I've always believed that some people when they die, do not 'cross over', they remain earthbound until someone or something releases them and they are free to go. I've never really believed in ghosts though - but it is something I've always been interested in.
A few years ago while touring near a town where Australia's most haunted house lies, I convinced my friend to drive there and go through the house with me. I was dubious at first, as we entered via the giftshop where some information about the various haunted spots of the home were splashed about. I mean, entering THROUGH the giftshop? What sort of mugs did they think we were? The staff serving in the small cafe weren't very friendly - I got the impression that they'd rather be anywhere else but here.
We paid the entry fee and opted for the self-guided tour. In hindsight, I think this was the best option - as we were free to wander and experience any ghosts if there were any to be experienced without a guide informing us which spots were more haunted than others.
I'd learned of this house via a book - The Encyclopedia of Australias Most Haunted Houses, and this one is located in country NSW - in Junee. We hadn't consulted a map before entering the town - I just felt I'd know the place when I saw it and soon enough we did. Far up on the hill - the place just looked ominous - even at a distance of a few kilometres.
So there we were inside the grounds of the house that I'd been so curious about for so many years. We wandered first in to the long disused Ballroom, inside it was dim and gloomy and I didn't get the feeling that this was a place where many parties had taken place, I got the feeling that it was a place that yearned for parties and dancing and fun. But it was exactly as the book had described.
Next on the list - the stables. A place where many hauntings had been reported - but still I was sceptical. We walked through the room where they stored the buggies, nothing untoward. We walked through a doorway and in to the part of the stables where the horses were kept - and I recall walking through a spot where it felt utterly airless, as if all the air had been sucked out of that spot and I remember a feeling of dread washing over me - my impulse to get the hell out of there was very strong.
Standing in the late-winter sunshine I waited for my friend to appear. We looked through a few of the outhouses where the staff had lived and I found one of the rooms particularly disturbing, I think it was the naked plastic doll placed near one of the beds that just seemed sinister.
We then decided to enter the main house together. Walking around the western side of the building I felt like I was walking against a tidal current - I really had to concentrate on walking forwards, I felt like I was being pushed backwards - a very strange sensation to have in the cold light of day. We walked in through the front door and had a quick look around the downstairs dining and sitting rooms - that appeared to have been unchanged since they were first furnished - back in the 1800's.
I walked up the stairs and paused as I heard a stair creak behind me. I assumed it was my friend - and turned to greet him but there was no one there, someone or something then jostled me to one side and I instantly wanted to apologise for being in the way - but to whom? There was no one there.
Soon my friend caught up to me and we had a look through the upstairs bedrooms together - again, not updated since they were first furnished. I felt very much like I was intruding - being overly nosey and wanted to go out on the balcony and check out the sweeping valley views. We opened the door and my friend held it for me whilst I walked outside and the door was wrenched backwards out of his hand and slammed shut. We both assumed it was the wind.
I walked to the western side of the building so I could look back over the pathway where I'd felt the sensation of being pushed backwards - and then I noticed I was standing in front of a small room with an open door. It appeared that the room had been added after the house had been built. I stepped over the threshold and instantly felt that I was trespassing in someones' personal space. This is hard to describe - but I felt or heard someone shouting inside my head 'GET OUT!'.
It was such a forceful experience that I really did want to leave. Again the door slammed shut behind us and again I was jostled on the stairs. We exited the property yet again through the giftshop - and this time I paid closer attention to the photographs and their descriptions hung up through out the giftshop/cafe.
Turns out the spot in the stables where I'd felt like I was walking through an airless spot and felt the feeling of dread washing over me where was where a body had been buried. That sent a chill through me like I'd never before experienced.
I was still puzzled about the shouting I'd heard inside my head. That was hard to find a logical explanation for - I'd actually heard it and felt very much that I was prying in someones' very personal space. I couldn't explain it but I couldn't ignore it either. I had actually heard the words.
We'd both gone in to the house somewhat sceptical, but on leaving we were both firmly convinced that ghosts do exist.
A few years later I was browsing in a bookshop and came across a book written by 'Australias Best Psychic' and when I flipped the book over to read the blurb - she'd mentioned spending a night in Australias Most Haunted House, I leafed through the book until I came across the chapter titled 'The Monte Cristo House'. When I read that she'd also experienced the shouting inside her all the hair on the back of my neck and arms stood up - I now knew that what I'd experienced was very real.
I'd always suspected I had a 'visitor' in my old flat, and it dawned on me that this was true. Things were always falling off shelves and some nights I got the impression that I was being watched - so strongly it was impossible to ignore it. Late at night when everything was dark - small bubbles of light appeared and I'd always assumed they were headlights from the busy road outside my window. However since visiting the haunted house I realised that the 'headlights' didn't move - they remained very much in place.
When I researched the history of my neighbourhood you could have knocked me down with a feather. Across the road where a commercial building now stood - was the site of the first hospital on the north shore. Where our flats had been built in the forties was where the morgue had been located. Indeed.
I've since moved house and have not yet had the same sensations - not once have I had the feeling I'm being watched or have things fallen off shelves in the middle of the night, nor have strange bubbles of light appeared in the dark. If the sensations I'd had at my previous address were nothing more than my mind playing tricks on me - I'd surely be having the same experiences at my current address.
http://www.montecristo.com.au/
02 August 2014
08 May 2014
I'm Confused..
Which if you know me well isn't that unusual - however - what I'm really confused about is the 'Real Housewives' Franchise. They aren't housewives, some are single (I never met a single looking-for-love woman who also stated her main occupation for the tax man was housewivery).
They're all from the same mould as far as I can tell, waaaay too much of everything - don't let me get started on 'Real Housewives of Orange County'.
Do they actually DO any housework? I doubt it. They discuss their 'help' openly in disparaging terms which I think is distasteful - it's a television show - how would YOU like to find out that you've disappointed your boss via a television show? Along with everyone else you know?
All they seem to do is swan about looking vile in far too much makeup, accessories, sparkly dresses that are either too short or show too much saggy cleavage eagerly seeking their next G&T or cheap champagne.
And bitching about each other. They don't hold back on dissing a sister, in the same manner a brick won't stop a reservoir's output. And bitchslapping each other frequently - that seems to be more the point of the show, but why and how is that entertainment, enough to keep replicating the concept further and further afield?
I'm wondering when the Real Housewives will roll out a show from Maungaturoto. Not that there's anything wrong with Maungaturoto - there isn't - it's a perfectly lovely little country town, but the real housewives would be more likely to be sporting rolling pins and dish cloths and expressions suggesting much experience and little time for bollocks, there wouldn't be any in-fighting as each participant knows that the community in which they exist means that being neighbourly keeps the hearth fires burning.
There'd be no bitchslapping, more scone making and recipe swapping, they would save the drink for Saturday nights and sit round a fire talking or singing long in to the night.
I don't understand why the show is even titled 'Housewives' as they are so far removed from the reality of actual housekeeping its an insult to all housewives and househusbands out there.
It should be called Bitchy Tarts of The OC/Atlanta/Melbourne/New York. I like it, I should suggest it to the producers.
:-)
They're all from the same mould as far as I can tell, waaaay too much of everything - don't let me get started on 'Real Housewives of Orange County'.
Do they actually DO any housework? I doubt it. They discuss their 'help' openly in disparaging terms which I think is distasteful - it's a television show - how would YOU like to find out that you've disappointed your boss via a television show? Along with everyone else you know?
All they seem to do is swan about looking vile in far too much makeup, accessories, sparkly dresses that are either too short or show too much saggy cleavage eagerly seeking their next G&T or cheap champagne.
And bitching about each other. They don't hold back on dissing a sister, in the same manner a brick won't stop a reservoir's output. And bitchslapping each other frequently - that seems to be more the point of the show, but why and how is that entertainment, enough to keep replicating the concept further and further afield?
I'm wondering when the Real Housewives will roll out a show from Maungaturoto. Not that there's anything wrong with Maungaturoto - there isn't - it's a perfectly lovely little country town, but the real housewives would be more likely to be sporting rolling pins and dish cloths and expressions suggesting much experience and little time for bollocks, there wouldn't be any in-fighting as each participant knows that the community in which they exist means that being neighbourly keeps the hearth fires burning.
There'd be no bitchslapping, more scone making and recipe swapping, they would save the drink for Saturday nights and sit round a fire talking or singing long in to the night.
I don't understand why the show is even titled 'Housewives' as they are so far removed from the reality of actual housekeeping its an insult to all housewives and househusbands out there.
It should be called Bitchy Tarts of The OC/Atlanta/Melbourne/New York. I like it, I should suggest it to the producers.
:-)
06 May 2014
Lost and Found
So there sat I, smugly enjoying my flat white and freshly baked raspberry muffin (delicious by the way - my compliments to their maker) and watching all the people hurrying past my little window. Where were they going I was thinking, off to get an early lunch, on their way to a meeting? I got my tablet out - not the kind you swallow: the kind you can play games on and send emails from - and checked my email, looked at a couple of posts on The Book of The Faces and decided people-watching was far more entertaining so I snapped it shut and put it to one side.
Of course you can guess what happened next. I gathered up all my belongings, waved goodbye to the lovely counter staff and walked up the hill to get a bus home. It was only when we were hurtling through Cremorne that I realised I'd left my beloved tablet on the table next to mine and seeing I was without a phone (forgot to take it with me that morning) I'd have to wait until I got home to call the cafe to see if it's been spotted and sitting safely behind their counter.
I rang them as soon as I walked in through our front door. Nope, not there.
Maybe I'd left it at the chemists when I bought some tissues? No, no one had forgotten any scripts that morning - then I had to explain it was a portable computer not a tablet that you swallow. But then I HAD rung a chemist so it was only natural for them to assume I was asking about a pill.
I rang North Sydney Police Station - nope not there.
It was at this point that I had to realise it was gone for good, and the best thing I could do would be to get it service-locked so whomever had it wasn't able to use it. And see what I could do about getting a new one.
It was whilst I was on hold to my Internet Service Provider that I decided to check my emails on my laptop - and lo and behold there was an email from myself to myself asking if I'd lost a tablet. It had been found! It was safe and sound with a lady by the name of Jen, who had thoughtfully included her mobile number as well. She asked me which cafe I was in - just as a security check and of course I was able to name the right one - and I got her address and advised her that it would be my partner coming to collect it - and all was fine. This morning my tablet is sitting next to me on the sofa happily charging and it came to mind how many things of value that I have misplaced over the years only to get them back completely in tact and not meddled with in any way:
I left a wallet stuffed with cash on a park bench not far from my apartment and got it back with all cash present and accounted for
I left a new watch on a bus - got it back
I left my wallet on a seat in the middle of Dubbo - got it back
I've sent a wedding invitation to the wrong address and had it returned to me - they don't realise how important that bit was!
Countless pairs of sunglasses have been left in all sorts of places, and I've got every pair except for one back.
I am either extraordinarily lucky, or there are many good people out there. I prefer to believe that there are more good people out there than we realise. The planet so far seems stuffed with them. Who would return a wallet containing a thousand dollars and not be tempted to even take one $50 note for themselves?
So each time I lose something of value (and kick myself all the way to picking it up from where ever it's been handed in) my personal faith in mankind is deepened and I'm pleasantly surprised by the goodness of strangers. What a lovely thing to recognise.
Bless.
Of course you can guess what happened next. I gathered up all my belongings, waved goodbye to the lovely counter staff and walked up the hill to get a bus home. It was only when we were hurtling through Cremorne that I realised I'd left my beloved tablet on the table next to mine and seeing I was without a phone (forgot to take it with me that morning) I'd have to wait until I got home to call the cafe to see if it's been spotted and sitting safely behind their counter.
I rang them as soon as I walked in through our front door. Nope, not there.
Maybe I'd left it at the chemists when I bought some tissues? No, no one had forgotten any scripts that morning - then I had to explain it was a portable computer not a tablet that you swallow. But then I HAD rung a chemist so it was only natural for them to assume I was asking about a pill.
I rang North Sydney Police Station - nope not there.
It was at this point that I had to realise it was gone for good, and the best thing I could do would be to get it service-locked so whomever had it wasn't able to use it. And see what I could do about getting a new one.
It was whilst I was on hold to my Internet Service Provider that I decided to check my emails on my laptop - and lo and behold there was an email from myself to myself asking if I'd lost a tablet. It had been found! It was safe and sound with a lady by the name of Jen, who had thoughtfully included her mobile number as well. She asked me which cafe I was in - just as a security check and of course I was able to name the right one - and I got her address and advised her that it would be my partner coming to collect it - and all was fine. This morning my tablet is sitting next to me on the sofa happily charging and it came to mind how many things of value that I have misplaced over the years only to get them back completely in tact and not meddled with in any way:
I left a wallet stuffed with cash on a park bench not far from my apartment and got it back with all cash present and accounted for
I left a new watch on a bus - got it back
I left my wallet on a seat in the middle of Dubbo - got it back
I've sent a wedding invitation to the wrong address and had it returned to me - they don't realise how important that bit was!
Countless pairs of sunglasses have been left in all sorts of places, and I've got every pair except for one back.
I am either extraordinarily lucky, or there are many good people out there. I prefer to believe that there are more good people out there than we realise. The planet so far seems stuffed with them. Who would return a wallet containing a thousand dollars and not be tempted to even take one $50 note for themselves?
So each time I lose something of value (and kick myself all the way to picking it up from where ever it's been handed in) my personal faith in mankind is deepened and I'm pleasantly surprised by the goodness of strangers. What a lovely thing to recognise.
Bless.
31 March 2014
Getting Clucky
This condition for myself, is a cruel twist - I am unable to have children due to a sexual assualt and worse luck meeting my Grandmothers' bridge partner in a medical setting on the other side of the assault. The aftermath. This left me without the ability to procreate as he promised me so at the time.
But this does not stop my cluckiness, the urge to take care of something small and fluffy and helpless, entirely (almost) dependent on me for it's daily survival. So guess what dear readers if you haven't already? WE'RE GETTING ANOTHER KITTEN. I've found the perfect little bundle of love for free on Gumtree.
She's gorgeous and has the most adorable white stripe down her nose. But - she is to be a surprise for my step-daughter, I got another older cat from a vets ages ago- and I think she's become a little depressed lately - lonely even - she's taken to hanging out well out of reach for pats on top of the linen cupboard where I'm unable to reach her.
I think maybe the introduction of a fluff-ball in to the household will snap her right out of her current funk and put her back in the position of competing for attention. I am hoping so at least.
But it will definitely help my step-daughter, our older cat has decided that she does not require children in her life so disappears at the sound of SD's voice and rejects all attempts at affection much to SD's disappointment. A little ball of fluff still very much in kitten land will be very different. They are always affectionate and wanting to play, wanting to snuggle and smooch and come when they're called.
I'm so excited but I guess we'll have to wait and see.
But this does not stop my cluckiness, the urge to take care of something small and fluffy and helpless, entirely (almost) dependent on me for it's daily survival. So guess what dear readers if you haven't already? WE'RE GETTING ANOTHER KITTEN. I've found the perfect little bundle of love for free on Gumtree.
She's gorgeous and has the most adorable white stripe down her nose. But - she is to be a surprise for my step-daughter, I got another older cat from a vets ages ago- and I think she's become a little depressed lately - lonely even - she's taken to hanging out well out of reach for pats on top of the linen cupboard where I'm unable to reach her.
