Ginger Slab Cake

Ingredients
225g of softened butter
1 cup of caster sugar
1 cup of treacle
3 eggs, lightly beaten
1 cup of milk
3 cups of plain flour
1 teaspoon of ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon of grated nutmeg
2 teaspoon of ground ginger
2 teaspoons of bicarbonate of soda

Method
Preheat oven to 160 degreesC. Grease and line a 23cm square cake tin.

Cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Slowly add the eggs until well combined.

Heat the treacle and milk in a saucepan. Allow to cool before stirring into butter and sugar mix.

Sift the flour, spices and bicarbonate of soda together and then fold into other mixtures.

Spoon the batter in the prepared tin.

Bake for 60minutes or until you can insert a skewer into the middle and extract cleanly.

Allow to cool before turning out of tin.

I knew it!

Thin isn't always best :-)

Memories are made of this

Having had a houseguest for the last week I’ve been playing kitchen goddess all weekend. I baked up a storm, but sweet things rather than bread.

I decided to broaden my horizons and rolled out the oats, brown sugar and treacle plus a few dried fruits.

At one point I noticed I now have a rather fully loaded pantry. It reminded me of Muv. I had a pang of sadness as I had a realization that I even have glaze cherries in the fridge. I’ll eat them later and I won’t tell myself until I come to make something next weekend then be annoyed and tell myself I’m disappointed in me. That will really bring back the memories :-)

Figgy Fingers

Ingredients
125g of butter
1 cup of soft brown sugar
1 cup of desiccated coconut
2 cups of rolled oats
1/2 cup of dried figs
1 tablespoon of golden syrup

Method
Preheat oven to 180 degree C. Lightly grease a 20cm slab tin.

Melt the butter and golden syrup in a saucepan.

Chop the dried figs and discard the hard stalks

Combine all of the ingredients and then press into the tin.

Bake for 20 minutes or until golden brown. Leave till cool, then cut into slices or squares.

Frannies Not-so-Fancies

Ingredients
100g Butter
1/4 cup of castor sugar
1/4 cup treacle
1 cup of plain flour
2 teaspoons of baking power
1/2 teaspoon of salt
80g of rolled oats
20g of flaked almonds
1/2 cup of sultanas
1/4 cup of glaze cherries

Method
Preheat oven to 180 degree C. Lightly grease and line a 19 x 29cm slice tin.

Gently heat the butter, sugar and treacle in a saucepan until butter has melted and sugar dissolved.

The flour, baking powder and salt should be sifted into a bowl. Stir in the rest of the ingredients in and then stir in the butter/treacle mix.

The mixture will be thick and sticky. Press it into the prepared tin and bake for 20 minutes.

Allow to cool before cutting into slices. You should get between 16 and 24 depending how big you cut them.

I heart Bread

I do, I really, really do. I like bread so much that I even learnt how to make it. I can make plain white bread, olive bread for those days when you just fancy bread and cheese and I recently added mulit-grain and wholemeal to my repertoire.

I also like pasta, cakes and biscuits. But nothing comes quite as close to being as good as fresh bread with butter and honey.

I do however have an issue. I really shouldn’t eat bread. While I am not Coeliac, my body doesn’t like to overdose on the wheat products and take it from me, it’s in nearly everything bar, meat and veg.

Of course, when finances are tight, bread becomes a staple because rice, while nice and easy for home, isn’t so easy for work. The accompanying sauce tend to have strong odours that don’t always go down well in an office environment. So I’ve been eating bread, making it, then eating it.

Yum!

But now, after a few weeks of having a wheat rich diet I’m starting to feel the effects. I’m tired, all the time. My skin is terrible, spotty, grey and itchy. And I can’t blame the dog anymore. My insides are constantly churning, I feel bloated and only get a moments relief when I release some of the gaseous build-up. I need to do a de-tox. Badly.

So, rice and corn it is. No more wheat based products. Corn and rice cakes (aka coasters) instead of yummy bread. No afternoon tea biscuits, only nuts and seeds. I’ll have to invest in a fruit basket so I can have my daily three (I really miss walking past a fruit and veggie shop on the way into the office) and I’ll have to make soups, canned one have flour thickeners.

I can still make bread, but for friends only.

I must rid my body of these toxins!

Run away life

Have you ever had one of those weeks where life has taken control and you find yourself on a roller coaster going up and down, round the corners and through the tunnel of turmoil?

The last seven days have been like that for me. I’ve been travelling for work, organised a photo shoot for work, I’ve been on the radio, I’ve added to my fur family, I’ve had a house guest and I sold a bed on eBay.

On Friday I went to Port Macquarie for work. Flew there in the morning gave a half hour presentation and then climbed on a prop for the trip home at 5pm. It was a 12 hour day, (four in airports, one and three quarters on aeroplanes, driving driving to and from airports, two and three quarters sat in a management meeting listening to gumph about road building and my half hour) all for half an hour in front of the room showing some slides and doing a bit of talking. Daft beyond believe, but I did get to pop into Cassegrain Wines on the way back to the airport.

Last Wednesday night I was on the radio. Yes, actual radio. Ok, so it was community radio with a radius of 10 yards, but radio none the less. I was on the Uncle Mike and Mama Carol Show on Flame FM 100.9 (or Auburn and Bankstown Regional Radio as it’s know while the licence request goes through). Uncle Mike was off watching rugby (State of Origin, a big thing for those in NSW or QLD) so I got to fill in. Carol drove the control centre while we chatted, played songs, did Bing Bong (read out Overheards for the free commuter newspaper) and generally brought the whole community into disarray. It was an absolute hoot. At the end of it, I was offered my own show. Mad!

I added three chickens to my fur family at the weekend. I wanted some for a while, they are cheap and easy to keep and they give you eggs. Plus, as an added bonus in my house they keep the cats entertained. Oren has decided they are better than TV. She sits and watches them for hours. She follows them around as they walk around the pen. Cara is interested, but as they are outside and prefers being inside, in the warm, she takes a quick look on her way back in after toilet breaks. Puss has seen it all before and simply ignores them as he does with anything he deems not worthy of his attentions.

My house guest arrived on Sunday, but the prep had caused a minor frenzy of activity. Cleaning, making up his room, going to IKEA to purchase a duvet and pillows (thanks goodness for the ‘As-Is’ bin, saved $40 on the pillows). I also made bread. Then as a last minute thing, I decided to use the lemons bombarding my back lawn, by making lemonade. I had no idea it was so easy to make what is essentially a lemon cordial/squash. I made much more than the recipe suggested due the overflowing bowl of lemons and by the end of it I had three bottles of lemon squash for the price of a bag of sugar.

I sold a bed on eBay. Those of you that know me well will know of my general distaste for eBay. But, as I had a double bed cluttering up the hallway, I decided to bite the bullet and get rid of it. The guy that brought it came to pick it up in Sunday night. He had hired a van and hadn’t taken the sizes provided into account when hiring, so he had to dismantle it in my driveway, using my tools. Idiot! It was dark, I was busy, I left him too it. My house guest N. was kind enough to sort out the boys with the bed. My distaste for this selling medium comes from this sort of stoopidity that comes with folks wanting a bargain. I have yet to have a reasonable selling experience.

The photo shoot for work turned out OK, but the start of the day wasn’t looking too hopeful. It was raining heavily and it was supposed to be an outdoorsy shoot. We had hired talent for the day, a photographer and organised a construction site to be available. It had to be done the day it was booked for. We managed to get a couple of breaks in the weather where it wasn’t throwing buckets over us, but we still needed to put plastic bags over the flash units and an umbrella over the photographer.

