Oscars 2011

I enjoy watching the Oscars. It’s pretty much the only award show I subject myself too, unless Lady Gaga is on the Grammys.

This year I recorded the Red Carpet and Ceremony so I could watch it when I got home from work cuddled on the couch with my fur family.

To say I was disappointed is an understatement. I think Ricky Gervais’ fabulous performance at the Emmys (I saw clips after the brewhaha in the press) had put everyone in a spin and the Oscars was to be a safe, safe family affair.

Everything was safe. Even Helena Bonham Carter who usually turns up at these things wearing something that looks like she picked it up at Oxfam and then dragged it through a hedge looked demure in all black. Where’s Bjork when you need her?

Dame Helen Mirren looking stunning with short hair and Vivienne Westwood

The Red Carpet show was so boring I got through nearly three hours of telly in 45 minutes. Thank goodness for fast forward. I skimmed across the chitter chatter for the annoying hosts fawning over starlets. I played the moments I wanted to see. Russell Brand with his Mum, Christian Bale sounding all cockney despite being Welsh, Marisa Tomai and that beautiful deep purple number form the 50s.

I had to pause and rewind to see who was wearing the stunning orange number, when I realised it was Jennifer Hudson, I found myself saying ‘what the hell happened to the rest of her?’ While she is stunning now, she was pretty awesome before the pressure of thin Hollywood had got to her too.


Skinny Jennifer Hudson

Jennifer Hudson in 2008, looking buxom and spectacular

Helen Mirren with her super short platinum blonde do was simple breathtaking wearing a Vivienne Westwood gown in pewter. She just seems to get better with age.

But we saw the same people on the carpet. Sandra Bullock, the young lass from the True Grit remake, that woman from The Fighter who ended up winning best Supporting actress, Melissa Leo. Her outfit was white encrusted with mirrors and an Elvis collar. I’d fire my stylist if they even suggested I wear something like that, but then I suppose it could have been a dare.

Robert Downey Junior and Jude Law injected just about the only genuine humour to the evenings events

The Ceremony was interesting from a car crash point of view. Like driving past a car crash, you can’t help looking. It was so dull. For me there were four spots that made me pause and watch. Robert Downey Jr and Jude Law talking about drug addition, Anne Hathaway having a dig a Hugh Jackman in a gag that feel flat, Zachary Levi, known for being bumbling spy by accident Chuck , singing and Kirk Douglas presenting the Best Supporting Actress gong.

Kirk Douglas has still got it at 95 and after recovering from several stroke

It’s great to see that Kirk Douglas of Spartacus fame has managed to overcome that strokes that left him unable to talk or walk to appear on stage again at the age of 95. Most would have disappeared from public life, but not Douglas Sr. He came out on that stage, faltered through a couple of fluffed lines, flirted with the ladies and even did a little physical comedy. Some in the press have derided him for appearing and the Academy for inviting him to present, but I think it’s admirable that he did appear and show the world that you can come back from life threatening illness.

Melissa Leo - really just because it was on the catwalk, doesn'tmean it should been worn out

I didn’t rate James Franco’s outing as a host. He seemed uncomfortable the whole time. Anne Hathaway seemed overly relaxed; she gesticulated a lot, to the point where she nearly obscured Franco’s face. When Billy Crystal came out to talk about hosting in the old days and Bob Hope’s 16 years as Master of Ceremonies, he got a standing ovation. He deserved it. He’d been good, but it seems a younger generation have been invited to host in an attempt to draw in the younger viewers. I may have suggestion to assist with drawing this demographic. Give good comedies a chance.

Zachary Levi and Mandy Moore - Who knew Chuck could sing?

In total, had I have watched all the Red Carpet and Oscars coverage in real time, I would have been glued to the set for over six hours. On fast forward, I knocked it over in two. I really hope next year gives me a show worth taking that day off work for like my friend C does.

St David's Day

Today would have been my 14th wedding anniversary, but seeing as I’m divorced now, it’s just St David’s Day. It’ll still evoke special memories in me, they’ll just be a little more wistful.

Instead of flowers, dinner and an amazing night of snugly ohing and ahing, I went to see the doctors.

I’ve been putting it off, knowing that I was getting worse and knowing that I’d inevitably walk out with a prescription for mind altering drugs and a suggestion to see a counsellor. I was right. But I know I’ve reached a point where I need the help.

These are a few things I know to watch;
Anger. It’s much worse than it’s been in a very long while. Frankly, I want to tell everyone to just f*ck off then go and hide in a hole.
Sleep. I sleep like a cat, but wake up tired after my dreams have been invaded by nastiness. No frolicking in lush green meadows with the man of my dreams at the moment.
Motivation. I’m sorry you want me to do what? I can’t be arsed to get showered or dressed at the weekend let alone leave the house if I don’t HAVE to.
Motorbike. I’m avoiding it. I very nearly sold it at a loss the other day.
Food. I starving all the time, but don’t want to eat. Once I start eating I can’t stop.
Concentration. How many times did I wash my face in the shower this morning because I’d forgotten I just done it?
Writing. I haven't done any for ages unless I'm complaining or griping about something. I'm not really a miserable git, but I'm sure some think I am. Consider this exhibit A.

Of course there are still those that ask me for help, even though I’ve attempted to retreat into the pit of despair that is my life at present. I’ve stopped going out even though I have a couple of fellas trying to court (I use that word because date seems odd). I’m wrong at the moment. I’m up for a bit, then down as low as can be.