I think maybe the introduction of a fluff-ball in to the household will snap her right out of her current funk and put her back in the position of competing for attention. I am hoping so at least.
But it will definitely help my step-daughter, our older cat has decided that she does not require children in her life so disappears at the sound of SD's voice and rejects all attempts at affection much to SD's disappointment. A little ball of fluff still very much in kitten land will be very different. They are always affectionate and wanting to play, wanting to snuggle and smooch and come when they're called.
I'm so excited but I guess we'll have to wait and see.
19 February 2014
Food for thought...
I've just read this article: http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/features/not-the-marrying-kind-a-modern-girls-guide-to-sex-and-love-9137143.html.
I'd have to say agree on the whole until the bit about allowing my husband-to-be to sleep with other women, that would break my heart. I could not bear him sharing that close bond with anyone but me.
I believe entirely in allowing his freedoms to pursue whatever interests he wishes, and he has the right to say - I don't feel like going to a girlfriends birthday if that's how he feels. I don't own him, I can't demand that he does what I want to do - he is a seperate person to me - we love each other, and above all else - that means wanting the other person to be happy. In whatever form that takes.
I couldn't bear his coming with me if he didn't want to be there - if it was me and he'd insisted I went somewhere I didn't wish to go - Id be looking for a fork to stick in my eye - so why expect the same of him. My girlfriends have met him, they like him and not a one of them would be offended if he chose to watch a footy game, catch up with his mates or just spend a night at home enjoying having some rare time to himself.
He works hard, he's earnt the right to do whatever it is that makes him happy, and as his closest and best admirer - I'd do anything to make sure he was happy.
Except for robbing a bank - no sir - I'd probably baulk at that and stomp my foot and refuse, and tell him to do it his bloody self!
I'd have to say agree on the whole until the bit about allowing my husband-to-be to sleep with other women, that would break my heart. I could not bear him sharing that close bond with anyone but me.
I believe entirely in allowing his freedoms to pursue whatever interests he wishes, and he has the right to say - I don't feel like going to a girlfriends birthday if that's how he feels. I don't own him, I can't demand that he does what I want to do - he is a seperate person to me - we love each other, and above all else - that means wanting the other person to be happy. In whatever form that takes.
I couldn't bear his coming with me if he didn't want to be there - if it was me and he'd insisted I went somewhere I didn't wish to go - Id be looking for a fork to stick in my eye - so why expect the same of him. My girlfriends have met him, they like him and not a one of them would be offended if he chose to watch a footy game, catch up with his mates or just spend a night at home enjoying having some rare time to himself.
He works hard, he's earnt the right to do whatever it is that makes him happy, and as his closest and best admirer - I'd do anything to make sure he was happy.
Except for robbing a bank - no sir - I'd probably baulk at that and stomp my foot and refuse, and tell him to do it his bloody self!
17 February 2014
I'd like to thank...
As I mentioned in my previous post - I'm a wee bit unwell in the head. Not in the way that you would make the international sign for 'loopy' by twirling your finger slightly above your ear - but there is actually something going on in my brain that shouldn't be.
For this I am taking a bucket-load of medication each day. I am so dizzy I am unable to leave the house without a chaperone - and I remind my beautiful-husband-to-be of the times when we was a-courtin' and I'd had too much wine at dinner when I wander up the hallway to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
Every thing I pick up I drop.
Every time I open a jar I drop the jar or the lid or both.
I knock stuff over, I bump in to walls, I trip over nothing, and I have to put both hands on the wall to stop myself from tipping over in the shower. However, a shower is heaven at the moment. I just love that feeling when you step out and pop on some fresh pj's and add a little scent - and baby I'm all ready for more tv watching!
The support I've received from the general public, chemists, manicurists, gps, specialists, hair dressers and all the people I had to contact to re-book our wedding have been amazing. Supportive, kind, flexible, helpful and all have wished me well. These are just the sorts of people you want to be helping you on Your Big Day - if moving the date is no trouble and they wish me well - then I am forever in their debt. See how far a little kindness goes? A very long way.
All the way to my heart.
It's amazing how much can be done by phone - I've managed to arrange prescriptions to be delivered, GPs to write letters and certifeicates as required (mainly to back up the moving of the wedding for various bits and pieces).
You've all been so sweet, so kind, so helpful and generous in your offers of help - I hope you read this one day and realise what
a difference your kindness made to me - my daily life - and means to me, in a heartfelt kinda way.
Compassion for another person costs nothing and yet means so much - why aren't more people actually compassionate I wonder? What are they afraid of - as it seems to be fear that prevents them from showing or being compassionate. May be they're worried that it means they'll have to give more than they already have to give? It never means that. Being compassionate is reward for the soul enough - just try it. Turn around and tell someone why you're pleased they're in your life , or if they hung in there and fought during a particularly rough time in their life - tell them you admire them for hanging in there.
Tell a friend who is going through a rough time - that you'll help them in ways that you can afford - like being there as a shoulder, an ear to listen, in a monetary way if you can manage.
Compassion is free, sending a little love out in to world each day is the most beautiful way you can connect with your fellow humans. It gives far more than it takes. Then from being or showing compassion we learn empathy. These two go hand in hand. Sorta like twins or best friends. You can't have one without the other.
Trust me on this one.
For this I am taking a bucket-load of medication each day. I am so dizzy I am unable to leave the house without a chaperone - and I remind my beautiful-husband-to-be of the times when we was a-courtin' and I'd had too much wine at dinner when I wander up the hallway to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
Every thing I pick up I drop.
Every time I open a jar I drop the jar or the lid or both.
I knock stuff over, I bump in to walls, I trip over nothing, and I have to put both hands on the wall to stop myself from tipping over in the shower. However, a shower is heaven at the moment. I just love that feeling when you step out and pop on some fresh pj's and add a little scent - and baby I'm all ready for more tv watching!
The support I've received from the general public, chemists, manicurists, gps, specialists, hair dressers and all the people I had to contact to re-book our wedding have been amazing. Supportive, kind, flexible, helpful and all have wished me well. These are just the sorts of people you want to be helping you on Your Big Day - if moving the date is no trouble and they wish me well - then I am forever in their debt. See how far a little kindness goes? A very long way.
All the way to my heart.
It's amazing how much can be done by phone - I've managed to arrange prescriptions to be delivered, GPs to write letters and certifeicates as required (mainly to back up the moving of the wedding for various bits and pieces).
You've all been so sweet, so kind, so helpful and generous in your offers of help - I hope you read this one day and realise what
a difference your kindness made to me - my daily life - and means to me, in a heartfelt kinda way.
Compassion for another person costs nothing and yet means so much - why aren't more people actually compassionate I wonder? What are they afraid of - as it seems to be fear that prevents them from showing or being compassionate. May be they're worried that it means they'll have to give more than they already have to give? It never means that. Being compassionate is reward for the soul enough - just try it. Turn around and tell someone why you're pleased they're in your life , or if they hung in there and fought during a particularly rough time in their life - tell them you admire them for hanging in there.
Tell a friend who is going through a rough time - that you'll help them in ways that you can afford - like being there as a shoulder, an ear to listen, in a monetary way if you can manage.
Compassion is free, sending a little love out in to world each day is the most beautiful way you can connect with your fellow humans. It gives far more than it takes. Then from being or showing compassion we learn empathy. These two go hand in hand. Sorta like twins or best friends. You can't have one without the other.
Trust me on this one.
14 February 2014
A Wonderful Saturday Morning
I woke up this morning to the glorious sound of rain hitting the pavers out the front. Long-awaited and welcome like you wouldn't believe. I've had my peace plant stuck outside so long waiting for this moment I've even been watering it outside, rather than on the hallstand where it usually lives.
The rain is coming down and I'm tucked up in bed with a cup of tea in my favourite mickey mouse mug, a glass of water within arms reach, my oil burner gently wafting lavender in to the air. I'm watching Studio 10 do a wonderful job of interviewing Dolly Parton whom I love. She is a wonderful warm southern belle with a singing voice from heaven and a natural gift for writing songs that are relevant no matter how long ago they were written. I have to admit '9-5' is an absolute favourite. That line 'pour myself a cup of ambition' is fantastic. Just sums it up beautifully.
Right now, while I write, I'm sick. I have something scary going on in my brain and spine. I have an outstanding example of a herniated and bulging disc located at c6/c7 - not the best spot I'm told. I have a bone spur on the other side. I've suffered balance problems for as long as I can remember. I walked in to the same door at the same place every day for eight years. My dearest flatmate in the whole world watched me do it and could never figure out how I managed it. It wasn't as if little people visited and moved the doorframe on me - I just kept walking in to it. I always had bruises on my right arm - and when asked why - I'd say 'I walked in to a door' and the amount of looks I got from that was surprising. I was actually walking in to doors. Not face-first in to door handles like some women say when clearly they're not walking in to doors but fists of abusive partners. Nope, I was actually physically walking in to doors.
I'm so ill, we've had to delay our wedding by twelve months in order for me undergo the medical tour (opthamologists, neurologists, neurosurgeons, spinal surgeons, pain specialists, cortisone injections, general practitioners etc) and get properly well in the meantime. I'm on enough drugs daily that I could open a pharmacy in my front room - but as I need every last one of them I aint sharing.
I walk through my home and lose my balance, I lose my balance standing up, I lose it sitting down. I have swelling on my brain and elevated pressure in my spinal column, I'm suffering daily migraines (managing with more drugs on that front) and have bugger all energy - the perfect evening for me at the moment is a cuddle with my lovely husband-to-be and a silly movie on the telly. How life changes.
I rang my mother the other day to advise her of all of this - but she had to go because she had beans cooking. Disappointing? A little, but let me just say I'm used to my mother making everything else a priority BUT me. We're delaying the wedding but haven't set a new date, well, we have, but lets just say we're not exactly telling everyone the new date. Which is entirely our call.
We might even just elope and marry on a beach in front of a jaw-dropping sunset. Just the two of us. I love my husband-to-be - he is everything in a man I'd ever hoped for.
He is strong, wise, funny, a typical man (farting in bed is a common occurence), he's not tidy by any stretch of the imagination - but he loves me - warts and all and that's enough for me.
He's seen me at my worst, he's gone to the supermarket to buy 'ladies things' for me, and has held me when it's all gotten a bit much and I've started crying and been unable to stop.
We're both scared about what this all means, we're worried about the disc replacement op, we're worried about me having a swollen brain (I told him to back off on the compliments years ago but he wouldn't listen) but we're managing to find a sense of humor through all of this, and that is the glue that's keeping us on something of a keel.
I had a lumbar puncture last Wednesday and I'll be straight up - they hurt like FUCK. They had three goes, and got it in on the third go. Thank fuck for that - because even the local anaesthetic made no bloody difference. But my wonderful sweetheart showed up at the hospital to collect me with not ONE cherry ripe - but SIX, and a giant toblerone AND a star bar. And then he drove me home like I was the most fragile egg he'd ever had to handle.
What a sweetie.
And then fetched and carried and fetched and carried for me all night - even sleeping on the sofa so I could sleep undisturbed.
Today he is helping a friend of mine whose had an operation on her leg and has had a bit of trouble with her bed not behaving. So he's marched off in to the early dawn complete with tools so that he can drop round and fix it on his way home. She's a friend of mine. I feel like the luckiest girl in all the world to be marrying such a wonderful, caring, compassionate, generous, funny, sweet and occasionally as wise as the dalai lama of a man. I guess I'm also lucky that I can see all of this in him. That I am grateful for as well.
Bless.
The rain is coming down and I'm tucked up in bed with a cup of tea in my favourite mickey mouse mug, a glass of water within arms reach, my oil burner gently wafting lavender in to the air. I'm watching Studio 10 do a wonderful job of interviewing Dolly Parton whom I love. She is a wonderful warm southern belle with a singing voice from heaven and a natural gift for writing songs that are relevant no matter how long ago they were written. I have to admit '9-5' is an absolute favourite. That line 'pour myself a cup of ambition' is fantastic. Just sums it up beautifully.
Right now, while I write, I'm sick. I have something scary going on in my brain and spine. I have an outstanding example of a herniated and bulging disc located at c6/c7 - not the best spot I'm told. I have a bone spur on the other side. I've suffered balance problems for as long as I can remember. I walked in to the same door at the same place every day for eight years. My dearest flatmate in the whole world watched me do it and could never figure out how I managed it. It wasn't as if little people visited and moved the doorframe on me - I just kept walking in to it. I always had bruises on my right arm - and when asked why - I'd say 'I walked in to a door' and the amount of looks I got from that was surprising. I was actually walking in to doors. Not face-first in to door handles like some women say when clearly they're not walking in to doors but fists of abusive partners. Nope, I was actually physically walking in to doors.
I'm so ill, we've had to delay our wedding by twelve months in order for me undergo the medical tour (opthamologists, neurologists, neurosurgeons, spinal surgeons, pain specialists, cortisone injections, general practitioners etc) and get properly well in the meantime. I'm on enough drugs daily that I could open a pharmacy in my front room - but as I need every last one of them I aint sharing.
I walk through my home and lose my balance, I lose my balance standing up, I lose it sitting down. I have swelling on my brain and elevated pressure in my spinal column, I'm suffering daily migraines (managing with more drugs on that front) and have bugger all energy - the perfect evening for me at the moment is a cuddle with my lovely husband-to-be and a silly movie on the telly. How life changes.
I rang my mother the other day to advise her of all of this - but she had to go because she had beans cooking. Disappointing? A little, but let me just say I'm used to my mother making everything else a priority BUT me. We're delaying the wedding but haven't set a new date, well, we have, but lets just say we're not exactly telling everyone the new date. Which is entirely our call.
We might even just elope and marry on a beach in front of a jaw-dropping sunset. Just the two of us. I love my husband-to-be - he is everything in a man I'd ever hoped for.
He is strong, wise, funny, a typical man (farting in bed is a common occurence), he's not tidy by any stretch of the imagination - but he loves me - warts and all and that's enough for me.
He's seen me at my worst, he's gone to the supermarket to buy 'ladies things' for me, and has held me when it's all gotten a bit much and I've started crying and been unable to stop.
We're both scared about what this all means, we're worried about the disc replacement op, we're worried about me having a swollen brain (I told him to back off on the compliments years ago but he wouldn't listen) but we're managing to find a sense of humor through all of this, and that is the glue that's keeping us on something of a keel.
I had a lumbar puncture last Wednesday and I'll be straight up - they hurt like FUCK. They had three goes, and got it in on the third go. Thank fuck for that - because even the local anaesthetic made no bloody difference. But my wonderful sweetheart showed up at the hospital to collect me with not ONE cherry ripe - but SIX, and a giant toblerone AND a star bar. And then he drove me home like I was the most fragile egg he'd ever had to handle.
What a sweetie.
And then fetched and carried and fetched and carried for me all night - even sleeping on the sofa so I could sleep undisturbed.
Today he is helping a friend of mine whose had an operation on her leg and has had a bit of trouble with her bed not behaving. So he's marched off in to the early dawn complete with tools so that he can drop round and fix it on his way home. She's a friend of mine. I feel like the luckiest girl in all the world to be marrying such a wonderful, caring, compassionate, generous, funny, sweet and occasionally as wise as the dalai lama of a man. I guess I'm also lucky that I can see all of this in him. That I am grateful for as well.
