Who Gives a Hoot?

There are bush fire raging in Southern New South Wales, taking out houses and lives and yet the headlines is 'Nicole's Make-Up Mishap'

Is it just me that thinks that is just a bit screwed up?

2009 – A Year in Review

On reflection 2009 was a considerably better year for me than 2008. After all, I wasn’t forced to move, I wasn’t unemployed and no one died. I managed to wedge in some fun between the work days and a couple of momentous occasions. All in all, I think it went pretty well. Here was I thinking it was rubbish, that’s why it’s been so long since I posted anything.

January: Enrolled in a Masters of Education at UTS
Movies: Role Models, Underworld 3, Gran Torino, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Places Visited:Sydney Wildlife World

February: Dropped out of Masters of Education at UTS, Started working back at the RTA and moved the Alpacas for the last time.
Movies: Slumdog Millionaire, Zack and Mira Make a Porno,
Places Visited: None

March: Walked in the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras in support of friends, went to a fancy dress party as Dolly Parton and added a new pussy cat to the family.
Movies: Watchmen
Placed Visited: None

April: Finally had a house warming party, one year and one month after moving in.
Movies: The Boat that Rocked
Placed Visited: None

May: Went to a Nutcracker ballet at the Sydney Opera House courtesy of a friend with a free ticket.
Movies: X-Men Origins:Wolverine, PS I Love You
Placed Visited: The Top Gear Australia studios to see a filming of a episode

June: Started a 14 weeks drive around NSW for work. Had a lovely long weekend in Ballina and Byron Bay, saw snow for the first time in 12 years and sent a birthday card to a dog
Movies: Terminator Salvation,
Placed Visited:Newcastle, Port Macquarie, Grafton, Ballina, Tamworth, Narrabri (split wine down my front), Dubbo, Bega, Cooma, Wagga Wagga, Narradera, Parkes, Orange, Yass, Goulburn, Broken Hill

July: Held my own minutes silence on the 4th, Attended and passed the St John First Aid course
Movies: Transformers: Revenge, Harry Potter 6, The Hangover, The Proposal,
Placed Visited: Wollongong,

August: I was burgled. Was told I had lovely, healthy white skin at the Skin Cancer Clinic, passed my Learners licence for Motorbike and started Yoga classes.
Movies: Inglorious Basterds
Placed Visited: Sydney Cricket Ground to see the Sydney Swans play Brisbane Lions

September: Filed for divorce, started seeing a personal trainer, attended a Stand-Up comedy course and delivered seven minutes of funny stuff in a comedy club
Movies: Funny People
Placed Visited: Mount Tomah Botanical Gardens, Warragamba Dam

October: Took my dream bike, a Triumph Bonneville 750 for a test drive, rode over 600kms to Molong in country NSW, , won a phot compition at work, started Photography and Meditation classes and started playing Farmville on Facebook
Movies: None
Placed Visited: Nambucca Heads, Coffs Harbour

November: Won $24 on the Melbourne Cup (exactly what I had staked), went down to Melbourne to see Dad who was over from the UK, saw sisters as well. My divorce was finalised on the 7th
Movies: A Christmas Carol, The Invention of Lying
Placed Visited: Emerald and Marysville, VIC

December: Went to South Africa for five days, had a lion attack my handbag, saw a clairvoyant and had my first ever paid article in a full colour magazine (Dec. Two Wheels)
Movies: None so far, but it's only the 14th
Placed Visited: Johannesburg

Here’s hoping 2010 is as good

Fight or Flight

I learnt a few things in the last seven days.

1. Not all insurance assessors are horrible. Of course I haven't seen the result of her assessment yet, but so far this seems to be true.
2. You can't always trust your 'friends' to support you in the decisions you make.
3. Some things still shock me.
4. It's hard to take a guy called Jeff, talking about English Literature seriously when he's dressed in drag.
5. The weather in Aussie still makes me smile, I put my washing out at 10.30 pm and it was dry by 8am the following morning and it's still winter.
6. Bok Choi flowers if left in the pot, as does broccoli
7. Eating raw cabbage makes you fart
8. Motorcyclists out for a weekend ride are very friendly towards other motorcyclists out for a weekend ride
9. A cat that has been in fight, and then has the flight reaction can release an awful lot of poo.
10. A poo covered cat doesn't protest too much when shoved under the shower.

Self Sufficient

Today I received an email from a job agent that made me laugh. With being robbed on Monday I needed it.

‘This is P. from Sussex Arthur, you talked to Ruby back in February this year about a trainer role.

Ruby wanted to know how you were doing and if you are currently in a role?

When you last talked you had a cat that you could not leave for lengths of time, is that still the case?’

The last sentence was the culprit, what does she want to hear, that Puss is dead. I replied, then deleted most of it and sent;

‘Thanks for thinking of me. I'm currently working at the Road Place in North Sydney and about to have my contract renewed for 12 months.

I now have two cats that can't be left for long periods of time ;-)

Hope you are both keeping well.’

What I should have written and sent was;

I no longer have a cat that needs my assistance, as just after we spoke last he grew opposable thumbs and can now feed himself and his new flatmate.

(the names have been changed to protect the dumbarse)

Scrabble

I’m a big fan of Scrabble, but being a lady of the single persuasion I rarely have anyone who wants to play with me. So I have Scrabble on my mobile, which I used to while away the many hours I spend sitting on public transport.

The other day I was having a quick game where you are shown four sent of tiles and you have to make the best words you can, you play against the game.

I can’t remember what words I made, but I do recall the final set of tiles being all vowels. I tried a few words with only vowels and was told I couldn’t have any of them, including AI, IOU and eu. It was worth a try. I passed on the final round and the game won.

The words it won with were;

CITO
TERCELS
SPODDY
EUOI

Now, I didn’t know any of these words so I wrote them down. According to Dictionary.Com, only tercels is a real word. It’s a small male hawk, and a plural at that. The other words where not found. And, Yes, I know it was a bit sad that I wrote the words down, but I had to know if I had finally cracked.

This is the first time I’ve wondered if the machine isn’t just making stuff up, often I put in words and it says ‘Not in the Dictionary’ then proceeds to put something down that I have no choice but accept or cancel the game.

I don’t know if I should consider deleting the game from my phone or just carry on playing and learn some made up words I can use to score good points. I’ll most likely do the later, I’ll just have to remember that I can’t use them when playing a human.

Blood to caffeine ratio

Today I have had two cups of Earl Grey tea and one large Latte. And I’m a little concerned.

I never used to drink drinks with caffeine in them. I was a herbal tea drinker, you know, a strawberry infusion or peach melba fuzzy. Rarely, if ever caffeine, mainly because I didn’t like the taste.

Now I love Earl Grey, his wife ain’t bad either.
I’ve upgraded from the occasional cappuccino that would make me so wired I’d be running around the office like a nut bag to a Latte that barely registers

What’s changed?

Am I older so my taste buds have mutated to except the bitter liquid? They did with olives, so maybe that’s it.
Am I sleeping less so need more caffeine to stimulate me during my waking hours? Unlikely because I pretty much get eight to nine hours a night.
Is it like the G&T thing where from the moment my mother died I got cravings for it? Spooky, but maybe.

I really don’t know, but just like with many things in my life at the moment, I’m just going with the flow and not standing up and waving too much.



- My mug at work. 475ml of Earl Gray goodness

The music will live on

A couple of weeks ago a musical icon passed away before his time. The press have loved the renewed opportunity to lay into him, fans have been lining up to pay their respects and communities have popped up all over the internet singing his praises.

Personally I never believed he did the things they said he did. I think his naivety of life and the lack of someone to say no to him lead him down a path of easy to make errors that had dire consequences. So I continued to listen to his music and enjoy it as I always had.

Now, I’m over it.

It reminds me of how I felt when Def Leppard released Hysteria. It was an awesome album, but the manager in Fosters, where I worked as a Saturday girl played it non-stop from opening at 9am to close at 5.30pm every Saturday for several weeks. I had spent my hard earned pennies on that album, but couldn’t bear to listen to it because I was SO sick of it.

The same goes for the music of the recently deceased. I’m having a really hard time at the moment because I know he was a genius musician and moved like no one else ever will, but enough already…

Just let him rest in peace and music companies, stop trying to make a buck or millions out of his passing.

Leave It OuT!

Today is bin day. At some ungodly dark hour this morning a man in a truck drove down my street and tipped the rubbish that I, and others, had gathered over the last week into the back of his rather noisy vehicle.

