Anarchy

1. A state of disorder due to absence or non-recognition of authority.
2. Absence of government and absolute freedom of the individual, regarded as a political ideal.

It should shock no-one who visits here, that I am not much fond of authority, and I have long believed that the government should just butt out of just about everything. Until very recently I thought they should only be involved in protecting the country from external invasion and maybe funding the police to keep murder from becoming every day like coffee and high sugar content sweets. Now I am not so sure about the police, so perhaps just the military then? Yeh I haven't got a fully fledged manifesto, just some random ideas.

I walked along the beach at the Spit yesterday with Dog. It was just bloody lovely. She shat twice and twice I bent over double to collect it up like her good human, not because it's the law but because I am a decent human being,  and then we romped into the surf a bit more. The dogs were all friendly and the people greeted each other with loud, Howdies and all was very fine. I reckon just about everyone there had brought their fur babies with 'em, and whilst it wasn't crowded like it sometimes is in the Summer, it was a bit hectic. But there were no tell tale piles of dog shit. Maybe the rules forced people to collect the turds and maybe it was just because they too were decent human beings, although when I recall the fully loaded nappies - yeh 2 of the stinkers thrown willy nilly near the bins in the park on Saturday, I wonder about general decency - collecting Dog shit is a necessity, but smearing the world with kids shit, well, maybe they thought they were doing us all a favour by sharing their bundle of joy's leftovers.
  
No rules would mean that we dog folk could spread out, after all there is something like 50 kms of beach here at the Goldie - plenty of room for us all, and those fuckers with the nappies could continue to be pigs, goose and gander.

And then I guess if there are no rules about beach useage, I couldn't whinge about old saggy balled blokes and pert boobed gals getting their gear off, or yahoos playing rugby or babies or anyone at all - goose and gander.

Yep it would mean taking the good with the bad, so when getting rid of rules perhaps we all need to be careful what we wish for.

Big rule changes are a bit tricky.

Mandatory voting? Yeh people should be interested in who and how the country runs, but if they are not, then forcing them to trundle through the cake stalls and snags to cast a donkey vote seems more than a little silly.

Government control over who can marry seems far from their 'Protect the country' remit. They should just butt out.

Blue and green should never be seen.....yep My darling Nanna would be appalled by the state of my house.

No white shoes after labour day - American I know, but fashion fascist anyone? I mean I don't have any white shoes, I barely have ANY shoes, I am a thong wearing woman, not an up the bum knicky noo wearer, a between the toes sandal gal, but if I had white shoes and I knew what Labour Day was about, I'd wear the damn shoes any time I liked, fuck the rules.

I have a little rule that Earl Grey Tea is only to be consumed between 3 and 4 pm. That's my wee regulation, just for me, although if we are ever at a cafe in the morning and you order a pot full of the stuff, expect a strange disapproving look cos I won't be able to help myself cos oooohhh YUK. But if I can shovel in all manner of hydrogenated fats and caffeine then I suppose you can please yourself with Earl Grey and a bowl of Acai - what the fuck is that anyway?

See eventually we'd get shit sorted. You could please yourself and so could I. Cos I reckon all those rules and regulations only keep us honest decent folk in line anyway.

Most of us do the right thing and the arsehats who don't, well they don't, with or without the laws.

We got a letter last week. It came with a Queensland Government stamp and looked all very official. I opened it without really looking especially given the bullshit going down here at the moment, and in doing so I broke the law.

Yep it was addressed to someone else. Ooops!

It was addressed to the son of the bloke we bought the house from, ALMOST A DECADE AGO. Yep he is using this address, even though he wasn't living here a decade ago, to register his cars and so when he parks up in the wrong place or I suppose if he gets caught on a speed camera then the shit comes here. I suppose similarly he uses this address on his licence and as applications for loans and so, when he defaults on the payments,  as is likely cos he doesn't think the rules apply to him, we can expect the repo blokes at the gate. I look forward to that!

He doesn't give a fuck about the rules or the laws.

And why should he? The government doesn't follow it's own rules and regulations, smart people with 2 passports forget about their nationality long enough to get 'emselves elected so they can chow down in the public money trough and public servants - misnomer I know, sign secret confidential contracts giving private permission to make as much noise and build in any manner at all regardless of impact or efficiency.

Is it any wonder that people like me are questioning the laws and have ceased to be intimidated by the law keepers?

Which laws give you the screaming irrits?

Warts - who's got 'em?

Obscure - think Toe Rags.