Bless.
27 January 2014
Oh the toes!
The toes I have managed to step on, stomp on, wrangle and drive my stiletto heel right through with the sharpness of my tongue and the quick of my temper in recent weeks. I really ought to work on that. I'm trying. Really.
Really, I am the first to admit - I have a trying personality. I believe in the doing of things correctly. This is not always easy to live with. All things. Journalism (not that I am one - just trying to help cut through the crap and give us the news, not the tabloid version), grammar - (pot = kettle/black) at the best of times.
I don't so much as strive for perfection - just to be understood, and agreed with occasionally. But I don't need to be agreed with - just to be heard.
My sense of humor could use some work, as could my remembering that other people have lives that don't coincide with mine - definitely could use some work - that bit. I overthink things, and always end up blaming myself if I feel just in doing so. Which is most of the time.
I made an error of comic judgement today. It wound up with me being threatened with someone telling me I had five minutes to correct the GIGANTIC error of my ways, or the wrath of facebook and it's 300 followers was about to rain down upon my head. Turns out the sender of such a missive was feeling a little cranky.
You know what? So am I. I'm cranky too. I'm cranky about a lot of things. Shark culls in WA for one thing. Legalisation of synthetic cannabinoids and synthetic opiates for sale in NZ without a safety net being put in place for horrors that pretty little decision is about to unleash upon a society that as we know has struggled in vain against the tide of methamphetamine useage - on equal to some parts of the US. And this is a country - an entire country with a population of 4.5mill. On the day of the legislation for the legal sale of these shitty drugs went on sale - queues of people lining up for their fix went around the block in many small towns.
I'm cranky that the leader of the opposition in NZ - David Cunliffe - could not answer an email I sent him asking about this decision and what he was going to do about legislating for all those with hormonal imbalances, poor genetic defences in terms of addiction and those who just need a little help from the wrong friend to sink in to full blown unmanageable psychosis. Finally he answers me today to tell me that he hadn't received the emails. Strangely - I sent it to his facebook page. Which I know he updates regularly.
Three times I emailed him asking for a response. When he invited me to his State of The Nation Speech online - only then did I get a reply to my 'decline' until you answer my questions first. That makes me cranky.
In balance - the things that make me happy is that while I've recently experienced a stroke of sorts, I still have my wherewithall to type all of these words. That I am surrounded by people who love and care for me and put up with my need to put things to right.
Writing and putting things to right for now is my outlet, I can't work - so I write. A lot. And right where best I can.
Really, I am the first to admit - I have a trying personality. I believe in the doing of things correctly. This is not always easy to live with. All things. Journalism (not that I am one - just trying to help cut through the crap and give us the news, not the tabloid version), grammar - (pot = kettle/black) at the best of times.
I don't so much as strive for perfection - just to be understood, and agreed with occasionally. But I don't need to be agreed with - just to be heard.
My sense of humor could use some work, as could my remembering that other people have lives that don't coincide with mine - definitely could use some work - that bit. I overthink things, and always end up blaming myself if I feel just in doing so. Which is most of the time.
I made an error of comic judgement today. It wound up with me being threatened with someone telling me I had five minutes to correct the GIGANTIC error of my ways, or the wrath of facebook and it's 300 followers was about to rain down upon my head. Turns out the sender of such a missive was feeling a little cranky.
You know what? So am I. I'm cranky too. I'm cranky about a lot of things. Shark culls in WA for one thing. Legalisation of synthetic cannabinoids and synthetic opiates for sale in NZ without a safety net being put in place for horrors that pretty little decision is about to unleash upon a society that as we know has struggled in vain against the tide of methamphetamine useage - on equal to some parts of the US. And this is a country - an entire country with a population of 4.5mill. On the day of the legislation for the legal sale of these shitty drugs went on sale - queues of people lining up for their fix went around the block in many small towns.
I'm cranky that the leader of the opposition in NZ - David Cunliffe - could not answer an email I sent him asking about this decision and what he was going to do about legislating for all those with hormonal imbalances, poor genetic defences in terms of addiction and those who just need a little help from the wrong friend to sink in to full blown unmanageable psychosis. Finally he answers me today to tell me that he hadn't received the emails. Strangely - I sent it to his facebook page. Which I know he updates regularly.
Three times I emailed him asking for a response. When he invited me to his State of The Nation Speech online - only then did I get a reply to my 'decline' until you answer my questions first. That makes me cranky.
In balance - the things that make me happy is that while I've recently experienced a stroke of sorts, I still have my wherewithall to type all of these words. That I am surrounded by people who love and care for me and put up with my need to put things to right.
Writing and putting things to right for now is my outlet, I can't work - so I write. A lot. And right where best I can.
05 October 2013
Wellington Harbour Day
Anatomy of a One Night Stand
The curtain fills with sea swept air
And floats with slow curls in to your
room
Tom Burnetts
Framed
Hung
Cut
Adorn your wall
Beyond the deck
seas sway gently
a view for a while
I watch you sleeping
with your salt and pepper hair
and it is
in this golden light
That I realise I have
nothing you
ever wanted me for
I wished I could be with you
forever
on Wellington Harbour Day
The curtain fills with sea swept air
And floats with slow curls in to your
room
Tom Burnetts
Framed
Hung
Cut
Adorn your wall
Beyond the deck
seas sway gently
a view for a while
I watch you sleeping
with your salt and pepper hair
and it is
in this golden light
That I realise I have
nothing you
ever wanted me for
I wished I could be with you
forever
on Wellington Harbour Day
Birds of Bowral
This morning I was woken by a cacophony of kookaburras. Laughing hysterically outside the door that leads from my lovely hotel room to the wide veranda. What they find so funny is something I would like to know. They seem to be a sentinel sort of bird, not at all timid. Watching intently whatever it is they see and bursting in to raucous laughter at I don't know what.
Is it me they're laughing at? Is it someone else? I'm fairly sure it's people because if it was other birds surely they'd never stop.
In between their outbursts I could hear the gentle twittering of a mother starling getting her chicks ready for breakfast, organising them in to their Sunday best no doubt, the beautiful yet sad three note call of a honeyeater and the whingeing of a single cockatoo looking for company.
A beautiful broad-winged cockatoo popped down from his lofty heights to visit with me yesterday afternoon. He seemed convinced that if he flexed his sulphur crest enough times I'd magically produce sunflower seeds. Sorry sunshine - I didn't come prepared. If I had any I would surely share them (unshelled of course) with you.
If only he knew how admired he was by me. They probably already know this which is why they visit - this is what I'm telling myself for now.
I have questions for you birds - naturally.
What's it like to be free? It looks pretty amazing and I have no doubt it is, but still I want to know.
Do you rosellas know how truly beautiful you are? Is that why you flit so quickly? Has your intense colouring taught you to mistrust the human race?
What's it like to fly?
What do you swallows do all day? Why do you dart so freely and so fast? What is it you need to get done in such a hurry? Is it little midges you're chasing or are you worried that you won't finish your task? Does all that swooping ever make you feel slightly ill like too many rides on a ferris wheel?
But I guess the truth of it lies in the design of your wings. You're built to swoop and dart with the agility of an acrobat.
I sat out on the Fitzroy Terrace this afternoon to watch the afternoons' performance of the Last Gasp of The Sun over the valley. You have to see it to know what I am trying to describe. The sun seems to heave a last contented sigh - tainting the ghost gums at the valley's end the softest shade of pink you could imagine, as it drops further down over the crest of the ranges behind us, the last gasp of the sun touches the crests of the wild grasses and turns them golden. The shadows the trees cast could be the finger paintings of angels, so delicate yet bold and far-reaching.
For just a moment, there is peace and quiet as even it would seem he animals and the birds are marveling at this unfolding scene. Just for a moment they pause to take in the closing of yet another day, and the beginning of the night. They seem to take signal that now with the going down of the sun is now the time for getting ready for bed - at least for the day creatures, the night creatures are stirring, yawning, stretching and organising themselves for the night of foraging and feasting (and partying - if you're a possum) that lies ahead of them.
The magpies and the noisy miners appear to have an ongoing battle for possession of the Norfolk pine tree that stands guard at the turn of the driveway. I'm convinced it's one of the oldest trees on the property, it's mid-upper branches are straggly and downward pointing so long it appears to have been reaching for the sky. They seem tried to continually be stretching outward and have drooped in their effort. The magpies have either have always had possession and the noisy miners think they can boss them out of their tree, or, it belonged to the noisy miners and by sheer cunning (such is the way of the magpie) the magpies have managed to snaffle it for themselves.
The magpies appear baffled as to why the noisy miners keep flying straight up at them. It could be a clever act or it could be that they're genuinely shocked at the audacity. A magpie decides to risk it but the noisy miners are on for the chase.
‘Safety in numbers boys!’ the ringleader cries as they position themselves to take on the lone maggie. Back to the nest the magpie flees. The noisy miners go back to their tree (right next door to the Norfolk pine) to wait for the next hapless winged bid for freedom.
Way up high above the Elms Wing a lone crow circles and cries.
'Ark ark aaAAAAark' he announces to all who will listen.
'I'm a crow' he seems to say - 'the highest Crow in the sky, watch me dive and turn on a sixpence'.
Crows don't know that we don't use sixpence any more. We have fifty cent pieces instead, and digital phones and laptops and ipods but none of this has ever really been important to a crow. Their main purpose seems to be pushing each other off roosts, or keeping an eye out for discarded food scraps. They're funny too - when they land it's as if they're surprised to discover they have feet. And what big feet they have too! Gigantic great paddles of things. Their claws clatter and slide over terracotta roofs of houses and I wonder how on earth they manage to keep a grip so shiny do their toes appear to be.
Some people say they're a nuisance. But I wonder if they too don't occasionally stop to admire the sheer breadth of a fully-grown crows wingspan, or wonder why on earth all of their feathers are so black? Black traps heat so they are the wrong colour for the midday sun at the height of summer. I wonder if the crows know this? Why didn't they get made a different colour? Why would you make a crow black and expect it to survive the heat of a fierce summers’ day?
The country crows have curved tips on their wings to help them float further and higher in their quest for food. Their wings sillouhette against the sky so perfectly it's breathtaking to watch. The next time you see a crow watch how it flies. It flip-flops it's wings to a certain height and then it will stretch out its wings to the furthest they will go. Then it will swoop and dive so gracefully you wonder how on earth this is possible for the size of the body of the bird - and this is half the magic I am sure. Until of course their giant feet hit the ground and then they skitter about with the gangliness of a teenaged boy whose just grown a foot in height overnight.
This crow it seems is looking for a bed for the night. Just one for one he seems to ask? Just for one? Noooo, say the magpies living in the Norfolk pine - you can't come here - we're full. The rosellas are so pretty yet haughty and know better than to converse with a lowly crow on the prowl for a nest for the night. They ignore him.
The ducks gathering at the eighteenth hole of the golf course are too busy foraging for the grubs they love to notice. They're ducking and bobbing their heads as they wag their tails to keep each other in line of sight. These ducks aren't the sort to make a quack about much, they burble on contentedly to each other but it's more of a gossipy conversation, not like the raucous laughter of the kookaburra. Occasionally two or three of the smaller ducks will venture too close to the big duck at the front of the flock. This seems to annoy him immensely - he ducks his head and runs straight at them quacking crossly. Someone obviously has to reinforce the pecking order and such is the nature of these sorts of things - that's the task of the biggest duck in the flock.
The other morning from high up on my balcony I could see a duck sitting on his own in the middle of a golf green. At first I wasn't sure if it was a rabbit who'd come to an untimely end or if it was a duck being unwell. After watching it for a while, it turned out to be a little duck that was either stuck or not very well.
I decided that I should go and take a closer look. If the duck was injured as it appeared to be what would I do then? I decided I should take a cardigan with me - if I needed to I could fling the cardigan over the duck and escort it to care - they're much easier to manage if they've got their heads covered as anyone who has dealt with an injured animal will tell you. We don't have a way of assuring animals that we're going to take care of them and make them better - so it's best to cover their eyes whilst they're in transport. This duck was going to receive the soft swoosh of my fine spun cashmere cardigan over it if need be, so it had better bloody appreciate it.
The duck seemed to be swivelling his head round and half-heartedly quacking. I kept walking towards it. He seemed to spring to life right in front of me. Up on his feet he went. Flick-flick-flick went his little feet. 'Who?' he quacked at me as if asking me the full question was too much effort. And just like that he flapped off. Down over the creek to the other side where he touched down and stood watching me warily from a distance. Nothing wrong with the duck after all. Apparently he was sulking. And I'd disturbed the display.
Sorry mister duck, I didn't mean any harm.
(But here's a tip - probably best not to sulk in the middle of a golf course - it does gets you attention but not from the lady-ducks which is what I think the fuss is all about).
I saw a little ground wren this afternoon. So joyful was its little hopping dance of bug-catching I almost laughed right out loud. Just in the nick of time I held back from letting forth one of my bird-scaring guffaws. It was so sweet with its little brown head popping up and down as it hopped over bushes to get lunch on the run. I don't think it heard me as it kept right on
at its task of hopping and scurrying.
The language of birds is to me, one of the greatest mysteries of life. It delights and mildly frustrates me that I will never truly know what the birds are saying. I can only guess and invent conversations that I think they might be having amongst their flock and for this I have and always will love them for the grace and wonder they lend the world in their endeavours and adventures. I still cannot fathom and most likely never will, the distance that migratory birds will travel and how, for no other purpose than procreation. This surely should be written up as the eighth wonder of the world. In my book at least.
Is it me they're laughing at? Is it someone else? I'm fairly sure it's people because if it was other birds surely they'd never stop.
In between their outbursts I could hear the gentle twittering of a mother starling getting her chicks ready for breakfast, organising them in to their Sunday best no doubt, the beautiful yet sad three note call of a honeyeater and the whingeing of a single cockatoo looking for company.
A beautiful broad-winged cockatoo popped down from his lofty heights to visit with me yesterday afternoon. He seemed convinced that if he flexed his sulphur crest enough times I'd magically produce sunflower seeds. Sorry sunshine - I didn't come prepared. If I had any I would surely share them (unshelled of course) with you.
If only he knew how admired he was by me. They probably already know this which is why they visit - this is what I'm telling myself for now.
I have questions for you birds - naturally.
What's it like to be free? It looks pretty amazing and I have no doubt it is, but still I want to know.
Do you rosellas know how truly beautiful you are? Is that why you flit so quickly? Has your intense colouring taught you to mistrust the human race?
What's it like to fly?
What do you swallows do all day? Why do you dart so freely and so fast? What is it you need to get done in such a hurry? Is it little midges you're chasing or are you worried that you won't finish your task? Does all that swooping ever make you feel slightly ill like too many rides on a ferris wheel?
But I guess the truth of it lies in the design of your wings. You're built to swoop and dart with the agility of an acrobat.
I sat out on the Fitzroy Terrace this afternoon to watch the afternoons' performance of the Last Gasp of The Sun over the valley. You have to see it to know what I am trying to describe. The sun seems to heave a last contented sigh - tainting the ghost gums at the valley's end the softest shade of pink you could imagine, as it drops further down over the crest of the ranges behind us, the last gasp of the sun touches the crests of the wild grasses and turns them golden. The shadows the trees cast could be the finger paintings of angels, so delicate yet bold and far-reaching.
