Autumn is coming, isn't it? Sometime soon, PLEASE.

Tomorrow is my darling grandie boy's 12th birthday. Yep 28th of FEB! We are pretty sorted for parcels after we finished off today with a bike chain lock thing and a wall fixing which will see his bike locked up outside and so release a bit of space in the lounge room. That can only be a good thing. Yeh we got him some fun bits and pieces too, cos everything practical would just be a bore.

It's supposed to be the end of summer and March 1 heralds the start of the cooler weather. Yippee!

And it has certainly been a bit cooler today. There was a sprinkle of rain overnight and just a bit of damp during the day, not even really enough to wash the windscreen, but the cloud cover has been pleasant.

Now don't get me wrong, I do very much love the loud, bright, vivid colours of OZ. Whenever I travel I'm pleased to be greeted by the COLOUR when I come home. The ads are louder and faster and colloquial and the primary colours do lively combat. But sometimes enough is more than too much and a day or 2 of London grey is a very pleasant change.

We watched the rugby replay this afternoon. The poms were playing the Italians at Twickenham. The day was overcast and misty and eventually the clouds opened, and it was lovely to be sitting under a similar sky.

And so I slumped into my chair for a little nanna snooze, when the scratchies snuck up on me. Yep unusually, the house was full of midges. Bugger.

It might be hard to believe, but we rarely get the biting little buggers IN the house. Yeh if you go out into the park, unprotected at dusk, then you are a bloody idiot, cos the midgies will just about pick you up and carry you off, and sometimes if we sit out on the deck in the evening there might be a little meal made of our feet. But somehow the little buggers usually know not to pop on passed the doorways.

Not today. Damn

So another lovely thing about the coming of winter is that these little fuckers hibernate somewhere far away from us, so there is a great deal to enjoy. Yep no biting turds and no sweating. Bring it on!

Happy birthday to my Darling Boy.

Notification to Threat in a single bound.

Three notices individually folded dropped on Friday.

My Darling Grandie Boy was thoroughly bemused this week as I told him a story about how a boy serenaded me at my house when I was only 12. He could have been laughing at the idea that his fat old greying wrinkled grandma was ever young enough or cute enough to attract such attention, or he might have been laughing at the whole idea of serenading - how embarrassment! or perhaps it was the image of a man his Mum remembers so fondly, just walking on out and then closing the door on the young man, I mean How RUDE! Yeh my darling Dad took no prisoners. Oh Well.

In any case laugh he did. And I have since spent time thinking that's as close to a stalker as I have blessedly ever come. Stories of women forced into hiding from their exs have filled the news this week, so I am definitely NOT lamenting the lack of attention, and I fear for these women when I hear their stories. It is high time the justice system worked in favour of the victims not the violent dangerous turds.

I got notices in the postbox yesterday and I was given to wondering about when good intentions turn sour and when lines are crossed, and if I can be wondering that then surely to shit the legal system in this country can too.

Yeh it's a shit segue but my mind is a bit all over the place, and I am definitely not comparing my lack of sleep due to noisy roadworks to the violence endured by so many women. This is just the flinging around of my mind caused by the fucking notices.

If you get a detailed text message inviting you to a party which doesn't sound like fun to you, from a person you don't like, then you can ignore it or politely send back a refusal, cos, 'you have to wash your hair or take your cat to the vet, or scrub the kitchen floor with a toothbrush'. Done and dealt with!

But then you get the exact same invitation. Now that's a little odd, but maybe the person hit re-send by mistake or they had forgotten that they had already sent the first one. Surely they haven't got the shits up because you didn't immediately go Yippee!

And then the exact same invitation is sent AGAIN.

Did the sender think that the third time would be the charm?

Did they send it 3 times by mistake?

Did they put some whacko in charge of the invitations?

Are things getting nasty and should you lock the front door?

The Department Of Transport and Main Roads sent THREE notices of the impending doom - next week's NIGHTWORKS.

One would have been plenty. It would have been fair warning that their sanctioned contractor was again going to be breaking the law and that sleep would once again be impossible. Yeh, ONE would have been plenty.

Two would have been more than enough. Two could possibly have been a mistake made by 2 people delivering the notices and double dipping into our letterbox. Or it could have been designed to up the ante from warning to threat.

Three notices however - well that can only be inflammatory.