Now I reckon that if I could be a witch for a day, I might cackle as I fly around on my broom stick, furiously stabbing the air full of holes with my bent crooked pointy finger, shouting out Shakespearean curses and casting spells of 'Warty warty wart wart on you and you and you.' And if there was justice in the world, which I am fast coming to believe there is definitely NOT, then the worse your crimes, the bigger the warts and for all those turds at TMR and QPS, well the warts would be embedded into their private bits and pieces, and then could only be treated with scalpel blades and liquid nitrogen gas burning big holes and making festering blistery messes. And if that happened, well let's just say I would not be disappointed.

I have a wee wart on my foot which I have been trying to ignore for a while now, but as I had made an appointment to see the good Dr Jane while I was under the spell of the vertigo weasel and because it was for a few days hence and the vertigo had since left the building, and I didn't want to waste a visit, I stuck my foot up for inspection and she cracked on with smoting that fucker.

But getting rid of a wart is not as easy as orchestrating a meeting with a Queensland Minister during the 'Governing in the Regions' circus planned for next week, - which I must say was truly fucking hard work. I can only imagine that these ministers are truly just a gutless bunch cos whilst others were hearing of their success in winning a time, my requests were ignored. Yep I had to be completely bloody minded and more than a little sneaky, but finally I have secured a time slot for 10.30 am Tuesday, not to see the ACTUAL Minister of course cos he has been banished cos of corruption - yep his warts just got bigger, nah I have an appointment to see the Director General of TMR, the same bloke who was run out of the UK for all manner of suspect shit. Yeh I re4ckon his warts might be big too.

Similarly Dr Jane had to sneak up on the wart. Her first attack was slowly slowly catchy monkey and I thought, 'Oh that was Ok, so I can front up every week for 6 to 8 weeks for more of that'. But the second time she went at it, there was no sneaking up, it was the attack of the blade and the firing of the gas and I did a bit of birthing breathing and there was blood and my eyes might have leaked a little, and now 2 days later, it's still a little sore. Bugger.

Yep I am hoping that Tuesday's meeting will require some heavy breathing on their part. I say THEIR because even though I have asked to see but one person, already there is a posse of at least 3. We will just have to wait and see and in the mean time I hope my wart falls off sooner rather than later. I could leave it with 'em as a little token of my esteem.

HARASSMENT - Are you the harasser or the harassed?

What's going on is not always clear.

When I was a girl, we lived about 8 or so houses from a train level crossing. The old brown cattle rattle trains connecting Wynnum to Brisvegas rumbled along, not as often as we'd all have liked, but often enough, and their arrival in both directions, coming and going, was announced by the less than melodic ding ding ding of the boom gates closing. It was LOUD.

However there was no point whinging about it cos the oldies had chosen to buy that house, so it was a matter of 'suck it up princess and get used to it' cos CHOICES had been made. And the noise was predictable and regular and eventually I heard the clang of the train arriving at 6am - no alarm clock needed and that was about all.

And when I first moved to London, I chose to live in a wee 2 up 2 down, house right under the flight path into Heathrow Airport. Now I haven't googled it but I believe that it is the busiest airport in the world, with planes landing and taking off every minute. And when I say 'right under the flight path', I mean I could have completed a survey on the tyre wear on the landing gear, on every plane. It was LOUD.

I turned the tellie up louder and got on with things, cos I had chosen to live there.

And anyway, you can get used to routine regular predictable noise.

I enjoy the vibrancy and the constant hum of urban life. I am city girl, but the sudden piercing of sirens always shocks me to wakefulness. I reckon it's impossible to get used to sudden noise at night.

All this is an intro to my having been accused this week of Harassment. Firstly by the body guard with a gun dressed as a police officer, and secondly by some stranger hiding behind his computer screen, or maybe his smart phone, I don't know his circumstances and don't care to know. What I do know is that he has some connection to TMR or the road workers or the police and has been provided my details by TMR or the police. Yeh that doesn't sound legal or right to me either, ho hum, oh well.

Harassment is against the law, so I suppose I should close up the house and pull down the blinds and ignore the gate bell or the phone for fear it's the folk in blue coming to throw me into the back of the paddy wagon. I wonder if they have finally sorted a little step so next time I can alight in a more lady like fashion?

24 hours a day, all week, terrible noise has seen very little sleep going on in this place, or indeed anywhere in the local neighbourhood. People are weepy tired.

I went out at 3 am on Thursday night or is that Friday morning, oh who knows? and there was a bloke dragging a thick hose across the pedestrian walk way right in front of me, so I stopped cos he didn't and when it seemed safe enough to walk on I did and said to him that it wasn't all that health and safety. I think he grunted. And while I walked because sleep was impossible, even though that's precisely exactly what I wanted to be doing, I came across a bloke in charge of 2 big bits of mechanical equipment tossing out more than 80 decibels, yeh I measured it. They were standing idle except for the noise. I asked if it was possible for him to turn them off while not in use please. 'NO'

And so I walked and walked and walked.