For just a moment, there is peace and quiet as even it would seem he animals and the birds are marveling at this unfolding scene. Just for a moment they pause to take in the closing of yet another day, and the beginning of the night. They seem to take signal that now with the going down of the sun is now the time for getting ready for bed - at least for the day creatures, the night creatures are stirring, yawning, stretching and organising themselves for the night of foraging and feasting (and partying - if you're a possum) that lies ahead of them.
The magpies and the noisy miners appear to have an ongoing battle for possession of the Norfolk pine tree that stands guard at the turn of the driveway. I'm convinced it's one of the oldest trees on the property, it's mid-upper branches are straggly and downward pointing so long it appears to have been reaching for the sky. They seem tried to continually be stretching outward and have drooped in their effort. The magpies have either have always had possession and the noisy miners think they can boss them out of their tree, or, it belonged to the noisy miners and by sheer cunning (such is the way of the magpie) the magpies have managed to snaffle it for themselves.
The magpies appear baffled as to why the noisy miners keep flying straight up at them. It could be a clever act or it could be that they're genuinely shocked at the audacity. A magpie decides to risk it but the noisy miners are on for the chase.
‘Safety in numbers boys!’ the ringleader cries as they position themselves to take on the lone maggie. Back to the nest the magpie flees. The noisy miners go back to their tree (right next door to the Norfolk pine) to wait for the next hapless winged bid for freedom.
Way up high above the Elms Wing a lone crow circles and cries.
'Ark ark aaAAAAark' he announces to all who will listen.
'I'm a crow' he seems to say - 'the highest Crow in the sky, watch me dive and turn on a sixpence'.
Crows don't know that we don't use sixpence any more. We have fifty cent pieces instead, and digital phones and laptops and ipods but none of this has ever really been important to a crow. Their main purpose seems to be pushing each other off roosts, or keeping an eye out for discarded food scraps. They're funny too - when they land it's as if they're surprised to discover they have feet. And what big feet they have too! Gigantic great paddles of things. Their claws clatter and slide over terracotta roofs of houses and I wonder how on earth they manage to keep a grip so shiny do their toes appear to be.
Some people say they're a nuisance. But I wonder if they too don't occasionally stop to admire the sheer breadth of a fully-grown crows wingspan, or wonder why on earth all of their feathers are so black? Black traps heat so they are the wrong colour for the midday sun at the height of summer. I wonder if the crows know this? Why didn't they get made a different colour? Why would you make a crow black and expect it to survive the heat of a fierce summers’ day?
The country crows have curved tips on their wings to help them float further and higher in their quest for food. Their wings sillouhette against the sky so perfectly it's breathtaking to watch. The next time you see a crow watch how it flies. It flip-flops it's wings to a certain height and then it will stretch out its wings to the furthest they will go. Then it will swoop and dive so gracefully you wonder how on earth this is possible for the size of the body of the bird - and this is half the magic I am sure. Until of course their giant feet hit the ground and then they skitter about with the gangliness of a teenaged boy whose just grown a foot in height overnight.
This crow it seems is looking for a bed for the night. Just one for one he seems to ask? Just for one? Noooo, say the magpies living in the Norfolk pine - you can't come here - we're full. The rosellas are so pretty yet haughty and know better than to converse with a lowly crow on the prowl for a nest for the night. They ignore him.
The ducks gathering at the eighteenth hole of the golf course are too busy foraging for the grubs they love to notice. They're ducking and bobbing their heads as they wag their tails to keep each other in line of sight. These ducks aren't the sort to make a quack about much, they burble on contentedly to each other but it's more of a gossipy conversation, not like the raucous laughter of the kookaburra. Occasionally two or three of the smaller ducks will venture too close to the big duck at the front of the flock. This seems to annoy him immensely - he ducks his head and runs straight at them quacking crossly. Someone obviously has to reinforce the pecking order and such is the nature of these sorts of things - that's the task of the biggest duck in the flock.
The other morning from high up on my balcony I could see a duck sitting on his own in the middle of a golf green. At first I wasn't sure if it was a rabbit who'd come to an untimely end or if it was a duck being unwell. After watching it for a while, it turned out to be a little duck that was either stuck or not very well.
I decided that I should go and take a closer look. If the duck was injured as it appeared to be what would I do then? I decided I should take a cardigan with me - if I needed to I could fling the cardigan over the duck and escort it to care - they're much easier to manage if they've got their heads covered as anyone who has dealt with an injured animal will tell you. We don't have a way of assuring animals that we're going to take care of them and make them better - so it's best to cover their eyes whilst they're in transport. This duck was going to receive the soft swoosh of my fine spun cashmere cardigan over it if need be, so it had better bloody appreciate it.
The duck seemed to be swivelling his head round and half-heartedly quacking. I kept walking towards it. He seemed to spring to life right in front of me. Up on his feet he went. Flick-flick-flick went his little feet. 'Who?' he quacked at me as if asking me the full question was too much effort. And just like that he flapped off. Down over the creek to the other side where he touched down and stood watching me warily from a distance. Nothing wrong with the duck after all. Apparently he was sulking. And I'd disturbed the display.
Sorry mister duck, I didn't mean any harm.
(But here's a tip - probably best not to sulk in the middle of a golf course - it does gets you attention but not from the lady-ducks which is what I think the fuss is all about).
I saw a little ground wren this afternoon. So joyful was its little hopping dance of bug-catching I almost laughed right out loud. Just in the nick of time I held back from letting forth one of my bird-scaring guffaws. It was so sweet with its little brown head popping up and down as it hopped over bushes to get lunch on the run. I don't think it heard me as it kept right on
at its task of hopping and scurrying.
The language of birds is to me, one of the greatest mysteries of life. It delights and mildly frustrates me that I will never truly know what the birds are saying. I can only guess and invent conversations that I think they might be having amongst their flock and for this I have and always will love them for the grace and wonder they lend the world in their endeavours and adventures. I still cannot fathom and most likely never will, the distance that migratory birds will travel and how, for no other purpose than procreation. This surely should be written up as the eighth wonder of the world. In my book at least.
22 July 2011
The Girl With The Dicky Knee
Lately I've been gadding about town with a bit of a limp. I prefer to tell people I fell off my skateboard - but the unsympathetic responses have caused me to rethink wanting to claim street cred and a hip lifestyle. In all honesty, I fell down some stairs whilst getting up to go to the loo at the movies. It was hangover 2 (people always ask) and no it wasn't worth it.
When you've got a busted knee your entire life changes. Everything is suddenly much much slower. You notice stuff more. You're crankier and for longer. It divides friends neatly as being either useful and supportive or selfish and disappointing. I'm fortunate to have any of the former. Things that you never gave any thought to before are suddenly a source of constant irritation. Lifthogs at train stations for one. Those lifts are there for people who are disabled and for those of us with prams. Every morning the same scene plays out and big parts of me come very close to chucking a very big and messy tantrum. Because I have a limp (and as of Monday I'll have a walking stick as well) I'm slower on my feet. By the time I get anywhere near the lift - it's full of perfectly able bodied people who don't hold it for me - the only person who actually needs to use it - who all seem perfectly happy to watch me hobbling towards them whilst not actually making the connection that the lift is actually for people like me who CANNOT MANAGE STAIRS.
It wasn't that long ago whilst on crutches and a full leg brace I attempted to catch a bus. It has to be said that nearly all bus drivers are absolutely wonderful human beings, I could have cried with gratitude for their attentiveness and thoughtfulness - making the bus kneel down to save me from having to hop upwards (a risky manouver at any time really) and always waiting until I was properly seated before driving off. Always asking where I was getting off to save me from having to get up and ring the bell. One afternoon in the midst of a downpour (not a good predicament to be in when you're on crutches) I caught a bus home from the shops. A woman was waiting with me, and I could tell by the way she flicked her umbrella in my face that she wasn't the sort predisposed to consideration of others. When she plonked herself down in the disabled seat ahead of me I was gobsmacked.
I could have kissed the lovely schoolgirl who leapt up and offered me her seat - I wonder if she realises how much of a difference her considerate behaviour makes to other peoples lives? Not all teenagers are self-absorbed lumps of grunt and apathy. The cow who raced ahead of me and plonked her broad boackside down in the DISABLED SEATING might have noticed burnt hair and odd indentations in the back of her head when she arrived home. Or maybe she didn't. Sadly, she's not the only one whose behaviour has caused my blood pressure to rise in recent weeks.
Take the young man at St Leonards Station yesterday morning - he had watched me limp along the platform towards him. I could tell he lived utterly in his own bubble by the way he stood directly in front of the doors of the train when it pulled in. You're meant to STAND TO THE SIDE it gives the people who are inside the train and want to get off room to do so. If you stand in front of the doors, it actually causes a roadblock inside the train as people have to duck and dive to get around you. Bubbleboy raced in to the train ahead of me and took the only available seat in the vestibule area and started writing a text message. I wanted to clout him.
When I get my walking stick I fully intend to use it to rap shins of people just like this.
Fortunately a lovely young woman seated behind me had noticed I have a limp and asked the man next to her to shuffle up so there was room for me to sit down. See? An injury like this cleanly divides considerate people from inconsiderate oxygen-wasters. Just like that.
When you've got a busted knee your entire life changes. Everything is suddenly much much slower. You notice stuff more. You're crankier and for longer. It divides friends neatly as being either useful and supportive or selfish and disappointing. I'm fortunate to have any of the former. Things that you never gave any thought to before are suddenly a source of constant irritation. Lifthogs at train stations for one. Those lifts are there for people who are disabled and for those of us with prams. Every morning the same scene plays out and big parts of me come very close to chucking a very big and messy tantrum. Because I have a limp (and as of Monday I'll have a walking stick as well) I'm slower on my feet. By the time I get anywhere near the lift - it's full of perfectly able bodied people who don't hold it for me - the only person who actually needs to use it - who all seem perfectly happy to watch me hobbling towards them whilst not actually making the connection that the lift is actually for people like me who CANNOT MANAGE STAIRS.
It wasn't that long ago whilst on crutches and a full leg brace I attempted to catch a bus. It has to be said that nearly all bus drivers are absolutely wonderful human beings, I could have cried with gratitude for their attentiveness and thoughtfulness - making the bus kneel down to save me from having to hop upwards (a risky manouver at any time really) and always waiting until I was properly seated before driving off. Always asking where I was getting off to save me from having to get up and ring the bell. One afternoon in the midst of a downpour (not a good predicament to be in when you're on crutches) I caught a bus home from the shops. A woman was waiting with me, and I could tell by the way she flicked her umbrella in my face that she wasn't the sort predisposed to consideration of others. When she plonked herself down in the disabled seat ahead of me I was gobsmacked.
I could have kissed the lovely schoolgirl who leapt up and offered me her seat - I wonder if she realises how much of a difference her considerate behaviour makes to other peoples lives? Not all teenagers are self-absorbed lumps of grunt and apathy. The cow who raced ahead of me and plonked her broad boackside down in the DISABLED SEATING might have noticed burnt hair and odd indentations in the back of her head when she arrived home. Or maybe she didn't. Sadly, she's not the only one whose behaviour has caused my blood pressure to rise in recent weeks.
Take the young man at St Leonards Station yesterday morning - he had watched me limp along the platform towards him. I could tell he lived utterly in his own bubble by the way he stood directly in front of the doors of the train when it pulled in. You're meant to STAND TO THE SIDE it gives the people who are inside the train and want to get off room to do so. If you stand in front of the doors, it actually causes a roadblock inside the train as people have to duck and dive to get around you. Bubbleboy raced in to the train ahead of me and took the only available seat in the vestibule area and started writing a text message. I wanted to clout him.
When I get my walking stick I fully intend to use it to rap shins of people just like this.
Fortunately a lovely young woman seated behind me had noticed I have a limp and asked the man next to her to shuffle up so there was room for me to sit down. See? An injury like this cleanly divides considerate people from inconsiderate oxygen-wasters. Just like that.
15 May 2011
The Man Who Wanted To Be Someone Else
This is the story of a man I secretly refer to as Wrong. The night we met he was wearing a very wanky hat.
I’d taken myself out to a nearby bar where I knew they’d have some live music. So out I’d gone.
I took a seat at the opposite end of the long bar table, and as the band hadn’t yet started yet pulled out my ipod and decided to continue working on a writing exercise I’d started a few months back. (Footnote 1).
I snuck a glance at him using my well-honed peripheral vision and yep, he was watching me.
He instantly moved closer, more of a pounce actually. Instantly I drew my shutters and ignored him. He interrupted me anyway.
Telling me that he was curious and wanted to know what I was doing. I know it’s kind of immature of me to expect that I can go to a bar on my own, whip out a notebook and expect not to be asked what I’m writing about - but the truth is folks, it’s nobodies business but mine.
Why do other people feel they have the right to interrupt and pry anyway?
I did my best to deflect his interest. I really didn’t want to be disturbed, but this was not somehow understood. I’m polite - to a point.
So then he offered to buy me a drink. I declined. I DECLINED! How is that not a hint?
So when he went to the bar, he asked the bartender what I was drinking and bought me one anyway. Pushy? You betcha.
I set it to one side and decided I wouldn’t drink it. He returned to his end of the table and I figured that would be that. Silly me.
He waited until I took a sip of the glass of wine he’d purchased for me. And pounced again. Wanting me to listen to his ipod. Of course. Again I tried to distance myself. Politely (although patience fast becoming tested at this point) declining his offer.
I was listening to my music, doing my own thing, I really didn’t wish to engage in conversation with anyone else. Wrong had decided that wasn’t going to be happening - not on his watch at least.
He asked me what I thought of his hat. Ah, a bit of a wank if you want my honest opinion. Not even remotely deterred he explained that if he took it off he’d have hat hair.
In my opinion you offer to buy someone a drink and they decline and then they tell you your hat is a wank - it might be possible - just - that they’re CLEARLY NOT FUCKING INTERESTED and you’d be wasting your time to persist.
So, he bought me another wine. And another. And then a vodka martini. And another. As you I’m sure can understand by this point the wine and vodka martini’s had softened my guard and we were having a conversation.
About what I can’t remember. I doubt very much it was the alcohol that bought about my lack of recall here - I think it was more the nature of our conversation. Vanilla. Bland. Boring.
He wanted to take me to the Courthouse hotel - at the top of Oxford Street. There was no way I was going to go anywhere with him. He pushed it giving up on the sixth time I said no.
I remember walking home feeling very happy that I’d managed to get away from him.
It wasn’t until the cold light of day the next morning that I realised I had in fact given him one of my business cards. I found him patronising and thought (I was under the influence so can be forgiven for my lack of judgement perhaps?) that if I gave him reason to respect me he’d quit with treating me like I was twelve.
I guess it’s fair to say here that alcohol in a large quantity definitely affects my decision maker.
After I’d gotten up and downed a couple of nurofen, some coffee and toast - I dared to check my phone. Yep. Six (SIX) missed calls and three text messages. All from Wrong.
I deleted the voicemails without listening to them and actually shuddered when I read the first text.
‘Morning Beautiful, fancy having breakfast with me?’
The next:
‘Hey gorgeous, can’t wait to gaze upon your loveliness again, call me’.
Hmm. Never.
The last:
‘Hey beautiful, are you okay? Please call me’.
Clingy.