Dr Rosemary says I need to be less stoic, ‘it’s a very British mentality’.

I freaking out about how the bills are going to be paid. I need to get a housemate, but despite a lovely spare room and over 100 views on the advert I’ve had no enquiries. My mental health is slipping into disrepair along with my kidneys.

I’ve been here before and I survived. Actually I’ve been here a couple of times in the last few years. I bounce back, but as a friend said the other day, ‘I’m just not sure how many bounces I have left in me’.

I can’t help thinking; while Africa was a great adventure, I would have been better staying at home.

I can’t help thinking; if I’d never have left my husband, I’d be financially OK?

I can’t help thinking; what’s going to happen to me, am I going to die alone, broke and eaten by cats?

I can’t help thinking; would anyone really miss me?

A Big Question

Imagine if you will sitting on a motorbike wearing gloves, jacket, jeans and helmet.
Indeed a full compliment of safety gear to ensure no harm should come to me in case of incident.

Now picture this.

Sat at the light waiting for them to turn in your favour and feel a tickle on your ear. Not a itch, a tickle, like someone is lightly running a feather across your skin. The sensation becomes more intense.

A quick bash with the heel of the hand to the right side of the helmet doesn't make it go away.

The lights turn to green.

You kick the bike to life, first. flick the toes and you're in second.

Your ear is distracting you from the road and traffic ahead. Pull into the driveway of a car showroom that's closed for the night and bring the bike to a halt.

Flip the visor up, remove gloves. Unbuckle the neck strap and slowly remove helmet…

…turn it upside down to see a small brown spider moving around in the gap between the foam liners were your ear nestles.

The question is this:

To Scream Like a Girl or Not To Scream Like a Girl?

Out the window on the right…

…you’ll see roses planted at the ends of the vine rows. It is often said that white roses mean white grapes, red roses red grapes. While this is true in some cases, there is actually a more practical use for the gardeners delight. Fungi and aphids will attack the roses before they go for the vines, so the growers use them as an early warning system as to when and what to treat the vines for.

--- *** ---

After I arrived back in Australia after my time working in Africa [link] I decided to do something I’d always wanted to do. I went a sat for my Heavy Goods driving license. I passed.

While the job market in the corporate sector was suffering from a downturn, due to various reasons I thought I’d drive a truck to make ends meet. Lack of experience put paid to that idea, so I stumped up a bit more cash, sat a test and got my Bus Drivers Authority.

Now I’m driving a silver 14 seater Mercedes Sprinter from Sydney to the Hunter Valley, three or four days a week.

I tried to get a bigger bus, but unless I started driving for State Transit (public buses) I needed to have experience. I got the gig I got because the owner wanted someone who didn’t have bad habits from previous roles.

I’ve done a few trips now, about 12 and apart from finding the 5am start and the F3 the most boring road on the face of the planet, I really enjoy it.

I do however need a proper job…the amount of cash for a 14 hour day is a tad beyond daft!

Manual Labour

As some will be aware I have my truck drivers license. I can drive a vehicle with three or more axles up to 22 tonnes. Not really that exciting if you’re not into driving, but if like me you love driving, it’s just another machine to conquer.

In my current state of unemployment and in a desperate corporate environment, I thought I’d give driving for a living a go.

Over the last few weeks I have made nearly 80 phone calls to various companies asking if they need drivers. Dustbin collection, cement, line-haulage, bulk landscape supplies, coach companies and car haulage. A guy at one of the car haulage companies said, ‘it’s more of a man’s job love’.

I had an interview with a bin collection company, but for my interview I think I was over dressed. I wore jeans, a business shirt and jacket. If I hadn’t have washed them for a week I would have fitted in perfectly. Unfortunately, my outfit was clean and I was wearing deodorant. They didn’t call me back.

I went to an interview with a tour bus company. It sounded good, but they have never called me again.

The third company to respond to my requests for employment was a warehousing company with property in Sydney and Canberra. They wanted a night driver to ferry goods between the warehouses. At their request I sent in my CV, with the disclaimer that it not a classic truck drivers CV, but I was really interested in driving. I was called into an interview.

‘I’m looking to retire’. This was the opening line of the interview.

My interviewer preceded to tell me about wanting someone to take over the operations manager role and looking at my CV I seemed capable of such a role. Driving a truck, he told me, was not worthy of my talents.

‘I didn’t grow up thinking to myself, when I grow up, I want to be a Change Communications Consultant. I grew up wanting to drive taxi’s trucks or buses. I was hoping to take this chance to live a dream’.

He asked me to start on Thursday at 7am. ‘Wear your lovely new steel toe caps.’

I set my alarm and got up at six. I saw the sunrise. That is just so wrong on so many levels I can’t go into it now. But let me just say I believe sunrise so only be seen on spontaneous romantic mornings, mostly when sleep hasn’t been had yet.

I’d packed a lunch the night before and I was ready for my first day as a truck driver.

Upon my arrival the warehouse was already busy with trucks being loaded and unloaded. Men in Hi-Vis of yellow and orange buzzing around. I had personally selected the yellow vest that I use when riding my bike in adverse weather. The Boss, saw me and told me to observe for a while, ‘see if you can figure out what’s going on and who’s doing what’.