I have a message for the planet. Please stop, I would like to get off for just a short break.

It's just a name

I had a dream last night about something that got me to thinking this morning about names. I can’t remember the dream, but I pretty sure it involved someone knocking on my door. Of course someone may actually have knocked on my real door, but seeing as it was still dark at the time, I’ll consider it a dream and not a desperate plea of help. Anywho...back to my point...

Many years ago I saw Disney’s 101 Dalmatians. Apart from Cruella deVil being one of the scariest villains ever, I always recall seeing the scene where Roger and Anita walk through the park and see all the dogs that look like their owners. The long coated Afghan cantering with a lanky hippy, the bulldog with a pumped up fighter and the small fluffy with a well dressed girl in pink with ribbons. Like for like is what they were saying, I think.

So the name thing can also be like for like. I know a Mr. Gumm, he’s a dentist. He wasn’t my surgeon, but Mr. Andrew Bone worked in the same building as my orthopaedic doctor. Mr. Kidney is a nephrologist on the list of specialists that my Doctor looked at when she was looking for a consultant for me. A guy I worked with was called Mr. Trainer; he’s the Learning and Development Manager and was a school teacher.

The same goes for addresses...I live on Rope Crescent, those that know me, know I have a passion for knots.

Can you imagine though, standing in an elevator, ascending to the 13th floor and noticing that the maintenance company for said lift, lists their address as Ricketty Street

Muffin stuffin'

A couple months ago I did a bread baking class. I got me to thinking…I like cooking and I’m not terrible at it.

So after spending a day in the kitchen last weekend, kneading dough and making a Lamb Shank Casserole for dinner, I decided to make savoury muffins on Tuesday. My first attempt at this recipe turned out a bit flat, I was copying it from the book 'The Baking Bible', but I misread so I used plain flour instead of self-raising. I also used tomato paste (as the book tells you too). The result was a bit stodgy, but tasty, so I decided to fiddle with the recipe and make it my own. This a quick dish that could be rustled up for those surprise guests that just 'pop in'. I give you:

Pesto and Cheese Muffins

Prep time: 10 minutes
Cooking time: 10-15 minutes

Ingredients
2 cups of self-raising flour
½ tsp of salt and pepper (mixed)
1 egg
¾ cup of water
1.5 cups of grated cheese (I used Vintage Cheddar)
¼ cup of pesto

Method
Pre-grease your muffin trays.
Put all the dry ingredients in a large bowl, gently combine with a folk.
Add the egg and water and combine with folk until all the ingredients are together. Mixture will be firm but sticky.
Spoon the approximately half the mixture into then tins.
Add one teaspoon of pesto to the top of the mixture.
Add the other half of the mixture to cover the pesto. Too much pesto and the top will not stick to the bottom and seal the pesto in.
Sprinkle a little grated cheese to the top of the muffin (I used Parmesan).

Place in the preheated oven (200degrees) and bake for 10 minutes or until golden brown.


Eat while warm and you'll eat them all. Eat the following day and you'll be able to pace yourself, but barely :-)

As an afterthought I decided you could pretty much use any pasta pesto for this recipe. I have a nice roasted capsicum (pepper), cashew and chilli paste in the cupboard, I may try that next.

Tick Tock

In the last 24 hours I have pulled two ticks off Oren (for those just joining us, Oren is my second feline child). One was attached to her lacrimal punctum (the bit a human would put eyeliner on) and one on her lip. They were both small, but they were paralysis ticks, and they are renowned for being nasty little buggers. While the native wildlife can sustain many at a time, imported critters, such as cats, dogs, sheep and cows, tend to have a nasty experience with them and often die.

She is two and half now and these are the first ticks I’ve ever found on her. It means I have to search her daily now to ensure she gets no more and if she does, get them off as soon as possible.

I may even need to keep an eye on Cara (first canine child). While she doesn’t spend any extended time outside, she so small, if she was to pick one up I’m sure it wouldn’t take long to have an effect on her.

Puss (first feline child) used to get a lot of them when I lived a little further north and he was more of an outside explorer. Now he’s nearly 12 and a tad arthritic, I’m not so worried about him, but there was a time he nearly died for tick poisoning, so I’m very aware of the dangers of not finding them quickly.

I found him lying on his side, half under the bed, breathing laboured. I rushed him to the vet, it took us half an hour of searching before we found the offender. It was a female, engorged to the size of my little finger nail, sucking the blood from the inside of his lip. The size of the sucker, she would have been there about five days, it's more than likely his continued exposure that meant that he surrived as long as he did with one attached. He had a dose of anti-venom, but it was still touch and go for a while. He vomited pure green, fitted, spasmed and drew the blood of the vet. I cried at the thought of losing him. He had a two day stay at Auntie Anna’s (the vet) I had a large bill.

I’ll be body searching my kids daily from here on out.

1st April, again?

I was on the train travelling to work when this email popped up on my phone. It's from the office manager where I work. I really did have to stifle a snort of laughter upon reading it.

I came into work this morning with the intention of finding out what the term ‘planking’ amongst social networkers means. This was prompted for 2 reasons:

• About 50% of our Corporate Office personnel are young and I feel the need to remain in touch with the ‘lingo’.

• Media vehicles are concerned about the increased number of personal injuries and deaths reported in the past week.

For those of you who don’t know, some rather interesting sites define ‘planking’ as the ‘ART’ (???)of challenging our body physically by trying to balance it on or between objects and it appears that the more extreme the idea the better.

I have been made aware that ‘planking’ is being practised in our own office.

Please be advised that ‘planking’ at work goes against our ‘safety above all else’ value and the practice is unacceptable.

I'm definitely gonna stick to Teapotting after this email, it scared me off being a planker. :-)

The Joy of Honey

At the request of my current housemate, I made dessert. I didn’t have anything fancy in the cupboard, but thanks to the recipe on the side of the Kellogg’s Cornflakes I was able to rustle up a treat or four.

I had Cornflakes, honey, butter and sugar, but I didn’t have cup cake cases, so I rolled out a few ramekins. It meant I had supersize Honey joys and only four, rather than 16.

They were yummy, crisp and buttery :)


Kellogg's Honey Joys

Ingredients
90g margarine or butter (I picked butter:-)
1/3 cup sugar (I went half/half white and raw)
1 tbsp honey
4 cups of Kellogg's Cornflakes

Method
Preheat oven to 150 degrees.
Melt butter/marg sugar and honey in saucepan until frothy.
Add Kellogg's Cornflakes and mix well.
Spoon into paper cupcake cases.
Bake in slow oven for 10 minutes
Allow to cool.


I'll keep working on my food photography :-)

It's not our policy

Yesterday I misplaced my fortnightly train ticket. I searched all my bags including Cara's and to no avail. Gone. I have no idea how, it's a total mystery.

I did however have the receipt in my wallet. $62 (that converts to US$65.86, 40UKPounds, 5,716 Kenyan Shillings, 10,267 Nigerian Naira and 187.66 Turkmenistan New Manats)

After being sent to the Station Master by the ticket seller I was told my ticket was considered lost as if it where cash.

'If you lost a fifty dollar note you wouldn't expect it to be replaced' he told me.

I immediately came back with, ‘If I lost $50 I wouldn’t have a receipt’.