Apparently this constitutes HARASSMENT these days.

So suggesting that a neighbour turns the noise down at 3am is HARASSMENT? Not the noise you understand, that's OK, it's your request that it be turned off, that's the harassment.

It's a world gone mad.

I have had kids throw furniture at me, and swear at me and parents call me at home, and I have been punched by frustrated teenage boys and called all manner of names. I guess all that is HARASSMENT too.

Bugger,  what I should have done during my 30 years in the classroom was claim HARASSMENT and then I could have had a copper park up in my room with their lights strobing away even if it might cause Johnny to suffer an epileptic seizure. Cos surely a middle aged woman of very dubious fitness, faced daily, with 200 hormone riddled, sometimes feral kids, surely she needs protection. Surely she needs a body guard with a gun. Surely her need of protection is greater than a gaggle of road workers, who blessedly have masses of metal machines between them and a group of tired middle aged folk in their PJs.

If I had to put money on the greatest threat, my cash would be on the kids every day of the week and twice on Sundays.

The body guard comes at a cost of 150 bucks an hour, about 1500 bucks a shift. Just saying.

1500 bucks a night straight out of the public purse presumably because some worker has felt afraid for their life. I reckon they need to face a group of 30 year 9 boys, wanting to play footy, but instead are forced to read a bit of Shakespeare,  to get a handle on what real fear might be like, or maybe just a one on one with a kid coming down from a weekend of  drug cocktails and disappointment. Yeh good luck with that.

Perhaps the workers recognise that the noise they are making is extreme and perhaps they are wondering how long it would take for THEM to explode through lack of sleep and inability to function at work or just ordinary living.

Perhaps the workers reckon after more than a year they would crack and so they are afraid cos they figure if they are capable of seeking vigilantly justice, so too might this dangerous posse of middle aged, sleep deprived, PJ wearing, empty handed locals.

Harassment is bandied around a lot today, what one person considers harassment another might just disregard, it's all in the eye of the beholder.

The definition is benign at best - 'Unwelcome behaviour that offends, humiliates or intimidates'

So then anything that pisses you off is harassment!

The provider of that trolley with the wonky wheel at Woolies - Harasser!

The dog who sloppy-shat in a big pile that I stood in  - Harasser!

The year 9 boy who has not discovered the joy of deodorant - Harasser!

The body guard with a gun, following me too closely and threatening me, HARASSER!

I feel harassed by the noise and the disregard. I feel offending by the workers giving me The Bird and stalking me on line, threatening me with burst pipes and oozing sewerage.

Local people here have been afraid to have a voice. They privately admit to being totally intimidated by the workers, and feel exposed and afraid. There is enough bad shit going down and they fear further retaliation if they make their presence felt,and they see only humiliation coming from ignored complaints or requests for truthful information, delivered by those us who are less afraid.

So instead of hoping that a body guard with a gun will sufficiently intimidate local people into silence, or calling police on speed dial to throw unarmed, (not even a handbag!) middle aged women into the back of a paddy wagon in a bid to make them compliant, it is surely time that this government had a good hard look at exactly how it is spending our tax dollars, and questions WHO is being HARASSED and by whom.

Except that's not gonna happen - TMR  Ex Minister Mark Bailey - anyone?

Nah I can't see a time when there is ever gonna be an open transparent look at the way TMR is chewing up our cash.

Neither the neighbourhood street of my youth, or my airport hangout in London were strewn with local people waving their arms around and complaining about the noise, because they CHOSE to be there. Unlike the hapless, powerless locals here, who chose a bit of peace and quiet in the suburbs They are now bleary eyed and their teeth are bile stained from frustration because no-one in authority will step up and enforce Government approved EPA noise levels.

And don't even get us started on the ugliness of the monstrosity of a 56 metre wide expanse of bitumen and concrete, that's wide enough for 19 lanes of traffic! There will need to be water stations either side for pedestrians come the summer.

But that's a whole other story.

Masterchef - are you fucking kidding?

Last night's left overs ready for Nuking tonight.

My sad little Veg collection

Hello, My Name is Sue and I am a food finder and shover into my gobber. I do Love Food! All sorts of food. Fast food, slow food, out of a packet food, food cooked by others and sometimes food cooked by me.

