In the Words of ABBA...

...Money Money Money

Maybe I'll quote Sally Bowles from Cabaret instead, 'Money makes the world go around, the world go around'.

I’ve been through my fair share of impoverished times. I’m still coming out of one actually. So it’s something I don’t like being reminded of, day in, day out.

While I am by no means rolling in it, or even dipping a toe into wealth, I am no longer struggling each week, fortnight or month to rustle up the pennies to pay the bills, and I have started to see the worth in paying a little extra for something that won’t break the second time you to try and use it. I no longer HAVE to shop in $2 shops. The spatula lasted three cook offs before the handle snapped.

This brings me to me weekday surroundings. They depress me.

The pavements and waste bins are dirty, not just dirty, but putrid.
There are vagrants sitting in their own filth swearing at passers by.
The ratio of $2 shops to shops that don’t have big flouro hand written sales signs is 100-I don’t know, I can’t find one without any.

I feel like a snob. I’m not, but I just like things cleanish and items and food to of a certain quality.

A very good friend of mine would need to shower more than the 2-3 showers he already has in a day. I’m sure he’d roll out his ‘I see poor people’, t-shirt.

I was in a shop today buying cable ties, those $2 shops are handy for some things, as I was paying, a man, missing teeth and smelling like he had peed his pants three days ago barged to the front of the twelve person strong queue, pushed his way between me and the counter and demanded to know where the watches were.

They were in the cabinet in front of him. ‘I have to buy a gift for a friend and she wants a watch.’ He announced.

I have no idea whether he procured a watch, or how long he had to wait, but I’m guessing his prevailing odour would have seen him served almost as quickly as my twitching nostrils had me out of the shop. This isn’t an unusual occurrence in Ashfield.

Despite being able to drive to work, I think I’d rather be back on the trains to the city. In the city I can run errands as everything is available. If I need to buy a birthday card, I have a choice of something other than Frangipanis for a dollar. If a gift is required the choice of smellies stretches beyond cat pee masquerading as Vanilla and Cinnamon. Lego® instead of Leego and Post-it® not StickyNotes by Bob.

I don’t really want to get used to this. I don’t want to get used to thinking that I deserve to be screamed at by the checkout crone because I have a note instead of the exact change.

I don’t think it’s unreasonable to ask people to pay back a bond loan borrowed from the government, but apparently it is. The government should just keep giving them money…They don’t give me any, in fact they keep taking it, even when I’m in hardship with barely enough to feed myself.

I don’t think I'm cut out to work in an environment where I’m surrounded by a ‘give a battler a fair go’ mentality, when on the odd occasion I’ve really, and I mean REALLY needed help, I’ve been back handed and told to go and get a job.

It’s taken me six weeks to figure this out. I don’t want it to become the norm, I like that the locals still surprise me with how cheap things are, ‘Ohh eight dollars for the Pho at lunch that was as big enough for a family of four, awesome, here have ten.’ I don’t ever want to get to the point where I’m surprised that things are expensive, because in the real world, i.e. away from Ashfield, everything is, but I want to be back in that world!

Confrontation

I've come to the conclusion that I don't handle confrontation well. It causes me extreme stress that knocks my immune system for six, allowing in bugs and illness to take hold. When illness is already in residence, the addition of stressors just helps the illness settle in for a longer stay and even bring his mate Cujo to stay as well.

After my weekend of strolling to the lavatory on a regular basis and either sitting or bowing to Harpic of the Bowl I really wanted to spend Monday resting at home and fully recuperating. I was still very weak in the morning after having only managed to add half a cup of dry cornflakes to my extremely tender tummy.

Due to work commitments I didn't have the luxury of having that extra day, so I arranged to go in a little later than usual and wrote the Key Message Comms document that was required by the end of the business day. I was a struggle because talking to the people I needed assistance from were extremely busy.

At 5pm I handed the document to the requester. 'It needs detail!'

