A Bex and a Good Lie Down

The Wee Morning Hours

2011-04-13T11:59:00.007+08:00

I'm no different from anyone else, I'm sure, but when I was a kid wetting the bed was generally...er...precipitated by dreams where I was busting for a wee and would be rushing around trying to find a toilet, my relief at finally getting to one to be only short-lived as I woke in my bed, in the dark, swimming in a puddle of my own piddle.

(Hey, come on, I could have thrown paddle in there too.)

I will never ever forget the night I woke from one such dream before I got to the toilet scene and was able to get up, like a big girl, and go to the toilet. It was a revelation. It smelled of victory, and maybe napalm. But that could have just been the lingering mothball odour from the sheets.

Although from that point on I marched proudly forth into a non-bed wetting future, I must admit that what stays with me is the dreams and a lingering fear of wetting the bed. Many are the nights I've woken anxiously from such a nightmare, pawing at the bed checking for dryness or, horrors, wetness.

While living with Grumpy he made a significant dip on his side of the bed so I would often carefully pat around him to check he was not snoring blissfully in a warm bath courtesy of moi.

I know I'm not going to wet the bed. I'm 41 years old. I haven't went the bed for 35 years - give or take 15 years. And if it did happen, so what? It's only wee. But still. I have to go to Spotlight next week. Maybe I should check if they do waterproof sheets for queen size beds.

Pre-(half)-Baked

2010-11-10T20:31:00.003+08:00

UNDOING DONNE

Empty bus station.
Warm toilet seat. It's a cold
world but not lonely.

ON THE ROAD TO MANDALAY

Grampa's moustache - how
we itched to shave it. Secret
tattoo. Treasure map.

STUBBIES

Deep in the night the
bookcase patiently waits
the stumbling bare toe.

MISS MANNERS

'Make yourself at home'
should not be understood to
mean exactly that.

BABY GIRL IS UNGRATEFUL

Dad, you were right when
you said to eat my eggs; they'd
put hairs on my chest.

Voodoo Dughnuts: Portland, Oregon

2010-11-08T21:44:00.004+08:00

"The magic is in the hole."

Bad Hobbit to Break

2010-11-07T19:19:00.004+08:00

Stepbro #2 swept into the family festivities today like a gust of...wait...not fresh air. Like a gust. Let's just leave it at that and leave the rest to your imagination.

Cinderella and I were sitting peacefully at one end of the patio when he swaggered over to us. He took a seat between we two, and in a move which put me in mind of The Rooster, proceeded to swig away at a giant bottle of Coke. I was astounded and moved to ask, "Are you being good?"

He looked at me, shoved the bottle under my nose hard enough to distend one nostril and ordered me to smell. I was nearly wiped out by the bourbon fumes. Admittedly, it has been a while since I've seen him: absence makes me sentimental enough to believe he's capable of any kind of responsible behaviour.

Then he proceeded to show me and Cinderella his latest tattoos. I didn't mind seeing the ribbony scroll up his side with little banners for the names of the kids he has already and a space for the one on the way, but his girlfriend's name elegantly arched over a brand new nipple ring?

Sometimes, the harder he runs towards us, the harder we run away.

The Alfred Hines Seaside Home, Rockingham

2010-11-06T22:28:00.002+08:00

The Deficit

2010-11-05T12:01:00.006+08:00

k. rang me to congratulate me on this photo I'd posted on Twitter.

"You look great! You know, even though it's obvious you haven't slept in about three weeks."

"Thanks! That means I'm way ahead - I haven't slept in about eight weeks!"

Deepening Trough - Part II

2010-11-04T22:45:00.004+08:00

I was filling Grumpy in on my latest medicinal requirements. There was a genuine look of regret and concern on his face.

"I feel to blame. I feel as though I made this happen."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. (And, honestly, the egomania!)

Then I added, "But if it's any consolation, you certainly didn't help."

He waited patiently until I'd finished laughing. "Well, you're clearly on the road to recovery."

------------------------------------

Walking back along the river after the Cool Night Classic this evening, Scarab and I were bickering as to whether the complimentary food box provided after the event constituted a meal. I think an egg & lettuce sandwich, a small quiche, two pieces of sushi, a fruit flan and a mini Mars Bar is a meal! Scarab didn't so much beg to differ as refused to even listen to my side of the story. She was going home to have dinner.

It was a beautiful night. The clouds had blown away, the river smelled salty fresh, the city lights looked festive and summery. As we walked across the Narrows, the wind felt like it was blowing us clean.

When we got back to my car, Scarab gave me a big hug and said, "That was great fun! I'm so pleased you're doped up!"

Me, too, Scarab. But there's no way I'll admit to you that I'm about to go to bed and I'm staaarving.

Not Only of Eyeballs

2010-11-03T15:15:00.002+08:00

Have you ever had one of those days where you feel as though people are looking at you, talking about you behind your back, maybe even laughing at you? I know, I know: the bastards.

A few years ago, when the Grumpyberry haushold was still as one, and we were living in Canberra, I was standing at the bus stop on a chilly Monday morning, waiting for my transport to whisk me away to work. At first I was the only one there and then a few more people arrived and stood behind me. I was obviously having an off day because it seemed to me that there was a kind of whispered conversation, perhaps even muffled guffaws happening behind me. I turned around a couple of times to catch the offenders in the act, but they looked as innocent as could be. Still, I knew. Even though I also knew I was just having an off day and feeling sensitive and nothing whatsoever was going on.

I got into work and forgot all about it. Then I went out at lunch time and in the queue at the post office and the queue at the sandwich shop, I felt it happening again. Obviously just one of those days. I scurried back to work to hide away from my neurotic feelings, because I had heaps of work to get done, and because it was a bitter, yellow-skied, mid-winter day.

[I have to pause at this point to tell you that the Grumpyberry Canberra abode was perfect in winter: it faced north and had huge windows that filled it with sunshine and warmth. What it didn’t have was very nice carpet. There was the off-white disco seduction shagpile in the living area and the mission brown nylon horror in our bedroom. We kind of got used to it and never bothered replacing it. But, oh those north facing windows, and the glorious winter sunshine! It was on one of those sunny wintry days, the day before the bus stop incident, that I’d suddenly felt in need of a little lie down. I didn’t want to sleep, so I grabbed my hairbrush and lay on the bed doing quite a thorough job of removing all the hair from it. Then, deciding I really did want a snooze, and being a lazy wench, I rolled all the hair I’d collected into a ball and dropped it onto the carpet beside the bed.]

Anyway.

Back at work it was a super duper busy afternoon, spent hunched and tensed over the keyboard. Finally I finished whatever I was working on, stretched my arms above my head and my legs out in front of me. That’s when I saw it. The hairball I’d so idly dropped on the floor the afternoon before, had blended perfectly with the grim brown bedroom carpet. I’d forgotten about it after my snooze, and naturally didn’t see it subsequently. Then that morning as I sat on the bed, dragging my stockings on, the hosiery had neatly scooped the hairball up and lodged it on my calf, where it had been sitting, trapped all day, like a mutant mole.

I hadn’t imagined the giggles and whispers. I was a walking sideshow!

Unfortunately, I hadn’t yet heard of Jim Rose or I may have been tempted to run away and join the circus. And I tell you what, after wrestling those skin-tight stockings off, removing the offending growth, and cajoling my body back into them, I certainly could have demonstrated my acrobatic skills.

Before you mention it, it’s not like the hair would have counted for anything in the circus audition: give any woman enough years on earth, and she’ll eventually grow an excess of that in all the wrong places.

At First Blush

2010-11-02T14:50:00.005+08:00

When I was in the US earlier this year, staying with Dr and Mrs Seegud in the bucolic surrounds of Three Rivers, it came to pass that one day Mrs Seegud dragged me off to the local nursery for a browse and possibly even a fossick.

The nursery stocks many Australian plants because they're hardy and water wise, which is exactly the sort of flora required where they live. Mrs Seegud had her mind set on a bottlebrush. To our delight, we not only found many bottlebrushes, but one that is specific to here: a Perth Pink! We snatched it up (and paid for it, naturally) and took it home for planting.

When she'd found the ideal spot for the sapling, Mrs S looked at me and the good Dr with great satisfaction and announced, "I'm going to name this the 'hazelblackberry Memorial Bottlebrush'!"

Dr Seegud gave me a look.

"Er," I said, "memorial? Just exactly what do you think is going to happen to me?"

They All Say It About Me

2010-11-02T10:55:00.002+08:00

A colleague mentioned he hadn't seen me around much to talk to over the past couple of weeks. His office lies at the very north of our long corridor; mine at the south.

What I meant to say: I regret as much as you do that opportunities to interact have been few and far between. However, such have been the circumstances of work and my mental state that I have been either busy or, unfortunately, not particularly in the mood for idle chit chat.

What I said: I know. I've been stuck up my end.

Deepening Trough - Part I

2010-11-01T16:58:00.002+08:00

I sat in the doctor's surgery this afternoon as he ran through the possible side effects of the medication he'd prescribed for me. He didn't seem quite sure where to look, which should have been a warning, given our history of awkward moments.

"Now, I only mention this one because patients don't tend to report it, but it is a possible side effect: it may make it difficult for you to achieve orgasm."

I burst into tears afresh. "I don't think that's going to be a problem for the foreseeable future - I mean, isn't that one of the reasons why I'm here?!"

I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. I couldn't help but chuckle for a moment myself. "Go on, laugh at me then."

Then I asked, "What about weight gain?"

He looked at me. "I can promise you, weight gain is not one of the side effects of this particular drug. I only prescribe those drugs to female patients as a last resort."

A man with insight! It's been years since I've encountered one of those.

A Snotty Attitude

2010-10-26T11:10:00.003+08:00

This morning I was merrily ranting away on Twitter about my dislike for passive-aggressive bus passengers who sit in the aisle seat, unmoving, even as the bus fills up, forcing other passengers to ask them to move over to the window seat so that they may also sit down, a request to which the pass-agg criminal responds with a sigh, much demonstration of wounded feelings and a sense of human rights violation.

Or, you know, something of that ilk.

And might I say that it disturbs me that these passengers are so often women who place their handbag on the seat next to them like the precious receptacle needs a place of its own - well if that's the case, ladies, then get Virginia Woolfbag its own SmartRider too!

As our journey progressed this fine a.m., I was aware that there was a man sitting in the row behind me, occupying the aisle seat despite the people boarding the bus and standing in the aisle. (He was also coughing, very wetly, and not covering his mouth, so even without the seat protocol violation he was dead to me.)