He persisted over the next few days telling me he’d felt a connection and was really keen to see me again. Again, against my better judgement I’d relented and agreed to meet him for a drink. I’d had a crap day that particular Thursday. From out of nowhere I was surrounded by dissenters. People who weren’t hesitating in airing in their criticisms of me. I figured at best I’d have someone I could sound off to so agreed.
I opted for somewhere local so when I was done ranting I could wander off home and that would be that. The first place we chose was crowded and I couldn’t hear myself speak so we chose to move elsewhere. On the way up the street he actually told me that he had a lot to teach me. Ooh, really?
He started talking at me - banging on about being the big man and a successful sales man (yawn) so I thought if I blasted him with a bit of pure intellect he’d shut the fuck up. I mentioned my numbers theory (Footnote 2) and he shook his head, told me I was wrong and started banging on about quantum physics. I didn‘t get to finish what I was saying and he‘d already changed the subject. Then I mentioned a theory explained to me by someone with a doctorate of economics. He had the immediate foolishness to attempt to correct the theory.
By now I was getting irritated. He kept moving closer to me. Pushing his knee up against mine. Instinctively I moved further away. Yetch. He threw his arm up over the back of my chair so I moved my chair. All this getting in my face was starting to piss me off to be honest.
When he asked me about the state of our relationship - I figured it was time I left.
He asked me for a kiss, I politely declined. I stood up to say goodbye and he lunged at me. I grabbed him firmly by his shoulders and held him at a safe distance.
He asked if he would hear from me again and I said I doubted it. We’re just too different. I’m strong, all about passion and confidence. I don’t mind spending time with someone who is shy - but someone who is all about impressing me by telling me I’m wrong and treating me like I’m made of brittle glass when it’s perfectly fucking obvious that I’m not - is boring and annoying.
My man is a man’s man. Confident. Passionate. Strong. Slightly arrogant. Witty. Lighthearted. Allergic to bullshit. Capable of lifting big things. Funny. A little bit charming when the need arises.
Wrong appeared to take himself too seriously for my liking. It was as if he’d decided that he was the big man when he seriously wasn’t. Wrong had made the bad call in thinking I needed him to be my big strong man when I’m doing just fine on my own two feet.
Some time ago I formed a friendship of sorts with another bloke. Someone I’ll refer to as C
C does have a bit of a swagger to him - but on him it’s sexy and amusing. He has a beautifully deep voice. He has a style that’s all his own. He brings out the candour and colour in me naturally - he understands I have a passionate heart and knows how to work it the way it needs to be worked. He fights with me, challenges me and confidently argues with me - then surprises me with his gentle side.
He knows instinctively when to advance and when to pull back. I’ve promised us both that when the music stops, that’s when the show is over, and when the show is over it’s time to go home.
I eat ones like Wrong for breakfast. They want to treat me like some silly little princess stuck in her castle and they’re the only ones who can let me out. I want to shout right back at them as loud as the neighbourhood will accept that I am not in need of a short weedy guy with an ego writing cheques his personality can’t cash to rescue me from an already together life.
He even had the small balls to tell me I didn’t know the first thing about sales. LIKE I EVEN CARE but coming from the family I do with the background we have, this is an insult. A very ignorant insult at that.
In all a very dull nail in a very boring wall.
But on the plus side he caused me to have more of an appreciation for C and his colourful approach to life. C is light on his feet (a bit too light at times for my tastes). He is confident but not blithe, his conscience is present and he doesn’t claim to know everything. He even asks for help if he’s not sure of something.
I know. So unusual I find it attractive.
Oh, and did I mention his eyes? Chocolate, twin pools of. Until he smiles, wherein they turn caramel.
Footnote 1 = An exercise where I hit shuffle on my ipod, and critique the next song to play and try and finish it before the next song starts.
Footnote 2 = That numbers govern our entire world. Everything is about numbers. It’s a logical structure that all that we interact with on a daily basis is measured against. If there were no numbers at all imagine the chaos we’d be living amongst.
I’d taken myself out to a nearby bar where I knew they’d have some live music. So out I’d gone.
I took a seat at the opposite end of the long bar table, and as the band hadn’t yet started yet pulled out my ipod and decided to continue working on a writing exercise I’d started a few months back. (Footnote 1).
I snuck a glance at him using my well-honed peripheral vision and yep, he was watching me.
He instantly moved closer, more of a pounce actually. Instantly I drew my shutters and ignored him. He interrupted me anyway.
Telling me that he was curious and wanted to know what I was doing. I know it’s kind of immature of me to expect that I can go to a bar on my own, whip out a notebook and expect not to be asked what I’m writing about - but the truth is folks, it’s nobodies business but mine.
Why do other people feel they have the right to interrupt and pry anyway?
I did my best to deflect his interest. I really didn’t want to be disturbed, but this was not somehow understood. I’m polite - to a point.
So then he offered to buy me a drink. I declined. I DECLINED! How is that not a hint?
So when he went to the bar, he asked the bartender what I was drinking and bought me one anyway. Pushy? You betcha.
I set it to one side and decided I wouldn’t drink it. He returned to his end of the table and I figured that would be that. Silly me.
He waited until I took a sip of the glass of wine he’d purchased for me. And pounced again. Wanting me to listen to his ipod. Of course. Again I tried to distance myself. Politely (although patience fast becoming tested at this point) declining his offer.
I was listening to my music, doing my own thing, I really didn’t wish to engage in conversation with anyone else. Wrong had decided that wasn’t going to be happening - not on his watch at least.
He asked me what I thought of his hat. Ah, a bit of a wank if you want my honest opinion. Not even remotely deterred he explained that if he took it off he’d have hat hair.
In my opinion you offer to buy someone a drink and they decline and then they tell you your hat is a wank - it might be possible - just - that they’re CLEARLY NOT FUCKING INTERESTED and you’d be wasting your time to persist.
So, he bought me another wine. And another. And then a vodka martini. And another. As you I’m sure can understand by this point the wine and vodka martini’s had softened my guard and we were having a conversation.
About what I can’t remember. I doubt very much it was the alcohol that bought about my lack of recall here - I think it was more the nature of our conversation. Vanilla. Bland. Boring.
He wanted to take me to the Courthouse hotel - at the top of Oxford Street. There was no way I was going to go anywhere with him. He pushed it giving up on the sixth time I said no.
I remember walking home feeling very happy that I’d managed to get away from him.
It wasn’t until the cold light of day the next morning that I realised I had in fact given him one of my business cards. I found him patronising and thought (I was under the influence so can be forgiven for my lack of judgement perhaps?) that if I gave him reason to respect me he’d quit with treating me like I was twelve.
I guess it’s fair to say here that alcohol in a large quantity definitely affects my decision maker.
After I’d gotten up and downed a couple of nurofen, some coffee and toast - I dared to check my phone. Yep. Six (SIX) missed calls and three text messages. All from Wrong.
I deleted the voicemails without listening to them and actually shuddered when I read the first text.
‘Morning Beautiful, fancy having breakfast with me?’
The next:
‘Hey gorgeous, can’t wait to gaze upon your loveliness again, call me’.
Hmm. Never.
The last:
‘Hey beautiful, are you okay? Please call me’.
Clingy.
He persisted over the next few days telling me he’d felt a connection and was really keen to see me again. Again, against my better judgement I’d relented and agreed to meet him for a drink. I’d had a crap day that particular Thursday. From out of nowhere I was surrounded by dissenters. People who weren’t hesitating in airing in their criticisms of me. I figured at best I’d have someone I could sound off to so agreed.
I opted for somewhere local so when I was done ranting I could wander off home and that would be that. The first place we chose was crowded and I couldn’t hear myself speak so we chose to move elsewhere. On the way up the street he actually told me that he had a lot to teach me. Ooh, really?
He started talking at me - banging on about being the big man and a successful sales man (yawn) so I thought if I blasted him with a bit of pure intellect he’d shut the fuck up. I mentioned my numbers theory (Footnote 2) and he shook his head, told me I was wrong and started banging on about quantum physics. I didn‘t get to finish what I was saying and he‘d already changed the subject. Then I mentioned a theory explained to me by someone with a doctorate of economics. He had the immediate foolishness to attempt to correct the theory.
By now I was getting irritated. He kept moving closer to me. Pushing his knee up against mine. Instinctively I moved further away. Yetch. He threw his arm up over the back of my chair so I moved my chair. All this getting in my face was starting to piss me off to be honest.
When he asked me about the state of our relationship - I figured it was time I left.
He asked me for a kiss, I politely declined. I stood up to say goodbye and he lunged at me. I grabbed him firmly by his shoulders and held him at a safe distance.
He asked if he would hear from me again and I said I doubted it. We’re just too different. I’m strong, all about passion and confidence. I don’t mind spending time with someone who is shy - but someone who is all about impressing me by telling me I’m wrong and treating me like I’m made of brittle glass when it’s perfectly fucking obvious that I’m not - is boring and annoying.
My man is a man’s man. Confident. Passionate. Strong. Slightly arrogant. Witty. Lighthearted. Allergic to bullshit. Capable of lifting big things. Funny. A little bit charming when the need arises.
Wrong appeared to take himself too seriously for my liking. It was as if he’d decided that he was the big man when he seriously wasn’t. Wrong had made the bad call in thinking I needed him to be my big strong man when I’m doing just fine on my own two feet.
Some time ago I formed a friendship of sorts with another bloke. Someone I’ll refer to as C
C does have a bit of a swagger to him - but on him it’s sexy and amusing. He has a beautifully deep voice. He has a style that’s all his own. He brings out the candour and colour in me naturally - he understands I have a passionate heart and knows how to work it the way it needs to be worked. He fights with me, challenges me and confidently argues with me - then surprises me with his gentle side.
He knows instinctively when to advance and when to pull back. I’ve promised us both that when the music stops, that’s when the show is over, and when the show is over it’s time to go home.
I eat ones like Wrong for breakfast. They want to treat me like some silly little princess stuck in her castle and they’re the only ones who can let me out. I want to shout right back at them as loud as the neighbourhood will accept that I am not in need of a short weedy guy with an ego writing cheques his personality can’t cash to rescue me from an already together life.
He even had the small balls to tell me I didn’t know the first thing about sales. LIKE I EVEN CARE but coming from the family I do with the background we have, this is an insult. A very ignorant insult at that.
In all a very dull nail in a very boring wall.
But on the plus side he caused me to have more of an appreciation for C and his colourful approach to life. C is light on his feet (a bit too light at times for my tastes). He is confident but not blithe, his conscience is present and he doesn’t claim to know everything. He even asks for help if he’s not sure of something.
I know. So unusual I find it attractive.
Oh, and did I mention his eyes? Chocolate, twin pools of. Until he smiles, wherein they turn caramel.
Footnote 1 = An exercise where I hit shuffle on my ipod, and critique the next song to play and try and finish it before the next song starts.
Footnote 2 = That numbers govern our entire world. Everything is about numbers. It’s a logical structure that all that we interact with on a daily basis is measured against. If there were no numbers at all imagine the chaos we’d be living amongst.
03 May 2011
Gilroys Hotel, St Leonards 01.04.2010
A truly beautiful day today. Sun soaring in the sky like a bird set free. Beautiful cool breeze tickling at the edges of an azure blue sky. Bubbling with it the promise of more fun to be had. And in the shortened shadows of this early autumn afternoon lurks a dewy spot of gloom. Just a small one, almost quiet enough not to be noticed.
A former love of mine thinks it is fair to hang on to something that has absolutely no place in his life. Photographs are sacred, and more so - to me. Eighteen months ago things were very different and I snapped so happily - lost in the lush tropics of another country, surrounded by beauty on all sides.
To hold to ransom someone elses memories of happier times is not only unfair - it's a kind of torture, sure and pure.
Unnecessarily inflicting hurt and bitterness in those who don't require it.
It was never a punishment he needed to exact, but he did regardless. Sometimes I wonder if this keeps him warm at night.
A former love of mine thinks it is fair to hang on to something that has absolutely no place in his life. Photographs are sacred, and more so - to me. Eighteen months ago things were very different and I snapped so happily - lost in the lush tropics of another country, surrounded by beauty on all sides.
To hold to ransom someone elses memories of happier times is not only unfair - it's a kind of torture, sure and pure.
Unnecessarily inflicting hurt and bitterness in those who don't require it.
It was never a punishment he needed to exact, but he did regardless. Sometimes I wonder if this keeps him warm at night.
A found poem
I found this poem tacked to the end of a spectrum article... it's so beautiful I felt it was worth sharing...
August Sestet - written under the influence of some anonymous Japanese Sages
Down where the afternoon
pools in winter paddocks
brown cows shoot the rising southerly breeze
and the late sun
spraypaints
the arms of the elms
those great old gantries
and one yellow-tailed black cockatoo
slouching inside his zenga overcoat
splays the same blue phrase
across the afternoon
in the same cool and melancholy
way
the sky has been rehearsing it since noon
It's 4:48 on a Friday, halfway through
my life
and this is what I come to now
none of it mine - all of it me
all that love has left
The unrequieted landscape of
my soul
(Mark Tredennick - Spectrum 27 March 2010)
This was a postscript to the article - In From The Cold At Last.
August Sestet - written under the influence of some anonymous Japanese Sages
Down where the afternoon
pools in winter paddocks
brown cows shoot the rising southerly breeze
and the late sun
spraypaints
the arms of the elms
those great old gantries
and one yellow-tailed black cockatoo
slouching inside his zenga overcoat
splays the same blue phrase
across the afternoon
in the same cool and melancholy
way
the sky has been rehearsing it since noon
It's 4:48 on a Friday, halfway through
my life
and this is what I come to now
none of it mine - all of it me
all that love has left
The unrequieted landscape of
my soul
(Mark Tredennick - Spectrum 27 March 2010)
This was a postscript to the article - In From The Cold At Last.
16 December 2010
Remember the white kung-fu shoe? That was me.(16.12.2010)
Or so the dishy waiter at a regular haunt of mine declared at an earlyish hour the evening before last.
He then went on to explain that he is responsible for the trend that therein followed his choice of a comfortable shoe for schlepping to and from his day job. He began seeing them everywhere. People were even dancing in these things. Dancing!
This was the very same night I saw the most fabulous pair of Ralph Lauren ballet flats in grapefruit yellow with turquoise leatherwork.
Earlier in the evening I had witnessed a woman spiking past me wearing a pink, black and white wrap-dress with this whole paint splash meets mondrian thing going on - not particularly flattering - and her shoes. They were black patent leather peep toe triangle-post in electric magenta stillettos. Black patent and electric magenta.
These were shoes not road hazard warning signs.
I guess as a side-note, one might like to note that she was pushing a PRAM up the hill whilst wearing these garish nasties.
Those ghastly little lovelies and the pair right after that clomped on by made me wonder where all of these very bad shoes were escaping from.
Platform stillettos. PLATFORM. What's wrong with that? Ah, nothing if you like to take the beautiful sexy line of a slender heel balanced just so against the curve of a calf, and whack a great breadboard of clunkiness to it's sole - that's your call, but I'd rather not have to wince at it.. I'm just saying.
Don't get me started on cork wedge sandals. They go with nothing. If wearing them looks bad, imagine what walking in them looks like. Like you are stomping down the street in leadweighted gumboots. There is a reason the giraffe is the pin-up girl of the animal kingdom.