Last night I pulled the general rubbish (food scraps, dry cleaner wrappers, pizza boxes etc.) out to the road side, followed by the recycling bin (tins, paper, cardboard). Garden rubbish goes out next week, if there is any. The roadside is about seven feet from my front gate, it is a pretty manicured grassy area which I mow or have mowed on a regular basis. I look after it.

When I left for work this morning I left the bins out, I'll pull them in when I get home. My morning schedule doesn't have room for faffing about with wet rubbish bins.

However, I know that when I get in my bins will be sitting on my front lawn. They will have been moved from the roadside and put on my front garden. I can't explain why this p*sses me off. but it does. Every time it happens. And it happens every week!
It has been suggested to me that it's harmless.
It has been suggested to that whoever does this is trying to be helpful
It has been suggested to me that it helps the streetscape look it's best

I don't see it in any of these ways.

I see it as interfering
I see it as rude and unnecessary, in fact I see it as trespassing, GET OFF MY LAWN!
As for the streetscape, I see several other bins in the street as I walk home waiting for owners that have the misfortune to work during the day. Plus, the neighbours to my left haven't mowed the lawn or roadside for months, so the streetscape is pretty much stuffed before my bins sits there for a few hours after being emptied.

I won't say anything of course...

But, really that's because the culprits wouldn't understand a word I was saying anyway.

Too Quick?

Clearly not.

The bird on the radio advert says, 'men who are coming too fast, SMS 'TRY', that's T.R.Y to 1800 xxx xxx to make love last for longer'

Now, is it just me who wouldn't want a man who couldn't spell TRY?

And if you think about it, is it really important that it's spelt correct?

After all this is a sport obsessed culture, so surely even a Tri would do, because if you really think about, if in bed even a touch down would leave you with a smile on your face.

It's Back ;-)

35 girls where whittled down to 13...

Tyra says ‘The first name I’m going to call’

Aminat – aged 21, 6’1 in her stocking feet plus another 6inches of afro
Natalie – aged 21
Fo – aged 19, claims to be blackican (a mix of afro American/Mexican) has freckles and loves them
Alison – aged 20, has a weird fascination with nose bleeds and the big wide eyes
Tahlia – aged 18, a survivor of massive burns to her belly and upper thighs when she was little
Celia – aged 25, white and blonde and the oldest in this years compition
Nijah – aged 18, prom queen, need to say more?
London – aged 18, a religious nut that preaches in the street
Teyona – aged 19, Tyra said she looked like she was caught in a wind tunnel, but in a good way
Kortney – aged 24, this year’s only plus size model, which means she’s a size 10
Isabella – aged 19, suffers grand maul seizures
Jessica – aged 18, thinks she’s all that and is proud to anouch it to all she meets
Sandra – aged 19, moved to Rockville, Maryland from Kenya when she was 8

Damage

I wonder what the decibel volume is, inside the cabin of a SAAB 340 turboprop?

I’d had a sleep, which happened between Sydney and Dubbo. I fell asleep pretty quickly after take off because the cloudy, rainy weather made the plane move in some interesting ways. My body went into auto-shutdown to prevent the other passengers hearing me up-chuck the whole way.

During the Dubbo – Broken Hill leg (yes, this flight sets down mid way to let off and pick up) I got to thinking about the propellers that keep us in the air and the almighty racket they make.

I’ll give you an example. When Tracey, the flight attendant asked me if I would like a snack, I had to ask her to repeat her question. She was standing less than a foot away from me. Finally on the third asking, I understood and nodded the affirmative.

So I ask again. How many decibels in the cabin? The flight attendant couldn’t answer the question, and neither could the crew, when I asked. All they could say was it was within legal limits. Incidently I had to ask a couple of times, even after Tracey had put her hand to her ear while saying, 'sorry, these planes make you a bit deaf'.

I had been seated in the single row of seats on the left of the plane. The ‘A’ row. The right hand side has two seats, and the seat markers look like a date line:

1BC 2BC 3BC and on upto 11BC

Tracey counts her passengers on and off.

Really it a bit like being on a school trip. Actually, thinking about it, and as you know I’ve been doing a bit of thinking lately, it’s a lot like being on a school trip. Only, instead of the noise being produced by a bunch of kids who really don’t want to see Fishbourne Roman Palace again, it’s the two, shiny, four bladed propellers on the outside.

PS. I really would be interested to know the answer to the decibel question if anyone knows.

Boarding Call

I arrived at the airport just after 8am this morning. By 8.15 I was supping a Boost Juice (Orange, Carrot and Ginger) and scoffing a Bacon and Egg McJodie in the airport lounge. I don’t like flying much. Turbulence makes me sick and I generally find the whole process a monumental waste of time.

Having said that, I do enjoy reading between the line of the announcements.

‘This is an urgent call for Mrs Jones (or whatever name it may be). Your plane is fully boarded and is awaiting your arrival for take off. Please make your way to gate lounge X immediately.’

You just know that the polite lady on the other end of the speaker wire is making faces and hand jestures as she really wants to say something along the lines of, ‘Oi, Mrs Jones. Stop shopping and get your arse in your seat. You’re holding everyone up!’

Collective Nouns

Written 20th June 2009

It’s not something you think about on a regular basis. You are taught that it’s a flock of birds, a herd of cows and a gaggle of school girls. If you are really lucky you have a parent or teacher that tells you about a murder of crows.

Yesterday I got to give this subject a closer examination as I drove at 110kph along the Hume Highway toward a looming black mass. As I got closer I saw it was, what it was could only be described as a ‘swarm’ of sparrows.

Yes, I know it’s supposed to be flock, but you know what, I saw a swarm. There were hundreds, moving as a single entity before dividing into two as the car passed through them. Not a single bird was damaged. To my left, wandering around in the paddock, was a flock of sheep.

How can that be? A flock of sheep, a flock of birds. Surely it should be a herd of sheep, after all they have four legs and no wings. How got to decide these collective nouns?

I’m pretty sure when Hitchcock started working on ‘The Birds’ he wasn’t thinking flock of seagulls, he was thinking murder of seagulls. Seagulls are so much more intimidating than crows, despite the latter being black, they sound so much nicer than seagulls with their ugly craw. You can bet Janet Leigh was screaming blue murder.

When you spend as much time alone in a car and in hotel rooms as I have lately, you get to thinking about this sort of pointless crap.

A Breath of Fresh Air

Written 15th June 2009

I’ve been driving around NSW for a couple of weeks now. Mostly I’ve been stuck in the car, foot to the floor and an eye on the speedo. I’ll confess to having strayed over the limit, but I pull it back pretty quick.

Last week I drove nearly 1400km in four days. My back aches and my concentration levels are dropping by the minute. I need to step back, Doris a bit and let some of the local air into my lungs. I was able to do just that yesterday.

I left home at 1030 to drive to Bega, the heart of cheese country. It took me six hours to complete the drive with a couple of stops to rest, stuff my face with fish and chips and take pictures. One such photo opportunity came as I was driving past the lakes about half an hour outside Bega. I was shooting along a winding road, rolling round corners and letting my eye drift over the lovely scenery around me. Around one such bend was a sight that caused me to do a quick rear view mirror check and then a hard slam on the breaks.

I knew his was a once in the life time chance to get this photo. The scene before me would never be the same again. The clouds would be different; the sun would be a tone lighter or darker. Every thing about it would change.

The car came to a halt with a small slide as I hit the gravel of the lay-by. I slammed the gear stick into P, grabbed the camera of the passenger seat and jumped out the car. The air surrounded me with a soothing chill, the scent of eucalyptus and cold soil filled my nose. I was sent back to my teens. I wasn’t sure why so I shook it off and took my photos.

I stood next to the Princes Highway, camera in hand, starring at nature displaying itself in all its glory. It was open, raw and stunning. I knew that no matter how many pictures I took, I would never be able to show the beauty of it. A car whoosing past reminded me where I was.



As I walked back to the car, I realised why the smell had triggered a memory trip. The cold air and smell reminded me of walking the dog with my Muv. During the winter months in the UK, Muv perpetually had a hankie with Olbus Oil on it.

I climbed back into the car with a smile on my face. I like that I can now think about Muv without it brining tears to my eyes.

Serena Vs Brian

Written 4th June 2009

I brought a Garmin Nuvi a few weeks ago and after a bit of a wrestle over updating via the internet with speed alerts and school zones it’s worked out well. It’s even providing me with a little entertainment on my journey.

I selected the female voice called Serena to narrate my trips, she tells me when to turn and can pronounce town and street names like Woolgooga.

The speeding and school alerts come with a default male voice. I’ve called him Brian. He sounds like a Brian.

The maps are not the most up to date and with all the recent road works on the Pacific Highway things are changing rapidly, so today Serena got a bit confused a couple of times today.