For some reason I was not looking out the window that I was sitting next to, but looking across the aisle and out the other window. As a result, I had pretty decent peripheral vision taking in what was happening just in front of me, and just behind me. A young guy had spotted the empty seat by the window, next to the aisle-sitting man. Out of my left eye, I saw him beginning to work his way up the aisle. What my right eye suddenly saw behind me was that the aisle-sitting man was furiously picking his nose, extracting his finger to inspect the goodies and then idly flicking them away hither and thither. If I had any survival instincts at all, I would have ducked to avoid any flying debris, but I sat there transfixed, my right eye boggling at the sight before it.

My left eye was keeping itself fixed on the hopeful passenger as he made his way up the aisle, until he got to the point where The Flicker hove into view, at which point he stopped dead in his tracks and turned, with a defeated slump of his shoulders, to walk back the way he came. He didn't have to, of course: he could have stayed standing where he was. But I guess he didn't want to take an incidental hit from the shrapnel.

As for me, I couldn't help but smirk. I didn't laugh. That would have been cruel, and it would have looked weird. And a wide braying mouth at that juncture would have been just asking for trouble.

Bibliophile

2010-09-20T20:01:00.006+08:00

Like many normal people if, for some reason, I have strangers coming to my haus, and particularly if I'm not going to be at home, I like to whiz around and spruce the place up a bit - you know, to give the impression that, oh yes, I live like this all the time. [Often, a large part of this involves hiding all the Nutella jars I've yet to recycle.]

But I know you're with me. On the spruce up situ, if not the Nutella. Some of you are, like, sooo judgemental?

Wait. You are with me, aren't you?

Anyway. So today was one of those days when strange men would be trawling through my abode while I was being industrious at work. Or at the very least was occupying a seat in the office. Sheesh. Sticklers for detail. I was dashing from room to room making everything look mildly inhabitable when I realised that one thing I'd left out were some, well, look, motivational placards that Scarab had sweetly made for me. Like some of my friends, Scarab knows that I've been finding the going a bit tough of late and she took the time to take some pretty pink card and write inspirational buck-up messages on them to remind me while she was away on holiday that life is, indeed, good.

I thought about putting the placards away and then I decided against it because, bugger it, it's my haus and my life and who's going to notice anyway? Not the bunch of strangers walking around, kicking up dust, battling rapid-onset silicosis. Thus, the placards stayed up.

I got home tonight, chucked my bag on the dining table and wandered off in the general direction of a wine bottle. When I came back to grab my phone from my bag, this is what I noticed sitting next to it:

The Bible. Open at the 23rd Psalm. The Lord is my shepherd, etc. Which simultaneously reminds me of droning along with this at school assemblies with The Burp, Robert Plant, Scarab, Dr Zhivago, et al and of this song.

Someone has been in my haus and, upon seeing my motivational posters and recognising a troubled soul in crisis, fossicked in my bookshelf for the Bible and left it open for me. To comfort and soothe.

And, let's face it, shudder.

On the one hand this seems like a nice, decent thing to do. On the other hand, I'm waiting to hear the opening strains of 'Misty' waft down the corridor at any moment. I'm wavering at feeling touched by the concern shown for me by a faceless fellow human being, and the thought that right now that secret camera they've installed to monitor my progress is trained on me.

Note to self: to pick or not to pick?

I think I'm coming down on the side of the shudder. To the point of violent spasming. Huh. At least that'll give my secret watcher a decent floor show.

Roadrunner - or k. - Twice

2010-08-07T20:59:00.002+08:00

I was chatting to someone on Twitter about kayaking. I am a bit of a mad keen kayaker and like to brag on like I know stuff whenever I get the chance. I'm not saying that if you followed any of my advice you'd actually end up dead but what I am saying is that, well, you would.

Anyway, for those of you not in the know - taps side of nose in highly irritating fashion - Twitter allows only a limited number of characters per message and sometimes that limit means you need to take shortcuts with the way you tweet. k., my imaginatively named friend of the single initial*, is not on Twitter but does follow my tweets online in lieu of being forced to engage in any direct conversation with me.

My Twitter correspondent, realising that I have two kayaks and often ferry them about together on top of my car, asked how I managed to get the second kayak on top of the first all by my little old lonesome. Imagine k.'s surpreez, not all of it pleasant, when upon reading my tweets she stumbled across the necessarily abbreviated answer I had given to this query:

I lean k against back of car & slide on but takes practice. Can be done.

We're still friends, of course, but I've noticed she's taken to wearing a lot of pants lately. She knows I'm all thumbs around buttons.

(Oh come on. I know you laughed. You did.)

*I was berated - yes, berated - for this careless, thoughtless and downright hurtful slackness on my part this very morning. And yet given the content of the rest of this part of the post I suppose I'd be in even more trouble if I described it as a tongue lashing.

---------------------------------------------

I was humbly minding my own business at work yesterday afternoon when k. called. She sounded taken aback that I answered the phone.

"I guess I just assumed you'd be out on the town. Living it up."

"Oh lovely. Nice way to essentialise me: 'It's Friday so haze must be out somewhere getting pissed.'"

"No, no, no, you completely misunderstand me. It's nothing to do with it being Friday. It's a day, and it's after 4pm."

I couldn't sulk for too long: when you think about it, she was acknowledging I still have standards.

A grimace was the reply.

2010-08-05T21:41:00.005+08:00

Grumpy and I had to go to a funeral last week. He rang me in the morning to check I was picking him up. Then he spent some time panicking over whether he'd fit into his suit or not. He and his new girlfriend spend a lot of time at home watching the telly and eating chocolate. Quite frankly, the Grumpy one has really piled it on.

Despite, or perhaps because of, my ex-husband's somewhat stretched outfit, it was a lovely funeral. Grumpy hitched his too-tight pants up, surveyed the rather ancien nature of the crowd and muttered to me, "Jeez, I reckon they must all be wondering who's next."

Afterwards he convinced me to stop at his place for a while so I could cuddly Finny* and we could chat for a bit. The Finny part was lovely, but the chatting wore pretty thin in a hurry. I was going to the movies with Heidi later that evening and I wanted to get in a gruelling stair climb before I went.

"I've gotta go," I said.

Grumpy was standing at the kitchen bench shovelling chocolate into his gob.

"Sure you don't wanna hang around?"

"Can't. I'm going out and I want to do a stair climb first."

He looked at me with an expression somewhat akin to irritation. "You're turning into an exercise obsessive," he said. "You wanna watch that."

I regarded him for a moment, as impassively as I could. I looked at the flake of chocolate melting into an irremovable blob on his silk tie. (I didn't mention it.) "So," I asked, "how's that suit working out for you?"

*For those not following along on Twitter, Pounce has been missing for several weeks now. We are sad.

Crochet Museum

2010-07-11T18:39:00.006+08:00

Now, I couldn't tell a crochet hook from a shepherd's crook, but I know a quality museum when I see one. This fascinating little number is to be found in the desert town of Joshua Tree, California. It sits behind a very small and rather odd little residential and art complex called The Art Queen.

The museum is housed in a converted photo booth and it contains everything you could possibly want of a crocheted nature. And more.

The photo booth remains unlocked and open to all at any time, which I think is both trusting and charming. Little note pads hang on the wall for grateful visitors to jot their thoughts. Some take it more seriously than others:

Flicking through the visitor comments I saw reference to the fact that amongst the doilies and the dollies, there was a crocheted taco. I ransacked the place until I found it. Bon appetit!

Not Ringo

2010-07-11T18:30:00.005+08:00

Inge de Bruin rounded her family up, herded them to King's Park and asked me to come along to take photos of them all - precious family memories blah blah. They proved to be quite an unruly bunch so I was very glad my bossy friend was there to issue instructions and get the mob doing things I needed them to do.

Afterward we repaired to the cafe for some refreshment. Inge's daughter, The Girl, wanted one of the giant chocolate biscuits studded in Smarties available in the display case. Inge told her she could have one as long as she shared it with her brother, The Boy. The Girl was not overly pleased with this compromise solution. The Boy was nearby. He leaned on his mother's shoulder and said, "Mum, you should let her have a whole one; she can eat a whole one."

I was marvelling at the gallantry of the nine-year-old lad when the little sod added, "And I can too!"

I have come out to play.

2010-07-10T09:10:00.002+08:00

Less because I'm an Offspring fan and more because Prudence said she missed me.

And This (Bitty)

2010-04-24T14:13:00.004+08:00

Man Hands came home from working down pit. New Girl and I were drinking (guzzling) champers and watching a show on women who breastfeed their children for, essentially, as long as the child wants it. Man Hands took a seat in front of the telly, unawares, and it wasn't long before his mouth was agape. And, yes, I think he was expressing* affrontedness, not a sudden thirst.

It finally got too much and he insisted the channel be changed. We landed on a cooking show. You wouldn't credit it.

"Look at that, darling," said New Girl. "A rack of lamb."

*Sorry.

Except This

2010-04-24T14:02:00.002+08:00

I arrived at RobertPlant's haus on Saturday arvo prior to us heading off with New Girl to see Spandau Ballet & Tears for Fears. He wasn't yet dressed, there was a Small Thing running free, a dog barking and no Tam O'Shanter to be seen. Even though this is a typical state of affairs I let it get me a little hot under the collar, and I may have been a trifle short with him. Or torn strips, depending upon your point of view. As always, he seemed unmoved, which only serves to get me more irate. I huffed off to the lounge room to wait.

Eventually we were out the door, with much eye-rolling from me.

As we were leaving the haus, RP waved his horrific sombrero at me and asked if I'd carry it. I looked at his completely unencumbered form. "What the maldicion? Why are you expecting me to carry your maldicion hat?"

"Because," he said, bending down and picking up a giant stack of books, "I'm carrying a present for you."

You know, it was fabulous weather and a fantastic show. I got really drunk.

Mea Culpa. Lo Siento. Sorry.

2010-04-24T13:49:00.002+08:00

It's not that Twitter has taken over my desire to write stuff on the blog. I have a big long list. You know your arm? As long as that. Even if your arms are short.

Wait. What?

But there's been a new job, and the new sister, and my weird family, and getting divorced & going on hols (oh, yeah, did I mention that?) and continuing to be ignored by the male of the species and let's not forget my capacity for drama and, frankly, I just can't be arsed.

So come back here after 13th June. And I'll be here. I promise. Can you hang on that long? I think I can.