‘It’s not our policy to replace tickets based on a receipt’.

After a little sweet talk from me, he very kindly gave me a blue replacement ticket until the 23rd (same as the lost ticket). But I still walked out of the office thinking how ridiculous it is to give receipts but them to mean nothing. Every other business in the world has to honour the receipt, why not Rail Corp?

Stranger things have happened

I confess, I can’t think of many, but I’m sure they have.

The weather has turned cold in Sydney. Those of you that live here will know what I speak off, those that reside in other, far flung place, may not. On average Sydney gets seven days of temperatures below five degrees overnight in Winter. We’re still in Autumn and we have clocked up nearly two week of frosts. FROST! In Sydney. It’s almost unheard of.

Now, I’m not really one to complain about the weather, I like cold days with sunshine. Not too keen on wind or rain, but those lovely crisp days when the sun shines and the flowers still smile, make my heart sing. Thanks to a southerly coming up from Antarctica we’re getting those kind of days.

When I moved in November I moved my belonging into a house with a real fireplace. One you put logs in. I was told when I took up residence that it was in good working order, I found out on February, that it wasn’t. The baffle (the think steel plate just below the chimney hole) was melted through and it was missing several insulation bricks. After much tooing and frowing, the Landlord finally decreed that they would pay for the repairs. Of course, this was just as every man and his dog also wanted their chimneys and fireplaces serviced. So I’m on a list...he’s coming on 21st May.

The cold snap has been here for a few weeks now and the house was becoming as cold inside as outside. It was inhumane, to me, my housemate S and the animals. When you can see your breath inside, it’s too cold. So I lit the fire.

After three days the baffle snapped in half and fell out.

Fan heaters didn’t do a bad job for a couple of days, then the temperature dropped again. On Saturday, I’d had enough of not being able to feel my fingers so I lit the fire. Baffle and bricks be damned...I needed heat.

The smell of the wood, the heat that filled the room, the gentle roar and the glow in the house brought out the domestic goddess. I baked bread, I cooked lamb shanks and I felt like making biscuits. I never really want to cook. I’m sure it was the influence of the real fire burning in the corner. Maybe it’s a primal instinct to make home and nest. Maybe, and I think this may be it, it was the years of a real fire as a child when we’d spend time in the kitchen in the colder months (most of the year in the UK) baking cakes, Muv made a mean Victoria Sponge, making sweeties (rum truffle or clotted cream fudge anyone?), Yum Yum Pie, Bread and Butter pudding and all manner of other goodies. Muv was a regular Barbara Good. There was always a cake in the cupboard.

The bread has gone and due to lack of ingredients the only sweet treat I could make was Honey Joys. I had sugar, butter, honey and cornflakes in the cupboard, but as I didn’t have any paper cases I made giant ones in pate ramekins. It was a bit of fun.

I’ve been out and purchased baking things...almonds, castor and icing sugar, vanilla essence, condensed milk, and a couple of things to try a Jamie Oliver recipe. I’m even thinking of doing what Julie Powell did, but unlike her, rather than a book of savouries’ and general Frenchieness, I thought I'd work my way through the Baking Bible.

Wiring

Why is it when we a presented with a circle we work clockwise?

A picture: Start at the top, move to the right and work your way around the bottom and back up the left side until you reach the top again.

A Cricket Oval: walk to the left and work your way around. If you were being watched from above, you’d be going clockwise. I tried walking to the right, but it felt strange.

I don’t know about you, but I also look at images in clockwise. What’s the first thing you notice about this image?



Then where did you look?

It’s just a theory of mine, but it could just be me. Feel free to debunk this generalist view if you like.

The Printed Word

I watched a movie last night. It was released in 1998. You may have heard of it, it called ‘You’ve got Mail’ and it stars Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.

For those that have been living under a rock for 13 years and may not have seen it, it’s about two people who meet online and fall in love despite not knowing each others names, meanwhile in the real world they do know each other and only ever really exchange cutting remarks as they are competitors in business. She own a small book store that specialises in children’s books and service (she knows all of her customer’s names), he a mulit-millionaire that own a chain of book superstores that offer books at a cheap price, but little in the way of service or knowledge about books (think Borders). Of course, as with all romantic comedies, it turns out well in the end.

Apart from the sound of dial-up internet, which I had almost forgotten, the movie got me thinking about books and where they are heading.

I’m sure when Nora Ephron devised the tale, she had no idea that in 2011 book superstores would be closing because people had stopped buy books made from paper and had switched to electronic tomes. No everybody of course. I still love the feel of the paper and board in my hands, the smell of the ink on freshly pulped wood. I know it’s frightfully un-PC of me, but I like books.

I enjoy spending time fossicking the shelves of second hand book shops for that illusive find. Being surrounded by the mustiness of the years of thumbing the pages have seen. The paper of varying thickness; tissue thin in wartime to save resources, sturdy and wrinkle free in the 60s when nothing needed to be saved, including love. Foxy spots of yellow on the pages and inscriptions of congratulations, happy birthday and ownership; you read more than just the story in print. Sometimes you find added bonuses between the pages; a theatre ticket, a train ticket or postcard. These items tell you even more about the previous owner.

With an electronic book you can make notations and highlight interesting passages, you can turn the pages and you can, or course, read it. But you can’t feel it, smell it, and love it. You can’t take care not to crack the spine, you can’t inscribe it as a gift and you can’t pass it on.

I hope books don’t disappear in my lifetime, after all where would the girl of the world be without pearls of wisdom like ‘Linda Learns to Type’ by Patirica Baldwin written in 1961. What will the world do without tales of young ladies aspiring to be private secretaries?

ANTM

America's Next Top Model cycle 15 has started screening in Australia.

That's all I have to say about that :-)


The beautiful, and educational Miss Tyra Banks

Workplace Relations

Today my last day at my job today. I’ve only been here for three months on a fix term contract, but it feels like I’ve been here forever, in a good way.

I think I will actually miss this workplace. The people have been lovely. They have cream filled biscuits in the kitchen. They have regular morning teas. They gave each and every employee an Easter egg last week, and not one of the tiny ones from a multi pack, a proper sized one. My boss doesn’t mind me bringing Cara to work.

Unlike the last three month contract I had, which I couldn’t wait to get away from, after a bout Whooping Cough and a spell on crutches. This one I will genuinely miss, but as with all things, it must come to an end, cash wins out.

Where I’m going they are going to pay a daft amount for me to supervise. I’ll actually be ‘Managing’ change, rather than doing change. I may have to get my hands dirty on occasion, but for the most part I shall be directing communicators, trainers and change people. Awesome! I wonder if I’ll have an office.

Let the Games Begin

This week I spent the Monday and Tuesday in Melbourne. I’ve drove down because I have an intense dislike of the airports, plus I like to prepare myself for the onslaught of family related stuff. I also like to reflect.

Actually, with the assistance of C, the guy that sits next to me in the office, I already have started. This time about the games we played, and didn’t play, as a child.

Operation: As kids we were never allowed to had one of these, despite it appearing on the Christmas and Birthday for a few years running. It needed to batteries you see, and batteries were and are expensive. But Paul, yes the same Paul for this entry, had Operation and would bring it with him on occasion when he came to play. I loved it, I was rubbish at it. My hands are steadier now. The buzzer and red light in his nose were squeal worthy.

Battleships: on paper, yes. Electronic, batteries. In later life I played Battleships, but with a twist. It’s rather fun to play Strip Battleships.