I see them on other women and I wonder what possessed the wearer to try these on and then actually leave the shop having parted real money for them, not only that, but actually extract them from the shoe box at the other end, and wear them OUTSIDE THE HOUSE?
A peep toe is beautiful (manages both sexy and sweet at the same time - a remarkable achievement for any shoe no?) especially when combined with a delicate block heel and slender ankle strap - it instantly lends delicate elegance to even the straightest ankle.
Nothing beats a low profile trainer in my book. I'm forever on a quest to find a better pair than the one I bought last week. There is a cheeky fresh appeal to them. They're smart, they're sassy and when necessary afford a very quick getaway. There is absolutely no harm in suggesting with your footwear that you might be just the type of girl who would require a fast getaway from time to time either.
I will always be an admirer of the black patent high-heeled sandal teamed with either a cigarette pant or a well-fitting pair of dark denim bootleg jeans. Throw on a dressy top and you're ready for action baby. To me this is sexy casual at it's best. Yes, it exists - it's the mastering of it that apparently makes all the difference.
Which leads me to my last (I know... it took me a while but I got there) point - if one is going to have Christian Louboutin below, then by default one should be carrying Hermes above it. One does NOT strut the Louboutin and team it with vinyl. Never never never never.
Bless the black patent stilletto. Amen.
He then went on to explain that he is responsible for the trend that therein followed his choice of a comfortable shoe for schlepping to and from his day job. He began seeing them everywhere. People were even dancing in these things. Dancing!
This was the very same night I saw the most fabulous pair of Ralph Lauren ballet flats in grapefruit yellow with turquoise leatherwork.
Earlier in the evening I had witnessed a woman spiking past me wearing a pink, black and white wrap-dress with this whole paint splash meets mondrian thing going on - not particularly flattering - and her shoes. They were black patent leather peep toe triangle-post in electric magenta stillettos. Black patent and electric magenta.
These were shoes not road hazard warning signs.
I guess as a side-note, one might like to note that she was pushing a PRAM up the hill whilst wearing these garish nasties.
Those ghastly little lovelies and the pair right after that clomped on by made me wonder where all of these very bad shoes were escaping from.
Platform stillettos. PLATFORM. What's wrong with that? Ah, nothing if you like to take the beautiful sexy line of a slender heel balanced just so against the curve of a calf, and whack a great breadboard of clunkiness to it's sole - that's your call, but I'd rather not have to wince at it.. I'm just saying.
Don't get me started on cork wedge sandals. They go with nothing. If wearing them looks bad, imagine what walking in them looks like. Like you are stomping down the street in leadweighted gumboots. There is a reason the giraffe is the pin-up girl of the animal kingdom.
I see them on other women and I wonder what possessed the wearer to try these on and then actually leave the shop having parted real money for them, not only that, but actually extract them from the shoe box at the other end, and wear them OUTSIDE THE HOUSE?
A peep toe is beautiful (manages both sexy and sweet at the same time - a remarkable achievement for any shoe no?) especially when combined with a delicate block heel and slender ankle strap - it instantly lends delicate elegance to even the straightest ankle.
Nothing beats a low profile trainer in my book. I'm forever on a quest to find a better pair than the one I bought last week. There is a cheeky fresh appeal to them. They're smart, they're sassy and when necessary afford a very quick getaway. There is absolutely no harm in suggesting with your footwear that you might be just the type of girl who would require a fast getaway from time to time either.
I will always be an admirer of the black patent high-heeled sandal teamed with either a cigarette pant or a well-fitting pair of dark denim bootleg jeans. Throw on a dressy top and you're ready for action baby. To me this is sexy casual at it's best. Yes, it exists - it's the mastering of it that apparently makes all the difference.
Which leads me to my last (I know... it took me a while but I got there) point - if one is going to have Christian Louboutin below, then by default one should be carrying Hermes above it. One does NOT strut the Louboutin and team it with vinyl. Never never never never.
Bless the black patent stilletto. Amen.
04 December 2009
December: The Noisiest Month of Them All
Isn't it all meant to be about peace and goodwill and standing round a christmas tree admiring it's baubles in a kind of awestruck silence?
Christmas, and the lead up to was once a concept similar to that of libraries, churches and a smattering of bookshops. Quiet enough for contemplation and just the right amount of interesting things to jostle the inspiration that lurks in all of us in to action.
As much as I hate shopping malls (I only really venture inside when I absolutely have to, or need to practice my people wrangling skills) the other morning I found myself in a decently sized one, I had errands to run, and I also needed to make a call. I was early so thought I'd make the best of my time, and make my call while waiting for the store to open.
Fairly simple you'd think. WRONG. The christmas soundtrack was turned up so loud I had to go outside the shopping centre and walk for a spell down the street - so that I could conduct my conversation at a reasonable level, without the good people of Japan knowing the results of my mothers colonoscopy. Perhaps that defeats the purpose?
I love my office, it's a haven of peace and quiet. Mostly. December sneaks in under the door unnoticed and lands on my desk announcing itself in a cacaphony of ringtones (O Come On Ye Unfaithful Meet Me Under The Mistletoe at Midnight and other classics) and bursting in to cicada-like symphony of text messages arriving All. Day. Long.
Ah December.
The month that we worker-bees tend to find frequent cause celebre. Not just the festive season - but also the prize at the end of the year - annual leave - so we party a little harder to better appreciate our downtime. Why can't Chrimmas Parties be QUIET? Especially when you're leaving the restaurant just a little up from my house. And if you park outside my bedroom is it too much to ask to spare a thought for very hardworking young woman trying to sleep through your protracted goodbyes and excessive door-slamming?
So when I'm not being elbowed aside, prammed or shopping trollied in to the frustratingly slow lane, I'm trying to avoid Christmas altogether really.
However, if you're not willing to go to Christmas, it finds some novel ways of coming to you. Such as a telephone call I received at work the other day. Earlier in the year I'd been required to purchase some gift cards from a large purveyor of those all the altars under one roof places. Which I have to admit they made remarkably easy. The purveyor had engaged a novel method of upwards-leveraging and called me to remind me that Christmas was coming.
If I can make one small difference to the world whilst I'm in it - it would be to campaign parliament to ban the playing of christmas muzak. Christmas is a hard time of year for lots of people, reminding us that it's 'that time of year' over and over and over again does little for goodwill, surprisingly.
When will Christmas become the event it was designed for? A time for reflection, and consideration for those less fortunate. A time to give thanks for the gifts that these past twelve months bought us, appreciation for lessons learnt and making it through another year scathed only a touch virtually.
Christmas, and the lead up to was once a concept similar to that of libraries, churches and a smattering of bookshops. Quiet enough for contemplation and just the right amount of interesting things to jostle the inspiration that lurks in all of us in to action.
As much as I hate shopping malls (I only really venture inside when I absolutely have to, or need to practice my people wrangling skills) the other morning I found myself in a decently sized one, I had errands to run, and I also needed to make a call. I was early so thought I'd make the best of my time, and make my call while waiting for the store to open.
Fairly simple you'd think. WRONG. The christmas soundtrack was turned up so loud I had to go outside the shopping centre and walk for a spell down the street - so that I could conduct my conversation at a reasonable level, without the good people of Japan knowing the results of my mothers colonoscopy. Perhaps that defeats the purpose?
I love my office, it's a haven of peace and quiet. Mostly. December sneaks in under the door unnoticed and lands on my desk announcing itself in a cacaphony of ringtones (O Come On Ye Unfaithful Meet Me Under The Mistletoe at Midnight and other classics) and bursting in to cicada-like symphony of text messages arriving All. Day. Long.
Ah December.
The month that we worker-bees tend to find frequent cause celebre. Not just the festive season - but also the prize at the end of the year - annual leave - so we party a little harder to better appreciate our downtime. Why can't Chrimmas Parties be QUIET? Especially when you're leaving the restaurant just a little up from my house. And if you park outside my bedroom is it too much to ask to spare a thought for very hardworking young woman trying to sleep through your protracted goodbyes and excessive door-slamming?
So when I'm not being elbowed aside, prammed or shopping trollied in to the frustratingly slow lane, I'm trying to avoid Christmas altogether really.
However, if you're not willing to go to Christmas, it finds some novel ways of coming to you. Such as a telephone call I received at work the other day. Earlier in the year I'd been required to purchase some gift cards from a large purveyor of those all the altars under one roof places. Which I have to admit they made remarkably easy. The purveyor had engaged a novel method of upwards-leveraging and called me to remind me that Christmas was coming.
If I can make one small difference to the world whilst I'm in it - it would be to campaign parliament to ban the playing of christmas muzak. Christmas is a hard time of year for lots of people, reminding us that it's 'that time of year' over and over and over again does little for goodwill, surprisingly.
When will Christmas become the event it was designed for? A time for reflection, and consideration for those less fortunate. A time to give thanks for the gifts that these past twelve months bought us, appreciation for lessons learnt and making it through another year scathed only a touch virtually.
26 November 2009
Men!
Today is hot. There is a lovely breeze wafting in my open window every now and again, sweeping over my hot brow - tickling at the heels of my ridiculously hot feet.
I don't know if it's just a case of me getting older, and less tolerant in my 37th year, or someone has unwittingly unleashed a new breed of ignorant bastard in the world.
Irresponsible buffoons. They're getting as bad as the indian miner-bird.
The gangly bloke with the wannabe tatts and all-black get up with bits of metal stuck to it in the bookshop who spoke to me my while my back was turned and served with a transparent air wafting about him that I should be so lucky to be served at all. (Fine with me, next time I'll just serve myself - and asking me if that's the lot is completely redundant. If there are still books on the shelves in your shop then, no it's isn't the lot and I don't see why you're bothering to ask) the two blokes who pushed in front of me this afternoon to use a narrow staircase while I had my arms full of folders and a 15kg laptop hanging off my shoulder and a heavy handbag slung from the other.
The man with no idea of etiquette or concept of anyone else needing peace of mind barracking in to his iphone in a shop yesterday. Mind you, he kept pausing to admire himself in the mirror. Prat!
The young Arrogant who stepped out of a shop doorway without looking this afternoon who very nearly gave me a black eye with his skateboard.
The lovely bloke who rang me up to ask me out and insisted on talking about himself for two hours. If you believe the press borne of his own creativity, he is a walking comedian, a dead-ringer for Antonio Banderas, and the guy that women run to in moments of distress. (Who is on the wrong side of forty to admit to sleeping with a teddybear).
The friend-of-a-friend who pushed and pushed to get me to have a drink with him and when I finally agreed to have one drink with him first told me that he had a lot to teach me about life, followed very soon after by wanting to know about the state of our relationship. (The rubber I dropped on the pavement during my hasty exit remains there to this day).
The other bloke who emailed me this week to see I'd be interested in a few games of bedtime billards, after he'd knocked me back six months ago for someone 'better'. I asked him how far down his list I was, and he chose not to answer the question. I poked a bit of fun at him which apparently affected the state of his VERY fragile ego as I haven't heard from him again. No loss - of course. But one does wonder if the notion of doing unto others as you would unto your self might be extinct.
Of course, I'm unshakeable and my feelings weren't at all hurt when he decided he'd had a better offer.
Broad with the Bullet Proof Chest they call me.
The friend of mine who asks me how I am and when I say - aye, not the best but I'm managing - then decides to plant himself on my doorstep and whilst partaking of some gentle hospitality opens the floor with a sermon on how crap I am at navigating my own life and need to be told that Life. Is. Hard.
He then went on to tell me that if only we women could wise up we wouldn't need friends nor expect to develop a support network as this is what frustrates men the most about us.
This is the same fellow who told me that the only reason women are paid less than men for the same or similar work is that we're too emotional and don't know how to negotiate. So we've only ourselves to blame.
I think I've gone off the lot of you. No, I'm not jumping the fence.. I'm just fed up with men and their flying machines, fragile ego's and the inability to comprehend that while a woman may not be Elle Macpherson she still actually exists, and probably can add as well as subtract, and knows the alphabet.
You used to be such lovely creatures. Sweet, sentimental, enthusiastic, bumbling in your attempts to be the Suavest Sex God since Sliced Bread (yes, I know - I do have a metaphoric issue or two)... Oh hang on... I think I've gotten you mixed up with Adam Hill. Or was it Kerry O'Brien? Robert de Niro? Oh. Macguyver? No? Roger Federer? Jon? Nicolas? So while I may not be Elle Macpherson, Rachel Hunter (or her sister or her second cousins' best friends sister), Raquel Welch, Debbie Harry, Sophia Loren, Audrey Hepburn or even Grace Kelly, I'd be sure to treat you with the same manners I treat everybody else with. Unless you piss me off. Then it's no manners for you.
I don't know if it's just a case of me getting older, and less tolerant in my 37th year, or someone has unwittingly unleashed a new breed of ignorant bastard in the world.
Irresponsible buffoons. They're getting as bad as the indian miner-bird.
The gangly bloke with the wannabe tatts and all-black get up with bits of metal stuck to it in the bookshop who spoke to me my while my back was turned and served with a transparent air wafting about him that I should be so lucky to be served at all. (Fine with me, next time I'll just serve myself - and asking me if that's the lot is completely redundant. If there are still books on the shelves in your shop then, no it's isn't the lot and I don't see why you're bothering to ask) the two blokes who pushed in front of me this afternoon to use a narrow staircase while I had my arms full of folders and a 15kg laptop hanging off my shoulder and a heavy handbag slung from the other.
The man with no idea of etiquette or concept of anyone else needing peace of mind barracking in to his iphone in a shop yesterday. Mind you, he kept pausing to admire himself in the mirror. Prat!
The young Arrogant who stepped out of a shop doorway without looking this afternoon who very nearly gave me a black eye with his skateboard.
The lovely bloke who rang me up to ask me out and insisted on talking about himself for two hours. If you believe the press borne of his own creativity, he is a walking comedian, a dead-ringer for Antonio Banderas, and the guy that women run to in moments of distress. (Who is on the wrong side of forty to admit to sleeping with a teddybear).
The friend-of-a-friend who pushed and pushed to get me to have a drink with him and when I finally agreed to have one drink with him first told me that he had a lot to teach me about life, followed very soon after by wanting to know about the state of our relationship. (The rubber I dropped on the pavement during my hasty exit remains there to this day).
The other bloke who emailed me this week to see I'd be interested in a few games of bedtime billards, after he'd knocked me back six months ago for someone 'better'. I asked him how far down his list I was, and he chose not to answer the question. I poked a bit of fun at him which apparently affected the state of his VERY fragile ego as I haven't heard from him again. No loss - of course. But one does wonder if the notion of doing unto others as you would unto your self might be extinct.
Of course, I'm unshakeable and my feelings weren't at all hurt when he decided he'd had a better offer.
Broad with the Bullet Proof Chest they call me.
The friend of mine who asks me how I am and when I say - aye, not the best but I'm managing - then decides to plant himself on my doorstep and whilst partaking of some gentle hospitality opens the floor with a sermon on how crap I am at navigating my own life and need to be told that Life. Is. Hard.
He then went on to tell me that if only we women could wise up we wouldn't need friends nor expect to develop a support network as this is what frustrates men the most about us.
This is the same fellow who told me that the only reason women are paid less than men for the same or similar work is that we're too emotional and don't know how to negotiate. So we've only ourselves to blame.