I really do love youse all.

Own Goal

2010-04-10T13:06:00.003+08:00

I trundled along to The George yesterday for a quick lunch with my mates Poshy & Gazza. Gazza slipped away at 1.30pm for a meeting. Poshy and I figured we'd hang around for just one more drink.

At about 7pm I staggered back to the office to collect my stuff and take advantage of the conveniently nearby toilets to throw up.

But never mind all that!

Earlier in the arvo, Gazza made us smell his arm. (Mercifully he didn't ask us to pull his finger.) He was wearing a David Beckham cologne. Why choose that particular cologne? Because it's a David Beckham cologne! I asked Gazza if he was a big DB fan.

"Hell, yeah," he said. "Who wouldn't be? The man's cool, good-looking and incredibly rich."

Gazza's been going through a rough patch lately and after he said that he looked vaguely morose.

I patted him on the shoulder. "Cheer up! Just think, one day you could be rich!"

I meant it as a compliment but, oddly enough, he took it as an insult. Just goes to show how wrong you can be.

Togetha 4 Eva

2010-04-10T12:54:00.004+08:00

Well, that was an eventful weekend.

My sister is fabulous, my brother-in-law is fabulous, my nephew is...14 years old. Ha! No, he's pretty damn good too.

It's wonderful when the unexpected happens.

Sledge or No

2010-04-01T07:44:00.002+08:00

I'm orff to Adelaide for Easter to meet my sister. See you all when I get back. Or check Twitter over at the side there. I'll have plenty to say as we go along, I'm sure.

Hush, baby, hush.

2010-03-31T18:01:00.002+08:00

I call Inge de Bruin's on-again-off-again boyfriend Matt Lauer. Why? Because MATT LAUER CAN SUCK IT!!! Plus I need something to put a smile on my face while we're running* because (a) hey, we're running**, and (b) the ins and outs of this on-again-off-again situ defy belief.

Inge tends to take advantage of my breathlessness to chat away about the latest twist and turn in this seemingly endless saga while I stagger along simmering with resentment at both Matt Lauer's latest act of cruelty, and the fact that my own heaving lungs won't let me get a word in edgewise. Without going into the gory details, Matt Lauer has been less than upfront with his family and friends about the fact that he and Inge de Bruin are an item. And have been - on and off, of course - for about three years. Inge's latest demand prior to any future reconciliation is that he be more forthcoming or, as she puts it, "he brings our relationship out of the closet".

I don't know where she came up with that ghastly term but she's my friend and I love her so we're all going to have to live with it.

There we were running along, and Inge repeated about three times, "One of my conditions is that I want our relationship to come out of the closet." Or, imitating being on the phone to Matt Lauer, "I want you to bring our relationship out of the closet now." It seemed that every time she said it, it was devoid of its boyfriend-related context and we'd be passing a group of people that included some rather eligible looking men and I had to fight the desire to go over and explain that she was not talking about us - us? us two? oh no no no - and that I was, in fact, available for discreet fun times if any of them so desired.

[Of course, it only occurs to me now that it was just as well: two women talking about their love life would surely only be a selling point.]

Later as I hobbled behind her into the pub I told her this, thinking she'd be amused. Instead she stopped, looked appalled and, as people streamed past, demanded to know in a voice that was louder than strictly necessary, "hazelblackberry, are you ashamed to be my girlfriend??"

I explained to her that no, of course, in theory I wouldn't be, but the fact is that as a commodity on the open market I had to ensure that I maximised my appeal to my target demographic. (Hey, she started it with all that 'out of the closet' crap.) She seemed unconvinced so I tried to hold her hand over dinner. When she snatched it away I semi-shrieked, "Are you breaking up with me? You told me you'd love me forever!"

I think it was round about that moment she saw my point.

*All references to running should be assumed to be staggering*** if being performed by hazelblackbery.
**See above.
***As in the action. But also astounding to view. In a bad way.

Promises

2010-03-31T18:00:00.000+08:00

I'll never be such a full-of-myself blowhard again.

Giddy - Up

2010-03-21T18:48:00.003+08:00

This blogging every day is harder than it looks, you know. Which I guess is why I haven't actually been doing it. [It's easier when you're battling a mental illness, and that is too high a price to pay for the second time.]

So this afternoon I've been doing some cleaning out of old junk I've had lying around for ages. Some of it is worth hanging on to, some of it isn't. Here are a couple of gems I thought could do with another moment in the sun.

(1) I must have ripped this from a magazine in the 80s - it's humorous, sure, but check out the price of a cup of coffee!

When I first stumbled across this amongst my souvenirs, I saw only the back of it and was somewhat puzzled as to why I would have treasured Molly's ins and outs (in any form).

(2) I used to work with a guy who was known to a few of us as Pony Boy because, if you can believe such a thing, he wore his hair in a ponytail. There were many aspects of Pony Boy's personality and habits that irritated me profoundly, but most annoying of all was the loud, slurpy, messy way he would eat at the desk right behind me. One day after a particularly long and virulent lunchtime rant on the subject to DJ Pups, I returned to work to find she had rendered my pain with great artistry and sensitivity:

Maybe I'll keep this one after all. If I put it on the fridge, it might put me off my food - and that could only be a good thing. It'd nice to be able to think fondly of Pony Boy after all these years.

A friend of mine took a fighting muffin in the chest.

2010-03-16T21:04:00.004+08:00

"You problem is that you're a perfectionist."

I was explaining to New Girl how I thought her problem was that she was a perfectionist. She was on the phone to me, feeling slightly under pressure at work and, when I suggested that what she really needed was a significant amount of time off, she said that taking holidays only stressed her more because she came back to nothing having been done in her absence, or not being done properly. That's when I told her she might have a little problem with her exacting standards.

"Take a leaf out of my book," I said. "You don't see me getting all hung up about finishing stuff, or making sure it's all just so. I pick two or three things I know absolutely must happen and the rest can wait. It'll either not need to be done after all or it'll become a crisis and get done then."

There was a pause while I thought about that.

"Wait. Maybe you shouldn't take a leaf out of my book."

"No, I think I definitely should. You've landed That Pretty Good Job; you're obviously doing something right."

Maybe I am. And if I'm doing something right, we can all be doing something right. It's time to down that diligence instinct and get lazy. You should know, though, laziness isn't just a skill you can expect to pick up and use when you need it. You have to work it, like a muscle. It won't hurt, you won't even have to sweat, but the weaker ones amongst you will spend many nights tossing and turning, maybe even fretting, thinking about that to do list with countless items not yet crossed off. If you're willing to break that responsibility barrier, I can show you the way, but you have to want it enough to make the journey. Ask yourselves if you want to join me. But even more importantly, ask yourselves if you have what it takes.

At least she didn't insert 'actually' in there.

2010-03-14T16:35:00.004+08:00

Quirkie and I were out on Friday night and, after drifting into and out of a few venues, found ourselves in the beer garden at the Como Hotel. It was late in the evening, there weren't many patrons left, and the atmosphere was quiet and pleasant. We sat in the courtyard sipping our drinks, the lighting was subdued but not dim. Quirkie looked at me with terrific fondness and spoke, proving instantly that I'm not the only person round these parts capable of diabolical clangers.

What she assures me she meant to say: You are one of my dearest friends and I think you're gorgeous almost regardless of the circumstances, but I feel moved to say that the glow out here tonight is particularly flattering to you and serves to enhance all your best and finest features.

What she said: You look pretty in this light.

So these three men walk into a bar...

2010-03-11T21:24:00.004+08:00

I have a friend, who shall have to remain nameless*, who copes with some of the more miserable moments in life by curling up on the floor of her shower and crying while the water runs over her. Sometimes for a couple of hours.

Thank heavens for instant gas hot water systems, eh?

So I know she had some unsettling news today - nothing overly dramatic, just a part of a long-running issue in her life - and it just so happened I had to give her a call this evening to let her know something. After getting no answer on either her home phone or her mobile, and worried that she may have taken things harder than first appeared, I sent her a text, which included the following:

Suddenly have vision of you taking a long shower.

Then it occurred to me that, taken out of context, that was possibly not the kind of text I'd want to be seen sending to another woman. But it would make a slightly amusing blog entry, thus getting me out of trouble today. It then further occurred to me that in blogging it I would sound like George Clooney madly explaining away this episode with his pig and a naked friend:

Occasionally, all that squealing can come in handy, like the early morning hours of 16 January 1994, when the Northridge earthquake shook most of Los Angeles, prompting shortlived but very real fears that the Big One had struck.

As Clooney recounted it: "Max was in bed with me and woke up minutes before it happened. And I was yelling at him for waking me up, when everything just exploded. So, I'm naked with Max, and running ... because I'm in a house on a hill, and if it's going down I want to be up on the street, dodging the next house.
"My buddy, who lives in the downstairs guesthouse, comes running up. And he's naked. With a gun, because he thought someone was breaking in. And I'm trying to write a note to my folks, trying to explain to them in case we die that it's not what is seems: two naked men, a gun and a pig."

(Full article here.)

Then, and only then, did it occur to me that this was the most recursive, reiterative and redundant blog post I may ever have written.

And so, goodnight.

*Picture every other friend ringing up and asking, "Who is it?!"

The Bare Facts

2010-03-10T09:37:00.004+08:00

New Girl, Man Hands and I are not overly pro-child. We're not anti-child either. Well, with the exception of a few of them. It's more that we're anti I-have-a-child-and-therefore-the-world-should-bend-over-backwards-for-me-type parents. You know the sort. None of you are like that, of course.

Of course.

Man Hands was reading an article about outraged parents who choose to have 30 children and then complain that they can't afford to fly the whole family first class to EuroDisney. Or something like that. I'm sorry to have to inform you that the three of us got into a bit of a rant about entitled parents. Actually, I'm not sorry at all. We really enjoyed it.

"If you choose to have kids, then maybe you have to cut back in some other areas of your life," said Man Hands.

"Exactly," I said. "We all make choices that restrict what we can do. Even us not having kids is a limitation in some respects."

"Yeah," said Man Hands. "like, I can't even go to the playground anymore."

"And certainly not naked."

I can hear strange voices echo.

2010-03-07T20:44:00.005+08:00

Last year, stepbrother #1 got married and this year stepbrother #2 did the same. I wasn't particularly looking forward to the event and the only thing really keeping me there was the promise of stepbrother #3's company. Oh, and Bezley's firm grip on my arm.