Pick-Up Sticks: I remember Muv getting me a set (I still have them). I was confused by why it was considered fun to throw coloured sticks onto the carpet and then pick them up again without moving any. I suppose in the Middle Ages when the game was invented by some poor bugger that dropped his firewood into a mud bath it was fun, but I needed batteries.

Tiddley Winks: Muv had a set made from Bakerlite in her jewellery box. The base that held the tokens in red, yellow, white, and powder blue and was divided into five segments where you score points. I loved playing this, but mainly because it was a rare treat to be allowed near the set as it had been her GrandMother’s. I have the set now.

Ker-Plunk!: No batteries required, therefore we were allowed it, but because it was noisy, we were only allowed t play a certain times. I enjoyed playing this so much, that I have a set now. With extra marbles :-)

Top of the Pops: This wasn’t a game persay, but when ‘Down Under’ by Men at Work was number one in the UK charts, my brother G and I bet each other 1p that’d they’d be number one again next week. He never paid up the 8p he owed me.

10 Card Brag and Bastard Brag: Cards on a Sunday night for 2p a hand. I’ll never forget Muv putting down two pairs of Kings and losing instead of four Kings and taking the pot.

Othello: A friend of Muv had this, a green felt board with black and white counters. Lillian would play it with me and carry on a conversation and still win. The other day I was in Borders during their closing-down sale and there was a set for $15. It’s mine now.

At the most we may get in a few hands of cards this week...maybe I should pick up a few bags of 5c pieces from the bank?

Marriage Rights

As a straight woman I find the term ‘gay’ a little offensive on behalf of all my gay and trans friends. For no other reason than it seems everything that the straights have common access too has suddenly become ‘gay’ if it happens to be enjoyed or wanted by those that don’t enjoy sex with the opposite gender.

I saw a poster today that prompted this post. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but today, I’m not exceptionally busy at work so decided to write about it.
Liz Feldman said :

It’s very dear to me, the issue of gay marriage. Or, as I like to call it, Marriage. You know because I had lunch this afternoon, not gay lunch. I parked my car, I didn’t gay park it.

Here’s my humble opinion and I’m sure there will be those that do not agree, but this is my blog so shut up and read on.

Homosexuals pay tax. They can be arrested and put in prison. Many partake of the praying and worshipping activities. They have Mothers, Fathers, Brothers sisters and other all the other family connections. They can vote or in if they live in Australia, they HAVE to vote if aged over 18. They can buy houses and own land.
So why are they still having to campaign for the right to live as their heterosexual neighbours do. Women have the right to vote now and marry whom they like and the indigenous peoples can vote. Why is it that in the first years for the 21st century when, we can send spaceships to Mars and an all caramel Mars bars, doesn’t everyone have the right to get hitched?

If they want to have a piece of paper that says ‘OK, you’re married.’ I say, let them. After all, if children are involved, currently it can get very messy. I’d like to give an example: Jayne and Amber have a child. Jayne gave birth. They raise the child together and at the age of 12, Jayne is unfortunate enough to die. Amber has no rights to keep raising that child. The family of Jayne could take the child away from Amber. Not right in any way, shape or form.

They do have all the same issues in relationships as the straights. After spending months if not years finding ‘the one’, they have fights with their partners, they have in-laws, they have pets that they make the other walk on a rainy days, and have times when the sex dries up (running out of lube can be a bit*h). They even argue about who will do the washing up or that the dishwasher is stacked wrong.
Any commitment to a partner deserves to be shown. A piece of paper, a ring, a collar or a piercing.

The point is that they should be able to say, ‘I’d like you to meet my wife (or husband).’ Everything about their union should be recognised by law and if they decide it’s not for them, jump through the hoops to get divorced.

Allow marriage for ALL!

FV, An Addiction?

I don't smoke and apart from the one at the scattering of Muv’s ashes, I never have.
I've never done drugs, watched others partake and thought it amusing.
I don't consume vast quantities of tea or coffee on a daily basis (one cup of Earl Grey when I get to the office)
I have the odd glass of wine
I do have a couple of small collections (piggy banks: and they must be pigs, books and anything London taxi related), but not the sort of collections that has taken over my house like the ones you see on the ABC 'Collectors' program.

I find myself getting bored of App games on my iPhone that my friends play on an hourly or minute by minute basis.

I've finished Angry Birds, but it took me a couple of weeks. Not a couple of days like some people. Really, do I have to catapult these birds at pigs hiding behind rock, glass and wood? I said wood :-)

Words with Friends is getting old, mainly because I find it rejects the strangest words as not being in the dictionary, what do you mean? Of course ‘baltic’ is a word. Agh! Scrabble has suffered the same fate. Who’s dictionary are they using? It isn’t Oxford’s or MacQuarie’s.

Farmville on Facebook is looking like the latest to become a victim, again. I played it a while back for about six months. I ploughed my plots, harvested my crops, fed my animals, help out my 'friends' when they needed things to build their farm buildings, accepted gifts and helped by sending 'gifts' in return. I got up to level 39, had over a million coins and no social life to speak of. When I travelled to Nigeria I gave it up for a combination of reasons. A slow internet connection made it nearly impossible to play. I was hanging out with Trixie so had no time for virtual crops and finally; it had run it's course. Time for the next thing to learn, anyone for Swahili?

Niliibiwa*

I took Farmville up again a few weeks ago, in a bid to save money for trip to Montreal, Canada, later in the year. I figure if I’m farming crops that don’t require any actual land for coins that don’t really exist, I can’t help but not spend real money by going out. Unfortunately the downside of that is I have no life to speak of once again, except to say, ‘what do you mean your internet connection is down, now my potatoes will wilt and my dog will run away’. It also means in order to get anything good, such as build pig and sheep pens and breed more pixellated livestock, I need to add randoms as ‘friends’ because none of my real friends have enough time in their busy lives to farm in ‘Tron’.

The issue I find though is waking up to pages and pages of updates for people I know nothing about. Not to mention a million FV goodies up for grabs that have expired while I was sleeping. I think I’ve missed things my real buddies are up to amongst all the mess. I made a couple of buddies last time I played, and when I culled before I kept them on my friends list, you know who you are KLW and SPK :-) but this time I’m not sure. I haven’t had a single meaningful conversation so far, so the randoms have yet to turn into friends...time will tell I suppose.

Someone once told me that they thought I had an addictive personality. I can only think they meant I was so much fun they had to spend time with me, because it sure as heck isn’t my ability to take up a hobby and stick with it, just call me Miss Goldfish.


*I’ve been robbed (that one came in handy when I was in Kenya)

Eggs Benny Salmon

Over the last few months I have spent a number of nights in a small town called Bungendore. It is in New South Wales, but just, as it sits on the border of the Australian Capital Territory and home of Our Nation’s Capital, Canberra. Yes folks, Sydney is NOT the capital, and neither is Melbourne.

Canberra was designed as the Nation’s capital in 1912 by Walter Burley Griffin to be a bridging city between Sydney and Melbourne as they argued about who would be the capital once it actually became a county. Funnily enough, most Aussie’s still have that argument, most overseas visitor can’t tell the difference and don’t really care.

Anyway, back to the plot. A night out and good sleep should always be followed by a hearty breakfast, and in Bungendore you go to The Woodworks, a cafe attached to a gallery.

