunch of blokes arrived while I was in Brisvegas and told Steve to pick which 20 metres of the fence we wanted to protect. They would not be doing the full fence line and they would not be putting in a barrier, they would just be severing the roots. This would be good enough for a little while. Steve rang me and whilst deciding which bit of wall we are most fond of seemed like a ludicrous thing to do, we pick our favourite bit and they marked it out with some fetching green paint that went not so well with the blue / grey wall paint and then they buggered off promising to be back today at 7am for a good go at it.

Well you have to know that the only person up and dressed and watered at 7am was ME. I waited til 9am to ring. I was on the phone for more than 30 minutes. I was not polite, but because I did not swear they did not end the call.

I was told that if my fence fell over because of the tree roots, then I could claim against the Council's insurance and as that was the lie bandied about last time, I could do little more than wave my arms around like a maniac and laugh derisively. I begged her to make sure that the call was being recorded.

She told me she'd ring me back, 'soon'.

And bugger me, the actual Arborist, well that's what he said anyway, rang me back and promised that:

.The whole fence line would be protected
.A barrier would be installed
.The work would be done tomorrow
.There would be no damage to the wall footings

I am waiting and seeing.

Tomorrow is another day.