The reception was barely underway when, to my dismay, it seemed that stepbrother #3 had decided he'd had enough and was going to head orff home. He'd come to the wedding with a mate of his and the two of them had enjoyed several drinks - brewskis, if you will - before and after the ceremony. They were getting a little boisterous, as is their wont, and thought better fun might be found elsewhere.

I grabbed him by the arm. "You can't go!" I whined. "No one here is as interesting as you."

"I know, mate, I know," he said with what almost sounded like genuine regret in his voice. "I'm the only real person in this place."

I would have told him he was wrong, that he was totally unreal, but he would have taken it as a compliment.

She speaketh from the heart.

2010-03-06T15:11:00.005+08:00

A card from New Girl!

On the outside:

On the inside:

HB
Fortuitously, our significant and historical mutually harmonious alignment favours an arrangement whereby reciprocated positive expressions of stakeholder engagement are provided within a framework which facilitates ongoing close collaboration in the event of either of the aforementioned eventualities, thus ameliorating their effects. Going forward.
NG

--------------------

I immediately sent New Girl my heartfelt thanks:

And she replied:

On the money, and to the point, as always.

The Queen of LIES

2010-03-05T19:49:00.004+08:00

So when Inge de Bruin talked me into this whole running the City to Surf malarkey, her big selling point was that though we would have to run the whole way it wouldn't matter how fast we went. The point was to finish, times didn't matter. The other night up in King's Park at one of our training sessions she casually mentioned that, "And we just need to make sure we run at a reasonable pace."

A reasonable pace? What does that mean? (She asked in a high and slightly hysterical voice.) I'll tell you what it means: it means a betrayal of the original we-just-want-to-finish spiel, that's what. I told Inge, in a calm voice filled with reason and logic, that if she tried to force the hurry up on me, that it would kill me. That I expected just shuffling along for twelve kilometres would kill me anyway.

"Nonsense," she said. "You'll be on an adrenaline high."

"Only if I take an epipen with me."

There was a bit more back and forth about the original premise of our entry into the race versus this latest push for speed.

The sun was setting by now, and the vast and quiet bushland spread out on each side of us. Inge de Bruin merely smiled beatifically at me and said, "You know, hazelblackberry, it's not too late for you to end up in that shallow bush grave."

What do I care? Now, or in the run in September: the point is, my time is limited.

I didn't say it; just reporting what she said!

2010-03-04T10:01:00.003+08:00

[Good grief! I, like, totally forgot to blog yesterday. Where's good old anonymous when you need himher?]

Anyway.

d. was coming over yesterday evening to collect some boxes that he & k. had been storing at my place. When he arrived he was all a-dither, and a bit breathless. Long-time readers know that I occasionally use this blog as a cruel device for recording d.'s verbal blunders. Last night he was excited because k. had made a rare slip of her own.

t. knows his father as 'a fixer'. Whatever might be broken, t. is confident that his daddy can fix it. d. was telling his offspring that he's long had a reputation as a go-to man and that when he was a young lad his prodigious talents at locating lost items had his own mother label him as 'a finder'.

"Which is why," k. informed her offspring, "Daddy and I get long so well together. Because Mummy's a loser!"

She Had to Say It Was a Good Day

2010-03-02T13:09:00.005+08:00

The Small Thing refers to the next-door neighbours as 'the neighbourhoods'. After she'd ripped open and discarded the birthday present I'd given her she informed me the neighbourhoods would be over shortly to cough up with more birthday goodies.

The thing is, these so-called neighbourhoods are just a couple of sweet old ladies who've only ever drunk iced tea and have no idea what moves can be busted to his music. Unless, of course, in the ways typical of the very young, Small Thing sees their inner gangsta.

Or else she's confusing them with that other, genuinely terrifying old lady: Don Mary.

A 90-year-old in black, wrap-around shades is a force to be reckoned with. She has a ready supply of horses at her disposal.

After Grog...

2010-02-28T07:57:00.006+08:00

This photo isn't just a reflection of my state of mind post-wedding*, mid-hangover.

I've been meaning to post it for ages. Heidi and I hitched a ride on a tour of a submarine down at the port. This was my favourite thing: a toilet roll hanging on the wall. It's to dry and de-fog the periscope viewfinder when it's wound up for viewing.

And, you know, as emergency supplies should you see anything really scary while you're looking.

*Not my wedding. Duh. Grumpy and I aren't even divorced yet. Let's let the paint dry on that one first, shall we?

yeah, I'm AWARE there was no blog post yesterday

2010-02-28T07:57:00.001+08:00

Lend Me Some Sugar

2010-02-26T19:07:00.004+08:00

One of Bloody Ern's philosophies that could make him so easy to be around was the principle of "I'm up, everyone's up", which could make for some fairly early mornings when he started stomping around the house at 4am. But at least he generally adhered to daylight hours and the early evenings for his wakefulness.

My neighbours, on the other hand, seem to have adopted the same approach while choosing to be night creatures. This week I've averaged about four hours sleep a night, and with each successive broken snooze I can feel my sanity slipping a little further from my grasp. As I lay in bed last night, alternating between despair and murderous intent, I formulated a plan, which I have put into place today. To wit, I have complained to their real estate agent and the police and my next stop will be the council and I'll keep up this campaign of harassment and vilification until they're quiet, or evicted. Either one suits me.

I have become a complaining woman. But this blog has given me five years of solid training so who amongst us is really surprised that I've now taken my carefully honed skills out into the real world?

This morning, though, I thought I'd get things kicked off with a slightly more personal touch. The shenanigans finally wound down at about 8am and I decided to hang around at home for another hour. I figured an hour would give them just enough time to slip reasonably deeply into precious slumber. Then I went to their front door and I began knocking and knocking and knocking until, after several minutes, a couple of them finally staggered to the door.

"Oh, did I wake you up?!"

[hurt, offended, confused] "Ugh, well, yeah."

"Good!" [insert rant about good manners and decency, followed by a grand stalking off]

I doubt we'll be exchanging gardening tips over the fence anytime soon and I can't say I'm too sorry.

Howdily doodily, neighbourinos! I'm the anti-Ned Flanders.

But there were spots before my eyes.

2010-02-25T21:35:00.003+08:00

The decorations aren't the most original, interesting or artistic, but that punctuation was enough to make me want to hang around and proposition the driver.

Except it got chilly so I had to get off the bonnet and put my clothes back on.

It's funny how they never showed up.

k. will be proud

2010-02-24T15:45:00.005+08:00

One boot camp woman was talking about the boyfriend of another boot camp woman.

"He's a Pole," she said.

"He's a what?"

"A Pole. You know, Polish. hazelblackberry's met him."

"Yeah? What's he like?"

"Great! A real straight up and down guy."

Luckily we'd been working with weights all morning and no one had the strength to chuck anything at me.

And Fast

2010-02-23T09:57:00.004+08:00

RobertPlant rang me yesterday while I was cheering myself up, browsing the shelves at Officeworks.

"Not at work?" he asked.

"Nah, I chucked a sad and decided to come home."

"I'd say to come round here but [Tam O'Shanter's ex-stepmother] is coming over, and I wouldn't put you through that."

"It's okay. I just want to go home, get into my pyjamas and, you know [adopts poxy voice] be with myself for a while."

"I dread to think where that might be heading."

He needn't have worried, it would've only been the same place everything else in my life is apparently going: nowhere.

not a bank or a stadium

2010-02-22T14:40:00.003+08:00

You are all bastards.

Just, you know, FYI.

From 6th October 2008 to 4th June 2009, for 243 days, I blogged every day, come rain or shine or suicidal thoughts. I gave you a minimum of one blog entry every single day. Most days you got more.

[All of them quality, of course.]

And did I get a single thanks from any of you? No. No I did not.

And then I didn't blog quite so much. And then I blogged a bit less than that. And it was only then that you shifted yourselves to get in touch. I wasn't blogging so much anymore, you whined. Touchingly, much of the whinging was specific: I wasn't blogging quite so much about you.

Cry me a river, arseholes.

Well, I'm throwing down the gauntlet. I'm going to give a daily blog a go again. It won't last forever but I need to get back into the swing of things.

So I'm back, babies, I'm back!

Not that any of you lot would even care.

Bastards.

No, my first name ain't 'Baby".

2010-02-19T10:52:00.003+08:00

RobertPlant was anxious. He was looking for my blessing.

For some time, we've been habitues, devotees if you will, of a rather excellent little secondhand book shop at the Stock Road Markets. RobertPlant heard the markets were closing down, though who knows if that's true, and has had ants in his pants to get back there and do his customary raid on the precious books.

This morning he decided he couldn't wait any longer and would go today. He rang me to confess: was that okay with me? Or would I despise him forever? I told him that in matters of the heart, he must do what is best for him.

Besides, as I so often remind him, he may be the one with the vast library, but I'm the one actually getting down to the business of reading the books. Yeah, he always hates that.

Hands On

2010-02-11T11:52:00.003+08:00

I mentioned to someone how much I preferred driving a manual.

"But your car isn't a manual," said RobertPlant, who was also there, thus explaining his ability to comment.

"Yes it is! How often have you been in my car? You've driven my car! Did you happen to notice the gear stick?"

"Oh. I was wondering why the engine was making that high-pitched noise on the freeway."

Efficiency Indicators

2010-02-09T14:16:00.002+08:00

From: New Girl@
Sent: Tuesday, 9 February 2010 11:26 AM
To: hazelblackberry@
Subject: hi

How are you?

[blah blah blah blah blah blah blah]

From: hazelblackberry@
Sent: Tuesday, 9 February 2010 12:10 PM
To: New Girl@
Subject: RE: hi

I'm fine.

[blah blah blah blah blah blah blah]

From: New Girl@
Sent: Tuesday, 9 February 2010 1:43 PM
To: hazelblackberry@
Subject: RE: hi

there is Much To Respond To here.

I have no time. no time!

let's park it and unpack the learnings at a later date going forward.

From: hazelblackberry@
Sent: Tuesday, 9 February 2010 1:58 PM
To: New Girl@
Subject: RE: hi

As long as we have a conversation around and touching on the critical issues, underpinned by a value-adding framework, then I feel we shall have decreased the likelihood of any downside events.

From: New Girl@
Sent: Tuesday, 9 February 2010 2:14 PM
To: hazelblackberry@
Subject: RE: hi

downside events!!! that's a new one.

poor you.

for knowing it!

Whither the Wide-Mouth Frog?