That's a, 'Ha fucking ha ha to you, we are gonna be getting our penalty night rates and you can just go suck the big one.'

I am not sure where their hatred and hostility comes from. They have their noses in the public purse trough and are getting excellent cash to do little more than fuck all and they know full well that the noise they are making is excessive, unreasonable and illegal, but still they think they can take the moral high ground and hate ME. Perhaps there is an intelligence test which must be failed before being rewarded with a job on this site, certainly their emotional intelligence is piss poor.

So now I can spend the weekend anticipating more shit next week. More noise - 24 hours a day. More rudeness and being ignored. More silence in lieu of requested information. More feeling nauseous and unwell. More hostility and hatred spewing forth from workers on the ponce. More visits by our local coppers. More of a whole lot of shit and nothing pleasant.

Spite can be the only reason why these notices dropped on Friday. Bastards!

Yeh there might be another explanation, but I doubt it. A gormless joyful little jig no doubt accompanied the notice.

Once more into the fray.

And if you think the woman next door needs your help please call the police and then give her a hand. So much better to be safe than sorry.

Laughing up a Lung

Go on, think about it, when was the last time you laughed so hard you cried, or maybe your knickers became a little damp?

I laugh easily and often.

Today we took off to the beach, Currumbin, to see the Elephant Rock. Dog went predictably nuts as she took a sniff of the salt and so she needed to be sorted before any coffee could be got.

It was a spectacular morning at the beach. She played like a maniac and after a brief wait for a table in the shade, we enjoyed our coffee and sweetie and then we were back to the beach.

Chuck the sand game is still a Dog favourite and then I sank into the sand and surf and the buffeting of the waves began. From this vantage point I could still chuck a bit of sand, even though Dog thought it was a bit odd. My arse wedged into a sand hole and I was rocked all around. As the water slapped my face and whipped me around, cork screwing my bum deeper into the pit, I just roared laughing.

Just a bloody marvelous way to spend the morning. Ah.

Home via Bernies Pet Barn Upton Street, to see if they could help us put some oxygen into the pond so the girls can hang in there until our new pump is delivered. And you know why I love going to the family run place not the  big shit franchise place across the street? It's that the Fish Guy, who has been giving me advice for years, thought it was best to lend us a pump until our new one arrives. Yep just a loaner, no charge, no signing our life away, just an understanding that we'll bring it back when we are done and he's happy that the girls are going to be able to breath through our pump disaster. That's real customer service huh?

It really is important to support the local folk whenever you can, and these people are definitely worth our loyalty.

And then to the loo as first priority when we walked in at home. Yeh I quietly lament the loss of a youthful bladder.

Well to say that a child would have been happy with their pop up sand box, would be an understatement. The black tiles turned white, and I laughed again. It's remarkable just how much sand can wedge its way up your goonoo inside your togs, without so much as a howdy-do.

And then I got the broom and dust pan, cos the clean up was not a laughing matter. Bugger.

Oh Well.

Debates

TMR Mantra I think. It's pretty simple huh?

It seems I have always been able to listen and pick holes in a bullshit statement. Of course this made me a gobby pain in the arse as a youngster. Passive resistance was not something I was any good at, so if I was told NO and I thought that was more than a little bit rubbish, I'd argue and pout and end with an affirmative action statement of what I was going to do. I didn't just smile and nod and then sneak around. I know lots of kids and adults too, use this method, but it was not for me.

Except for the knicker issue 1970.

The old woman just simply refused to consider anything other than huge old granny pants, just cos they were her bum covering of choice. Her bum sloppy cotton tales were good enough for her so she figured they were good enough for her girls too.

But in 1970, bikini knickers were all the rage. She refused to consider 'em so on my 11th or 12th birthday, all my girlfriends gave me a pair and still the old girl said NO. So I'd wear the old grannies to school and get changed and then I'd change back and then wash the little whisps in the shower and dry 'em under my pillow. So I guess that was a bit passive aggressive but it wasn't what was normal , for me.

When she wouldn't let me wear what I wanted to wear I'd argue and debate and compromise, and it was this desire to be self directed that led me to work from the time I was 12. I did enjoy having my own cash so I could choose for myself.

And then there was the time she refused permission for me to get a fringe. Yeh I just grabbed the scissors and did it myself, my hair my choice, I figured. She did not grow to like it. Ho Hum. Eyebrows and leg hair went the same way.