I have developed a liking for this place, somewhat like the Bungendore company (Miss Wyked, Miss Rose and the shadow), it is always warm and welcoming. They also do a kick-arse Eggs Benedict or as it’s called on the Woodworks menu, Eggs Benny Salmon. There is a bacon option as well, but I have to confess to being predictable every time and opting for the fishier choice. I also order an Earl Grey tea which comes, loose leaf, in a tea pot big enough to enjoy six times over.

The two poached eggs come out top of a toasted English muffin sliced in half, wilted spinach and a grilled fillet, skin removed. The homemade hollandaise sauce of lemon yellow is drizzled over the apex with a sprinkling of chopped chives. If that mental picture doesn’t do anything for you, add this, when you slowly slide the blade of the knife into the yolk of one of the eggs, the rich orangey centre pours out over the rest and onto the plate. The second one is just waiting for the puncture to let its runniness out onto the bed of salmon.

My mouth is watering just thinking about it.

I’ve got to point in the narrative where I no longer care about whom designed Canberra or why, or how cold it gets inland on a winter’s morning; all I care about is when do I get to eat Eggs Benny Salmon again?

Far from Home

There really is nothing that can be compared to the feeling of waking up when the train stops and realising that you’re several stops past where you wanted to get off.

Been there done that.

I’ve often been tempted to give the sleeping beauty next to me a nudge when I alight and tell them where we are, but then I don’t want to disturb them because they look so peaceful. But the thought is there, and isn’t that what really counts? :-)

picture borrowed from here

The Doglet*

I have experienced a few proud moments recently. I don’t have children of the two legged variety, but I consider my four legged companions to be my fur family. So when the newest addition to the family has achieved monumental things, I find I swell with pride and want to share those things with others that I think will care.

So far, only one person has been happy (thank you Nicole) to hear about the first time she had a wee somewhere other than the back garden. The first time she relaxed enough to eat something while we were out, when I finally got to use one of the little blue bags to pick up a micro poo for first time ever, and when she went to someone else to check them out instead of hiding behind my feet.

Parents of human children tell anyone who will listen when their babies do something for the first time, the first word, potty training, feeding and greener than green puke. Actually some will even think you want to hear about the tearing, cracked nipples and sleepless nights, too. Why do people look at me like I’m insane for being happy about notable moments in the life of my dog? She’s had a rough trot so far in life; she deserves some enthusiasm for her endeavours.

Also, as a side note I would like to add that Chihuahua’s don’t have the warm fluffy undercoat of hair that keeps them warm, she has to wear a t-shirt or jumper to stay warm.



I’m off to play ‘mousey mousey’ with someone who cares :-)


*credit for the term ‘The Doglet’ goes to JLH or Oxford, England. He heard her snorting in her sleep the other night while we were on the phone and he asked, ‘Is that the doglet?’

T vs C

Why is that I can drink three or four cups of tea a day and sleep like a baby, but a single cappuccino will have me shaking like a recovering druggie looking for the next fix?

Marketing Genius

Yesterday on my way into the train station I was given an Easter egg and a leaflet by a lady with a basket. I was in a hurry as were my fellow passengers and unlike normal where I give the wave of dismissal; I took what she was offering.

I got to the platform and looked at stuff I’d been handed.

She was a God Botherer and by handing out chocolate she had convinced me to accept her gift. I was kind of annoyed and chuffed for her at the same time. The leaflet itself had been made to look like something from Facebook and it wasn’t until I’d read a few lines that I’d realised.



Pure marketing genius!

I ate the chocolate, chucked the leaflet, and forgot the address of the church it was advertising.

Lawbreaker

I was thinking about this the other day because I've become friends with a policeman. He pretty straight-laced and old fashioned in his thinking unlike my other policewomen friends that are a bit radical with the likeing of the modern music and saying f*ck a lot.

I like the way he thinks though, despite being younger than me, yes that is possible despite the fact I still consider myself to be 18, he listens to classical music in the car, is fanatical about F1 racing, is rather shy, I don’t think I’ve heard him swear and he eats like a horse. He's a big unit, not fat just very tall and fit.

Anyway, back to me, this is my blog after all.

We were talking in the car on the way to somewhere or other and I got to thinking about my criminal history. I don't have one. I have a clean record.

I've never been caught speeding.
I've never tagged a wall.
I've never been in a bar fight, seen loads, but never been in the thick of it.
And apart from the soap I stole when I was eight, which my Muv made me return, I haven't stolen anything.

***

I was in a chemist with Muv and Paul Doba. There was a white wire basket that was filled with bags of coloured soap. Muv was at the counter and as kids tend to do, Paul and I were wandering around smelling stuff. Paul was my best friend and the son of my Muvs bestest buddy, Sue, they lived just down the road from us on Bushy Hill Drive.

Paul and I approached the basket. Each bag had six soaps. Some were white, some pink, purple, orange and blue. They all smelt like grandma. One of the bags was split.

'Go on, I dare you to take one'

Being the youngest of five, and four years younger than my brother and his best friend (Bradley, how I loved you), I was always up for a dare in a bid to be accepted and included. I knew what I was about to do was wrong, oh so very wrong, but I did it anyway. I looked around and as quick as a striking snake I put my hand into the basket and grabbed a soap. It was a white one, it smelt like Nanny Hawkins.

It went straight into my left pocket. I looked up into the air, scuffed my foot into the carpet and tried to look innocent. Apparently it worked. We walked home in near silence. Muv asked us what was up, we denied everything.

As we walked into the garden through the wrought iron gate my already spinning head flipped into overdrive, what was I going to do with my prize?

Through the back gate.

The back door.

I made an excuse to drag behind so I was the last one in. I pulled the now volatile bar of soap from my pocket; the red hot booty burning my palm. As I stepped over the threshold I pretended to trip and slid the soap under the fridge.

No one would ever know about my indiscretion. It was over.

Time passed. I could smell the soap every time I went to the fridge and every time I went through the door. Edger Allen Poe wrote about the feeling of being haunted by your actions in a Tell-Tale Heart, I had no idea who he was at the time, but whenever I read the story I think, soap!

After about a fortnight the cat got a whiff. Jodie started laying on her side, paw extended under the fridge, fishing for something. Muv and Dad thought it might be a mouse, it wouldn't have been the first time. With two cats and a dog, we often had small furries running around, but they never lasted long. I hoped it was a mouse.

It wasn't.

After two days she got it. She pulled the soap out and realising it wasn't anything she could eat decided to make a fuss. A cat that rarely said anything showed her disgust and disappointment by meowing loudly enough to alert everyone in the kitchen.

Muv saw it, a momentary look of confusion then she turned to me.

'Tell me why there's a soap under the fridge?'

It spewed out of my mouth. The whole sordid tale without names, I knew enough to never dobb.

'Tomorrow you'll take it back and apologise'

I cried into the night. I was so scared.

The ten minute walk to the shop the next day was like the long walk. I couldn't walk into chemist and was pushed in by Muv.

I looked up at the Pharmacist, he was so tall, he looked like Vincent Price (I’d seen The Abominable Dr Phibes) in that moment when every other time he'd been so kindly, I took the soap from my pocket and placed it on the counter which was at eye height. I started crying and I said 'so..so...sorry' and ran out of the shop.

I learnt many years later that Muv had rung them and warned them I was coming and they'd had a giggle about it, kids will be kids, kinda stuff.

After that I was always convinced I'd be caught if I committed any kind of anti-social behaviour. I can't help if the shoe elves always slip the lead insoles in just before I drive the car.