I like salty and sweet and crunchy and sour and but admit that I am not too fond of slimy - is that even a foodie description? Well how the fuck would I know, I am not on Masterchef.

What I am not fond of at all, well ok what gives me the screaming irrits is all this masturbation about food.

Did you see Masterchef last night?

'Pearl on the Ocean Bed"

Fuck me, is that the new Disney movie?

Nah it was a whole lot of shit that I just didn't want to eat, tipped 'artistically' onto a plate. Philistine that I am, I didn't reckon it even looked good. When did tweezers become kitchen equipment George? Tweezers are for pulling out splinters or doing your eyebrows or harvesting those pesky menopausal whiskers. Tweezers are NOT for dishing out tucker.

And so I googled it and bugger me if it's not a 'real meal' - far far from a ready meal which you just shove into the nuker, but Pearl on the Ocean Bed is real.

There's some fancy schmancy place in Melbourne which serves it, but to go there, according to the Trip Advisor reviews, you have to pay for the whole lot in advance, including tip, yeh you have to PAY when you ring up for a reservation.

Well I'll be fucked!

Going for dinner has reached the lofty heights of theatre, where of course you have to pay for your tickets when booking. NO need to include a tip though, I guess if you fancy it you can just chuck flowers at the actors during the standing ovation at the end.

I mean what happens about Statutory Rights? What happens if the food is so gross that you puke up on the linen table clothes? There would be table clothes wouldn't there? Tough shit I guess, cos you came for the SENSORY EXPERIENCE, so stop your whinging huh? Yeh there is no refund at the theatre either. Oh well.

Now I admit that I only did the google while I was watching that NINJA show, bloody marvellous if you can record it and fast forward through all the crap and just get to watch these amazing athletes have a go at stuff that no amount of mechanical aide would help me pull off. Anyway my google search was sparse. But I couldn't find the price of this food. I suppose they tell you when you ring up for a reservation and they tick off the Mastercard numbers and you resign yourself to missing the mortgage payment this month.

I love going out for dinner. Sometimes it's for the food, and sometimes it's for the company, But I never want to look down at a plate of food and wonder what the fuck it is. I don't mind if there is a bit of garnish that I can't recognise or there is an ingredient in the sauce which is hard to identify, by I do not want to sit down to a meal that looks like it was made by and for a group of travelling Clingons.

Yeh I know, I am not a Masterchef. Stevie say he's glad about that.

Accordion cramming - How much do you do?

This looks pretty hectic to me, but in any case, I am just trying to use some photos of bits of paintings I have around the house, to brighten up my page. 

Not even 20 years ago interstate travel was an adventure. There was the planning and the looking in the NEWSPAPER - the what? to find some accommodation or preferably there might have  been some friend or distant relative who knew someone who's best friend's aunty had a couch going begging, and so, Yippee! The plane fares were astronomical and the packing took days.

It wasn't the sort of thing one did on a whim, although once, only once, when the husband was going to Melbourne for work, which he did a lot, I downed tools from my supply teaching gig and packed up the wee girl and all of our shit and in a minute's notice I loaded us onto the plane and met him in Melbourne town. That was avant garde and brave and exciting and I recall that week with great fondness, even today, more than 30 years later, Yeh I also remember her taking a big shit in one of the parks and using a leaf to wipe her bum, and jumping out of a tram at its terminus at somewhere which I suppose was less than salubrious cos the driver and the conductor went into coniptions yelling for us to come back to the tram, and in the end they held up their departure for long enough for me to have a bit of a look around. They didn't want to leave us out there, where ever THERE was. And I remember her crying from blocked ear tubes and throwing up from the turbulence on the way back, but ho hum, we'd been on an adventure. We had no idea what was there and no internet to give us a LONELY PLANET schedule for the week. I just popped her into her umbrella stroller and grabbed a bag and a tram ticket and we looked and laughed our way all around Melbourne in the bloody cold of winter. I have loved Melbourne ever since.

But enough of all this reminiscence. What I have been thinking about today is the way we take travel for granted today.

There is a Leukaemia Foundation meeting in Melbourne in September and I am interested in going.

It's only for a day.

And it's all so easy now isn't it. Fares are cheap and accomm is expensive but easy to find.

It's just not something I would have given thought to 20 or 30 years ago.

We really do try to cram a lot into our lives don't we?