It seemed I was pretty good at making an argument and this saw me in the debating team all the way through high school.

I was always Second Speaker, so I could have some of the speech written but there was plenty of room to go hard in the unplanned rebuttal. The fella who went First, liked to have his speech mostly sorted, and my friend who went Third was excellent at flying by the seat of her pants. I liked just a bit security with my adrenaline rush..

The thing about debating is that there are very clear and concise rules, covering timing and stuff like introducing new information, and then there were strategies that were helpful within the rules.

Our French teacher in years 11 and 12, Mr Whitmore, a Canadian import, was also our Debating coach. In the midst of reading Le Comte de Monte Cristo he'd call a time out and we'd plan the next debate strategy. How lucky was that ? The Senior School Debate team all in his little class. He was a wonderful fella with a mad mop of red curly hair and he taught us well, not just French and debating but life in general.

I went on to use his debate strategy when I was coaching teams later as a teacher, cos it made sense, it was reasoned and rational and more often than not it proved successful.

Unfortunately dealing with a Government department comes with no handbook. Bugger!

If ever a public servant gets over the belly laughed induced hernia resulting from laughing up a lung at some dumb punter stupid enough to try to wade through the  complaint process, and they take a few civic minded moments, they could pen a 'How To' for fools like me.

Anything that would help slog through the mire  would be a best seller.

HIDDEN FIGURES

Yep it's awards season and that means that on any given day, if energy levels permit, I am off to have a little look see at what might win.

Today, I am very pleased to say that firstly I had enough 'cinebuzz' points for a freebie and that I used it for this wonderful movie.

I like to believe that it's a pretty accurate account of the early space programme in the USA.

Things of course were cracking along under the direction of white-shirted, black tied fellas at the forefront, all the while women, some black and some white, were making wonderful inroads into the design and technology of it all.

The story is about a trio of black women who rose to prominence against the odds, not because they were militant coloured gals or hairy arm-pitted feministos, although these philosophies did drive them. Nah, they made waves because they were just so bloody wonderfully smart, and because they knew their own self worth and were not prepared to settle for less. They waged their own individual quiet tussles in a dignified and mostly calm manner.

The little microcosm that was NASA in the early 60s just became a paragon of tolerance, not because the folk were waving banners and marching up the High Street, but because it was expedient to be so. Separate Black White loos and coffee pots and Men only bastions just stood in the way of getting the job done.

Rationality and reason were the order of the day. Blessed BE.

So yeh I liked it.

It is well acted and shot and I loved all the references to the 1960s - the fashion, the cars, the politics, the tellies and the furniture and interiors, and as with most movies based on true stories the credits roll includes photos of the real girls and a bit about what they got up to after the movie timeframe.

This is worth a nod for awards night.

2 Dollar Sucky Sucky

The SUCKY SUCKY MACHINE - reckon it would put a vacuum cleaner to shame.

Last night we were catching up on 'I'm a Celebrity' jungle shit cos that's just how sad we are. I admit that we don't watch the whole lot. I take charge of the remote and whip through all the ads and the bits with the hosts and the 'coming up' and recapping shit so you can watch 90 minutes worth in about 15 minutes, but you have to be quick on the finger. Last night's disgusting, watch it from behind my hand, bit, was blindfolded feeding of truly awful shit. I heard them do OK, except for the first little throw up.

And I wondered if I could ever do that? Well the wondering took but milliseconds cos of course I couldn't. I like a bit of control, ok, a lot of control, and being blindfolded and force fed shit, even it is was full of fat and sugar, just isn't on my list of things to aspire to.

And then I wondered about those poor sods whose job it is to test for poisoning before someone famous or important or just idly rich and a bit insane, chows into a meal.

How must they feel every time they sit with spoon in hand and chomp up mouthful of potential industrial waste or chemical weaponry? I wonder if they have faith that the kitchen people are not in cahoots with possible assassins and so happily hoover up the calories all the while pocketing the danger money.

I wonder if the job of FOOD TESTER has ever been ratified by the 'Elf and Safety Police.

I wonder about the desperation of the folk applying for the job and then I can't help but wonder about the intelligence testing at the interview.

And then I wondered yet again about the OH&S people.