Manners

I think I've written about this before, but I think I need to again because it's something that continues to vex me.

Manners seem to be dying and to the detriment of society.

I know it may be an old fashioned point of view and suddenly I've turned into my grandmother with her 'youth of today' attitude, but it's not just the youth of today that this is decay is affecting. It's everyone.

Train travel: as a frequent user I see how the lack of simple please, thank you and excuse me affects the blood pressure of many travellers. When you wish to exit a packed afternoon commuter tube, 'excuse me' would be extremely effective at getting people out of the way instead at staring at the back of their head in the hope that their latent ESP is going to kick in. It rarely kicks in before they pushed out of the way from behind. Everyone in this scenario loses. The pusher gets annoyed and the pushee gets pushed and annoyed. Not good for anyone.

Queuing: being of English decent I am well versed with the art of queuing. I think I even formed my own queue to get out of my mother’s womb. So what happened to an orderly line of like minded souls all after a ticket for something or other? I had a bloke shout, 'oh come on!' at me this morning. Really, I wasn't even at the front being served; some Indian lady had that pleasure, and I'm pretty sure she was going as fast as the credit card machine would allow. Again, queuing is not a hard thing to master: join the end of a line, stay there and shuffle along until you reach the ticket seller, food dispatcher, or check out chick. It really is very simple; it shouldn’t require a six week learning annex.

Seating on public transport: there are seats that seat three or two people, on occasion there is the odd single seater or multi seater. If your bottom is wide or you are just grossly obese, please don't try and squish between two people in a three seater or peg someone to the window in a two seater. It's rude. If you need a seat and a half or even two, consider asking the sitter to vacate. It's entirely possible that you'll be told to 'bugger off' but at least you warned them before sitting on them and breaking their thigh bone.

On a similar note, when people are getting off the chosen mode of transport, don't make them climb over you to get out (or in for that matter). Please stand and let them slide into the window seat with dignity instead of nearly falling head first through said window. Ladies often have skirts and stocking on, it's not nice to have to spread your legs over a stranger just so you can sit down. It's even worse it you snag a new pair of stockings just because the sitter can't be arsed to stand.

A simple rule of physics next. If you don't let some out, you can't fit more in. Same goes for public transport. Letting folks off usually makes it much easier to get on.

I feel I have said enough for now on this subject. It’s possible I shall revisit it next time either I or some unfortunate stranger has steam pouring from their ears in the AM or PM trip, but I shall leave you with this final thought;

Wouldn’t being out in public be a much nicer and less stressful experience if everyone just gave a little thought to what other people may like in life?

Probation is over

I told you yesterday how I had officially adopted Cara, well, it seems she heard me because last night and today she’s thrown all the previously excellent behaviour out the window and started behaving like a dog.

Last night I took her for a walk and swim at Baywater beach to celebrate her new family status and the weather was somewhat inclement. Ok, it was shite, raining, windy and grey. But she needed a walk and we were already there. I changed into shorts and flip flops ready to paddle out to a swimming depth and started walking across the field towards the sand. We were halfway across when she turned back toward the car and legged it. I called her, but she completely ignored me. I took chase and caught up, just before the car park. I carried her to the sand. Once on the sand, she was giving every indication that I was clearly insane for expecting her to be happy about the situation of walking in heavy breeze and rain. There was no way she would enter the water despite all my calling in a sweet voice and tapping of thighs. I had go get her. I waded out to mid calf and tried again, she was having none of it, and looked like she was going to bolt again, so I carried her into the water. She swam straight back to the shore. She made it back before me and started running in the general direction of the car, before stopping and having a shake.

The lesson I learnt. Cara does not tolerate wintery weather, it is unacceptable.

Today, she came into the office with me again. I’m going out straight after work and thought it would be nice for the friend I’m meeting to see her again. She was excellent all morning, her usual quiet self. No one knew she was there. At lunch we went for a walk, she smooched a slug and had a wee. When we got back to the office though, she was feeling brave. She came out of her bag home and started to wander about. She wouldn’t stay in, until one of the secretaries came around and saw her, got all cutesy (imagine in your head a voice so high it’s almost out of hearing range for a human) ‘You’re so gorgeous! Yes, you are!’ She started to shake and went back into her bag to sleep and recover.

The lesson I learnt. I don’t think I can bring Cara to work anymore :-(

'You never told me I had to stay in my bag!'

Oh Really!?

At work, in a department not too far away from the one I sit in, there are two new recruits. One is called Harry, the other is called Krishna.

This is not an April Fools, as I first suspected, they are genuine names, I’ve seen them in the email address’.

Forever Home

Today I officially adopted Cara. I transferred the required sum of cash into the account of lady I was fostering her from and her microchip will be transferred into my name.

She sits under my desk in her travel baggie, as I type, licking her feet. She comes to the office with me two days a week now, Tuesdays and Thursdays. She is well accepted by human and dogs alike and is generally adored due to her amazingly quiet behaviour and her overall cute factor.

The cats ignore her.

In celebration of her new forever home, I’m taking her swimming at Baywater on the Northern Beach after work.

If anyone cares to send her a Congratulations card, please mark them for the attention of:

Miss Cara ‘The Killer’ Sorrell

Big Weekend

I know it’s Wednesday and really I should have done this before, but frankly I’ve been too busy catching up on my sleep. I did so much at the weekend I felt like I didn’t have any.

Saturday went something like this; Up early, walk dog, get waxed, go home for shower and dress before picking up S, drive 80km to wedding, sit through wedding (bride looked spectacular, i was the only guest wearing a hat), vote for someone I didn’t really want to vote for but was the better option in my opinion, drive around the Mountain to the tune of 66kms, take dog for walk, go to reception, play a little bit of ping pong, take some photos, drink the drink of a designated driver, take some more picture, make casual conversation with strangers, eat some food when it appears, help the bride pin up her train, take some more photos, listen to speeches, drive the 80kms home thinking about how hungry you are because the caterers disappointed the bride by going back on their promise to ‘keep the food coming’, get home after 11 and fall into bed.

Sunday went something like this: Up early, pack car with stuff, drive the 285kms to Melba in the Australian Capital Territory for a photographic club meeting, stop midway to buy food supplies, unload the car, settle the dog, take some pictures, set up another photo, take some more picture, be the model for a recreation of the ‘Birth of Venus’ (this will remain in the private collection), put clothes back on, set up another shot, take some pictures, eat some food, have a chat, have a laugh, more pictures, load the car, drive to Goulburn, eat a 6inch Subway, drive the rest of the way home, get home at 10pm.

Don't get me wrong, it was fun, just exhausting.

I need a cream tea to replenish my used up energy stores. Ohh...perfect, an executive morning tea, see ya later!

What are the Odds?

Yesterday the conversation turned to giving blood and how being English the Australians won’t take our precious blood because we’re all mad.

Having lived in the UK at the height of the Mad Cow Scare, it is deemed that the risk of POMs having CJD and passing it on through blood transfusions it far too high a risk for the Australian Red Cross to take, which is a shame, they miss out on so many litres.

I used to give blood every six months in the UK. I’d go along to hall, have my finger pricked with a pin, then I’d be stuck with a needle. The biscuit and cuppa after made up for the temporary discomfort. I’d get a little sticker in my blue book, and off I’d go until; next time.