2010-02-09T09:26:00.003+08:00

A few of us at work were chatting about the benefits of having memberships to various places and institutions.

"I belong to the zoo," said one chap, unfortunately for him just as Canned Ham walked past.

"That's nice," she said. "What enclosure do they keep you in?"

This tickled me no end, and then the Ham turned on me.

"Watch it, hb. With a laugh like that they'll have you in with the hyenas."

I'll start with this:

2010-02-02T14:58:00.003+08:00

So when I told RobertPlant that, as it turns out, I have a sister, he told me that he was convening a meeting of the Only Children's Club and, as president and treasurer, would move and second a motion* that my membership be terminated with extreme prejudice.

He's jealous.

However, the news has given Tam O'Shanter hope. She thinks that like my half-sister, she'll wake one magical, golden morning to learn that she is also adopted.

*A messy business. Glad I won't be present for it.

Production Line

2010-02-01T14:35:00.002+08:00

I was just on the phone to The Burp who chastised me for not blogging much of late. Well, first of all, I think thirteen blog posts in January wasn't too bad at all. And then I was away for the last ten days. A girl is not a blogging machine, you know.

But I'm back. And I'll blog something soon. I just have to figure out how to do it.

Conjunctions

2010-01-19T09:47:00.004+08:00

I was having dinner with Lost in Translation on Saturday night. Sometimes she really lives up to her name. I asked how her sweet friend, Ms Mailer, was going. I'd met Ms Mailer briefly last year and thought she was lovely.

"So how's Ms Mailer going?" I asked. To set the scene.

"Well, she's thirty now," replied my friend, as if that covered all physical and emotional possibilities.

I just nodded my head knowingly. I don't know what I was nodding my head at. I suppose I'll find out later.

Message for Ms Norman

2010-01-18T09:32:00.001+08:00

Can you email me, please? I've lost your address.

International roaming

2010-01-15T10:34:00.004+08:00

During the pre-movie ads New Girl confessed that the Qantas ad always gets her a bit choked up.

She just loves corporations!

[I prefer this one.]

I would have gone with Willem Dafoe.

2010-01-15T09:57:00.003+08:00

New Girl and I went to the cinemah last night to see Up in the Air. It was a good movie, but that's not my point. Here's what this is all about:

They - yes them - have remade Edge of Darkness, the most memorable and scarring mini-series of my young adult life. That they've done a re-make is outrage enough, but that it stars Mel Gibson is just plain old insulting.

There's one scene in the previews where Mel has a man, presumably one of his mortal enemies, cornered and is giving him one of his patented crazy Lethal Weapon looks. I really don't know that Mad Mel is the most appropriate actor to deliver the line he says in this scene:

"You got a choice to make. Are you strung up on the cross, or are you bangin' in the nails?"

Further...

2010-01-14T16:18:00.003+08:00

From: New Girl@
Sent: Thursday, 14 January 2010 2:52 PM
To: hazelblackberry@
Subject: RE: I'm blogging this

So am I.

on my secret blog which you do not know about and is just full of things you say and do.

except it's all mis-quoted!

I can't keep it in, I gotta let it out.

2010-01-14T14:08:00.002+08:00

From: New Girl@
Sent: Thursday, 14 January 2010 1:44 PM
To: hazelblackberry@
Subject: RE: howz ya?

man, my neck is sore. i must have terrible workplace posture.
also my thumb hurts from too much mousing. it's a real problem.
did i mention that my foot is worse? i think i need that surgery soon that means i have to spend 6 weeks on crutches.
this morning i was so hot and i thought i might be starting menopause. but W says i am too young.
i'm spending the day [doing work stuff]
should we have dinner after the movie? "a little dinner could do no harm" as CZJ says in that Coen brothers film I love.
hey listen to my circumplex jokes: What do you get if you mix red and green? A manager! Why are so many people so blue? because they are working on getting things past the managers.
admittedly they are weak. but so is the management.
man, those first two colours are making me crave a salad with lots of capsicum. i really have to eat less cheese sandwiches.
better get back to my stickers.
good luck in the car park [not sure if you need it or not until I hear your car park story]

From: hazelblackberry@
Sent: Thursday, 14 January 2010 1:49 PM
To: New Girl@
Subject: I'm blogging this

Yes to dinner.

And, uh, could we discuss your coffee consumption??

OMG!WTF!ROTFL!

2010-01-14T13:14:00.003+08:00

Evidence I've been cruising the wide wide world of webs too much lately: I was heading into work and saw an ad on a bus shelter for WA wines.

What the wording said: SUMMER WITH THE LOCALS.

What I read: SUMMER WITH THE LOLCATS.

More a chocolate bar than a state of mind.

2010-01-12T11:21:00.003+08:00

So I spent a very enjoyable week between Christmas and New Year hanging around in Moore River with Boxer Girl, One-Eye and their gang. Their crew, if you will. It was a lovely and very relaxing week. There was nothing else to do except go to the beach, take the kayaks up the river, lie around in the afternoon reading and then sip delicately upon a beverage or two in the evening. It was all very civilised.

Except for the constant sniping between Boxer Girl and One-Eye, which was the week's entertainment. There was The Incident of the Used Fork Dropped in the Seafood Sauce, and the Strange Case of the Impromptu Perth Cup Sweep Won by One-Eye. I'm saying there was tension in the room. An atmosphere of sorts. Not the same sort of atmosphere as when One-Eye's husband went to the loo and didn't open the back door, but an atmosphere nevertheless.

Luckily the evening always ended with Baileys, and they could never stay mad at each other when there was Baileys in the offing.

On my last day we all trooped off to the beach. I stayed for a swim and a bit of a chat and then wrapped my towel around me, gave everyone a kiss goodbye and was on my way. As I climbed the steps to the car park, I could hear querulous voices behind me. I turned around and called out to the truculent two, "How appropriate that the last thing I hear is you two bickering at each other."

Then I ran, before they both turned on me.

Slow As

2010-01-11T11:39:00.003+08:00

Scarab insisted to the surly waitress that the coffee waiting at the bar, and no doubt going cold, was her flat white. The waitress condescendingly agreed to check, and then came over with it.

"Great!" said Scarab, beaming insincerely, "That is my drink."

Then, because she'd ordered two sugars and got only one, she waved the solitary sachet back and forth, still smiling, still insincere, and asked, "And could I trouble you for another of these?"

She raised her coffee to her lips. "If this is cold, it's going straight back." A sip, then, "Dammit, it's still hot."

We agreed that given we didn't have a spare week to sit around waiting for a replacement drink, the appropriate temperature was probably a satisfactory replacement for the pleasure of complaining.

Bring it on, bring it on.

2010-01-08T11:50:00.003+08:00

New Girl and I have been time travelling.

We decided whilst chatting on the phone that since my office is located east of hers, I was speaking to her from the future. I told her I was eating a muffin to help quell my irritation at something. She was impressed to hear that in the future we finally have muffins. She's heard of them.

It seems that a text message I'd sent to her prior to our phone call hadn't arrived - caught in the time warp, obviously. New Girl has a solution: from now on, when I need to text her from work, I need to drive to the beach so I'm west of her and send my message from there. That all sounds like too much work falling on to my shoulders. What I suggested instead is that I call her - since telephones seemingly remain immune from these time passages - tell her I need to send her a text, get her to drive east of here, to the WACA or something, and wait there to get my message. Simple!

These are the kind of problem-solving skills that propel us ever onward and upward in our careers.

Apres

2010-01-06T09:05:00.002+08:00

So you're all wondering, all two of you, if I made it. Well, I'm here so apparently I did.

Inge took my news with good grace. I decided to get it all out as we drove up to Kings Park. I figured she'd keep control behind the wheel of a car: she may want to kill me but is a cool enough customer not to take herself out in the process. She listened to me and remained calm and even agreed that it was probably a good idea, especially as it gives her dad extra time to build us a boat. I should have known to be wary of such cheery acquiescence.

There was a sting. As always.

After we'd done our run, Inge hoisted my barely breathing body into her car and we went out for some revitalising Vietnamese food. They were happy enough at the restaurant to let Inge in but when it came to my entry, it seems they would prefer customers who don't come in on all fours, sobbing and dripping sweat. As I sat slumped over the life-giving force that is stir-fried snow peas and steamed rice, Inge put to me her three year plan: we'll run the City to Surf in 2010, do the Avon Descent in 2011 and then, my friends, what I have apparently agreed to is walking the Kokoda trail with her in 2012.

But I was clinically dead at the time. My head was only nodding because rigor mortis hadn't yet set in.

Commoner Among Cooks

2010-01-05T11:40:00.005+08:00

Tonight I die.

Last year Inge de Bruin came up with the idea that this year we would run* the City to Surf and that we would enter the Avon Descent. If anything was ever an advertisement for abstaining from the demon drink, it's the fact that I'd downed quite a number of champagnes when she pushed this idea on me and I was most enthusiastic. I've sobered up since then. That happened at about 2pm yesterday when she sent me her preliminary thoughts on our training schedule. In essence**, what her email said was this:

I will begrudgingly allow you time to go to work, eat the occasional meal and, from time to time, sleep. Other than that, you will spend every available spare minute of your life this year with me training for these two events. Then, about two months beforehand, we'll really ramp things up.

My response is this: Inge de Bruin can suck it!

Whatever happened to going for a lazy kayak out to Seal Island, or a dive, or breakfast, or heaven forbid, spending some time doing nothing?? She's a motivated young lass is our Inge, and I don't think 'doing nothing' has ever been high on her list of priorities.

So I've decided this evening, after our run*, I'm going to calmly explain to her that I can't commit that much time. That I need some space. It's not her, it's me.

I'm being sensible, I've chosen neutral territory: the Queen's, to which we shall repair for a meal post-torture session. Hopefully that will keep the shrieking and the tears to a minimum, and whatever reaction Inge might have. The only problem is she always orders some kind of prime rib meat for dinner, and I generally get seafood.

If things gets nasty we're talking about a beating with a cow bone versus a lashing with a piece of squid. I'm so going down.

*Open to interpretation.
**Summary may not stand up in a court of law.

I know what I like so you can all go ride a bike.

2010-01-05T10:05:00.003+08:00

Boot camp started up again this morning. It was hell. I notice no one makes a fuss of the fact that I've been going for nearly a WHOLE YEAR. I am possibly not the best example of what can be achieved in nearly a WHOLE YEAR. But for once in my life, my whole entire life, I've stuck at something. [Not counting that 14 years of marriage. I gave that my best shot but, you know, some things just don't stick.]