Near Maelstom a new, improved section of the Pacific Highway has recently opened up, it diverts slightly from the old route and it resulted in a string of Serena calling out…

‘Recalculating’

‘Recalculating’

After a couple of minutes of this I heard a male voice in my mind, it sounded an awful lot like Brian. I pictured Serena and Brian having a barny.

‘You silly bint, it’s over there. Can’t you even follow a map!?’

That Bloody Big Banana

Written 3rd June 2009

I’ve reached the third hotel at the end of the third day on my state tour to deliver training in a rather dry procedure. I driven over 500kilometres up the east coast from Sydney, past the Central Coast, the Nabiac Motorcycle museum and the Big Banana. I’ve delivered nearly twelve hours of training to more than 40 people. For the third time in three day I’ve just dined alone in a restaurant full of couple, salesmen and groups of ladies that dine. It feels a bit weird to be honest.

The first night I had a steak and ribs. It came with a side salad and some roasted sweet potato. Lone Star in Tuggerah delivered the goods as always. I arrived just after 5.30pm so there wasn’t much competition for a booth. I was gone by 6.15.

On the second night I needed a break between leaving Newcastle and arriving at Port Macquarie. I stopped in Buladulah at the Plough Inn Hotel for a quick bite. I ordered grilled barramundi with chips and a cuppa. It was cold in the dining room so I kept my cardigan on while I watched Country Music telly and Keno. My fish was dry when it arrived, but tartar gave it a bit of life. The chips where awesome.



My solo dining experience was earned after driving for more than three hours. I went for a walk. I fancied a drink, so driving to food was not an option. I ended up in a little place attached to a another motel called Zack’s on Bent. It was decorated in a simple way but that only highlighted the great art on the walls. There where linen table clothes and polished silverware, I too a seat at a table that gave me a view of a particularly fine example of colour use. I ordered a glass of Oxford Landing Sauvignon Blanc and sticky braised pork belly on brocolini with macadamia, nut crumbled sweet potato, mustard fruits and ribery jus. Sounds flash eh?

My dinner arrived at the same time as my second glass of wine. The waitress delivered it, then produced the biggest pepper grinder I have ever seen, after a giggle and an impromptu photo shoot, I started eating dinner. It was too sweet. I couldn’t taste any mustard on my fruits, which included glace cherries, pineapple, apricots and melon. The pork was good once I’d scraped the fruit off.

The Hotel Curse

Written 1st June 2009

I’m travelling about NSW for work. This is the first day of winter. This is the first night of many were I shall be staying away from home in a hotel.

After driving from home to Woy Woy on the Central Coast, then presenting one afternoon session of training, I drove to Newcastle.

I checked into Travel Lodge. It’s just around the corner from the office where I will be training tomorrow, so it’s perfect. I was given room 411. A nice low number, on the forth floor. I went out to the car to get my suitcase, camera bag and travelling electronics (iPod, GPS and laptop). I stepped out of the lift and started walking, looking at door numbers. The corridor stretched out before me, orange carpet, ecru walls interrupted by ecru doors with small silver numbers, halogen bulbs dropping pinpoints of light.

I realised after passing several doors I had been struck by the hotel curse.

Whenever I have stayed in a hotel, I am ALWAYS, without fail at the furthest point from the lift. It happens every time.

I console myself with the fact that clearly the best rooms are at the end of the corridor.

I can live to dream ;-)

Listen very carefully…

…I will say this only about six times.

I’m delivering training at the moment at work. In fact until the 13th July that is pretty much all I will be doing. I’ve already delivered five of just under 60 sessions to be delivered in that time frame. Already I want to scream at people.

FOR F*CKS SAKE, THIS ISN’T HARD!

I stand in a room, full of people looking at me. In front of them on the table they have a document, if they have bothered to read the instructions before coming along, about 30% don’t have one, so I make them share. They also have a folder of handouts. I either have slides projected on the wall behind me, or I don’t, depends on the room. I talk about a fairly dry subject for 150 minutes. I try and include a little humour, I try to include examples, I even try to get some kind of response out of the participants. Mostly they just stare at me blankly.

Is this what it’s like teaching high school?

People who have worked for the company for twenty odd years give examples that are out of date and try to argue why they shouldn’t have been replaced (the examples that is, not the person. I would argue, it’s the person that sometimes needs replacing). These pointless and off topic examples take time, they eat into my precious time. I have to skip points later. I have to get them back on track without causing too much of a stir. I have to be nice.

It’s hard to be nice when your feet hurt, your back aches and you’ve already said the same things at least a dozen times.

I’m thinking… calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean.

____________________________

I wrote this at 1338 on 26/5/09 in Parramatta. Haven't had internet access until today to post it.

My Favourite Things

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright crimson high heels and feelings of smitten
Being outside watching veg grow in spring
These are a few of my favourite things

Listenin’ to music and wild meeting doodles
Fresh warm bread smells
And laksa with noodles
alpaca that run with the herd, what that brings
These are a few of my favourite things

boys in white t-shirts with blue demin flashes
Make up and costume that match fake eyelashes
memories of childhood and all that, that brings
These are a few of my favourite things

When the cat bites
When the bell rings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favourite things
And then I don't feel...so bad

Sing to the tune of My Favourite Things from the The Sound of Music by Rodgers and Hammerstein.

When...

…does graffiti stop being a simple defacement of property and become art?

I’ve asked myself this question many times over the years, because I get enjoyment out of walking along and suddenly being stopped in my tracks by a word or image that requires my attention, sprayed across a wall.

I enjoy standing there and working out want it says. Sometimes it’s a simple word, sometimes it’s more complex. I enjoy spotting the details in the background and sometimes a treat in the foreground. The colours and technique with a spray can never fails to stun, how do they manage to get no runs?

I know from a past relationship (a friend at school would do such work) that these works aren’t just produced in the blink of an eye during an evening of boredom. They take weeks of pre planning, sketches, gathering materials (e.g. spray cans), they even need a look out sometimes. These are public works of art that need careful planning and thought, and of course nerves of steel. For being caught, means arrest, arrest could mean a stint in prison and a criminal record.

I have a certain admiration for the guys that put this much effort into their art.

That said, it’s all spoiled by the ‘taggers’. People with a marker pen that feel the need to write their name or initials or ‘tag’ on any flat surface they come across. Train seats and windows, walls, public benches, toilets doors, you name it and it will no doubt have a tag on it. Or at the very least the smear that shows someone tried to clean it off.

So where is the line between public nuisance and public artist?


- An example from Smith Street in Surry Hills

Victim or not?

A couple of weeks ago a well known NRL (National Rugby League) player and media personality hit the front page of the newspaper because he’d had group sex, SEVEN years ago.

What I’m about to write may be controversial. Don’t shout at me if you don’t agree.

I was annoyed by the revelations of the woman that she had spent the last seven years mentally scared by the consensual sex act that took place in a hotel room in 2002. She was 19 at the time and had sex with up to six NRL players while another six watched. She wasn’t drugged and was there by choice. Five days after the event, she went to the police and cried foul. They investigated and found no wrong doing on the part of the male players.

The woman, identified only as ‘Clare’ has brought this up seven years after the event, by appearing on an ABC program. She outed a particular high profile player and NO ONE else. That player has appeared on television with his wife since, the wife said ‘this was discussed between us seven years ago. It has been dealt with, the only thing he did wrong was betray my trust.’ As far as they are concerned it was done and dusted.

Today, a work mate of ‘Clare’ came out and said that she boasted about having sex with NRL players in the days that followed the 2002 hotel room romp.

The only named player has been stood down from his jobs as presenter and assistant coach.

My questions are these.

Are Matthew Johns and his family being dragged through the media for all to see and discuss as a scapegoat because the NRL doesn’t know who else to blame for the poor behaviour of players?

When does a woman who consented and bragged about a sexual encounter become a ‘victim’?

Is it just me that thinks there are more important things than a seven year old not story that deserves space on the front pages of the national media?

links:
A Current Affair Interview
Johns Stood Down
Woman Bragged
Who's Really to Blame?

If you want more on this story, search for Matthew John in Google News, the above is random selection of over 1000 links

Mothers Day

I didn’t get out of bed until 2pm. I had a bit of a bad morning, thinking about my Muv, reading and giving the cats big cuddles.

My cats, are, after all my kids.

Of course, they were completely unaware of the significance of the day and failed to give me a card or present, unless you count O-Ren sneezing on me.

In the afternoon I got up, pulled on some tracksuit bottoms and a pair of boots, went to the shed and got out the garden tools. I felt like digging. So I turned the soil, added blood and bone and Dynamic Lifter, then turned it all in.