I think I've gone off the lot of you. No, I'm not jumping the fence.. I'm just fed up with men and their flying machines, fragile ego's and the inability to comprehend that while a woman may not be Elle Macpherson she still actually exists, and probably can add as well as subtract, and knows the alphabet.
You used to be such lovely creatures. Sweet, sentimental, enthusiastic, bumbling in your attempts to be the Suavest Sex God since Sliced Bread (yes, I know - I do have a metaphoric issue or two)... Oh hang on... I think I've gotten you mixed up with Adam Hill. Or was it Kerry O'Brien? Robert de Niro? Oh. Macguyver? No? Roger Federer? Jon? Nicolas? So while I may not be Elle Macpherson, Rachel Hunter (or her sister or her second cousins' best friends sister), Raquel Welch, Debbie Harry, Sophia Loren, Audrey Hepburn or even Grace Kelly, I'd be sure to treat you with the same manners I treat everybody else with. Unless you piss me off. Then it's no manners for you.
29 January 2009
Worlds Funniest Complaint...
Nicked from SMH today...
Dear Mr Branson
REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008
I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.
Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at thehands of your corporation.
Look at this Richard. Just look at it: [see image 1, above].
I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?
You don't get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it's next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That's got to be the clue hasn't it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in: [see image 2, above].
I know it looks like a baaji but it's in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you'll be fascinated to hear that it wasn't custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It's only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.
Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what's on offer.
I'll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it's Christmas morning and you're sat their with your final present to open. It's a big one, and you know what it is. It's that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.
Only you open the present and it's not in there. It's your hamster Richard. It's your hamster in the box and it's not breathing. That's how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this: [see image 3, above].
Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking it's more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It's mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.
Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.
By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it's baffling presentation: [see image 4, above].
It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn't want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.
I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.
Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on: [see image 5, above].
I apologise for the quality of the photo, it's just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson's face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel: [see image 6, above].
Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I'd had enough. I was the hungriest I'd been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.
My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations: [see image 7, above].
Yes! It's another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.
Richard. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I'd done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.
So that was that Richard. I didn't eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can't imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.
As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It's just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it's knees and begging for sustenance.
Yours Sincererly
XXXX
Dear Mr Branson
REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008
I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.
Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at thehands of your corporation.
Look at this Richard. Just look at it: [see image 1, above].
I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?
You don't get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it's next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That's got to be the clue hasn't it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in: [see image 2, above].
I know it looks like a baaji but it's in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you'll be fascinated to hear that it wasn't custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It's only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.
Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what's on offer.
I'll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it's Christmas morning and you're sat their with your final present to open. It's a big one, and you know what it is. It's that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.
Only you open the present and it's not in there. It's your hamster Richard. It's your hamster in the box and it's not breathing. That's how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this: [see image 3, above].
Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking it's more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It's mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.
Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.
By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it's baffling presentation: [see image 4, above].
It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn't want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.
I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.
Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on: [see image 5, above].
I apologise for the quality of the photo, it's just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson's face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel: [see image 6, above].
Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I'd had enough. I was the hungriest I'd been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.
My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations: [see image 7, above].
Yes! It's another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.
Richard. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I'd done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.
So that was that Richard. I didn't eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can't imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.
As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It's just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it's knees and begging for sustenance.
Yours Sincererly
XXXX
08 January 2009
My Favourite Song - for now...
Shes a good girl, loves her mam a
Loves jesus and america too
Shes a good girl, crazy bout elvis
Loves horses and her boyfriend too
Its a long day living in reseda
Theres a freeway runnin through the yard
And Im a bad boy cause I dont even miss her
Im a bad boy for breakin her heart
And Im free, free fallin
Yeah Im free, free fallin
All the vampires walkin through the valley
Move west down ventura boulevard
And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows
A ll the good girls are home with broken hearts
And Im free, free fallin
Yeah Im free, free fallin
Free fallin, now Im free fallin, now im
Free fallin, now Im free fallin, now im
I wanna glide down over mulholland
I wanna write her name in the sky
Gonna free fall out into nothin
Gonna leave this world for a while
And Im free, free fallin
Yeah Im free, free fallin
Loves jesus and america too
Shes a good girl, crazy bout elvis
Loves horses and her boyfriend too
Its a long day living in reseda
Theres a freeway runnin through the yard
And Im a bad boy cause I dont even miss her
Im a bad boy for breakin her heart
And Im free, free fallin
Yeah Im free, free fallin
All the vampires walkin through the valley
Move west down ventura boulevard
And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows
A ll the good girls are home with broken hearts
And Im free, free fallin
Yeah Im free, free fallin
Free fallin, now Im free fallin, now im
Free fallin, now Im free fallin, now im
I wanna glide down over mulholland
I wanna write her name in the sky
Gonna free fall out into nothin
Gonna leave this world for a while
And Im free, free fallin
Yeah Im free, free fallin
16 December 2008
A Day in Koh Samui AKA The Day of The Million Questions
Breakfast - somewhere near the equator:
08:27 How LONG do I need to be quiet for? (TB)
08:29 What's the time NOW? (TB)
08:30 Hmmm I wonder what the chocolate chip muffins taste like? (TB)
08:31 Can you help me with the maple syrup? (TB)
08:34 Tra-cey? (then forgot what she was going to say) (TB)
08:50 What’s in THERE (pointing at the sugar bowl with her fork) (TB)
09:15 Daddy could I have BOTH? (TB)
09:16 Daddy? Could I HAVE both? Could I have BOTH Daddy? COULD I have both? (FB)
Midday - walking along the beach - tropical breeze gently blowing
12:15 Why do they massage places at the beach? Why is there massage things at the beach Why do they have those things at the beach? (SB)
12:17 When are you going to tie TB up? And no smoking Tracey? Tracey? No smoking cause you wear earrings so you must be a girl (FB)
12:19 Where are we going Dadda? Where are WE going Dadda? Dadda? Where ARE we going? (FB) Dadda answered down the beach for lunch
12:21 Why Dadda? When? (FB)
12:23 Tra-cey? What are you doing? What are you doing? Tra-cey? What ARE YOU doing? (FB)
12:24 Are you coming Tra-cey? (yes) Why? Aeroplane isn't stupid is it Dadda? Isn't it Dadda? Isn't it? Dadda? (FB)
12:25 What are you doing Tra-cey? Tra-cey? What ARE you doing? WHAT are you doing? (TB)
12:38 Where is our food? (2 minutes after ordering it) When are we going swimming? Are we going swimming this afternoon? Are we going swimming Dadda? (FB)
13:36 I just don't know why… hmmm the dog is just going in THERE!... Pineapple juice, carrot juice, oh… pineapple and ginger (TB)
13:38 Why do you need fire for cigarettes? (TB)
13:43 When do we get our hair braided? (SB)
Much later - investigating a supermarket..
16:46 Tra-cey? Ummmm Tra-cey? Tra-cey? Tra-cey! Would you ever colour your hair? (TB)
08:27 How LONG do I need to be quiet for? (TB)
08:29 What's the time NOW? (TB)
08:30 Hmmm I wonder what the chocolate chip muffins taste like? (TB)
08:31 Can you help me with the maple syrup? (TB)
08:34 Tra-cey? (then forgot what she was going to say) (TB)
08:50 What’s in THERE (pointing at the sugar bowl with her fork) (TB)
09:15 Daddy could I have BOTH? (TB)
09:16 Daddy? Could I HAVE both? Could I have BOTH Daddy? COULD I have both? (FB)
Midday - walking along the beach - tropical breeze gently blowing
12:15 Why do they massage places at the beach? Why is there massage things at the beach Why do they have those things at the beach? (SB)
12:17 When are you going to tie TB up? And no smoking Tracey? Tracey? No smoking cause you wear earrings so you must be a girl (FB)
12:19 Where are we going Dadda? Where are WE going Dadda? Dadda? Where ARE we going? (FB) Dadda answered down the beach for lunch
12:21 Why Dadda? When? (FB)
12:23 Tra-cey? What are you doing? What are you doing? Tra-cey? What ARE YOU doing? (FB)
12:24 Are you coming Tra-cey? (yes) Why? Aeroplane isn't stupid is it Dadda? Isn't it Dadda? Isn't it? Dadda? (FB)
12:25 What are you doing Tra-cey? Tra-cey? What ARE you doing? WHAT are you doing? (TB)
12:38 Where is our food? (2 minutes after ordering it) When are we going swimming? Are we going swimming this afternoon? Are we going swimming Dadda? (FB)
13:36 I just don't know why… hmmm the dog is just going in THERE!... Pineapple juice, carrot juice, oh… pineapple and ginger (TB)
13:38 Why do you need fire for cigarettes? (TB)
13:43 When do we get our hair braided? (SB)
Much later - investigating a supermarket..
16:46 Tra-cey? Ummmm Tra-cey? Tra-cey? Tra-cey! Would you ever colour your hair? (TB)
15 August 2007
Favourite Words
Everyone has one. Here is a list of some that I've collected along the way. Blatantly thieving credit from the utterers - but, you all know who you are.
and in no particular order..
1 Cellardoor
2 Spatula
3 Sunshine
4 Risk
5 Fabulous
6 Evil
7 Frottage
8 Codswallop
9 Mardy
10 Pedantic
11 Bushism
12 Obviate
13 Sesquipedalian
14 Minga
15 Embiggens
16 Curious
and in no particular order..
1 Cellardoor
2 Spatula
3 Sunshine
4 Risk
5 Fabulous
6 Evil
7 Frottage
8 Codswallop
9 Mardy
10 Pedantic
11 Bushism
12 Obviate
13 Sesquipedalian
14 Minga
15 Embiggens
16 Curious
18 April 2007
Technology I am happy to say I can live without..
These are lifted straight from the Bible of Gen-Y Indian Women - Femina - Issued on September 28 2005.
1 Self-cleaning clothes
2 Whispiral. A garment that you can wear that will play back messages pre-recorded by loved ones.
3 Zeno Zit Zapper. A small electronic handheld device that you can use to zap your zits all day long if you want to - currently available on e-bay.
4 Kinetic Dress. A dress that will change it's pattern throughout the day - which I have to admit would give me a bit of a fright.
5 Interactive Skirts. Pardon? Skirts that interact? Well now... Nah - skirts mime the design of the other.. the blurb actually states that these would be perfect for girls to wear out as it would send a message to all that 'we two girls just want to be left alone' dunno how that actually works.
6 Vitamin Infused Clothing
7 Mirror TV - A television that is also a mirror so that you can watch in the bathroom
8 Scented Watch - a watch that periodically dispenses perfume..
9 Scratch and Sniff Panties. Available in scents of cut-grass and spicy barbecue.
10 Body Scanners in Fashion Boutiques - you step and scan and the machine spits out a list of clothes that will actually fit... Am certain it would be the great undoing of me.
11 Table-top fireplace. Sits on your table to mimic the real thing with fibre optic cable.. very cosy..
12 Baby Talk. Gadget that will translate baby talk.
13. A Kids Fridge. Shaped like a dog or polar bear. (and here was I thinking that the reason fridges were shaped like they were was because of the spaces they had to fit in...)
14 Moisturising Underwear. I'll say no more
15 The Cubicle Girl. Some sort of gizmo I think... that will keep you company in the bathroom.
And my absolute personal favourite?
16. GPS PANTIES!
1 Self-cleaning clothes
2 Whispiral. A garment that you can wear that will play back messages pre-recorded by loved ones.
3 Zeno Zit Zapper. A small electronic handheld device that you can use to zap your zits all day long if you want to - currently available on e-bay.
4 Kinetic Dress. A dress that will change it's pattern throughout the day - which I have to admit would give me a bit of a fright.
5 Interactive Skirts. Pardon? Skirts that interact? Well now... Nah - skirts mime the design of the other.. the blurb actually states that these would be perfect for girls to wear out as it would send a message to all that 'we two girls just want to be left alone' dunno how that actually works.
6 Vitamin Infused Clothing
7 Mirror TV - A television that is also a mirror so that you can watch in the bathroom
8 Scented Watch - a watch that periodically dispenses perfume..
9 Scratch and Sniff Panties. Available in scents of cut-grass and spicy barbecue.
10 Body Scanners in Fashion Boutiques - you step and scan and the machine spits out a list of clothes that will actually fit... Am certain it would be the great undoing of me.
11 Table-top fireplace. Sits on your table to mimic the real thing with fibre optic cable.. very cosy..
12 Baby Talk. Gadget that will translate baby talk.
13. A Kids Fridge. Shaped like a dog or polar bear. (and here was I thinking that the reason fridges were shaped like they were was because of the spaces they had to fit in...)
14 Moisturising Underwear. I'll say no more
15 The Cubicle Girl. Some sort of gizmo I think... that will keep you company in the bathroom.
And my absolute personal favourite?
16. GPS PANTIES!
30 March 2007
A Neighbourly Affair
I love where I live.
I do. It's close to the things in life I need. A pharmacy, a map shop, a shoe shop, a homewares store, a furniture store, a supermarket, a bottle store and a great fruit'n'vegie store. Life’s' necessities.
It's set back a little from the street, behind a high gate. The gate is so simple to open it confounds door-to-door salesmen which amuses the shit out of me. My apartment building has no security whatsoever, but that’s never given us any cause to be alarmed before we were alerted.
There are four apartments in my building. Just four. Two in each - which makes eight residents.
They who lived directly beneath us when I first moved in some time ago had lived there for years. The head tenant went through flatmates like I go through - um - sports socks. Not that I have a problem with wearing out sports socks, I do – occasionally wear them out as in outside the house, but I’d rather euphemise with the sock here than the undie – I think you get my drift.
Yes – many flatmates in and out – same one guy though. Might have been his taste in music – an ackerdacker fan of the highest enth – or it might have been his very stinky sneakers. For a time he did leave them reekersneakers outside his front door (in our stairwell) of an evening. Of a morning I would step outside my front door and gag.
Them sneakers were vile. Horrid. The cause of great fear at first sight of them sitting innocently minding their own laces.
One day I noticed he had a broken arm and was wielding packing tape with the other. He moved out a few days later. Sorry folks – no further detail.
The next people to move in were a lovely young couple from Perth. We knew they were from Perth because that was the return address on their moving boxes that they left outside their front door for three weeks after their arrival.
I am going to assume that they had never lived together until they arrived downstairs all the way from Perth.
Their first argument was a humdinger. I spent an entire Sunday practically with a cushion over my head trying to block out the horrid arguing that was going on underneath me. Neither were prepared to let it be. In the Beatles sense.
He would settle and she would wind him up, and he would respond with the lowest comment he could dredge up from beneath the pond scum of nasty comments, and fling it back. She would slam a door, and then he would slam a door, and so it went.
All . Day. Long.
Eventually Dear Flatties mum rang for a chat, I said it was so bad that I was thinking of buying them flowers, leaving on the doorstep with a note that said ‘sorry to hear you guys aren’t getting on, hope it gets better soon’.
She said not to be so ridiculous. Advised me instead to write the number for Relationships Australia on a post-it and stick it to their front door.
The pot boiled over so to speak very shortly after that when I heard a very loud ‘let go of my arm, bitch’ and then front door slam, and the gate slam (nearly off its hinges five seconds later).
She phoned a friend right after that and spent the next half an hour laughing and chatting. Bi-zarre.
This frustrated me just the teensiest bit. So I post-it noted their front door with no qualms whatsoever directly.