So where was I?

Anyway, we show up at boot camp and that's when the young Fraulein who takes us on Tuesday mornings says that there's been a change to the schedule. This year, she informs us, instead of each class being a mix of different stuff, we'll be doing all lower body work on Tuesdays, all upper body work on Thursdays and all cardio on Saturdays.

"So you know exactly what you've got in store each day when you show up," she said.

"We know what days to come," said someone else.

"No, we know what days to avoid," was the rejoinder to that.

"Well, that'd be all of them." I'll give you three guesses who said that.

Iron in her soul; jelly in mine.

2009-12-23T12:56:00.005+08:00

Inge de Bruin is determined that this year...next year...2010 we are running the City to Surf. I am being dragged along with her plans, kicking and screaming. I don't like it and, frankly, I'm frightened.

Last night we began our running training. I won't go into details except to say that it was horrifying. Afterwards we went to the pub. By 'went' I mean that Inge strolled in as though nothing was amiss with the world and I crawled in after her, sobbing, gasping for a glass of champers. Over dinner all my so-called friend wanted to do was discuss strategy. I was starting to feel hassled and a trifle sulky.

Because she's got dodgy knees, Inge can't do a lot of road running. She suggested that we train in King's Park, running on the stretch of grass leading up to the DNA tower.

"I like that idea," I said. "Particularly when the evenings get darker. No danger of being run over by a car. The worst that could happen to us is we'll be murdered!"

Inge smiled. "hazelblackberry, I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather be buried next to in a shallow grave."

Given what's been getting dished out lately, I'll take that as a compliment to treasure.

Purchase

2009-12-21T15:16:00.002+08:00

On Sunday morning Heidi and I decided that we were too tired to cope with the demands of a dive, so settled for a snorkel instead at Boyinaboat Reef. Heidi wanted to check it out because she thought it would be a good spot for a dive. As we climbed up and down the rocks, them and us baking in the sun, I vowed and declared there'd be no way she'd get me all trussed up and lumbering over the mole in heavy, awkward dive gear. I can feel awkward just walking down the street, thanks.

We jumped in the water and swam out to the reef. We'd only been floating along for about ten minutes when I broke down and almost demanded of Heidi that our next dive be here, on this very spot*. She just smiled. Well, I can never really enjoy a thing unless I create a bit of drama first. And my resolve only wavered slightly as we exited the water, when the swell had picked up and getting a toehold on the rocks was a bit tricky.

Afterwards we had eggs. Nothing beats eggs. Not even scissors.

I could live on just eggs all the time. With maybe some lime to keep the scurvy at bay.

And a ship's biscuit.

*By 'this very spot' I mean Boyinaboat Reef. Not here in my office where I'm composing this blog. While the visibility would be good, when I'm in it conditions can rarely be described as calm.

Quick on the Uptake

2009-12-16T14:31:00.002+08:00

Sometimes I can be a little sensitive about RobertPlant's friendship with Initials in the Tree.

We were browsing the shelves of a bookshop, in the same aisle as a couple of very blonde and shapely young chicky babes, when I picked up a new book about The Clash. Initials is, apparently, a big fan.

There was a touch of the snide in my voice when I waggled the volume in front of RobertPlant's face and said, "Here, why don't you get this for your boyfriend?"

"No point. I think he's lost interest."

At this the two chicky babes glanced around.

"In The Clash, not me," RobertPlant hastily amended, glancing right back at them.

"Not that he was ever interested in me," he corrected, digging himself in a little deeper.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," I declared before braying with laughter. The chicky babes looked blank and turned away to resume perusing the bookshelves.

I think the subject area on their side of the aisle was Remedial Reading.

Exit, pursued by.

2009-12-14T16:00:00.003+08:00

I got home at about 10.30 last night from dropping The Pups at the airport - after our first failed attempt to get her on her flight - only to find that the ferals next door were blasting music in their back yard. I went round to their side gate to ask them to pipe down, which, to their credit, they did.

I staggered inside and went to bed only to be jolted awake at 1am by loud feral conversation drifting over from the back yard. After lying there for a while getting more and more enraged I finally decided to get up and, once again, ask them to keep things down to a dull roar. It turns out they were somewhat resistant to the idea that conversation in the dead of night could be classified as 'noisy' or 'intrusive' and as I endeavoured to make them see the error of their ways I was fighting hard to keep the 'nagging harridan' element out of my voice.

Then a male voice interrupted me, mid-rant.

"Excuse me, excuse me," he said. "Do you know you're hot?"

"What did you say??"

"I just had to let you know that I think you're hot."

"I couldn't give a stuff what you think: JUST SHUT UP!"

And with that I walked off. If it's not old men, it's ferals. If things don't improve soon I'm getting me to a nunnery. It's lights out there at, like, 9pm. And no one listens to techno, I'll bet.

Faux Trot

2009-12-14T15:45:00.002+08:00

So DJ Pups flew over from Sydney for my birthday shindig this weekend. We were chatting away while we were getting ready for the part-ay. We were talking about the predilection of a friend of ours to always put her foot in it, and cause offence without meaning to.

DJ Pups said, "But god bless her; that could be any one of us. I mean, I know I'm always making faux pas."

What I meant to say: I hear you, sistah. Hallelujah and amen. I do the same thing all the time.

What I said: Exactly!

Couples Therapy

2009-12-11T10:00:00.005+08:00

Hong Kong Fooey arranged for RobertPlant and I to head along to a quiz night with him. [And who should I spy there, but Cellobella (to her frustration, I did not introduce myself: occasionally I can be overcome with galloping shyness)]. As usual, we did pretty badly. Not helped by me changing a couple of answers. I don't normally do things like that, and now I see why.

Hong Kong Fooey was being most gentlemanly to me all evening, commenting on how great my hair looked.

He said it for about the fifth time: "Your hair looks great, haze: in fact, you look great!"

"Why thank you, Honkers," I said. Then I turned to RobertPlant and hissed, "Why can't you ever say things like that?"

He looked unmoved. "Because I couldn't give a maldicion."

Then a girl on our table piped up, "Wait a minute: are you two together?"

"Noooo!" we shrieked in unison.

"Well, I didn't think so but just then you had me wondering."

I can understand her confusion. Our friendship has lasted longer than many marriages (not looking anywhere), and will probably continue to stagger along. I like to think it's the constant bickering that keeps it fresh.

Perspectives

2009-12-04T11:01:00.006+08:00

New Girl and I were breakfasting on Wednesday. I was telling her that between Grumpy moving back into the haus last Tuesday and me moving out this Tuesday, we'd managed to keep things quite friendly - until Monday evening.

I was standing in the laundry, the louvred window of which faces the neighbours' yard. A couple of weeks ago I'd sent Grumpy an email explaining the various bits and pieces he needed to organise with the bank, and as I stood sorting out a load of washing he asked me summarise the info for him.

I began explaining the fortnightly payments he needed to make into his mortgage and my account. Then his face screwed up into an angry little look that I know and love so well, that to me says, "Must I tell you how to behave in every situation?" He accompanied the face with a dismissive wave and the instruction, "Keep your voice down; I don't want the neighbours knowing our business."

You will be pleased to know that at that point I elevated things to a whole new plane of maturity by telling him to "maldicion off" and, gentle reader, you may be astounded to learn that from there things deteriorated with exceptional rapidity into a high decibel slanging match.

New Girl digested this information and then said, "Because, of course, that he was more than happy to have the neighbours hear."

100% Goose Down

2009-11-30T15:14:00.008+08:00

New Girl and I were in Ikea - where else - and we'd made it down to the big hall where you drag things off shelves and onto your trolley for the purposes of going home and nervously breaking down thanks to the modern miracle that is an Allen key. We passed a girl wearing skin tight leather - or, hideous thought, leather look - leggings. We exchanged a slightly judgemental glance.

"Well," I said, "let's face it, if I had legs that skinny, I'd be wearing 'em too."

New Girl said, "Oh I'd wear them all right. And I'd hang a big sign around my neck that said, 'Look at my legs. Yes! I'm hungry!!'"

------------------------

Since Grumpy and I split up, k. has been nagging me to get a new bed. But I like my bed! It's a sleigh bed! Very well then, she conceded, the only thing she would insist upon would be that I get a new mattress. Apparently it's bad feng shui to have the old mattress. Because, you know, the mattress absorbs all the er... er... vibes of the old relationship.

[Now let's take that thought and bury it deep deep away and never ever make any reference to it again.]

It just so happened that on Saturday Grumpy sallied forth and bought himself a heap of new bedroom furniture. Then on Sunday he started fretting about one of the things he'd bought and wanted me to check it out with him. We went to the shop. We made significant, furniture-related decisions. He pointed out the mattress he'd bought. "You should try it out," he said. Always one for a new experience, I flung myself on the bed. It was at once firm, and yet with a cuddly softness. I didn't even feel it when Grumpy lay down on the other side (with a healthy gap between us).

"H-h-how much is this?" I asked the sales lady. She told me. She told me it came with a 15 year guarantee, free delivery and disposal of your old mattress. I told her that I had a credit card just itching for some more use and abuse.

And I got a mattress protector, people, so no more absorption of vibes!

Shudder.

k. will be pleased to know that I've taken on her advice about creating good feng shui. I wonder if she'd be interested in helping me out with all that bad fin shui I've just saddled myself with?

FUBAR

2009-11-24T16:08:00.002+08:00

k. was explaining something to me on the phone. I couldn't keep up.

"You've shrouded me in a fog of confusion!" I wailed.

k. couldn't decide which response best suited the situation:

"Situation normal."

or

"My work here is done."

Yeeow! Ayipioeeay!

2009-11-23T11:01:00.004+08:00

So I'm the office weirdo again.

Two of the big bosses came to visit us in a you've-all-done-very-well-thank-you-Mr-Grace kind of way. The arvo tea was going quite well and Big Boss 1 was commenting on how he needed to come to our offices more often. BB2, a slightly nervous man, piped up and suggested that if they were going to be strolling between buildings over summer, then perhaps we needed to budget for some parasols.

I then loudly announced, "Or perhaps for you, BB2, a surrey with a fringe on top."

*pins dropped*
*tumbleweeds rolled*
*a thousand years of deadly silence*

Someone guffawed, but I think it was at me and not with me.