The veggie patch a planted a few weeks ago now has;

Carrots
Cabbage
Cauliflower
Beetroot
Leeks
Rocket
Muslain lettuce
Peas
Radish
And some herbs waiting to go into pots.

Harvesting can start around the end of June, if the neighbour cat doesn’t dig it all up.

What it really needs though, is barb-a-rube.

Culture Vulture

I’ve out twice this week on school nights, on Tuesday and last night, Thursday.

On Tuesday, after work, L and I went to the taping of episode five of Top Gear Australia. We met outside Liverpool railway station and after a few trips around the town centre we figure out which road we needed to take to get to Bankstown Aerodrome. The expression of interest email and subsequent invite email had stated the filming would take approximately two to two and half hours, and to wear shoes that had a closed in toe and were comfortable for that amount of time standing on a concrete floor. I dressed suitable, as did L.

After two hours of hanging around and never quite making it to the front of the crowd to see what was happening, we planted ourselves near a Kombi with an armchair in the back. There we made some new mates. Three guys who also had failed to see anything and decided that they had to get to the Kombi soon. We chatted, laughed, took the micky and generally played silly buggers. L got so hungry she resorted to having a Chupa Chups for tea. At about hour three, L was making noise to go home, I convinced her that the presenters couldn’t fluff their lines much more and it would soon be over. I was sort of right.

The hanging around at the back paid off. On the 8th June I’ll be on telly. I managed to get myself in the front row while they filmed a segment with a Kombi and a chalkboard. I’m sure I’ll look like a complete noggin’ and cringe when I see myself, but I do believe it was the late great Andy Warhol that said, ‘In the future, everyone will have 15 minutes of fame.’ I think I notched up my first 3.

Last night, I went to the ballet at the Sydney Opera House, the total polar opposite of standing in a hanger in the middle of Bankstown. D, a friend from work had been let down by her usual companions and had asked me if I would like to see, Nutcraker.

It’s been a while since I saw a ballet. Cyrano de Bergerac was the last time I went, that was in the 90s and in London. I jumped at the chance to go again, great music, wonderful dancing and lush costumes. What more could a girl ask for on a Thursday night?

Champagne, that’s what.

There ended up being three of us. D, J and me. Turned out J, being a wholesome Yorkshire lass liked a drink, we drank a bottle in the thirty minutes before the show then another in the interval.

It didn’t ruin the performance. We got everything we expected and more. We got a show. The music by Tchaikovsky, played by Australian Ballet Orchestra was sublime, the dancing was enough to make you weep and the costumes ranged from dowdy 40’s housewife dresses to full on tulle and silk tutus. It was sheer heaven.

The evening was rounded off with crawling around on the floor of the ladies looking for a button and then another glass of bubbles and chatting, before I caught the train home and the two city dwellers, jumped in a cab.

Slap round the chops

It has been brought to my attention today that it has been a while since I wrote. I was asked, ‘Are you done with the Jodie blog?’

The answer is no, I’m not.

I’ve been stoopidly busy and have really had no time to sit and compose. The back log of things that have happened include;

New baby in the house (kitten)
Favourite things (think The Sound of Music)
Work issues (good stuff and bad)
My new veggie patch
Mothers Day
Watching a filming of Top Gear
The Basics at the Vanguard, Newtown

Hopefully, I’ll have some time to write while I’m sitting in hotel rooms in weird and wonderful places around NSW. I’m going on a training road show for work and will be travelling for just over six weeks.

Time to write

Woo Hoo!! ;-)

Remembering the 15th April '89

Yesterday was the 20th anniversary of the Hillsborough Disaster. For those of you that don’t know about this, it was when a football stand in Sheffield, England, collapsed six minutes into a semi final match and killed (ultimately) 96 people. It was terrible and to this day remains the worst event in footballing history, in the UK and internationally.

I vaguely remember seeing it on the telly on the day, but seeing as John, my Mum’s boyfriend and subsequently hubby, had taken us away for a weekend in Great Yarmouth, I remember the weekend for something else entirely.

I was 15 and John had paid for me to have the room across the hall in the hotel we were staying at. I was in heaven. My first every hotel stay and I had tea and coffee making stuff, my own bathroom, a telly and two single beds. I picked the bed by the wall, put Brian the ginger teddy bear on the pillow, he was my teddy bear named after a boy I had a crush on when I was eight. We had spent the day on the beach, it had been sunny. We’d had dinner and about 10pm I’d said goodnight and sat on the bed watching telly for a little while. I imagine that Muv and John had also started watching telly, because parents don’t do anything else, especially on a dirty weekend.

I don’t know what time it was when I went to bed, but at about 1am I was awoken by a man climbing into bed next to me. This is going to sound strange, but I remember my Dad climbing into bed with my brother when he was unwell to comfort him, and my brother going nuts. I thought that perhaps John was doing the same to see if he’d get the same reaction (I would like to state, John never did anything inappropriate). As he climbed into bed the man said, ‘I don’t care if your Marilyn Munroe, I’m going to sleep.’

Now, I was a fifteen year old girl that just so happened to be having ladies things that weekend and as accidents happen, so had one that night. I was embarrassed by the warm red patch in the bed and climbed out of bed over the large sleeping stranger. Sat on the edge of the other bed was another man. I walked past him and went into the bathroom. Went to the toilet and then walked back into the room. There was a large man asleep on my bed, a pair of trousers on the floor next to it. The man on the other bed, looked at me and said, ’come here.’

I just turned and walked out of the room and knocked on the door opposite. I’m not sure how long I waited for a response, but I do remember hearing the telly on. When the door opened, John was standing in front of me.

‘There’s a man in my bed.’

My mum appeared at the door.

‘Jodie says there’s a man in her bed.’ John said.

John walked across the hall and into my room. I was taken into my Mum room. There was some shouting, before John appeared and walked down the hall, then returned with Hotel security or management. Could have been either, I was sitting on my Mums bed telling what happened, which, really was nothing, but could have been so much more.

I slept in my Mum and John’s room that night.

The next morning I asked if I could get my stuff from my room. I was told by John that he’d it all. I wasn’t allowed back into the room.

I asked for Brian, my Mum wouldn’t let me have him, ‘he needs washing’.

They told me later that the man who had climbed into bed with me had been a family man with three daughters around my age. He and his friend had come from the oil rigs and had been drinking. His friend (the one seated) had thought he could get his mate to let his guard down. The family man woke up about two hours later because Brian was wedged under his hip. This was the point where he realised what could have happened and being drunk didn’t know if it had, when he had beaten the other guy up so badly that my accident was a drop in the ocean of blood that covered the room. Light fittings where broken off the wall, pictures smashed and the window had been broken. Brian was blood soaked and needed to be washed at least twice before he could be returned to me. The ‘mate’ ended up in hospital.

For years afterwards, whenever this story was told, my Mum always thought it was hilarious that I was so casual about it when the hotel manager lady nearly lost her teeth coughing and spluttering at my reply to her question, ‘Are you OK my dear, nothing ‘bed’ happened to you?’

I replied with the innocence of a mid teen, ‘Oh it was alright, I just thought it was John.’

Crepuscular Light

A few years ago I read ‘The DaVinci Code’ by Dan Brown. I followed it with ’Angels and Demons’. I enjoyed them both for what they were, adventure novels that kept you turning the page because of a good fast paced story. Our hero moved across continents, religion got a bashing, people died or were badly injured, but in the end the good guy came out on top. When during Uni classes these books where held up as bad examples of writing I would always jump to their defence with the argument that they have got people reading. Surely, I’d follow up with, any reading is good reading?

In May last year I was readying myself for a trip back to the UK for an extended period. I needed reading material. A visit to my local bookstore saw me purchasing the first three of the Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer. I liked the look of the covers and the blurb had me sold. I like a good vampire yarn.

I read the first book and got a tad irritated with being told Edward was amazing, Edward is luminous and Edward is gorgeous. I wanted to slap Bella for being such a big girl’s blouse. I did however make it to the end of the first book even though I wished it would hurry up and get on with the story already. I wasn’t in a hurry to know what happened next though. There was a four month gap before I started reading the second book at Christmas. Just after the Twilight movie came out.

I saw the movie in the cinema and found myself thinking, ‘where’s the fast forward button?’

I only made it half way through the second book and came perilously close to throwing it out of the window during my Christmas road trip. I knew what was coming, it had been hinted at so many times, but the author never seemed to want to tell us anything for sure. Was Jacob a werewolf? Of course he is, so why not just bloody tell us, it’s not like we can’t work it out for ourselves by page 10.

A friend of mine borrowed the books from me and loved it. She said it was like a soap opera, she had to know what came next and as such kept turning the pages.