So the conversation was about the odds of getting CJD via transfusion. The stats we found where from the UK and since 1990 there have been 119 confirmed deaths from CJD. The chances of dying from this disease are something like 1 in 650,000 (based on a population of 60million). Now compare that number with these US figures (I know it’s not really fair to compare UK/US but I couldn’t find any AUS numbers);

Heart Disease : 1-in-5
Cancer : 1-in-7
Stroke : 1-in-23
Accidental Injury : 1-in-36
Motor Vehicle Accident : 1-in-100
Intentional Self-harm (suicide) : 1-in-121
Falling Down : 1-in-246
Assault by Firearm : 1-in-325
Fire or Smoke : 1-in-1,116
Natural Forces (heat,cold,storms,quakes, etc.) : 1-in-3,357
Electrocution : 1-in-5,000
Drowning : 1-in-8,942
Air Travel Accident : 1-in-20,000
Legal Execution : 1-in-58,618
Lightning Strike (included also in Natural Forces above) : 1-in-83,930
Snake, Bee or other Venomous Bite or Sting : 1-in-100,000
Dog Attack : 1-in-147,717
Asteroid Impact : 1-in-200,000**
Fireworks Discharge : 1-in-615,488

It would appear that I have more chance of being taken out by a lump of space rock than getting Mad Cow Disease.

Can I start giving blood again please?

Happy Birthday

Today would have been Muv’s 58th birthday. It would have killed her to be so close to 60, if she wasn’t already dead.

While she loved birthdays, she hated the idea of aging and due to her woeful grasp on mathematics the kids had her convinced for about three years that she was still in her early 20s when she was really creeping rapidly towards 30. She laughed about when she realised, but was secretly devastated.

She always acknowledged she was crap at maths and spelling, but she excelled at anything homely: gardening, cooking, sewing, being a mother, a friend and generally making a house a home. She even took evening classes in upholstery so she could redo the Chesterfield. I remember the horse hair going through the washing machine in pillow cases and stepping on a tack.

Every year she would make us a cake on our birthday. The year H had her appendix out, she got a cake in the shape of a bed with a little marzipan mouse tucked under the blackest. Peeling the icing blanket back revealed a tiny scar on the mouse’s belly. G had cakes made in the shape of a carp. S had ‘Big Sal used to make me coffee cake on my birthday... She knew it was my fav...’ L remembers ‘the clock cakes in yellow and red’.

She’d make the cakes after we’d gone to bed, she’d hide the cake in the high cupboards, which was an achievement because she was only 5’3, she’d design and ice while we were at school. We knew we’d get something special, but we’d never cheat and look. At least I wouldn’t, I can’t speak for the others.

I remember the year of the Rubik’s Cube vividly, Rachel and Laura had come around for dinner, so I was about eight or nine years old, still at St. Thomas’ of Canterbury in Merrow. I had been asking for a Rubik’s Cube for my birthday and I had been slightly disappointed that I didn’t get one. But the cake came out and it was a cube with nine squares on each side, iced in blue, red, green, orange, yellow and white, black liquorice laces divided the coloured squares. I was ecstatic. You can imagine my surprise and delight when the knife wouldn’t cut all the way through, my heart pounded, Laura and Rachel squealed, there was a hard mass in the centre of the cake. I had to cut around the lump. The cake slid apart to reveal at the centre a cube wrapped shiny tin foil. It was a Rubix’s Cube!



Happy Birthday Muv; wherever you may be.

Quiet Mouse

For the last few days I have taken Cara into work. No one is aware she’s even present. She sleeps in her baggie by my feet and doesn’t make a sound. I flip the lid down when I leave my desk. Not a peep.

I know neither of my co-workers are allergic, as C has a German Shepherd and an aging Spaniel and F, while currently dogless, grew up with them and is looking at adding a new family member soon. The passengers on the train though, I cannot say if they are or not. No one around me sneezed this morning, so I’m going to hazard a guess that we were in the clear for today.

Some guy did get on the train wearing a surgical mask though. Mate, if you’re sick enough to think it might be a bad idea to spread your germs, stay at home! Work won’t want you there coughing in your cubicle, your co workers won’t appreciate you trying to be a hero and soldiering on. I’m pretty sure everyone in the train carriage was thinking the same as me. ‘Go home, you idiot!’

Anyway, I digress.

This is Cara’s second trip to the office. She also accompanied me on Tuesday when I had the car serviced. She is more relaxed today.

At lunch time we popped out for a walk to the little park near the Harbour Bridge. While still quite shy, I didn’t have to take her out of the bag, she walked out on her own accord. She followed me for a couple of loops then had a sit down. A couple more loops, at this point I should tell you this park is more a patch of grass no bigger than your average UK back garden, then she went off and sniffed the trees herself. This is a big step forward in her development. Of course, she realised I was more than two feet away and ran after me, but she did venture towards them on her own again.

I do need to get her used to having a wee when we’re out. At the moment she hangs on until we get home. This is unacceptable because it means we can’t go away over night just yet and I’m not sure it’s entirely good for her. At the moment it seems she’s too afraid to wee (or poo) anywhere other than her backyard. Very human behaviour. How do I break her of this?

On that, she won’t eat either when we’re out. Not even the tiny liver treats that she loves so much. She’ll only drink if I pour water into my cupped hand.

I know this is all part of the solicitation that she needs to go through in order to get her living life to the full, so I shall persist.

She’ll continue to have train trips, beach visits (she had her first experience of the surf on Tuesday), trips to the movies (I’m not sure understood the nuances of ‘Rango’) and car trips wherever I go until she pees and poos with abandon and chases a ball like a dog ought too.

Traffic

I had to take Clover in for her first service today. In order to get the best deal I could, I purchased last year’s model from a garage on the Northern Beaches. She’s green.

On a Saturday the trip from my house to the dealership takes 40 minutes. This morning it took over two hours. I left home at seven thirty, arrived at the service centre at nine forty. It was an awful trip. Stop, start, traffic lights and a general feeling that everyone had forgotten to drive because the roads where a bit damp from the overnight rain.

The worst thing is, I have to reverse the process to get home.

Art, Old Stuff and Green

On the 19th March the moon was the closer to earth that it has been for 18 years. Sydney decided this would be an ideal time to start raining and cover the night in thick clouds producing a daft amount of precipitation. No pictures of Mega Moon for this camera nerd.

I did, however, get to go into the city on Sunday to have a look at the Annie Leibovitz exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art, the Bosie Letters at the State Library and the Terracotta Warriors at the Art Gallery of New South Wales.

It was raining and seeing as I believe umbrellas are evil I choose to wear a hat to keep my still fairly fresh bald head warm and dry and a hoodie for my body. My friend A. Had chosen to be all man and just had on jeans and t-shirt. Grr... :-)

Needless to say he got very wet. Me, not so much. I laughed hard when he popped into a tourist shop and came out with one of those plastic poncho thingies. He looked very silly.

Due to a leak in the ceiling of the MCA, part of the Annie Leibovitz thing was closed off to the public. It was OK, missed 15 pictures, saved $10. What we did see was amazing, including the somewhat macabre photos of her expiring father and close friend Susan Sontag. The majority of the pictures where printed in black and white with only a couple of famous faces in colour (Nicole Kidman, Demi Moore).

A cup of tea/coffee in the cafe revived us before we strolled up to the State Library. The weather was being kind and had stop raining for the time being.

I wanted to see the letters that Lord Alfred Douglas, better known as Bosie had written Oscar Wilde. I was a little disappointed; they appeared to be reproductions, rather than the real thing. We were only there for about five minutes. I was interested though that someone who was born and bred in NSW, as A was, had never been in the State Library.