Today's been a good'un

So I cracked an eyelid open this morning and waited, waited for the shitting headache and the topsy turvy walls of the last week. Sure I had been up a couple of times to pee - what's that all about Alfie? Just when you get to a point in your life when you need the sleep and are NOT doing the 'Mummy I threw up in my bed,' dance, you are awake with a fully laden bladder and the loo route on auto pilot, probably more than once but hopefully less than half a dozen times a night. Bugger. But I digress. Yeh I had been up a couple of times and was pleased to see that I made it to the loo without head butting any walls, but I was still apprehensive about being fully awake just in case the virtigo and the headaches were just sliding around on the floor waiting to attack.

But the sky was blue and the sun was shining and things, including walls and floors were all where they were meant to be, so all was very good with the world.

It's remarkable to me that this NORMAL shit that I take for granted was such a relief this morning.

No I didn't LEAP out of bed, but I did sit up and was cautiously chipper about the day. Fucking YIPPEE!

Poor old Dog has got a sore back leg again, so she needs a bit of a rest, but she's not much fond of that idea. Regardless of pain she just wants to run like a maniac after her ball, literally until she can run no more. But today she was forced to wander around the off leash dog area in the Botanical Gardens and the 3 of us enjoyed the outing. Yep I got some steps in and was thrilled to be able to enjoy the great outdoors under the pale winter blue sky. Ahh.

And I told Stevie that I'd make a roast chicken for dinner and that's still on my list, although I must admit that I am flagging a little now.

I know why people buy whole raw chickens, it's because they are so cheap, but in reality, it'd be far more energy - mine, efficient to just buy a ready cooked one. Are there still places like Big Rooter? Not here in the small country village of the Goldie I don't think, but maybe in the city?

Anyway I am getting ready to stuff it with a lemon and garlic and slather it with butter and shove it in the oven for 90 minutes - yeh she's a pretty big bird, and I'll make some cheater roast veg and call dinner done.

And then I am gonna slide into my chair and probably snooze away until bed time, cos whilst I feel better, I reckon the week from hell might just have taken it out of me a wee bit.

Seems ridiculous to me that now I consider today to be a good one. 5 Years ago I might have said, 'Oh fuck that was boring, let's do something fabulous tomorrow huh?' Times sure have changed.

Pissed as a Maggot.

Ain't that a quaint ol' Aussie expression. So pissed that you are flailing around on the ground, often slithering from one spot to another just like a maggot. I guess that's cos we Aussies are a literal lot. I mean, some of the other slang expressions for having one too many alcoholic beverages are a bit less graphically clear. I mean bollocky drunk - what does that mean? Testicles flobbling about? Isn't that the usual way they hang, at least when tethered?

Banjaxed, blathered, blotto, fleemered, hammered, jeremied, legless,  off me trolley, palintoshed, squiffy, stocious, yeh there are as many descriptions as places I have been trollied and tempted to chunder after one too many.

In my younger days going for a tipple sometimes turned into slurping from the fire hose and drinking til I fell over.

But actually I might have been mostly lucky cos I don't recall too many times where I actually fell over. Oh sure I remember clearly throwing cash at the cabbie and really legging it into the house so I could drive the big white bus until there was just no more juice to power it and I have slept the night curled up around the porcelain. And I remember dancing inelegantly on tables and beer kegs and occasionally being asked to vacate a club or drinking establishment.  Oh well.

But now I am not a big drinker, and given that this week I have been waking during the night and fumbling my way to the loo by bouncing off walls and tripping over shit like shoes and dirty wash that I failed to put away, it is probably just as well.

Feeling that pissed in the middle of the night after an evening of such sedate suburban debauchery as hoovering up a roast dinner and suffering square arse from too many hours in front of the tellie, was a little disconcerting I can tell you, so I slid back under the covers and hoped that all would be righted by the morning.

But bugger me if the whole world wasn't still askew in the AM. The floor was all a kimbo and the walls were anything but vertical. I stumbled out of bed and the room whizzes hit me just like in days of old after one too many voddies. My head was aching and my stomach was heaving. What a pisser!
A bloody huge hangover and no booze silly fun - bugger!

This lasted until after lunchtime. The world flipflopped for a couple of hours and then wooliness took over.

Then the next night it was more of the same, and the morning was same, and again the cloud lifted by lunchtime.

And again this morning.

I am getting better at focusing and swallowing down the nausea.

Research since tells me that this sort of vertigo is a problem for quite a number of CML folk.

It's just another happy little side effect, although it might not even be a side effect, it might be a part of the fucking disease.

No-one really knows.

But what I do know is that the thrill of being this kinda out of control is wildly exaggerated. I don't fancy drinking myself into this sort of stupor ever again, even if it would mean that I'd at least for a short time be courageous enough to scamper upon to a sturdy table and kick up me heels.

Nah I'd prefer to be able to make my way to the loo without having to dodge imaginary obstacles.