I don’t watch soap operas. I don’t watch Eastenders, Neighbours or Days of our Lives. Maybe this is why the slow pace annoyed me so much. I don’t want to wait six weeks to see the main characters have their first kiss. The duh duh duh music at the end of an episode rarely leaves me on the edge of my seat. I like them to just get on with it, if it’s going to happen. Sexual tension and threats are all well and good, but if you know it’s never gonna happen, what the point in having it there in the first place?

Maybe if I was 16, as I believe is the intended audience age for these books, I would have persevered. Maybe if I needed a lesson in abstinence and the consequences of loose living (as I believe are revealed in book four) I would have enjoyed them more. As it is, I see people (both men and women) on the train, heads buried in book three or four and feel like giving them a round of applause for making it so far.

I now see where my fellow students were coming from. It’s not a case of any reading is good reading. Only good reading is good reading. Bad reading only dims the lights further.

Tea

I’ve just finished drinking a bottle of Lipton Ice Tea White with Raspberry. I like this tea, it’s refreshing and not too sweet. I don’t know how many of these I’ve drunk, but I looked at the label for the first time ever, today.


Ingredients:
Water, sugar, tea extract (10.8%) [green tea extract 9.7%, white tea extract 1.1%], flavours (contains wheat derivatives), raspberry juice, food acid(296), antioxidant(300). Contains wheat products.

I have two questions; first surely with a higher level of green tea extract this should be marketed as a green tea product and second, how do they manage to get wheat into a drink?

Why so hard?

We all have electronic items that require batteries. Some are completely innocent, others not so. Last night I had to replace the batteries in my heater/aircon unit remote and having purchased some during the day I went to work. As usual through, this seemingly simple task, turns into mission impossible as you try to free the little metal cylinders from their plastic and cardboard prison.

I know the manufacturers and shop keepers don’t want these items being stolen, but is it really necessary to make it harder to open this packet than a bottle of childproofed painkillers?

It seems that no matter how many perforations they put in the cardboard, they only go half way through which means you end up with a tiny pile of hairy cardboard before you break a nail, and then, finally, the batteries fly across the room, because you are pushing and pulling so hard you loss all control.

How the hell...

...did these pieces get between the two panes of glass?

When did manners and courtesy disappear?

Was it with woman’s lib? Meaning men no longer give up their seat for a woman wearing heels?

Why don’t people say ‘excuse me’ anymore and instead stare at the back of your head expecting you to know they want to move instinctively?

Why is it that an train aisle full of standing people doesn’t inspire someone to move their handbag and feet off the seat next to them?

When did a queue become just a way of standing before turning into an all out bun fight to get through a door?

Why did I have to ask to sit down, when I was on crutches?

Why, when paying for an item, does the next person feel compelled to stand so close to you, you can feel their breath?

In a world where personal space is becoming more and more precious, I say we need, more than ever to regain some of the basic manners and courtesy with which we are furnished as children. Of course, in saying this I am assuming that manners are actually taught to everyone. Based on the evidence from public transport, public events and your average shopping centre, I reckon it’s a subject that needs to be put on the school curriculum.

Reliably Unreliable

We all have one. Be they a friend, a mate, a buddie or acquaintance, we know if they are invited out they will say, ‘yes, I’ll be there’ with such convincing gusto, that you actually believe, for once, they may actually turn up.

When they call you, email you or text you at the eleventh hour (usually after they have been prompted) they let you down. It will always be an imaginative and creative excuse that rings true, and despite you having doubts, you say, ‘that’s OK, maybe next time’. When they do turn up to something, you are surprised and so happy you forgive the previous let-downs.

I have two such mates. I still invite the first one, but I know she won’t turn up. I know it’s a waste of paper, bandwidth and effort, but in the name of friendship I still make the effort. I’m dangerously close to plonking the second in the same basket.

At what point do you say, enough is enough and give up altogether?

Join the Cult

Yesterday I joined a cult. Nothing that promises to beam me up at the end of the world, just one that suggests for $20.95 per week I can have health, fitness and happiness. They even gave a branded backpack, water bottle and cap to share my new found faith with the world.

A couple of weeks ago I attended a yoga class put on by work, in work hours. I walked into the class with pain in my hip after a rather adventurous weekend and I wasn’t sure the mellow looking chick at the front of the room would be able to convert me. An hour later, I was pretty much pain free and feeling just a tad floaty. I decided on the way home, that I liked yoga and was already looking forward to the next lesson. This week, however, they changed the session time, taking it out of work hours. It wasn’t a big time, but I did the calculations and realised I could be home by the time I was half way through the class. And seeing as Home is truly where my heart is, I decided to give it a miss.

Yesterday I walking back to the office after having my annual flu vaccination when a cult minion stopped me by waving a ‘5 for $10’ leaflet at me. He tried to convince me that the best way to start the day was to attend the church of exercise between 7 and 9am, I told him, that no, the best way to start the day was sleeping ‘til as late as possible. I told him that unless he could find a way to fix my duff hip, my hypertension and sort out the ceoliac disease (currently being investigated by doctors), I was only interested in casual yoga. He told me I should commit to coming three time a week. I told him, that wasn’t gonna happen.

Peter in his navy blue branded robes asked to me to come and have a look at the facilities, have a chat. He told me I didn’t have to commit to anything and that I should look at the website for timetables. I’d forgotten about Peter by the time I got back to my desk, but my interest in Yoga was firmly at the forefront of my mind.

During a mini brain break later in the day I looked at the website, it revealed that there were two churches within a five minute walk of my office. So I looked up the yoga classes in both. The one Peter represented only had two weekday classes and they were both outside of office hours. The other one had six classes, five of which are over lunch time. Bingo!

I dug out the leaflet that had been pressed into my hand like a one sided drug deal and rang the number on the back. Peter answered on the second ring. Moments later I found myself walking away from my desk carrying only the leaflet and my mobile (in case hostage negotiation was required).

A brief chat where he tried to convince me that treadmill, stationary bikes and spin classes were good had me sat back, arm folded. Then he changed tact.

‘Yoga’, he said, ‘good for the mind, body, soul, it is. Relax it will help, strength it will build, muscles it will tone, weight it will reduce.’

I already knew that, that’s why I want to do it. And why was he talking like Yoga?

‘You don’t have to book classes, just turn up 5-10 minutes in advance and you can attend any of our nearly 90 branches across Australia.’

I signed up.

I’m pretty sure Fitness First (or Finance First, as most Aussies call it) is a safe cult to be a member of. I just have to be sure I don’t turn into a built up gym bunny who can’t put her arm down by her sides.

Never gonna happen!


PS. Attended a BodyBalance class today. Couldn’t do half the moves (hip restrictions) but I enjoyed it, and will go again.

Test your IQ

I did three IQ tests today at the urging of Facebook. It told me that I had been challenged by my friends. I was curious to say the least. I did a psychometric test and IQ test a few years back (for a job), that involved three hours of testing and over 150 questions covering maths, comprehension and shape recognition. I got a very good score on that one and felt like ringing my teacher (from when I was 8) and telling her to shove her ‘lazy and stupid’ comments up her arse.

The tests today involved five questions (105), ten questions (134) and another ten questions (110). My actual IQ, which I chose not to share, is a bit higher than the middle attempt today.

How can these tests tell you that you are ordinary based on ten questions?
Even worse, how can it text you and say ‘Not too shabby, but your still not a genius’. Did anyone else git their teeth at the missing apostrophe?

Of course, I know this all has nothing to do with telling me I’m smarter than the average, or where I fit into the ranking of my friends intelligence, it’s all about getting $6.60 per text message until I text, ‘STOP’.

Great Lyrics

'I spent ages givin' head'.

and to think they made a fuss about 'relax, when you wanna come'

Gotta love Lily Allen

Carrion

A couple of weeks ago I got a leaflet through the door warning me of the upcoming date for the neighbourhood ‘leave your rubbish for us to pick up’ day.

This is a scheme that local councils have put in place to try and curb dumping; in turn you leave your stuff on the curb. It happens once every three months and mostly, I think it works. A lot of the stuff gets collected by charity organisations who, at other times of the year tell you to get stuffed if you ask them to collect. The recyclables get recycled and the rubbish, well, that goes to landfill. However, much of the stuff left out never get to its intended destination, as there is an element of society that thrives of picking through others refuse and taking it, and no doubt, selling it for their own profit.

I had a few things in mind that really needed to go out. Not rubbish perse, just things I don’t need or want anymore and I was getting fed up with having in the garage. A queen divan bed and mattress (yes, I could have sold it, but it had ten years of marks on it, yuck), an arm chair, a few old Singer sewing machines that used to be used for display when I had the shop (tried museums and second hand store, no one wanted them) and a pile of flat packed cardboard boxes.