That took me about five minutes, I stood there for nearly any hour.

Then the box shifting commenced. First I helped a guy load his truck. Then I moved some boxes from one pallet to another. Then I cleaned up all the bundles of discarded pallet wrap and cardboard boxes and got to use the Elephant Foot garbage compactor. Then back to moving boxes, but now I got to use the hand pallet jack.

At the end of the day I got to clean up the big puddle of water in the middle of one of the cold rooms. The mop I was given to use was so dirty it wouldn’t absorb any water. I ended up using a giant squeegee to push the water out into the open air.

I didn’t stop for seven hours.

After driving home, I stopped the car in the driveway. It took me about five minutes to get out.

This morning I crawled out of my lovely warm bed at 0610. I got to work at just after 7. The place was a madhouse. Six truck inside the warehouse being loaded, two outside. I was immediately put to work.

‘Help Ali load, he’s bulk picking’.

By ten past seven I was loading boxes full of pre-cut salads bound for Pizza Hut into a refrigerated truck. Having moved over 250kgs I assisted another truck driver load. Then I was asked to move the water collection barrel out of the cold room and drain it. Now sweep the floor. Moved these drink can pallets with the pallet mover. Now, make these six pallets, three pallets, by hand.

I was complimented on my pallet wrapping skills. ‘I’ve never seen anyone wrap pallets so effectively the first time out.’

I just smiled and carried on.

Being knackered and ready to tell people to FOAD. I had a chat with The Boss. I told him this wasn’t really what I thought I’d be doing and that I didn’t really think I wasn’t cut out for such a labour intensive job, after all I’d applied for a night driver job. He told me, he’d already hired a night driver.

14 hours of hard labour. $264.

Knowing I never, ever, ever, never, ever have to go back again and get so dirty it takes a thirty minute shower to get clean: Priceless

That was an experience.

Career Change

I’ve been working in an office environment for a long time, most of my working life, in fact. While I enjoy my job. Talking to people, training and writing. I feel I should extract myself for a while and fulfil a childhood dream.

There were a few things I wanted to do, be a vet, join the police force (sorry, service) or drive a bus. Specifically, be a Tour Bus Driver.

Blame Cliff Richard and Una Stubbs

So now that I’m no longer working in Africa and I’m having issues finding a corporate job in Sydney, I thought I’d pursue my driving ambition.

On the 6th October I spent the day driving a three axle vehicle loaded with 22 tonnes of rock, at the end of it, I passed the test and converted my licence to heavy vehicle one.

Next thing was to sit through the most ridiculous test I have ever done. 200 odd questions including things like, ‘what does VIP stand for?’ and other daftness, see the picture for examples.



For the last two weeks I have been making phone call after phone call to allsorts of companies. Big ones, small ones and just as Baby Bear did, just right ones. The story is always the same.

Minimum two years experience.

Here’s the thing. How does anyone become a heavy good driver when experience isn’t pre-installed?

That said. I do have two interviews tomorrow.

The first is at 11am with a waste disposal company. They want to groom me for a manager role. Apparently my CV is too impressive to be ‘just a driver’. Nice, but I want to be.

The second is at 1pm with a tour company. While they would like me to do a ‘bit of casual driving’ they really want me to rewrite their website and develop training that all their drivers will go through.

Do you think I can get away with charging my corporate daily rate?

I’m happy with lower wages to drive a truck…but majorly discounted office work…I’m not sure that’ll work for me.

NatGeo Wild

I’m in Nigeria, working at the moment and the only telly channel I have found that is reliable and doesn’t shows series that you get into is National Geographic Wild (aka NatGeoWild). I learnt all sorts of things about when Crocodiles ate Dinosaurs and giraffes being relocated, amongst other things.
One thing though that has been reoccurring is an advert for sister channel National Geographic. I shows a series of beautifully taken shots (it would, it is National Geographic after all) with the following voice over:

If you Are, you breathe
If you Breathe, you talk
If you Talk, you ask
If you Ask, you think
If you Think, you search
If you Search, you experience
If you Experience, you learn
If you Learn, you grow
If you Grow, you wish
If you Wish, you find
If you Find, you will doubt
If you Doubt, you question
If you Question, you understand
If you Understand, you know
If you Know, you want to know more
If you want to Know more, then you are ...
Alive


I love it! :-)

Kids!

A few of my friends are mothers of the two legged varity of child. One such child had his first fisty-cuff at kindergarten today and has a bit of a black eye to prove it. In the photo he looks a bit happy about it all, a bit cuffed with his war wound.

Mum, Dad, Aunties, Uncles and friends of the family are incensed. Nearly all want to lynch the other fighting party, even though he's also only three or four years old. The comments on Facebook under the picture stretch to a few pages. My comment of 'Any ideas what started it all?' seems to have gone ignored.

I'm confused by this. I understand that Mum and Dad are upset, that needs no explaination but I don't understand the idea of the intense ill will toward the other child from those away from the situation. I understand that other family members are protective the child.

How is it that such venom can be directed at a child that seems to have been involved in a playground scuffle regardless of their role in starting it all?

The Bearer of Bad News

Once upon a time bad news was spread by hand written letter. I meant that you may have had to wait but you heard that your loved one in the next village, town or city had fallen to unfortunate circumstance.

Not too long ago, the phone would have rung and you would have received news of this nature from a familiar voice. A comforting aunt, brother or other sundry person may have been the bearer of tragic news within hours of the occurrence.