So my question is this: If you're asked to provide Key Messages or Points would you submit, bullets or detailed paragraph?

I spent the next two hours trying to flesh out my bullet points and most of today working on it. I was and am particularly unimpressed. This isn't the first communications breakdown that I've had in this role and I have a feeling it may be the last.

I'm not going to pass all the blame, I may not have asked enough questions, but not being able to ask them has made that difficult. Of the six one-2-one I'm supposed to have had, I had one. I've been given seven projects to learn about in my short time. I have a pretty good learning curve, but I think I've found my limit.

Tomorrow will be a telling day. He wants to 'talk about your work'.

House of Horrors (no graphic details)

I had an interesting weekend. I found out to my detriment what happens when you eat food that is one or more of the following:
• Prepared in an unclean kitchen
• Less than fresh
• Reheated to the incorrect temperature
• Kept in the wrong conditions
• Anything else that makes food bad for you

On Friday I had prawns and boiled rice for lunch at about 1pm in a little noodle house a couple of doors down from the office. It wasn’t the first time I’d eaten there, but it sure as hell, will be the last.

About 3pm, I started to sweat.
Half an hour later I went to bathroom, all was not well.
I left the office at 5pm after being to the bathroom a further two times.

The car ride home was forty five minutes riddled with tension. I needed to pass wind, but I wasn’t game.

I got home and immediately went to the bathroom. I didn’t even bother to chase Cara out for a wee, I just had to trust she’d know what to do. She did. Of course Puss and Oren followed me and started asking for dinner. Food was the last thing I wanted anything to do with.

I fed the animals at arm length, put a log on the fire, then sat on the sofa, feeling considerably better and thinking it was over.

At six o’clock the violence began, and continued until four in the morning. At this point I was exhausted, I wanted my Muv, while I didn’t need anyone to hold my hair, I would have like someone to rub my back and tell me it would OK.

When I have a migraine I want to be left alone. I don’t want anyone telling me to keep my fluids up or asking me if I’m still alive.

When I’m sick, and I mean SICK, while I don’t really want anyone to see the indecision about whether to sit or bow, but I would like it if there’s someone outside the bathroom waiting to tuck me back onto the sofa or into bed and tell I’ll live to see another day. I would love to have someone else tell the cat not to try and sit on my tummy and this weekend I’d have loved it if someone else could have got log in and kept the fire going. Those buggers are heavy when you haven’t eaten for two days.

Saturday I spent sleeping and drinking the Powerade that had been brought in to replenish my electrolytes (Thank you SI). I failed to keep the first bottle down, but then it was over. Healing time.

Now began the aching, the muscles pulled for unusual activity of the non fun type. Shoulders, back, neck and chest. It hurt to drawn a deep breath and anyone calling to ask me how I was, was asked not to make me laugh. The restless sleeps invaded by dreams of jack-knifing trucks and being stuck in a bubble on the roadside unable to escape. It’s a classic for me, been having it for years and a true indication that I’m anything but well.

On Sunday I started to feel somewhat human again, but I didn’t venture out and a tenderised tummy kept me on fluids only until I braved half a head of steamed broccoli and a scrambled egg about 7.30. It was too much and I couldn’t eat it all.

This morning I had a cup of cornflakes without milk for breakfast. Weakness is the word to describe my current state. Ohh and about 5kgs lighter.

I find it remarkable how being sick can reduce even the most independent person into a blubbering child that wants their mummy, because MuV always knows best and exactly what to do.

Muv would have tucked me into bed.

Muv would have popped to the shops and brought Ribena or Lucozade.

Muv would have almost certainly made me dry toast with Marmite.

Muv would have cleaned the loo up and taken the bin bag out when it needed to be done.

Muv would have stroked my back and told me it was OK to cry.

And after two days Muv would have told me to ‘get up now, have a shower, start moving around, it’ll make you feel better.’

It’s a weekend I don’t wish to repeat anytime soon, but I know there where people out there that suffered worse than I, Tradie Trady being one of them and SI with a gastro bug.