I spent yesterday morning making a neat pile on the verge outside my house, then popped out to get a few groceries. The sewing machines were gone when I got back.

Later in the day, I went to the movies. When I got back the mattress was missing.

The amazing disappearing items meant I could put something else out. You’re only supposed to put out 1cubic metre. So I moved a few things around in the lounge and put the sofa out there, don’t panic I have another, better one in storage (remnants of married life).

At 3.30 this morning I was awoken by male voices outside my bedroom window. At least three men were chatting loudly, I couldn’t understand a words, but judging by the laughing and high spirits, no doubt fuelled by a few, they were having fun. Then I heard the clatter of casters as they hit the road. I fingered a gap into the blinds and peered out the window to see the three men pushing the bed base down the road like a toboggan before jumping on it. Despite being unimpressed about being woken up at such an hour, I couldn’t help but smile.

Note to self: if I ever leave a divan bed out again, take the casters OFF!

This morning as I walked to the station, I couldn’t help but notice the previously neat piles outside other house, where no longer in order. Clearly each pile had been the pilfered and ended as a feeding ground for the Council Clean Up Crows.



- Not my pile of leavings, but an example of what it looks like after the good, big stuff has been taken.

Written in the Stars

I read my stars.

I know that they are a bit woolly , but it's a bit of fun for the train ride into and home from work.

Today, the stars in MX (the free communter paper) made me smile. It was pretty accurate.

'Relationship takes its own form. The best you can do right now is not to interfere with what is a natural process. The minute you step in with your ideas about what should be happening, chaos ensures. Relax and harmony comes.'

Smile!

This made me smile this morning. I think the story speaks for itself :-)

Realisation

Just over a year ago I moved house. I moved from a little two bedroom cottage in the inner city to a three bedroom colonial double brick place and reduced my rent in the process. I didn’t really want to move, but after I had the affront to ask the landlord to fix a leaking roof I was asked to leave.

The blessing in disguise has worked out quite nicely really. Puss has a garden to roam around in. I rattle around a night and weekends deciding whether I should sit in the office, the lounge, the bedroom or out in the deckchair on the patio. It’s quiet (except when the mad Polish woman over the back fence is telling her tenant to f*ck off) and I only have a three or four minute walk to the railway station, better still, a six minute walk to the best kebab in the world. I like my house, it feels like home and I’ve just signed another two year lease on the place.

Last night however, there was a drive by shooting.

This latest act of violence is just one of the many law breaking events from the past twelve months that have rocked Merrylands, a multi cultural community just south of Parramatta, west of Sydney.

There has been drive-bys, robberies, a machete attack in a school and even a lady so drunk she drove her car into a Starbucks.

The thing that concerns me most about all this, is that I’ve come to realise, I’m on the road to becoming a Westie!

Listing Update

I got rid of a couple of local blogs in my list today. Not because I don't like the people they belong to, but because they haven't updated their blogs for more than three months ;-)

Ignorance or Disinterest?

On Wednesday I brought a punnet of fresh figs. I love them; they are soft and tender, and ever so sensual to eat. Plus they keep you regular.

My first encounter with a fig was at Christmas many moons ago, when they appeared as in a plastic tub, dried and gritty. Muv encouraged me to try the fresh variety one day when in Sainsbury’s (UK supermarket) whilst doing the weekly shop. I think I was about eight years old.

After that tasting, I was hooked.

It didn’t stop at figs though, this random testing and tasting of fruits or veg that we hadn’t seen before continued. We tried kumquats, dragon fruit, lycees, passion fruit, celeriac, fennel and pomegranate. I’m sure there are more; I just can’t remember them all, right now.

Anyway, back to this weeks punnet of figs. Four different people in my office, people I consider to be well educated, have visited my desk, pointed at the succulent purple fruit and asked, ‘What’s that?’

Now, I would think that in a country that has tree, vine or bush ripened fruit year round, they would know what a fig is, tasted it and decided they either like it or not. But complete ignorance of the humble fig, I find that confusing and it distresses me somewhat.



picture from - Herbal Extracts Plus

Home from Home

I’ve just eaten my lunch of salad, potato salad, prawns and salmon. I brought it into work, from home, left overs from last night. It sounds simple, but it’s a minor production every time I have lunch in the office. Plate, knives, fork, teatowel, tupperware tubs...

I have a draw in my desk dedicated to the provision of sustenance. Of course a few things don’t fit in, such as the box of cornflakes, bottle of milk, block of cheese (milk and cheese in fridge) and various types of tea. Today, I also have a box of fresh figs, a peach and an apple.

I spend quite a bit of time at my desk, so why shouldn’t I have a few items of personal interest?


- Ariel picture of 'the drawer'

Personal Effects

My Muv’s stuff arrived from Spain the other day. It was delivered late in the afternoon but a man that was none to gentle with the boxes. After I’d signed and closed the door, I stood next to the two boxes for about twenty minutes, just looking at them. I knew I was supposed to open them, but I just couldn’t bring myself to.

Eventually I did open them.

There was a jacket. Not the jacket I had asked for. I had never seen this jacket before, so now I have a strange funky smelling blue and red jacket hanging in the spare room door. The blue and black tartan jacket I requested has either been given to someone or thrown out. Don’t even get me started!

There was a pair of yellow quilts that I made in 2001. They smelled of stale smoke. The two matching cushion covers were nowhere to be seen.

There was a lamp base that was always around when I was a child. It currently has no wire, so it can’t be used and it’s missing a lampshade. A classic crème silk shade will restore it to the lamp I remember from day of old.

A 1923 copy of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management. It had been packed in such a way that the back cover had been pushed up. This meant that as soon as I took it from the box, the back cover detached itself from the rest of the book. I took a deep breath and placed it to the side with a mental note to try and find someone who could fix it later. I couldn’t resist having a little trip down memory lane when I flicked it open the butchering of a mutton and thinking about Dad bring home a dead deer, and Muv using her Mrs. Beeton’s as a guide before placing the pieces in the freezer.

One of the boxes was filled with small ornamental shoes.

And finally her jewellery box. Filled with various pieces. Some I recall from my childhood, like the silver locket containing a lock of her hair and on the opposite side a picture and twist of my dad’s hair. Thinking about that item, I remember wearing it on a long silver chain to my first job interview. Also hidden in there was the small plastic hospital band that I would have worn in my first days on this earth.

TAB

In the news yesterday it was announced that the TAB (Ladbrooks, to my English readers) will be allowed to open for the first time, ever, on Good Friday. TAB representatives said they wanted to open after customers had requested the additional entertainment on the public holiday.

The religious groups instantly started banging on about making profit and the destruction of the Christian way of life.

I know I’m not alone in thinking of Easter as an excuse to eat chocolate and have a four day weekend. Clearly I’m not, after all TAB customers want to gamble on overseas gee gee races on the Friday. So, when will the Christian groups get it into their heads that not everyone believes in the reason for this holiday?

After all, approximately 25% of the Australian population is of other or no religion and that means the TAB could have just over 5 million customers on Good Friday, and that would make for a very good Friday indeed.

Pimped Up

Last night I popped to my local Nandos for chicken and chips with a mate. While he was ordering, four dark skinned fellas came in. Their pumped up torsos clad in GStar Raw T-shirts, tight arses in shorts trainers and socks that were pulled up. They also had at least a days worth of beard growth, short cropped black hair with that funky little pubic bit on the back of the head tufting out on the neck.

I pulled a couple of faces at my companion and when he sat down, he asked what I was pulling faces at.

‘They think they are so great, but it’s just nasty. I don’t find it at all attractive.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘they’re probably drug dealers anyway.’

A few moments later their take away was ready and they left the store. Then they climbed into a brand new silver Range Rover.

We had an extra giggle when we heard the broken neon signage of this shop crackling in the rain about an hour later.

Observation and Writing

On Thursday I had to stand for part of my train trip. I picked an interesting spot to stand, purely by accident and the people I saw inspired me to get out my notebook and write. It’s been a while since I wrote anything apart from blog entries and change management plans.

I had my iPod plugged with Rufus Wainwright mumbling his lyrics to his beautiful music when I noticed the man sitting the middle of the three person seat directly in front of me.