These days (and I’m not bagging the internet because I generally love it) Tweets, Facebook, texts and emails can be composed sat at hospital bedsides, so bad news, as well as good, can be spread about the world by means of a hastily composed, emotionless short message.

I have been on the receiving end of such messages, in the past and more recently.

Harry’s Dead :(
J is in hospital after a series of strokes and is unlikely to walk again.
N has had a testicle removed due to cancer, about to start chemo.

Why do people think it’s acceptable to send this type of news by such a detached means of communication?

Or do they do it, because it is detached and they don’t have to get into a discussion that may tug the heart strings?

Or, is it simply that people have lost the art of communication. Faceless notes without passion have replaced the lost art of the letter. Quick status updates and Tweets have replaced phone conversations.

I know with the spreading of families across the world timezones can cause a problem, but really is that an excuse not to make a phone call, or to wait weeks before sharing bad news?

I feel like we have become reliant on technology to share our bad news to avoid the heart ache and pain that come from giving bad news, but we often fail to consider the reactions and feeling of the person reading the message.

Climbing of the washing powder box now.

Thirteen Years

Today would have been my 13th wedding anniversary, but as my divorce is final (as of 7th November last year) and my ex and I are still on good terms I though I'd share a couple of things that make me grateful for the 12 years we were married.

I don't think I would have ever ended up in Australia if we hadn't have been together.

As a couple we had many good times, including many roadtrips around this wide brown land, so it wasn't all bad.

I had a chance to try my hand at farming. Alpaca, chooks, geese, mohair goats rabbits and a few other random animals...nothing worked, but it was good while it lasted.

He encouraged me to be myself and go for what I wanted. Of course it was this that ended us finally, but without him I think I could be a shy, brown mouse in a suburb somewhere cold.

This is a few of the reasons I decided that when I left I would keep it civil if we could. It worked. Now I have someone in my life that would be there for if I really needed it, and vice versa.

Happy Anniversary, some might think unlucky for some, 13 turned in a lucky number for us, because we finally made each other happy, as friends.

But, Is it Art?

The photographic artist, Spencer Tunick was at the Sydney Opera House this morning with over 5000 naked folks for a Mardi Gras inspired photography session.

I might have been temped to get in on the once-in-a-lifetime action, but frankly the 4am start put me off. Sleep is more important than art in my eyes. Between me and the cats, my house sees a lot of non-action.

I have however been interested by the debate that has started with the thought of people getting their kit off in public. Some think it's awful, some (and I missed this comment as it was deleted) think a bomb should have been dropped on the crowd (nice) and others started banging on about God and breastfeeding.

Below are a few actual comments (unedited) posted on the Yahoo newsfeed. I like the last comment most of all. :-)


David - No on got hurt and no one was forced into it and I'm sure thoughs involved had a good time Loosen up U guys theres people dieing in earth-quakes ect. whose to say the say thing can't happen here. Live once and enjoy it

Angela - hope men werent giving women the standing ovation...hahaha

Mustafa - Shouldn't they be arrested for public nudity?

jackrthom - Shudder, this must have been a gruesome sight! There are very few people in the world who look good with their clothes off. Most are simply revolting. If God meant humans to be naked he wouldn’t have provided us with silk worms or sheep. There is nothing artistic about this.

Holly - It not about art nor about loving your body.. I'm comfortable with my body yet i don't feel the need to get my kit off in public for pervets to see !!

Leanne - I wouldn't strip in public for anything, but good luck to those who did. They probably did it for a variety of reasons. So what! If you don't like it - don't look. I wish I had the nerve to do it, I'm sure it would be something that I would never forget, something to laugh about for...

Petra - Judging by the number of comments and the debate this has caused, I would say this is art at its best. And how does god come into this?

Scott - Forget the nudity. I'm more worried about all the illiteracy.

Mardi Gras

Only five and half hours before the 2010 Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. I think I should start getting ready. It take a little time to squeeze myself into the outfit.

Travel Blog

In the coming months I may be doing quite a bit of travel, some outside of Australia. So, I decided to start a journal on a site that is primarily set up for travel blogging.

I selected TravelPod after a girlfriend of mine started using it for her motorbike trip around Australia.

It has many funky features including easy photo upload, tracking maps, link ability with Facebook (still working on that) and a spell checker.

I’ll still be here for my questions, rants and general shooting of the breeze, but the bulk of the travel stuff will be done over at Jodie Sorrell TravelPod.

Promises, Promises

A few months back I passed my motorcycle test. This means I get to ride around the streets of Sydney on two wheels with a motor and sometime over-whelming amount of sweat between my skin and my armoured jacket.

As you can imagine it can get pretty hot when sat in traffic on a 38 degree day wearing full safety gear (helmet, gloves, jacket, Kevlar jeans and boots). You’re not moving it can be bad enough, but sat still, sometimes behind a bus that kicks out an extra few degrees, most motorcyclists nip between the rows of cars in a thing called, lane-splitting.

Europe has some of the most extreme lane-splitting

If you’ve been in a car, you’ve seen it. You’re sat in traffic that is barely moving and some bast*rd on a bike whooshes past you, either on the hard shoulder or between the two lanes of cars heading in the same direction. You swear at the offending so’n’so and wish that was you.