A short stroll across The Domain took us to The Art Gallery of NSW. I love this place. Been here many times, A never had. I approached the lady behind the information desk and asked, ‘could you please tell me where the Terracotta Warriors are?’

‘That exhibition ended on Wednesday’.

Damn, I missed them by four days! We still took a wander around. We looked at the classic from 18th C Europe, the one Pissarro, ‘the bicycle’ by Fernard Leger, the strange little Picasso, the Gauguin and the dull looking peasant Mr. Van Gogh painted in 1884 that is hides in one of the corners, before having some lunch. It was 2.15 and we were both starving. We went into the restaurant.

Pork belly with seasoned cabbage and polenta mash hit the spot nicely, as did the Chocolate parfait that we shared for dessert. Conversation was nice too. We talked about the things we’d seen during the day, and being a tourist in your own town. We decided it was underrated and the opportunity to wander, sit and drink tea while looking out as the ants rushing by present itself, it should never be turned down. Taking time out to just sit and enjoy is often ignored in preference for dash and haste of busy lives.

After lunch had been consumed, we walked across the road and into the Botanic Garden. The weather had cleared up and the sun was poking through, throwing fingers of light onto the trees. The warmth brought out the fragrance of the damp gardens filling the air with scents of late flowering hibiscus and sodden mulch. As we got deeper into the garden, the sound of car disappeared and the squeal of flying foxes became louder. The foxes hung from the trees like Christmas decorations, stretching their wings, but not taking to them. As we approached the water’s edge the sounds of waves against the breakwater and boats took over.

We finished the day with some luxury hydration at the Guylian Cafe on Circular Quay, chocolate milkshake for him, strawberry for me.

The weather held out until I got home. The cloud came over just in time to obscure the moon for the second night.

The Stick

With Muv’s birthday only a few days away I thought I’d tell you a story from my childhood. This may even be one of the reasons why I have been an anti-smoker. I’ll let you decide.

I was maybe six year and it was summer. I know it was summer because I was outside playing in the back garden of Bushy Hill Drive with my hand-me-down pram and doll. I was near the fruit trees and I found a stick. The stick was perhaps a foot long (30cm) and pretty straight, so I decided it would be a perfect cigarette. Being from a family of smokers I’d seen how it was done; hold the cigarette between the index and middle finger and place it between your lips. Remove from between the lips, pucker your lips to release the smoke, and then repeat until the cigarette was gone.
Being a stick, it didn’t burn down.

So, as I walked around the garden I put the stick between my teeth to hold it in place. Muv was in the kitchen doing something. Preparing dinner at a guess, or baking a YumYum Pie.

Anyway, here I was, walking around the garden, pushing a pram and pretending to smoke a stick. Then I tripped.

The stick hit the ground first and slammed into the back of my throat. I screamed.
Muv came running out of the house to find me jumping up and down holding my neck, crying with blood pouring out of my nose.

She asked me what I’d done.

I couldn’t speak. I remember pain burning the insides.

It all turned out well. I don’t really remember much of the aftermath, except being told to sip cool water. I know I didn’t go to the doctors or hospital. I’m pretty sure the pointing at the stick and then my neck and the hand movements of smoking explained what had happened and it was deemed a minor mishap.

I do remember hearing Muv recount the story some years later to a family friend though.

‘I didn’t understand why she was holding her neck when her nose was bleeding. Then I realised what she’d been doing. I told her that bad things happen when you smoke and not to do it again.’
I know I never put a stick in my mouth again.



PS. If you Google images ‘stick’ you get allsorts of stuff except for a stick :-)

Favourite Word

I had to look something up in the dictionary earlier and I happened upon a link to ‘Why is Q always followed by a U’. I read the article which was interesting, but by no means life changing, to the right of the screen under ‘Popular Links’ was a link to ‘The Most Beautiful Sounding English Word’. It’s not something I’ve really given a lot of thought too, but now that I do, I find this subject appealing. Who knew people thought about such things.

I had to see what others thought, after all, there are over 650 comments.

Most contributors stick to topic, but invariably least favourites creep in, favourite sounding names and others just try to corrupt the system with sly suggestions of racism and fornication (one of my favourites).

It would seem supercalafragilisticexpealadosious is a favorite despite not actually being an official word. Edward Lear managed to get runcible into the dictionary, so how come after all these years the Mary Poppins classic still hasn’t made it? It may not be in any official tomes, but it has made it in popular culture along with chim-chiminy-ciroo, well maybe not :-)

Other favourites seem to be words with negative connotations, but sound nice as they roll off the tongue: blarg, gynecological, melancholy, narcissistic, bubonic, jezebel, ennui, and insidious.

The favorites that win though are the nice sounding, happy though provoking classics like; angel, love, soliloquy, cornucopia, gossamer, curvaceous, evanescence, hallelujah, succulent, and serendipity.

The least favourites are headed up by: squelch, crusty, wet, merge, wacky, ooze, crotch, excess, cabbage, fart, tax and cancer. Most of the words in this list had negative meanings, no one voted for desire (for example) as their least favourite.

Moist wins hands down though, with loads of expressions of eww, ugh, revolting and vile used to describe it. It appears that a lot of people associate the word moist with yeast infections and humidity, but Angel counteracts that with ‘Moist isn’t a gross word if you put it before CAKE!’ She has a very good point. Dry cake or dry roast beef stick in the mouth without moisture.

Swift got a vote, but according to Elma, it only works ‘ if it’s whispered’.

Personally I’d have to go with for my current favourites: jezebel, fornication, procrastinate, hippopotamus, and awesome.

The words I avoid would be: c**t (always repugnant even if it wasn’t a swear word), phenomenon, and burp.

The comment from Robbie made me laugh hard though, so I’d thought I share it in full.
“‘The best word to say is botulism. It has awful connotations but it jumps out of the mouth like a prizefighter, ready to strike down anything in its way.
‘You can’t eat that candy in church!
Botulism! Of course I can!”’

What are you favourites and least liked?

I’m going into a tunnel…

And yet the person on the other end keeps talking.

I’m getting into the lift…

And yet the person on the other end of the phone keeps talking. They know and you know the likelihood of being cut off is somewhere in the high 90%, and yet they keep talking.

Why?

I’ve been asking this question a lot lately, of a lot of things. I’ve been trying to figure out why people do the things they do. It’s driven me into the arms of a shrink.

All the things that have happened over the last three years, marriage separation and subsequent divorce, the expiration of Mum and stepdad , moving house and jobs, robberies, money worries and relationships that leaves me questioning my sanity. I’ve come to the conclusion that I need assistance wading through the thigh deep mud that is slowly sucking me down.

I’ve leant one thing already.

You have to stop asking, why. You’ll never know why someone did something. Even if you ask them. They may not know themselves. Few people are self aware enough to say, ‘I did that because…’

So, friends. When I ask, why do you think my Grandmother stopped talking to me after my Mom died?’ Don’t try and give me an answer, just tell me I’ll never know.

When I ask, why did my friend ditch me after I left my husband and then start hanging out with him? Tell me I have to not read too much in to it and they are both out of my life. Move on.

When I ask any questions about things I have no control over, please tell me I’m not a mind reader and I’ll never know, move on.

When I ask, why does someone keep talking even though I’ve told them I’m going into the lift and the doors are closing? Tell me, it’s because they’re an idiot

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?