Thrust and Counterthrust

2009-11-19T15:56:00.004+08:00

So we had two days out of the office to talk about how unhappy everyone apparently is and what we can do to make things better.

I think the old standard should apply: the floggings will continue until morale improves.

It was all the usual dreary stuff but there were a couple of moments. We'd broken into groups for about the millionth time to think about various bits and pieces. Our group was looking at how we could use the intranet to improve communications. I suggested - tongue in cheek - that we set up an 'after dark' function that would allow like-minded individuals throughout the organisation to meet up for either a firm commitment or just discreet fun times. It was kind of disturbing the enthusiastic response it got.

Then I said that I couldn't really see it being a goer. After all, I pointed out, I had yet to meet a man in the office who inspired me to call him up for anything other than a work-related matter.

"Huh," said one of the senior dudes, who is known for being a bit of a perv, "You've clearly got higher standards than me."

Theory of Relativity

2009-11-15T10:33:00.002+08:00

Earlier this year RobertPlant and I went to see Crispin Glover's Big Slide Show. It was a great night and at the end of the evening he took questions from the audience and was available to chat afterwards. I really wanted to stand up during question time and ask, "Do you have a girlfriend?" but frankly I felt too shy. Both RobertPlant and I were disappointed in my reticence.

So I resolved while we were lining up to have our Robert Forster books signed that I wouldn't let another opportunity pass me by. Not to ask him if he had a girlfriend! Sheesh. I could see he was wearing a wedding ring. I mean, come on.

I got up to him and handed him my book.

"You know, I can't stand how my own voice sounds so how does it feel, you're standing here in this bookshop and they're playing your songs over the speakers? Do you like hearing your music playing?"

"It's a bit odd. I don't mind it like this for a little while, but if it went on too long it'd feel strange."

"So you don't get into your car and slip on a 'best of' of yourself for the journey then?"

"Er, no."

He smiled but he also looked at me a little warily. Robert Forster thinks I'm a weirdo! Robert Forster clearly hasn't been to see Crispin Glover's Big Slide Show.

Mr Burt Reynolds and Mr Dolly Parton

2009-11-12T11:14:00.002+08:00

RobertPlant has decided to turn his obsessive attentions to Robert Forster.

[When will he ever become obsessed with Bob?? Oh the conversations we could be having!]

So we were at Planet Books last night where RF was signing books. RobertPlant had bought two copies of the book, one for each of us, for the requisite autograph. It's been a while since he's bought a new book; he was somewhat affronted at the cost. He's going to be even more affronted when he gets to the content. I'd picked up a few other books I planned to buy. I showed him the latest one by Alan Bennett.

"Do you think RF would be offended if I asked him to sign this instead?"

RobertPlant snorted. The old jokes always get the best reactions.

Y'know?

2009-11-10T16:19:00.003+08:00

Later on in the arvo one of Boxer Girl's friends and her husband turned up. At some point the friend got it in her head that she needed to set me up with one of her single (male) mates.

"Hey, here's one for you!" she said and proceeded to name a fellow.

You know how sometimes you just know someone isn't right for you? You don't need to meet them, you don't even need to have them described to you. You just know.

Fortunately the friend's husband knew too. He's a sensible, level-headed man and I was so grateful when he stepped in and said, "We are not introducing hb to Dodgy."

Aaaaaand....RACING!

2009-11-10T15:48:00.003+08:00

Around March this year I bought, on impulse, a hat. Then I texted Boxer Girl and said, "I've bought a hat! Hope you're having a Melbourne Cup do because I've got a hat to wear!"

I wasn't too worried about imposing on my friend. She may grizzle about having 175 people round to her abode for causal nibbles but that's just to disguise how much she enjoys organising a knees up. A few weeks ago I was feeling rather pleased to have been invited to her friend One-Eye's 50th, which Boxer Girl had insisted on hosting.

"Hey, are you having a Melbourne Cup bash this year?" I asked her.

"Well, I have to, don't I? You've bought a hat!"

And so it came to pass that cheese and champagne was handed around, the oldies danced in a conga line, and Canned Ham did overindulge and overdivulge. I was sober; it was a harsh scene.

Limpid

2009-11-08T20:05:00.002+08:00

Somehow, on Friday, an impromptu work lunch was organised. I just got caught up in the flow. It's amazing how silly some people can get after one glass of wine. There'd been some fairly fruity talk around the table and then it turned most sensibly to cricket but was brought back to basics again when one fellow declared, "I've got a third leg."

"More like a middle stump," said Canned Ham.

Things continued on in this vein for some time, me stone cold sober, taking notes and trusting in prudence. I don't know how it happened, but my ears tuned in on the conversation of a pair a little further down the table. I only hoped that what they were talking about wasn't related to the rubbish going on around me, because I recoiled a little when I heard the guy say, "Well, I might as well cut mine off. It's half-dead anyway."

Neither Afraid Nor Petrified

2009-11-01T20:19:00.002+08:00

I got on the phone to k. to tell her I thought I'd perhaps seen the Hawt Will Ferrell look alike at the lights as I was driving home.

"Only problem is, he was driving like a Murano or a CRV or something - you know, family man."

"Yeah, those are family men cars. He's probably got kids."

"Three beautiful kids. And, even worse, a wife."

"She'll be blonde and gorgeous."

"Bugger."

"And she'll probably have one of those laughs."

"Ugh. One of those laughs."

"But let's face it, if that's the kind of woman he'd marry, you don't want to be with him."

Then we bickered for a while about the lyrics to I Will Survive. That's how we roll.

On the Cusp

2009-10-29T10:36:00.002+08:00

Yesterday my electronic calendar died so I missed a couple of meetings and forgot that I had one in the afternoon. Right on meeting time, I was busy on the phone to New Girl, loudly berating her for confusing me about some stuff, when Canned Ham coughed politely at my office door and indicated the people waiting to see me.

After the meeting I got straight back on the phone to New Girl.

"What a disaster! I mean, the meeting itself was fine but I realised they were sitting at the table facing my desk and just look at it - empty coke bottle fallen over, bits of my lunch everywhere, my handbag tipped over and everything spilling out of it and a site up on the internet that's clearly not work-related."

"And on the upside," she said cheerily, "Not a bra in sight!"

A Separate Peace

2009-10-29T10:26:00.002+08:00

Grumpy and I were having breakfast together on the weekend. We'd been keeping it fairly friendly and civilised when Grumpy started whinging about his love life and how he'd never get married again (obviously the first time was too psychologically scarring to contemplate another attempt and thanks for making that clear).

"Would you get married again?" he asked.

"It's not really a goal, but if I met the right guy and he wanted to, well, why not?"

"Of course, it could be awkward explaining to him that you haven't quite got round to divorcing your first husband yet."

Luckily the waitress arrived right at that moment, delivering the bowl of cream I'd had the foresight to order. Hope he didn't get any on his whiskers.

Snake Tales Look

2009-10-19T09:46:00.003+08:00

I was driving along with Scarab and goodness knows how it came up but I said to her, "So Jessie Mo's brother wrote this blog for a while which was kind of like a defence of communism."

"What on Earth does that mean?"

"What do you mean? A blog? Communism?"

"No, defensive communism."

"Not defensive communism. I said, 'A defence of communism.'"

"Oh."

"Good one. Yeah, defensive communism: it's a whole new school of martial arts. You disarm your opponents with philosophy." [chops air] "Haaa! Capitalism alienates the worker from the means of production!" [chops air again] "HiiiiiiiiiYA! From each according to his ability, to each according to his need!"

"I think you've made your point."

Sometimes I feel so unappreciated.

Tea break's over, back on your heads!

2009-10-15T16:41:00.004+08:00

We were about a quarter of the way through boot camp this morning and I was already dripping sweat, beetroot red and generally begging for the sweet embrace of death.

"Right!" barked the instructor, "I want you to get into pairs. One of you is number one and one of you is number two."

"Do you want to be number one or two?" asked my partner in suffering.

"I'll be number two - because that's what I feel like."

Thrifting the Spend

2009-10-15T14:25:00.005+08:00

Last night I trundled up to New Girl's to help her move her cross trainer from one room to another (Man Hands is away and thus not available to apply his manly hands to the task). I'd been idling my time away at home when she'd texted me:

I need you to come over and help me move this maldicion cross trainer! Not NOW just whenever.

I felt the pain in the plain text and zooted straight up to her place. Well it didn't take long to move the equipment and then we took up flopped positions on the couches in the living room to contemplate the world and all that it contains: specifically, our marvellous selves. We were talking about our mutual Frugality Drive, in which we vow and declare not to spend any money - not counting all those clothes I bought last weekend, and possibly also not counting the new car she and Man Hands just bought. Other than that, it's frugality all the way. Starting right now. Totally.

One of New Girl's frugal options is to make her own iced coffee at home, rather than stopping at Muzz Buzz each morning on her way to work. Given her rampant caffeine addiction, and the price of a Muzz Buzz iced coffee, this seems like a good place to start. I've decided - well, the decision was kind of forced on me with the loss of my free car park - to stop driving to work every day and to catch the bus a minimum of three days a week. It's been a while since I've graced any form of public transport and I have to say that I'm quite looking forward to giving the great unwashed the benefit of my presence each day.

I begin this charitable work tomorrow. I see from the weather site that it's going to be a warm day, and it's only getting warmer for the next few months. My only hope is that when I jump on the trusty 881 that the great unwashed is a metaphor only and that my fellow passengers are right up to date with their ablutions and liberal applications of deodorant.

It's the journey, not the destination.

2009-10-15T13:58:00.007+08:00

With the way she carries on - "I've been on my own for twelve years!" - Canned Ham would have you think that since the demise of her marriage she has been a tragic, loveless spinster. The truth is a little different. The Ham has had many suitors and by her own admission has deliberately chosen not to settle down with any of them. She'd prefer to play the field than stake it all on a single...well...stallion.

Recently, one old flame - a rogue by all accounts - has drifted back on to the scene and Ham was going out to dinner with him and a few others last Friday night. She'd mention this approaching dinner every now and then and each time I'd feel compelled to question The Canned One's ability to resist this man's charms.

"Don't go there, hb!" she'd say. Or else she'd vow, "I'm not going there!" And so it went all week. The Ham was not "going there" and no one else was to even contemplate "going there" either. It didn't matter where there was, or what the, er, route, might be like, she was not interested in going, or even being, there, and the rest of us were well advised not to "go there" with regard to whether she went there or not, which she most emphatically wasn't doing.