Shortly after started on my ‘L’ plates I did a mini lane split. I hopped around a few cars by going on the hard shoulder. My heart was pumping hard and it caused a slight hyper ventilation. I was so nervous about doing it. You see it requires good control of the bike and at that point I still wasn’t 100% confident with that control. I’m still not, but I’m a lot better than then.

I proudly mentioned my first lane split achievement to a friend at the time. Being a police officer she reminded me it was illegal. Yes, knew that. In fact it was illegal because it’s so dangerous. She then proceeded to tell me horror stories about cars suddenly changing lanes, trucks swerving and all manner of nastiness that car result of a bike hitting an immoveable object, such as a car, truck or ute. Then she hit me with:

‘Promise me you won’t lane split.’

I sat there, a rabbit caught in headlights, thinking. Is it a promise I can keep?

At the time, just under six months ago I could keep it. I was only about 30% confident around traffic. Everything happened really fast, so being stopped in traffic was OK. It gave me time to practice my slow manoeuvring skills, it gave me time to familiarise myself with my bike, Cap’n Hank. Genrally I had no issue with sitting in traffic.

Today I saw the folly in the promise.

What would have been at most a 50 minute commute to work this morning took one hour and forty five minutes. I’ll confess to cheating slightly even so. If I hadn’t I reckon it would have been a two hour plus trip.

How do you retract a promise?

Puss relaxes on the cool concrete in the shadows after Cap'n Hank's shower

What comes next?

Why is it that a really supremely crap Monday always follows a nice weekend?

My weekend consisted of a relaxing ride out to the Blue Mountains and Mount Tomah Gardens, a BBQ at a friend’s place with extremely pleasant company, a short stint laying on the grass in my back garden surrounded by my family (read Puss, O-Ren and Max) and a little bit of tidying. It was all rather nice and relaxing.

When the alarm went off this morning I was a little high on expectation.

It all went tits up when I got to the station, a mere 35 minutes after rising. I washed my fortnightly ticket in the back pocket of my jeans, by accident you understand. I only brought it on Wednesday last week so it still had nine day left. It had cost me $80. I was told by the station staff after my production of the receipt that a rail ticket is the same as cash, if you lose it you have to buy a new one and washing it is the same as losing it. ‘After all, if you washed cash or if you lost you purse, it would be gone’, I was told. It didn’t go down well when I told him that Australian cash is plastic and survives the washing machine quite well.

- I had to buy another ticket.
- I had to stand on the train.

A girlfriend suggested that I should have said 'Like cash ehh, I'd like to see you try and buy lunch with a train ticket.' Very valid I think. Thanks Nicole.

I got to work and took to my seat to play course administrator all day and deal with people complaining about the lack of spaces left even though they’d known about the course for weeks.
- I had to collate 160 six page documents manually.
- The meeting I prepared for was cancelled.
- And other general, I’m too important to talk to you moments.

I got on the train at the end of the day and it was 36degrees inside the metal tube. By the time I got off the train at my destination, after nearly an hour of rivulets of sweat running down my back, my trousers when soaking wet. For that pleasure, I'd paid twice.

I arrived home in what can be only described as a less than jovial mood. I needed something to take me out of that headspace.

Don’t judge me for getting some semblance of enjoyment from harvesting virtual sunflowers and milking cartoon cows that give strawberry milk.

Blogging Mobile

Is it possible to blog from bed using a mobile phone that's connectedto the Internet?

It would appear, that, yes it is.

How did the human race survive before Mr. Steve Jobs and his handy nerds invented the iPhone?

A Ride to the Mountains

I took Cap'n Hank for a ride to the Blue Mountains today. Along Bells End Line of Road and ending up at Mount Tomah Botanical Gardens. Here a few of the pictures I took.


A honey bee collects for the hive


Self Portrait


An Eastern Water Dragon


The View of the Blue Mountains National Park from teh top of the Rock Garden

Fast One?

At 2.20pm yesterday afternoon I received a phone call while I was at work. On the other end of the phone was an Asian sounding lady saying she was from my Real Estate agents and that I was required to be home at 12noon today for an assessment. As I live in a rental property and this is the time of year that my annual inspection happens, I was a bit miffed at the short notice, but could cope. I tried to explain that I work during the week and that would be difficult could it happen on the weekend. I was told, ‘Thursday is the day for your suburb’.

So I arranged to work from home today.

This morning I got up, flicked the hoover around the house, put away a few things and got to work.

At 11.58 my mobile rang, it was a man called Mohammed (I think) he told me he was outside and wanted to come in. I walked out to the front porch to see a pale blue car parked on the road and out climbed a man of Middle Eastern origin dressed in jeans, a blue and white striped casual shirt and dark trainers. He was clean shaven and carrying a roll of white paper.
I waited on the porch for him to get closer; I greeted him with an outstretched hand. Before he could say anything I asked if he was here for the annual inspection. I had made this assumption yesterday during the conversation with the girl on the phone due to her insistence I be home and her repeating of the word assessment. Actually I only really caught one in every five of her words due to her heavy accent.

He told me ‘No, I’m here to do a Green Loan Assessment.’

‘What’s that then?’

He explained that he would come into my house and look at all my appliances, find out when I use the lights and whether I have energy bulbs (I do and can’t use my dimmers because of them) and generally check the house out. I asked if this was a compulsory check and who was asking for it.