But for the record, to ensure no one else goes through this I have reported the Noodle House responsible. I’ll keep you posted.

14/9/11 Update - The New Taste Noodle House was closed for lunch yesterday and it's looking shut up right now. Someone asked me yesterday, 'Did you close down the Noodle House?' My response was, 'No, they did, by not having a clean kitchen or food handling practices.' Not guilty, I still have a dodgy tummy!

Get Clucked

As I lay here recovering from a nasty bout of prawn poisoning I can hear the chickens clucking. I can tell at least one is in the process of laying a egg by the distinctive drawn out sounds.

I've been considering asking my neighbors if they find them to to too noisy.

Then the sound of the barking dogs over the back fence comes to forefront of notice. My senses have managed to develop a drowning out mechanism for the sound of two overweight bull masstives barking at each other and every loose leaf that flutters to the ground.

I think I'll wait until the neighbors come to me

Gold Plated Chooks?

So, due to demand for home grown eggs from work colleagues and friends I decided to add a couple more chickens to the flock on Saturday, making the total six channels on CatTV.

The flock is called CatTV as a collective because, Oren, the cat can spend hours watching them. Whether they are locked up in the coup, or roaming free in the garden, she’ll watch, faux stalk and run away when chased. The last one happens more often that you’d think.

The first four where first purchased on the day Jeff Conaway finally lost his battle with drugs and alcohol, I thought it would be fitting to call them Rizzo, Frenchie, Jan and Sandy. I called the new additions Marty and Channing (having run out of female character names and I didn’t think Waitress was very nice as a name).

Fittingly enough, the Pink Ladies took exception to the new additions and decided to show them who was boss. The pecking order is very fitting as Marty and Channing really have had a stressful few days.

I first noticed the wound on Marty’s foot on Tuesday. It was red and open, not dissimilar to a cut you may get from a nasty scratch. I took her inside and bathed it. I didn’t get a chance to look at the wound on Wednesday, and yesterday I made a point of looking in the morning. Her toe was black.

I went to work, and on the way I made an appointment with the vet. Luckily it was pay day.

When I got home to put up Marty, I notice a small scab on Channing’s cheek, so I put her in the box. Better safe than sorry.

Both birds had a shot of penicillin, Marty had part of her toenail cut away to see if the limb was dead already, but a spot of blood showed that it was possible it may just be saved. Channing had a blood clot on her face. I was informed that production anaimals are pretty hardy and cope with this sort of thing quite well. While it may not be visually pleasing as a pet, we can't just put them down for any old thing. I never intended to have them put down unless they were suffering. I don't allow suffering in my house. I paid the bill...cough, clear throut, we shall speak of this no more...

Fallout, no eggs can be used until the foot is healed. If Marty has septicaemia, then it can be passed into the eggs, and that wouldn’t be a good thing to eat.

I have to keep a close eye on both birds until their check up next Thursday. Puffiness, not eating, sitting and no walking are all bad things

This morning I let the Pink Ladies out in the rain for the day, giving the sickly duo a day in, on their own to potter about the coup, have a bite to eat and generally have a day off. I’ll do the same for the next week. As I was leaving both were eating and moving around.

Wish them improved health and that other leave them alone.

So Not a Morning Person

I have often been told that you can train yourself to be a morning person.

I would like to refute that nasty piece of propaganda.

After many years of having to rise at 0600 in order to catch a train to London, I never once went to bed with ease before 10pm and I never, ever, ever woke up before my alarm.

To this day, and during periods of unemployment, as I often have due the fickle nature of being a consultant, I research the natural sleep patterns of my body.

1. I need eights or more hours of sleep
2. If I don’t get a minimum of eight hours, I have a week before I NEED to catch up that sleep deficient
3. My body will fall into a rhythm of bed at midnight up at eight or later.
4. I snore

When working I often have sleep to catch up on by the time the weekend comes around. This weekend will be no exception, but this week through no fault of my own.