When I came in to work on Monday and I finally saw The Ham, I asked her, "Well?" A look was all reply I got. Did she go there? Did she not go there? The answer may have to remain a mystery. All I know is, I won't be rifling through her rubbish looking for any ticket stubs.

Indeed

2009-10-08T13:50:00.003+08:00

From: hazelblackberry@
Sent: 07 October 2009 3:13 PM
To: Jessie Mo@
Subject: RE: XX strikes again

.....I was thinking that if I ever went on RSVP, my profile would start like this: I plan to make some lucky man very unhappy one day. New Girl suggests I add: Don’t squirm so, Little Man, it could be you!

From: Jessie Mo@
Sent: Thursday, 8 October 2009 6:23 AM
To: hazelblackberry@
Subject: RE: XX strikes again

I like your clarity around what the man will get out of a relationship with you.

Whether You Heart or Hate Etsy

2009-10-07T15:57:00.001+08:00

Regretsy

Thanks to Ngaire for the link.

Just Like Fatima Mansions

2009-10-07T15:45:00.003+08:00

Another thing about The Perth Guy: he's not afraid of a sideburn. A good sideburn is - deep sigh - an amazing romantic weapon.

And Perth Guys never catch the bus.

He's hung up on a clown from the 60s.

2009-10-05T12:33:00.005+08:00

RobertPlant got all excited months ago when he found out that The Stems were doing three final - last chance to see - shows in Perth, so he promptly went out and bought tickets to all three. I went along with him to Mojo's on Saturday night for that performance. It was a pretty good night. The place was, naturally enough, packed to the rafters with Perth Guys - little wonder, The Stems themselves being died-in-the-wool Perth Guys. RobertPlant seemed happy. I could tell he was happy: he kept handing over money without complaint so I could toddle over to the bar and get myself another drink. I wish I was good at reviews so I could give you a review, but I'm not. Just take my word for it, it was a fun night. You totally missed out. RobertPlant ran into people he knew from the old days, just hanging on the scene, the way he did. For one, brief moment he was re-immersed in his glory days.

For me the highlight of the evening was earlier, when we were browsing for books in Elizabeth's. A couple in their late 30s/early 40s came wandering in, looking like first-few-dates material. The guy took a look around, hitched up his pants and loudly declared, "I'm not really into books." RobertPlant and I shared a meaningful look; a look I also shared with an older, immaculately dressed woman a little further along the aisle. I wanted to sidle up to the female half of the couple and urge her to flee while she still could. Then I glanced in her direction and from the expression on her face I think that's exactly what she was planning to do anyway.

One-Eyed; One-Horned

2009-10-05T12:15:00.003+08:00

Scarab and I were walking around the bridges yesterday evening when we ran smack into the Breast Cancer Foundation's Purple Twilight Walk. A mass of purple people*, all walking in the opposite direction. And looking at us.

"I won't look at them anymore," I said to Scarab. "Each glance in our direction feels like a reproach."

"Well, they clearly didn't do a good job of advertising this. I'd be walking if I'd known about it."

As we marched on past the swelling wave of purple, I said, "Scabs, just check out how many people there are. I reckon they did a pretty good job."

"Huh. Maybe. But they didn't get my attention, did they?"

And that, my friends, is what Bill Bryson would call an unanswerable reply.

*Not purple people eaters. Come on, be realistic.

Not for cocaine, then.

2009-10-05T10:57:00.002+08:00

I bought a packet of straws on the weekend.

I got them out at work today ready to violently rip open the bag and use the first one.

I noticed that someone, in the shop presumably, had made a very helpful notation on the label holding the pack together.

It said: DRINKS.

Stand Back!

2009-10-02T15:42:00.006+08:00

Yesterday New Girl and I met in town for a spot of shopping. We armed ourselves with super-caffeinated drinks and sallied forth. It wasn't long before I was waving my list around and declaring triumphantly, "I have everything on my list - everything!" She seemed impressed, and that, quite frankly, is the way we like it.

"The thing is," I told her on the phone this morning, "I may have got all the things I wrote down on the list, but I've realised now that I didn't write down on the list everything I needed*."

"A rookie mistake," said New Girl, doing a remarkable job of keeping the judgment out of her voice.

She knows how to wield a piece of plastic like a deadly weapon. We'd been standing at one particular counter in one particular department store where the glamorous one was ordering up some rather luxurious emollients.

"How much is that going to cost you?" I asked, out of the side of my mouth.

"I have no idea. But let's just say a lot," she replied, also ootsohm.

When the saleswoman rang the items up and stated the price in the blandest of tones, hand out already awaiting payment, I had to put one foot back a bit just to keep my balance. I reeled, if you see what I mean. New Girl looked composed as she coughed up the readies.

"Did you see," she said as we exited the store, furiously sucking our super-caffeinated drinks,"how I didn't even react when she said the amount."

"I noted it. It was a powerhouse performance." I said.

"You, however, visibly flinched."

Another rookie mistake. I'll never make it in this game. Particularly since I have no idea what the game is.

*Wanted.

Warning! Spoiler Alert!

2009-09-20T13:14:00.002+08:00

I completely forgot that I'd made plans to catch up with k. this morning and trooped off to have breakfast with New Girl instead. k. rang me while I was out.

"All I have to say to you is: number two," she said by way of her opening gambit.

"Oh hello - what?"

"Number two."

"I don't understand."

"Don't worry, I'm talking about your list, not telling you you're in the shit."

"Ohhh. So you figured it out. Well done."

"Well, I knew about your grandmother, the John McEnroe one was too specific, and I think too highly of you to believe that you'd be stupid enough to risk life and limb leaping off a bridge with only a lacky band to protect you."

"Actually, I did line up to go bungee jumping but I couldn't be bothered waiting - the line was too long."

"I underestimated you. It wasn't brains that saved your life, it was impatience."

Well, what could she expect? I started out my educational life in a cave!

My Four

2009-09-18T19:00:00.001+08:00

(1) I went to kindergarten in a cave.
(2) I bungee jumped in New Zealand.
(3) I ran over my grandmother (with a car).
(4) I was once knocked over by John McEnroe.

Check it, Denzel.

2009-09-18T18:28:00.004+08:00

You find out fascinating things at training days with your colleagues.

I learned that one guy has a buffet phobia, and this other girl has a fear of internal stairwells. I have filed this info away and will use it against them when they least expect it.

We had to play a stupid ice breaker where we wrote down four things about ourselves, one of which was a lie. We read our list out to the table and everyone had to take a stab at identifying the lie. After all the jolly japes were over and the mirth had died down, the guy running the show asked different tables what the most interesting true thing was they'd heard at their table.

"I was amazed to hear that the man we call Stan is a hermaphrodite."

"I never would have guessed that Sheryl is beaten regularly by her charming husband."

"Marjorie told us all she still wets the bed - at 58!"

You know. In that vein. Each revelation was met with a bit of a laugh and a smattering of applause. Then one girl piped up from the back of the room. She's a girl with some problems and I should know because I'm her manager.

"Well," she began, "the most interesting thing this table heard was something I said. I was at a video shop in Greenwood once and I realised I was standing next to Michael Jackson! I can tell you, I was very scared!!!"

As a few faces turned to me, seeming to say, "Aren't you responsible for her?", I could take some small comfort from the fact that, for once, the derisive snort that cut across the cold, dead weight that was the suddenly silent room, did not belong to me.

An Opening

2009-09-17T17:43:00.003+08:00

"The thing about Ikea," I said to RobertPlant, "is that it's filled with all these irresistible little Swedish things."

"And the stuff they sell isn't too bad either."

Homer, I hardly knew you.

2009-09-17T17:11:00.004+08:00

RobertPlant is beavering away on another literary masterpiece, or three. He sent me some excerpts to read and then asked for an instant opinion (ie, validation). I give good validation.

"I really like this one. I think this is the best thing I've seen you write." [I said, validatingly.]

"Oh yeah, out of the dozens of things I've written."

"No! There's the one about the French guy, and that other one about the war."

[Snort of derision.] "I looked at that one the other day. What a load of... I'd love to be able to completely re-write it."

"It's a good story!"

"Yeah, well I've decided it's time to clean up my act. I've got to stop pretending I'm Bruce Chatwin and start pretending I'm Peter Ackroyd. I need to channel a brand new effete English writer."

Startling the Horses

2009-09-15T16:10:00.003+08:00

I decided I had just enough time for a quick shower before Inge de Bruin arrived at my place for dinner. (No, I didn't cook. A quick trip to the shops netted me a gourmet pie, a salad and a Vienetta.) I was busy getting myself into a lather - in the shower - when there was a knock at the door. Hastily wrapping a towel around me I rushed to open it, assuming it was Inge arriving early.

I had the idea to hurl the door open, fling one arm up in the air and trill, "Ta daaaa!" but something stopped me at the last minute. Some might attribute it to common sense, but you can't use what you don't have. Nevertheless, the door was still opened with quite a flourish only for me and one of Fremantle's mayoral candidates to find ourselves face-to...er...face.

Both of us were instantly covered in a fog of embarrassment and confusion which he tried to address by shoving a pamphlet in my damp hand and I tried to respond to with an attractive, braying laugh and squawking, "Oh, I thought you were someone else."

It was all very unsatisfying. Each of us came away from the encounter without knowing if we'd got the other's vote.

She could always start her own blog, you know.

2009-09-08T20:19:00.003+08:00

I wanted to capture that last little exchange for blogging posterity so I whipped out my phone at dinner and quickly recorded a voice memo with the basic deets.

k. didn't like what she heard - she thought it made her sound like she'd been bitching it up big time.

"Oh, don't worry about it," I said, breezily waving away her concerns. "This is just to jog my memory. I finesse it later."

"Great," said k. "That gives me no consolation whatsoever. Remember: I read your blog. I've seen your 'finessing'."

My only defence is that wine was involved.

2009-09-08T20:06:00.002+08:00

k. and I were enjoying a spot of dinner out. We were talking about boot camp because, regrettably, this is what I have come to conversationally. k. had started boot camp with me, if you remember, but had very wisely and quickly given it the flick. We had different takes on some of the people who had been in the original class. I didn't like the skinny bints who looked me up and down each morning as I arrived, while k. was less fond of a more mature woman who participated for a while and then dropped out.

In the course of telling a story, I mentioned a couple of names.

"Is she the one I didn't like?" asked k.

"No, that was _____. She doesn't come anymore."

"But really," I added. "I shouldn't comment. I know nothing about her personal life."