‘It’s a Government form, I send it in when it’s completed and you get a letter telling you if you need to replace any appliances, and they’ll loan you the money if you need it’.

I asked if he had any ID.

He told me that he had the form that he had to fill in. He had no clipboard to lean on, so the form was all flippy floppy. I said, ‘if you’ll excuse me for second, I just want to call my Real Estate Agent.’

I popped inside and called my Landlord. I rarely go through the agent for anything except the annual inspection and rent payments. The Landlord, was furious and told me he’d get straight onto the Agents to find out what was going on.

I went back outside and the guy was still there, holding his rolled up Government form. I asked him for his ID again. When he failed to produce it, but say he had an assessor number, I let him have it.

‘You turn up here after giving me less than 24hours notice and expect me to let you into my house when you can’t produce any form of ID. You ain’t coming into my house, Mate!

And, you might want to reconsider turning up at the rest of the houses on the hand written list you’re holding with a rolled up form you could having printed off a website and without any ID. Bye’.

Well, there may have been a little more detail, but you get the gist.

This encounter played on my mind for much of the day. Especially after the Real Estate Agent rang me and told me that that had not arranged any such appointment.

About six in the evening I called the Police. They sent a couple of uniforms around for to give a statement. They thought it sound a tad odd too.

I still have his number saved in my mobile, under Dodgy Green Loan Guy.


PS. Green Loans are a real thing, but his lack of ID gave me pause. Having now looked at the website for the scheme I'm really glad I didn't let him in my house.

A Gift

Is it strange that I would prefer a dead rat to a living cockroach?

Monopoly

There are a few things that raise my blood pressure (beyond the medical condition that causes that), cruelty to animals, selfishness and having to use services that are terrible.

If you don’t like Microsoft, you can use Apple or even open source. If a plumber does a bad job you can use another one next time, if your carpenter turns up without a hammer...well you get the gist.

This is not the case with the Post Office. You have no choice. So they can get away with pretty much anything. Frequently they do.

I was home sick today, so I was home. You can imagine my surprise when I walked through the hall and noticed a shadow on the door. It was a delivery card stuffed into the screen door. I’d been in all day, so how come there was a card? I have a perfectly functioning door bell.

I decided to call to find out if the parcel was back at my local PO before walking down there. I rang the 131318 number on the card. Dial one for this, dial two for that and three for all other enquiries. Two.

Then. Dial one for this, dial two for that and three for something else and four for other things. If you wish to speak with an operator press zero. Zero.

A little bit of hold music followed by, ‘All of our operators are busy at the moment. If you would like to receive a call back from one of our expert customer service team, hold on the line for the next available call back time. The next available call back is at 1.30pm tomorrow. Press one to receive the call back.’

If you don’t press one you hear, ‘thank you, please call back later in the day’. Then the line drops. No option to hold. Just go through the automated phone system over and over again until you truly understand the meaning of the term ‘going postal’.

I went through this process five times before I decided to take a walk to the local Post Office.

It was two thirty. I stood in a queue of poorly dressed locals and undisciplined children for 25 minutes. While I stood there like a lemon and marvelled at the rubbish they sell from the buckets and shelves that line the wait area, plastic torches, car seat organisers and large format versions of Mr Angry (I love it when irony is unintentional). Upon getting to the counter I was told that the truck hadn’t returned yet and I had to come back later.

I wanted my parcel, so I had no choice. I went back later as instructed and queued again for another 30 minutes.

I got my parcel after nearly an hour and half of my day devoted to it, when I was in at the original attempted delivery time. I’ve never liked the Post Office. I’m one of those people that bulks buys stamps to minimise my exposure to the place. If I could use another company for my daily mail needs, I would. Only I don’t have a choice and neither does anyone else, so they can treat you as poorly as can be with little care and they get away with it. Everytime!

Plus, they’re closed on Saturdays, what’s that all about?

Boobs In the News

If I had more than two cats, I’d be called the mad cat lady.

If I whipped out my breast to feed a fellow human in the middle of a shopping centre, I’d more than likely be arrested for indecent exposure.

So why then are a couple in Arkansas finding fame for breeding to the tune of 19, yes 19 children. The latest was born at just 25 weeks and is currently in intensive care, and they are talking of having more. They don’t use contraception the news story states because they believe each child is a blessing from God. Who’s paying for these children? You can bet your butt that it isn’t only the parents. Why are these people considered healthy and well adjusted?

I read the other day that the Queensland Government are going to set up a day to encourage Gen Y mothers to breastfeed in public spaces because a survey has revealed that this generation is embarrassed at the idea. Too right they are. Why is acceptable to sit in public with lips wrapped round a nipple just because it’s a baby? Gen Y saw sense when they grew up seeing saggy, big nippled tits in shopping centre and realised it’s enough to put anyone off the ice-cream they just brought from the food court.

Stepping off my Soapbox now.

A Mothers Worry

I’m not a mother in the classical sense of the word. I have not have life burst forth for my loins and I hope that I never do. Mainly because it would likely kill me, but more so because I not really a big fan of the little ones that run around on two feet screaming. I can take them in small doses, but I really like giving them back to the parents.

I do however love the four legged variety of small creatures. Cats, dogs, birds, lizards, pretty much everything except for earwigs, they just give me the wiggings.