My experience with these people runs a bit like this. I was standing on a chair taking down some lights that had been draped across an original artwork, and the OH&S wanker sighted me and sited me and I got into all sorts of trouble. I had to attend OH&S  workshops as my punishment and of course I lasted there about a minute and a half. It was all just so much dross.

However I have it on good authority that occasionally some good can come from them.

Sometimes they actually force work places to adopt safe practices which are definitely designed to benefit the workers. I am not sure what sort of measures an OH&S person would impose on the food testers, perhaps they would just insist on a comfy chair and funeral insurance.

Stevie took on the role of OH&S today. He was thrilled to be elevated to such a lofty position.

The fuckers at the end of the road for the 5th time this week have been digging up the footpath, and even though I spied a shovel, they were of course using the Vacuum Excavation Machine tossing out 85-110 decibels.

There are no Ear Defenders in sight.

And now because I am not OH&S qualified I am gonna tell you some stuff from memory which might well be tainted by exposure to this shitting noise all fucking week.

2 minutes exposure to 110 BD has been associated with hearing loss.

The fucking literature goes on and on about increased stress, fatigue, disturbance of sleep, decreased concentration, and decreased mental performance, and some confusing scary complicated shit about hair cell damage and cell death. (Oh Yukky, I wonder if I should suggest that the Jungle people be fed a soup of sloughed out dead hair cells.)

The fella operating the SUCKY SUCKY, goes hard at it for hours at a time. I am guessing he's already deaf.

The Lolly Pop fella stands right next to the SUCKY SUCKY for hours at a time.

Stevie felt sorry for him this morning and so sidled up to him with the machine in full swing, putting his own hearing and mental capacity at risk and yelled to the Lolly Pop, Stop, Go, SLOW bloke,  that the noise from the machine was causing permanent hearing loss and that he aught to be wearing EAR DEFENDERS. The bloke yelled back, 'I can't wear ear defenders cos I am on traffic control and need to be able to hear other stuff, why don't you just go away.'

Well that wasn't much of a thank you I must say!

Bugger.....What did you say?

Middle Finger Salute

My Lovely Grandie Boy has started at High School.

He took off and refused to allow his Mum to walk him in - such is just how grown up he thinks he is, wishes he is, pretends he is.

I admit to having a silent little sob when I first saw him arriving home in his flash school uniform, and man sized proper shoes, lugging a back pack 5 times the size of my head, cos when he managed to shrug off said pack, I saw his shirt well and truly sweat stuck to his back. How hot that fabric must be? How unnecessary, but that's a conversation for another day.

Anyway he seemed to be fitting in well enough. He pretended to be calm and in control of everything but I reckon the fact that for the first time in his life his Mum now needs to wake him in a panic at 7.30 am speaks of how he might be sorting the stress of it all in his dreams. Sloping off up that big hill and rolling back down it, in this shitful heat, could also be what's leaving him pooped. Who's to really know.

Anyway last Tuesday, during a soccer game for sports, he managed to break the middle finger on his left hand, yep he's left handed.

Well that is just a big pisser!

First there were Xrays and then a hospital visit and a splint and another appointment at the specialist cos the break is somewhere near the growth plate and if he's not careful his finger won't grow properly and could be deformed when his MAN HANDS come in.

Well yeh, we all know that CAREFUL is not in a young fella's vocab.

He's got a custom made half plate thing that locks his last 3 fingers together. This is held in place by straps of velcro. He's meant to take the contraption off once a week to give his fingers a little bird bath.

Yeh right!

Leave a kid in charge of stuff like that and I reckon you are asking for trouble.

He can't write - yeh not worried about that, on the contrary, it's all a bit of YIPPEE, but that's where the joy ends. No sport, no swimming, no Taekwondo and no eating up a 2 handed burger or even chopping into a sausage or easily use a knife and fork for any go at feeding himself.

And next week is school camp! I just can't see him asking someone to cut up his dinner for him. Shit he doesn't even want to ask his Mum in the privacy of his own house. So I can see him taking that thing off and leaving it off more than it's on.

The only thing that did in fact make him wonder was the idea that he might not be able to give anyone the finger if the break doesn't heal properly.

Yeh, he wasn't happy about the idea that he wouldn't be able to flip anyone the bird.

It's gratifying to think that the apple has not fallen far from the tree.

Big Middle Finger up to TMR and Georgiou Group