He had grey hair and black wire rimmed glasses resting on his nose. In his late 50s he was wearing a white shirt with the long sleeves, rolled/folded up his arms. His nylon tie blared its pattern to the whole train with it yellow background and William Morris dove pattern. The breast pocket held a black pen, a red pen and a frayed edge blue and white hankie. Across his knees he rested his brown briefcase with the scuffed edges hard against the seat back in front of him. Resting on top of the briefcase was a large book, white pages and small text in two columns. The writing on the pages was highlighted in yellow, pink and green. It was notated in the margins inn black, blue and green and he was making more notes with a second red pen he held in his right liver spotted hand. I looked at the header on the top of the page closest to me.

Jeremiah 9.11

How many times had he read this bible? Did he find something new in each reading? Did he have to read it? Was he studying theology? Was he a priest in plain clothes?

Then I noticed the brown marbled rubber band on his wrist. In green it was embossed with 1 Rifle Afghanistan.

It was out of context for me. It raised more questions.

I got out my notebook.

Friday 13th

My Friday 13th started out bit sh*t.

First the 0804 train I was getting arrived and left early. I can see the train station from the front gate and I KNOW I was on time. So I did a little run to try and catch it, ended up on the 0818 which was running four minutes late.

Now I work in North Sydney, I have to change train to get over the water, so I get off at Granville and change onto a North Shore train. Because of the early running of my usual train I wasn’t guaranteed a seat, on the 0826 out of Granville and in fact, because all the trains were running late, the train was packed to the gunnels.

After being thrown around a bit I asked if I could swap places with a young girl who was just standing with no assistance from any handholds, and sat on the downward step.

At Central, a shuffle of people resulted in several people leaving, but more people wedging themselves in. Then an announcement said, ‘This train will be a City Circle train due to problems on the Bridge. This will NOT be going over the bridge.’

Arghh!

I got off.

I found a RailCorp guy and asked, ‘Are any trains going over the bridge?’

‘Not at the moment love.’

So I set off to find a bus. The next bus didn’t leave until 0928. I was already late for work, so jumped in a cab.

The one system in Sydney can result in some rather interesting rides, but this morning I was grinding my teeth as the taxi drive about four kilometres in the wrong direction before finally getting on track. As we were driving across the Harbour Bridge, a train appeared to my left and over took us.

A few minutes later I climbed out of the passenger seat having paid $28.00 including the $4.00 bridge toll (it’s $3.00 after 0930) and walked into work at 0929.

Feeling much better now…looking forward to playing sideshow freak at a girlfriends dinner party tonight.

Mardi Gras

On Saturday I walked in the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. I’ve only ever watched from the sidelines before so it was an experience to be on the other side of things.

I arrived in the float marshalling area just after 5pm wearing a red latex dress, a grey overcoat, trainers and the rest of my outfit in a Coles recycled bag. After I found the Hardcore Heaven float I caught with the people who invited me to walk with them. A~ and GC have been around for a while and they are great. GC has her Adams Apple removed on the 17th and A~ worships the ground GC walks on, following her in seven inch heels. I make a great handbag holder when we’re out and about.

A~ painted my eyes with gold and black while wearing black brief and bra and pink feathered headband and just before being wrapped in a purple and black rope corset. My corset went on much easier than hers. Then I went for a walk amongst the other floats.

Photo 75 is where I lost count. I was walking with a new acquaintance, also dressed in red and black latex and every time we stopped to take a picture, we where hauled into several. The crowd screaming at the railing also wanted to take snap shot. It was weird but strangely exhilarating. I hung around the float for what seemed like an age. I chatted with other float folk, but from the float I was on and other floats.

The float that confused me though was Animal Liberation. The people were wearing shorts and had their bodies painted up to look like Friesian cows. The float had signs that said ‘Leather is Cruel’ and Cows are Cool’, and yet they had a sign that said…’We support Gay Pride’. Why did I find this confusing? Well, while I understand not all gay men or women wear leather, quite a few do. For instance, the Dykes on Bikes where predominantly dressed in leather, the Leather Pride group were certainly dressed in leather, as was Mr Leather and so were many other random people throughout the parade participants including quite a few on the Hardcore Heaven float. It just didn’t make any sense. But I didn’t dwell on at the time.

I just got on with looking fabulous and playing up to my adoring crowd.

I changed out of my trainers about ten minutes before our float started to move. I had chosen patent leather booties with a decent heel for the 1.8km walk, knowing I wouldn’t be walking in a straight line, and actually walking twice that. I was now fully dressed, armed with a sjambok (incidentally, I’d love a leather one, one day instead of the plastic one I have) and ready to put on a little show with my new prancing partner.

Shortly after we started moving I realised how completely insane the crowd was. They were screaming at the top of their lungs. If you went anywhere near them you were grabbed, hugged, kissed and deafened by being screamed in the ear as the hugged you. However, this didn’t stop my high-fiving, running the sjambok along the fence line to produce a lovely ringing sound and pretending to hit my latex friend on the arse. At one point to stop on a bottle top and it stuck in the bottom of my shoe. I was very unladylike as I scrapped my foot on the road trying to get rid of it. It hurt a lot.
I think I heard Joan River, or it may have been Pam Ann, say ‘Ohh, look at the girl wield a stick, she can do that to me anytime.’

The end came quickly. Suddenly I found myself in a park with people collapsed on the grass, hyped up and nowhere to go. But first I had to take my gloves off. I had had nothing to eat of drink since 5pm, it was now nearly 11 and yet I still poured a few millilitres of fluid from the each glove and from the neck line of my dress. It’s one of the benefits of latex, you never need to have a seaweed wrap to lose excess water, ever again.

I went straight home afterwards. I was bushed. On the way to my lift I nearly lose the sjambok, but got it back again after a panic, so that was all good. Just after midnight I peeled myself out of the latex and had a shower.

It felt so good to slip between the sheets that night, even if I was floating just ever so slightly above the mattress.

Not Romance

For a while now I have had a Not-Boyfriend. A mate I go to the movies with and occasionally eat out and he keeps me company when I’m doing stoopid things, like moving the alpacas. We do not have a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship with all the perks that come with it. I’m not in a position to get into that and neither, he claims, is he.

He does do things sometime, that really make me think his actions speak louder than words, such as last night at the movies.

I have been waiting for Watchman to come out, for months. Finally it arrived on a Megaplex screen near you, last night. We were seeing each other on a weeknight, because I wanted to be one of the first to see it. While on the train home night I rang him, to confirm plans. I’d pick him and then we’d grab some noodles and see the movie at 8.30. I asked him to book the tickets over the internet when he got home, because I didn’t want to risk losing out to a massive queue. He agreed.

I got home, changed into jeans, fed and hugged Puss and Max, put the wet towels on the line, then jumped in the car and drove over to his place. We drove to the MacQuarie Centre talking about bad driving and bad days before being forced to park in the boondocks because it was late night shopping.

We found our way into the centre, he went to pick up the tickets while I went and ordered dinner. His noodle with chicken had already arrived by the time he appeared.

After dinner we had half an hour to kill so we hung out in Borders, fondling and fingering the books, but not actually buying any. Although I did find one I wanted to get, but as I don’t get paid for a few days, it’ll have to wait.

At about 8.25 I suggested we move to the cinema. On the walk I noticed he was holding his stomach. I asked if his tummy was sore.

‘It is a bit’

‘Did it starting hurting before or after dinner?’

‘A little bit before.’

‘Sounds like you need some nice soothing ice cream,’ I said with a broad grin.

‘Nah, don’t feel like any.’ Now I was a bit worried, he is the movie without ice cream, isn't a movie man.

‘What about a drink?’

‘Not tonight.’

‘You know, if you’re not feeling right I can take you home.’

At this point he stopped walking and produced a Gold Class envelope from under his jacket.

‘I knew you REALLY wanted to see this movie and I thought the no screaming kids option would be good.’

After I had stopped squealing and jumping up and down like an idiot, we walked through the Gold Class doors, I said with a smile and slap on him arm, ‘You know, people looking from the outside, might think that was really romantic.’

His reply, ‘You know me better than that.’

The movie was worth the $80. It was awesome. I stuck so closely to the graphic novel even costumes had been matched. It was amazing and when Silk Spectre got her jiggy-on still wearing her thigh high latex boots I was stunned, but awestruck.

This Womans Work

Had my iPod set to Shuffle today and after about 300 od songs Kate Bush's This Womans Work came on. It's the first time I've listened to it since this. I made it to 'Give me these moments back' before the eyes started to sting and moisture sprung forth.

As luck would have it, Neville appeared to ask me about booking a meeting room in Outlook.

Don't Think, Just Do!

I’ve been thinking.

I know thinking can be dangerous in the wrong hands, but thinking needed to be done. I’ve been putting it off for too long. I’ve been keeping myself busy to avoid the thinking that was required.