I have two cats of my own. Puss and O-Ren. I love them to bits and if anything happens to them I get extremely upset, I fret and I want to do bodily harm to the perpetrator of any wrong doing to them. Going by what friends have said about how they feel about their kids, I would say then that Puss and O-Ren are my children because I feel the same.

This said why is it I don’t get the same consideration from work that the ‘real’ mothers get? I digress, back to my point.

Last night I planned an early night. I didn’t feel like starting the week tired and washed out. I was already feeling a bit rough because of the rainy humid weather, so it was early to bed for me. At nine thirty I whistled at the back door to get the cats in.

Puss appeared not to have left the veranda all night and looked up at me from the deck chair by the back door.

Max (the neighbour’s cat who wants to move in, but due to his spraying can’t) came for his dinner of biscuits and brushing before disappearing back over the fence for the night.

O-Ren was nowhere to be seen.

I went back inside to watch House (season five, very good :-)

At ten forty I went out again and whistled. Puss looked up at me from the deck chair. No sign, so I went in and had a shower.

My early night was slipping away from me.

After my shower I dried and dressed and whistled again. Puss looked up at me from the deck chair, I asked him ‘Could you go and look for her please?’ He stretched then curled back into a ball. Max had reappeared at the sound I was making and smooched my legs in the vain hope of getting a little more food.

I went back inside and watched the end of ‘Swordfish’ while I waited. It finished at midnight. So much for my early night.

I went outside again and whistled again, there was silence. I went to the front of the house and whistled. Nothing, deathly silence, not even the roar of a nearby V8.

I decided to wait, in bed. I’d read I told myself. I lay in bed trying to read Lolita, but a read of Humbert Humbert’s adolescent crush over and over and over again. My mind kept flicking to the image of O-Ren after her last night out, twenty seven stitches, drains and a course of antibiotics, not to mention the $500 bill.

At 1245 I got up and put on my dressing and slippers. I grabbed the torch and wandered to the back fence. I whistled then listened. No faint mewing sounds. Was that good? Was that bad?

I walked to the side fence and whistled, then listened. No mewing or jingle of bell. There was no sound from the other side of the garden either.

I was starting to panic.

What if she was lying somewhere in the rain, unable to get home, badly mutilated but able to hear me calling her.

What if she fallen from a tree and impaled herself?

The darkest thoughts ran through my head as I stood in the middle of my garden at twenty passed one in the morning wishing my cat would come home.

I heard a faint jingle, then a white streak flew over the back fence and landed a few feet away from me before coming to a sudden stop.

She sat down and let out a small mew as she looked at me through her big green eyes, before lifting a paw and slowly, but deliberately wiped her ear. Then she stood and walked across the garden and through the back door.

Does my rage, but overwhelming relief sound familiar?

Retail Therapy

On Wednesday last week I took Bessie for a little jaunt down to Victoria. The intention was to see Little and maybe hire a motorbike and have a look at the Great Ocean Road. The motorbike didn’t happen and as it turned out I had a bit of a bug, so I wasn’t feeling on top form, so even if it hadn’t have fallen through I wouldn’t have been able to ride anyway.

I helped Wynnie out in her shop for three days.

Wynnie is also known as Sally, or Little Sally. She’s my sister or rather my step-sister. My Muv was also Sally, so when we moved in with the step family, Muv was Big Sally, Little was...well, little. She’s still petit, but not so little, being my big sister ;-)

She has a used furniture store in the Dandenong’s township of Emerald. Wynnies Used Furniture is housed in a old stable with a beautiful pressed tin ceiling. Everyday, except Monday, she opens up at 10am by placing piece on the grass outside under the awning. She dresses a mannequin up in clothing to suit the weather and places her in a position to watch over the roadside stock. At five PM she brings the goodies that haven’t sold back in and locks up. After the shop shuts, she does the odd house clearance or delivery, pretty much every night.

On a Saturday she rises before the sun and jumps in her beaten up white van with her three legged dog, Peg and drives for thirty minutes to a different town to go around the garage sales to see if anything worth having is on offer before getting back to Emerald to open the shop at 10am.

After doing all this, she also tarts up new stock items and deals with members of the general public.

And this is where I really take my hat off to her, not that I don’t admire everything else as well, but I’ve worked retail in my time and I’ll confess to hating it.

One customer, I’ll call her Fleur, because I can’t remember her real name. She’s been going into Wynnie’s for nearly three years and telling the same long winded sob stories about doing the lounge in blue and the bedroom in green.

I was sat behind the counter writing up the last sale, when Little handed me a note: Don’t get into a conversation with the woman in the front room, she’ll talk at you for hours.
Suddenly the woman was standing in front of the counter asking Little if she had something or other in green, because she was renovating the bedroom in bedroom. While she was banging on, Sally very discreetly picked up her mobile phone and flicked it open. Without taking her eyes off the customer and all the time nodding and making affirmative noises dialled a number with her thumb.

The shop phone rang.

I picked it up passed it to over. ‘Good Afternoon, Wynnie’s Used Furniture. Yes, we do do house clearances...’ The one sided conversation continued as a disappointed Fleur wandered towards the door.

Little raised her hand, waved and smiled. Fleur looked back just before stepping out into the sunshine.

I had trouble keeping a straight face as Little clicked the phone off and put it on the desk as she said, ‘she has never brought anything.’

It was all class, a fabulous way to get rid of the annoying customer that EVERY shopkeeper has encountered, and such a polite way to do it considering she must be exhausted.