I am fortunate at the moment in that my job allows me the luxury of rising at what I consider to be a fairly civilized time. I rise between 0730 and 0800. Shower, sort out the family feeding requirements and drive to work. I still arrive between 0845 and 0915. Almost, the perfect arrangement, perfect would be being able to work from home.

So as you can imagine, I was somewhat perturbed this morning when I was awoken, not by the sounds of harps coming from SleepCycle® but the bleating of trucks reversing down my street, followed by crunching sounds of tarmac being scraped into a digger bucket and blokes yelling instructions. When the cockatoos screech I can block that out as it is classified in my head as a ‘sound of nature’, not so with trucks, tradies and tossers at 0600.

I went to bed at midnight last night.

As I was up, I tried to leave early. I couldn’t because the road was blocked. I had to wait before I could get my car out of the driveway.

I asked one of the men in flouro if anyone had thought to let the residents know that the perfectly good road was going to be dug up.

I was informed that a letterbox drop had been done a week ago. I assured them that I had received no such warning and neither had my neighbours and that perhaps that the powers that be should speak to the person responsible for said drop to find out where they had dumped the flyers. I know my neighbour knew nothing about it because I know that the local gossips would have been having a field day on something happening in the street and when I’d been caught outside weeding on the weekend it would have been mentioned. I know about Lisa from round the corner having a baby with webbed toes for crying out loud and I don’t even know (or care) who Lisa is!

I’m working on six hours sleep today. Could be interesting

Chicken Gizzards

I’ve been at my new job long enough now, to be able to make what I believe, to be fairly sound comment on the working environment.

The office is in a part of town that is renown for it ethnic leanings. Most shops on the main street are labelled in Chinese before English. Being a big fan of dumplings, noodles and adventures in food land this isn’t really much of a problem. Where it does become a problem is if you want or need to buy anything (apart from food) of quality. The local shopping centre has a Best Buy, Franklins, and a Dick Smith (remnant warehouse). All the other shops, except the Post Office and leased out to market stall type shops that sell jewellery for a dollar and fry pans for four. The local butcher sells gizzards, skin, feet (of chook and pig) and the best cut of beef is blade. No Scotch Fillet for my dinner. Having said that, it does mean I can’t spend on M.A.C make-up (I’m sorry, did you say one dollar for the eye-shadow?) or clothes.

When I am at work, I have delays in computing. They are doing a roll out of new PCs, which is good, because when the machine can’t keep up with my typing speed you know there’s and issue. Stop. Plus I think I have the tiniest screen possible, it reminds my of the old DOS days when you have a massive off-white brick on your desk with a screen no bigger than a credit card. In my line of work, which currently involves extensive Copy/Paste activity I am really hoping I’m next on the list. However, I have feeling I’m going to have scraped the documents together only to find a geek standing at the end of my desk saying, ‘I’ve come to replace your tower’.

I’ve never been to so many meetings. Seriously. I swear they would have a meeting or ‘workshop’, … and I have put quotes around workshop because, often they have a ‘workshop’ to discuss things, but don’t actually have any workshop activities. I’m getting really close to widely distributing the definition of workshop.

Back to point. They have meeting for everything. So far I think I’ve been to three meetings that actually proved to be useful.

I do have a nice big desk.

Cara can come with me and be stealth, as she is today.

I can drive to the office in less than 45 minutes.

The people I work with are a nice bunch…I haven’t found any stand-outs as yet, but they are pleasant enough. I don’t have to work with the woman behind me, so she has no affect on me except I feel I need to channel warm, happy feelings in her direction. Being in such close proximity I haven’t seen any glimmer of smile crack, I am afraid though that I may cause damage if she does smile….so maybe I should stop that?

All in all, I don’t have a problem getting out of bed each morning at the moment. I even thought about putting my swimming cosie in the car for an after work swim at Homebush, then forgot this morning.

Things are on the up! :-)