On Monday, I was forced to face something while sitting on the train on my way home from Uni. I sat there looking out of the window, watching the Inner West pass me by in a blur when a thought popped into my head.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

To what am I referring to I hear you ask. I know I did. My internal monologue kicked in and found myself going over all the things that I have experienced since this time last year.

It’s been less than idyllic year, I have to say. I know in the grand scheme of things like floods, bush fires and thousands out of work, my issues don’t even register a blip on the global radar, but to me they have been pretty monumental and life changing.

I reasoned with myself that I needed to get my life back on track with my goals in life.
- I need to sort out my revolting financial situation after over six months of unemployment.
- I need to start having some sort of social life, now that I may actually be able to afford to get out of the house on occasion.
- I would like to read some of the books I haven’t read after a couple of years of reading things that Uni has told me I have to read.
- I would like a relationship that involves a little passion and romance.
- I want to be able to spend time developing my skills as a photographer
- I want to get my motorbike licence

The list goes on…

Then I think about how working full time and studying for yet another Masters degree fits in with these desires. They don’t.

So today, I filed for a leave of Absence for my Uni course.

I figure I can start it in one year if I still want to do it. I think I applied to do a Master of Education because I didn’t have anything else to do at the time. Now I do. A leave of Absence means I don’t need to reapply (which is frankly, a pain). Hopefully they say I can, if the Uni denies my request, I’ll just withdraw completely.

Making this decision lifted a weight from my shoulders, and I feel like things are moving ahead for the first time in a very long time.

Poker Face

Trains seem to give me the best material. I can’t say if it funny or terrible material, but it’s fodder that just keeps giving gas.

This morning I rode to work listening to my iPod (The All–American Rejects) and trying to avoid looking at this view (I’d forgotten reading matter).



In the end I just gave up trying and took a picture of the sleeping man for you lot. I knew you’d find it amusing. I was just glad he didn't smell.

Well, Excuse Me! Part two

While waiting for the 1910 to Glenfield at Central I saw this guy, drinking this drink before he dropped the cup at his feet. A gentle,'I think you dropped something' a few minutes later resulted in him saying he would pick it up, but he left it laying were it fell. Nice guy, don't you think? Jodie, Merrylands



I sent this to MX commuter freesheet tonight. Maybe this litterbug gets his 15 minutes of fame for being a complete git.

Well, Excuse Me!

I’m pretty sure I’ve asked this before, but I’m going to ask it again, anyway. Why are people so rude of the train?

For starters, it’s the people just stand and glare at the back of your head when they want to get off the train and you are between them and the exit. Rather than say something, such as, ‘Excuse me’ or even ‘Excuse me, please.’ They just push past you and huff, as if your psychic abilities should have let you know they wanted to get off the train.

Today however, I lost it. I had a very long day yesterday and am exhausted today even after a reason eight hours of sleep. I drove over 400kms to move four alpacas. Left home at 10am, drove to Ourimbah on the central coast, chased the animals into a van, had my bones rattled while I drove to Windsor pulling into a Maccas drive through for lunch. Dropped the small herd off at their new home, then got back into the van and drove back to the Central Coast to pick up the car. I had a friend with me, but it’s still a hard trip. On the way back into to town we stopped for dinner at Taxim in Hornsby. It was at this point that I realised it would have been my 12th wedding anniversary and Hubby and I had our last anniversary dinner at the very same place. I got home at 8pm, had a bath, checked my email then went to bed. Puss curled up with me.

Anyway…back to train rudeness. I was running a tad late this morning, but got to the station with a few minutes to spare, so I was feeling alright. I hadn’t had to run. Got on and stood until the next station where I have to change trains. When the next train pulled into the station I was stood in just the right place for the doors. The train came to a stop and I stood to the side so passengers could get off. Then I went to move forward, a small man pushed between me and the side of the train. He pushed so hard I bumped into the person standing to my right, starting a domino effect. He rushed onto the train, bumping into people getting off and down the stairs. He jumped into the last seat. I wasn’t too far behind him and found myself, really pis8ed off, much more so than normal, because he had been so supremely rude and his actions had affected more than just me. I looked at him as I took up position leaning on the back of a seat, with hand hold digging into my spine, and the following went through my head;

‘You rude fu8ker!’

Apparently, I also said it, quite loudly. A couple of the people who had followed me on, and seen his display smiled and nodded. One said, ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ and glowered at him. He must have had a dozen or so, sets of upset eyes looking at him. But he steadfastly refused to move and got his book out.

I got a seat at Strathfield.


- The herd says goodbye to Wispa, Arabella, Bertie and Eric.

Eww...

Being out of work again I’m spending a lot of time on the internet looking for a new job. My mind often wanders and I find myself reading email, random website and what parades itself as news. After the last week of bushfire news and exploitative journalism I saw the headline ‘8.6m fingernails broken in crash’. I couldn’t resist, I clicked on the link.

The story was of a woman who had had a car accident and broken her record breaking fingernails. There was no picture, so I typed her name into Google Images and many pictures appeared.

Personally I like it when my nails are long and painted scarlet, they look sexy, but this is just excessive.

I don't want too...

read
eat
shower
get out of bed

well, most things really

Pinch Punch

I went to see 'The Curious case of Benjamin Button' yesterday. I cried all the way through without a tissue to control the flow of water from my eyes or the pale watery snot from my nose. I was not because the film was sad,although, to be honest I've seen happier joy joy movies. It was because of the opening sequence and small plot exploration sequences that kept cropping up throughout. The girlfriend I was with understood the problem and handed me a tissue.

Today I saw 'Slumdog Millionaire'. It didn't make me cry, but it made me think about how life is passing me by and how I'm missing a few things at the moment. When I got to the home of my companion for the afternoon, I sliced a few vegetables for the BBQ then went outside and laid on his recently mowed back lawn. He stayed inside to watch the cricket. The grass was spiky were it touched my bear shoulders causing a not unpleasant inching sensation. I lay there looking up at the sky, watching the clouds
roll across the blue sky. Clouds of brilliant white and pale grey bringing with them the first cool change in days.

I lay there looking up, feeling the breeze lick across my skin. I listened to the sounds around me. The lorikeet singing in the jacaranda tree behind me. The native miner bird walking across the roof of the veranda a couple of yards from my feet. I saw the silloette of a magpie flying above me. I noticed that from the angle I was looking at the white concrete ballistraid of the neighbor really didn't look as pristine as when looking from a standing position.

I felt a tickle on my right forearm. I lifted it to see a single black ant carrying a crumb. The ant worked its way toward the inside of my elbow before I gave it a gentle flick back onto the grass. The grass had made its temporary mark on my skin, leaving tiny red, uneven indents all over my arms.

I looked back up at the sky. The blue now almost completely gone, covered with the rapidly shifting clouds. As I watched they cleared a little, allowing the blue to once more peek through. A pair of shadowed passed over me, their cry revealing two more lorikeets.

I'm not quite sure how long I lay there, but I realised something while I did.

I miss doing nothing with someone special.

What's in A Name?

When I first saw the headline on Yahoo! this morning I thought I had read it wrong.

'Adolf Hitler taken by US Child Services'

Then the thought that maybe the US really did believe there were God and had managed to travel back in time and removed the youngster from Mr. and Mrs. Hitler befour he caused so much trouble and angst for everyone.

I was, of course, being completely ridiculous and read the story anyway. Only to find out that a couple in New York State have named their three children Adolf Hitler, Aryan Nation and Hienrich Himmler. Child services became involved when the parents asked a local cake maker to put young Adolf's name on top of his birthday cake. The shop refused saying it was an unreasonable request.

The part that makes me smile, is that the parent think it perfectly reasonable to name their after the WWII dictator, his ideals and his right hand man and say they aren't subjecting the children to cruelty. They believe the names to be unique and the swastiker to be a work of art. Dumbarses.

The part that makes me sad, those children have to live with those names for the rest of their lives or at least until they are old enough (and hopefully smart enough) to change them.

Poor Planning

As you may have gathered from numerous posts on the topic, but I am less that satisfied with my current employment. I find myself in the position of being up to my eyeballs in work due to poor planning by the Project Manager and not giving a rats arse.

I spent an extra three hours last night writing a document at home. I've spent several hours in meeting that have absolutely no relevance to me because it's deemed (by the PM) that I be there. I could be writing the 45 odd page document that I have a week to write. Now, it's not just me that feels this is a bit wrong. Two other people on the project don't remember hearing about this document before Friday last week. Also, it's important to know, there are only four people on the team.

Today I was thinking about how I'm going to write my parts of the document, while in a two hour meeting for another document that didn't require my input, and did a couple of doodles I'm quite happy with.



Anyone know what doodles tell us about what the artist is thinking at the time of drawing?