The West

I had the pleasure of having to sit in Merrylands high street for a full thirty minutes today. I had to get passport photos and needed to wait for them to develop.

I planted myself on a bench outside the camera shop with a spinach and cheese Lebanese bread and a can of creaming soda and settled in for a little bit of people watching. After a very short time I selected my theme...
...spot the employed person.

I think I came up short.

I saw lots of dark hairy men in shorts and singlet t-shirts leading women covered from head to foot in dark unpatterned cloth pushing prams and dragging wailing kids.
Teenage girls in skirts so short you could see the curve of the buttocks, bare legs with platform heels with six inch heels and Ed Hardy’s riding above the muffin top.

Shuffling men with dirty clothes, no shoes and fungal toenails.

The stock standard suburban old folks wearing muumuus and dragging wheeled trolleys over the unsuspecting toes.

But the highlight of the watching was a Mother and Daughter pair. Mum was wearing an aqua t-shirt dress that should have, and in fact could have been, a nightie, she had a bleach blonde birds nest on her head and more make-up than the Revlon counter. Her pre-teen daughter had her puppy fat still intact was wear a cap-sleeve shirt and short shorts with ‘babe zone’ across her arse.

I don’t think I saw anyone employed but still on holidays. I think I was amongst the reason the west has a bad reputation.

Probation

It was the 29th December and Cap’n Hank was waiting under the carport for the 7am start and the first trip out west on the M4 to Penrith. Using the motorway would cut the journey time in half over the Great Western Highway and all the traffic lights and pot hole avoidance.

The day had been prepared for, my trusty Yamaha 225 Scorpio had been serviced even though it wasn’t due for one and he’d been helping me out with my U-turn practice in empty car parks. I’d even made sandwiches. It was the Riding Training and Motorcycle Operator Skill Test (MOST) also known as the P plate test day. Deep down in my tummy I felt a little sick.

The manoeuvres ran through my head. Obstacle avoidance, left turn, right hand u-turn, quick stop and the zig zag. The whole 80 speed limit restriction kept my speed down, even as another L plater whooshed passed me. Must not speed going to the test centre as it was double demerits and losing my licence on the way to the test would have been embarrassing.

After gathering with some 15 or some blokes, five for the MOST, the rest for the pre-learners, we filled in forms and logged in, then listened to the schedule for the day. Our number dwindled to four when one guy didn’t have any gloves. The number went down to three when one was told by the instructor, ‘Your bike has run out of rego’.

‘What do you mean, I’ve got no rego?’ I asked.

‘It ran out in October.’ He said, looking at me down his nose.

I didn’t know what to say, except, ‘Oh!’

‘How,’ he spat, ‘did you NOT notice? Didn’t you look at that every time you went out or when you checked your lights are working?’

The instructor just stood there looking down at me like I was scum, I muttered a four letter word beginning with F, put on my helmet and gloves and rode away from the testing range.

I didn’t ride far, just far enough for the sting my eyes to dissipate and anger at losing $161 booking fee to fade.

How was I going to get home?
Why hadn’t the RTA sent me a rego renewal notice?
If I risked riding home and I get caught, what are the consequences?
If I hadn’t of broken my thumb and ridden in the last two months, would I have noticed?

I paced along the side of the road, so many questions and swear words bobbing about in my head.

I rang the RTA, they were shut. I called Bikebiz, the shop where I brought the bike and told Tiny (the sales manager) the problem, he arranged for a ute to come out and rescue me. I walked into the shop three hours later while my bike was being off loaded, to try and find out why I hadn’t been sent a rego renewal.

Turned out that the shop hadn’t sent off the transfer paperwork, that, I was told was my responsibility. It was explained to me that the shop has a policy of only registering NEW bikes on behalf of the customer. With second hand bikes, the customer is given the paperwork to process the transfer directly with the RTA. If only I had been given the paperwork and told to send it off.

I asked a friend if they knew what would have happened if I’d been caught riding home with no rego. ‘Your bike could have been impounded, you would almost certainly have lost your learners permit and there would have been fines to pay.’

Later, I asked a traffic police officer mate for confirmation of the dire prediction. ‘Nah, it’s too hard to impound unless the vehicle has been involved in criminal activity and needs to be searched and rego offences are points free, but you’d get a heap of fines.’ I asked her to be more specific and she obliged.
Up to 15 days after rego expiry and you’ll cop a $506 fine for driving an unregistered vehicle on the road.

Driving with a registration more than 15 days expired will equal the same fine as already mentioned, plus using an uninsured vehicle fine of another $506, then comes the displaying an expired registration label fine at $84. You’ll also get the non payment of road tax fine at another $506. The police could also take your licence plate away and return it to its owner, the RTA. You would then, of course have to go and get it back which will cost you green slip charges and registration.

After a trip to an RTA office I had a fully serviced bike, a shiny new 2010 rego sticker and another appointment to take my MOST. Seven days later I was part of a six person group that spent seven and a half hours doing donuts and quick stops in a car park under the M4 before enduring seven minutes of vomit inducing, breath holding tension. At the end, Aaron, the tester held his hand out to shake mine and said, ‘Congratulations!’

I took a deep breath, took his hand in my gloved hand and exhaled, ‘Oh, thank f*ck for that!’


- Cap'n Hank with his new decoration on the Pacific Highway the day after we passed

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!! ;-)