Alls’ quiet on the fightin’ front for a bit.
Which is lovely. Me’n’Dear Flattie are fingers-crossed hopeful that maybe one or both of has gone off to counselling. Or just aware that we can hear them fight. Plainly.
The peace lasted for another week when one night me and Dear Flattie were made very aware that he was trying to call her and not able to reach her on her mobile.
Every message he left for her was increasing in the length (for a time) and volume. Eventually the messages got very short. If you ever get this voicemail message left on your phone:
‘Bitch. Fucking call me. Ok?’
What are you most inclined to do?
I know!
A mate turned up, they pulled a few cones together. Clearly the acoustics between our apartment and theirs are excellent for carrying sound.
He seemed to settle in.
Then abruptly lost the plot.
We then realise he is no longer inside the apartment but out in the street in charge of his mobile. And none too happy about it.
He’s talking to someone else – not her – a relative or friend of hers may be – apparently she hasn’t been the same since she got back from Bali. And he doesn’t know what to do about it.
He goes somewhere – all is quiet – and we go to bed. At 3FUCKING-AM she comes home. And it starts all over again. The shouting. The banging. The slamming of doors. I am fed up at this point. Generally I’m a compassionate person, and do what I can to help – but these two – ran out of clicks on their compassion pass a while back. So no compassion for you (them I mean).
I get up because they’re not stopping. Thump on my slippers, fling on dressing gown and slam out of apartment. I stomp down the stairs and knock at their front door.
No answer.
I knock again.
No answer.
So I knock so hard my knuckles should be bleeding and eventually someone inside asks who it might be.
I’m very tempted to answer ‘Ronald McDonald. No, wait, Bill Clinton, just thought I’d stop by and say hi – seeing as you were up’.
But I’m too mad for even acid-vapour-dry humour. So I answer ‘Your Upstairs Neighbour’.
He opens the door – and I tell him that they either shut up or I call the cops. Their choice.
He whines that she won’t stop hitting him – I say it’s not really my problem I just want my sleep, and re-iterate his choices.
And go back to my apartment without a backward glance.
They decide quiet is probably best. And stick to that decision. Thankfully.
Peace reigns again for a time. Eventually their packing boxes appear again and Flattie and I decide that we can finally quit with the wearing of the high-heels with the pyjamas first thing in the morning. (Our revenge for being kept up all night is to get up and put our heels on with our jim-jams – best on a Sunday morning).
It is only after they leave that I notice they’ve etched their names in to once-wet cement outside our gate. J---+ A--- 4Eva. 2006. They were right about that – for that’s as long as I’ll remember them.
The new people downstairs are absolute angels in terms of cohabiting with each other, and underneath us. They make no noise. None. She gets up very early Monday-Friday, I hear her walking around and the gate shutting, but that’s IT. We’ve barely seen them, and we never hear them.
But they wash their clothes like I’ve never seen.
Ever. Before.
Each day they do a full load and hang every thing out on the washing line (taking up ALL of the available space) on coat hangers. Everything. Even his y-fronts. Which I know he owns 26 pairs of.
I guess the concept of pegs is for all the other people.
As is actually sharing the washing line.
For some it’s a concept that is not easily grasped. Prior to them downstairs moving in, even during The Season of The Couple Who Fought, we never had to battle/jockey for washing line space.
Now Dear Flattie and I have had to resort to Washing Line Contingencies. Which is surprisingly a very convoluted process.
We actually have to peg out (bad bad pun – how did that get in there?) the space we want to use at the weekend, by hanging out linen that actually hasn’t been washed during the week so that come Saturday we can actually haul our laundry down the stairs and even hang it on the washing line, knowing in advance that there is space already reserved for us to do so.
A friend of Dear Flatties has been driven nearly mental on several occaisions by her 80-something year old neighbour who is surprisingly well and truly retired – but insists on doing her entire weeks worth of laundry on a Saturday AND Sunday – so they are unable to do their washing at the weekend, even though they both work all week – and clearly the weekend is the time that people who work all week long to do their laundry.
The habits of others that drive ordinary people to acts of madness huh?
And that’s a topic that I feel is reserved for another blog at another time.
Even *I* can’t segue that.
I do. It's close to the things in life I need. A pharmacy, a map shop, a shoe shop, a homewares store, a furniture store, a supermarket, a bottle store and a great fruit'n'vegie store. Life’s' necessities.
It's set back a little from the street, behind a high gate. The gate is so simple to open it confounds door-to-door salesmen which amuses the shit out of me. My apartment building has no security whatsoever, but that’s never given us any cause to be alarmed before we were alerted.
There are four apartments in my building. Just four. Two in each - which makes eight residents.
They who lived directly beneath us when I first moved in some time ago had lived there for years. The head tenant went through flatmates like I go through - um - sports socks. Not that I have a problem with wearing out sports socks, I do – occasionally wear them out as in outside the house, but I’d rather euphemise with the sock here than the undie – I think you get my drift.
Yes – many flatmates in and out – same one guy though. Might have been his taste in music – an ackerdacker fan of the highest enth – or it might have been his very stinky sneakers. For a time he did leave them reekersneakers outside his front door (in our stairwell) of an evening. Of a morning I would step outside my front door and gag.
Them sneakers were vile. Horrid. The cause of great fear at first sight of them sitting innocently minding their own laces.
One day I noticed he had a broken arm and was wielding packing tape with the other. He moved out a few days later. Sorry folks – no further detail.
The next people to move in were a lovely young couple from Perth. We knew they were from Perth because that was the return address on their moving boxes that they left outside their front door for three weeks after their arrival.
I am going to assume that they had never lived together until they arrived downstairs all the way from Perth.
Their first argument was a humdinger. I spent an entire Sunday practically with a cushion over my head trying to block out the horrid arguing that was going on underneath me. Neither were prepared to let it be. In the Beatles sense.
He would settle and she would wind him up, and he would respond with the lowest comment he could dredge up from beneath the pond scum of nasty comments, and fling it back. She would slam a door, and then he would slam a door, and so it went.
All . Day. Long.
Eventually Dear Flatties mum rang for a chat, I said it was so bad that I was thinking of buying them flowers, leaving on the doorstep with a note that said ‘sorry to hear you guys aren’t getting on, hope it gets better soon’.
She said not to be so ridiculous. Advised me instead to write the number for Relationships Australia on a post-it and stick it to their front door.
The pot boiled over so to speak very shortly after that when I heard a very loud ‘let go of my arm, bitch’ and then front door slam, and the gate slam (nearly off its hinges five seconds later).
She phoned a friend right after that and spent the next half an hour laughing and chatting. Bi-zarre.
This frustrated me just the teensiest bit. So I post-it noted their front door with no qualms whatsoever directly.
Alls’ quiet on the fightin’ front for a bit.
Which is lovely. Me’n’Dear Flattie are fingers-crossed hopeful that maybe one or both of has gone off to counselling. Or just aware that we can hear them fight. Plainly.
The peace lasted for another week when one night me and Dear Flattie were made very aware that he was trying to call her and not able to reach her on her mobile.
Every message he left for her was increasing in the length (for a time) and volume. Eventually the messages got very short. If you ever get this voicemail message left on your phone:
‘Bitch. Fucking call me. Ok?’
What are you most inclined to do?
I know!
A mate turned up, they pulled a few cones together. Clearly the acoustics between our apartment and theirs are excellent for carrying sound.
He seemed to settle in.
Then abruptly lost the plot.
We then realise he is no longer inside the apartment but out in the street in charge of his mobile. And none too happy about it.
He’s talking to someone else – not her – a relative or friend of hers may be – apparently she hasn’t been the same since she got back from Bali. And he doesn’t know what to do about it.
He goes somewhere – all is quiet – and we go to bed. At 3FUCKING-AM she comes home. And it starts all over again. The shouting. The banging. The slamming of doors. I am fed up at this point. Generally I’m a compassionate person, and do what I can to help – but these two – ran out of clicks on their compassion pass a while back. So no compassion for you (them I mean).
I get up because they’re not stopping. Thump on my slippers, fling on dressing gown and slam out of apartment. I stomp down the stairs and knock at their front door.
No answer.
I knock again.
No answer.
So I knock so hard my knuckles should be bleeding and eventually someone inside asks who it might be.
I’m very tempted to answer ‘Ronald McDonald. No, wait, Bill Clinton, just thought I’d stop by and say hi – seeing as you were up’.
But I’m too mad for even acid-vapour-dry humour. So I answer ‘Your Upstairs Neighbour’.
He opens the door – and I tell him that they either shut up or I call the cops. Their choice.
He whines that she won’t stop hitting him – I say it’s not really my problem I just want my sleep, and re-iterate his choices.
And go back to my apartment without a backward glance.
They decide quiet is probably best. And stick to that decision. Thankfully.
Peace reigns again for a time. Eventually their packing boxes appear again and Flattie and I decide that we can finally quit with the wearing of the high-heels with the pyjamas first thing in the morning. (Our revenge for being kept up all night is to get up and put our heels on with our jim-jams – best on a Sunday morning).
It is only after they leave that I notice they’ve etched their names in to once-wet cement outside our gate. J---+ A--- 4Eva. 2006. They were right about that – for that’s as long as I’ll remember them.
The new people downstairs are absolute angels in terms of cohabiting with each other, and underneath us. They make no noise. None. She gets up very early Monday-Friday, I hear her walking around and the gate shutting, but that’s IT. We’ve barely seen them, and we never hear them.
But they wash their clothes like I’ve never seen.
Ever. Before.
Each day they do a full load and hang every thing out on the washing line (taking up ALL of the available space) on coat hangers. Everything. Even his y-fronts. Which I know he owns 26 pairs of.
I guess the concept of pegs is for all the other people.
As is actually sharing the washing line.
For some it’s a concept that is not easily grasped. Prior to them downstairs moving in, even during The Season of The Couple Who Fought, we never had to battle/jockey for washing line space.
Now Dear Flattie and I have had to resort to Washing Line Contingencies. Which is surprisingly a very convoluted process.
We actually have to peg out (bad bad pun – how did that get in there?) the space we want to use at the weekend, by hanging out linen that actually hasn’t been washed during the week so that come Saturday we can actually haul our laundry down the stairs and even hang it on the washing line, knowing in advance that there is space already reserved for us to do so.
A friend of Dear Flatties has been driven nearly mental on several occaisions by her 80-something year old neighbour who is surprisingly well and truly retired – but insists on doing her entire weeks worth of laundry on a Saturday AND Sunday – so they are unable to do their washing at the weekend, even though they both work all week – and clearly the weekend is the time that people who work all week long to do their laundry.
The habits of others that drive ordinary people to acts of madness huh?
And that’s a topic that I feel is reserved for another blog at another time.
Even *I* can’t segue that.
17 March 2007
Just don't get me started on Hillsong....
Reading Between The Lines
In Response to Brian Houston’s ‘The Love Connection’
(The Bulletin – 20/03/2007)
For those of you who might be reading this and who don’t already know, Brian Houston and wife Bobbie are the Senior Pastors’ of a rather large church – Hillsong.
Hillsong church began 23 years go in a school hall, now demolished, and operates mainly out of a building that resembles a sports stadium.
There are several campuses of this church across Sydney – but the main evangelisteria emanates from the one at Bella Vista.
Bella Vista, for those who have never been is a little like Canberra in its own way. There are plenty of roundabouts, and there is something missing – but it is difficult to put ones’ finger on what that is.
Many companies HQ’s are housed at Bella Vista – I remember driving past one once and being quietly disturbed that while I could plainly see the office building, housed I might add in beautifully manicured grounds, no name was displayed anywhere that I could see - however there was plenty of references to the site being private property and under 24 hour surveillance.
Hillsong large as it is – could be the reason the Hills District is sometimes referred to as the Bible Belt.
It size is definitely threatening (it is rumoured that 300,000 people attend services on Sundays), and the stories told of this Church, it’s mission and leadership style – attract a lot of media attention. Not all of it positive.
Houston responded mainly out of annoyance to an article published in a previous edition of The Bulletin ‘Jesus Loves Money’ an article about a book that so far cannot be printed – for its subject matter is too contentious.
I’d like to point out three or four glaring inconsistencies that hit me in the face with the force of a McGrath Delivery.
Houston states that he and his wife endeavour to be consistent and practice what they preach. They apparently preach wisdom, generosity and an outward focus. I guess the generosity bit is true – Bobbie is very generous toward her plastic surgeons, but I can’t see this is consistent with having an ‘outward focus’ unless one is referring to looking in a mirror. I just cannot see how this is living a spiritually enlightened life.
(She energetically recommended this is a way of keeping ones’ husband faithful in the Australian Story piece – she is obviously blissfully unaware that 1 in 4 Australians suffer serious health problems as a direct result of not being able to afford dental treatment).
Houston also states that Hillsong is non-political. I sort of thought religion attempted this above everything else so to state it makes me question the validity of what he said – rather than accept it. Particularly as I know that John Howard gave a speech during the opening ceremony of their annual convention in 2005.
I also know and can source the Good Weekend article where Houston was directly questioned about why their organisation above all others are in receipt of an $80k grant on a quarterly basis.
Politicians regularly speak during services – and to have the congregation of Hillsong Church on your side in the run-up to local and state elections pretty much ensures you win your seat.
I agree that Houston’s private financial affairs are no ones’ business but his and his family’s – I disagree however that if you say you are a silent partner in a company whose main business is Property Redevelopment – that a year or so later it is okay to say that this is untrue, and entirely based on rumour.
I would also be fairly confident in saying that being a senior pastor in a church that requires a stadium to house it’s congregation AND having financial interests in a company that is associated with construction – could be deemed a direct conflict of interest.
Hillsong ideally wants its own society. Houston does not mention that there is a Hillsong Business Directory that is only available to its congregation which would indicate that he does not uphold the concept of free trade with in this country.
In the good weekend article he spoke freely about the bigger plans he had for his congregation – he wanted schools, shopping malls, medical centres, hospitals and supermarkets run by Hillsong, for Hillsong.
The article also gave the impression he was reluctant to answer questions about Mercy Missions – an arm of Hillsong that provides accommodation and counselling services to needy single mothers – however on the proviso that they attend services at his Church or face eviction. Yet in ‘The Love Connection’ he waxes lyrical about the wonderful things he is doing in his community.
I have actually met people who were advised that it would be better for them to commit suicide when they sought counselling within Hillsong when discovering their sexual preference was for their own gender.
While God (according to ministry at Hillsong) loves every one of us – except for homosexuals.
He mentions in The Love Connection that he has supported grieving parents whose children were taken all too soon, celebrated engagements, weddings and births, anniversaries and birthdays. Provided support to those whose marriages are breaking down, who have admitted to addictions, celebrated the good times, and been there in the bad times – I just don’t see that he deserves special recognition for what most of us do without blinking.
There are far greater things going on in the wider non-Hillsong Community that perform similar functions merely because they need doing – no fanfare, no justification, no self-glory and certainly no lyrical-waxing.
On the positive side for this is not a Houston Beat Up, Hillsongs’ Outreach and Youth programs provide an excellent social setting for the young people of the Hills District. Being able to get boys and girls to socialise together without alcohol or drugs – will keep them with us for longer. For this Houston and his Youth Ministry team deserve to be recognised. It’s just the rest I’m not so comfortable with.
In Response to Brian Houston’s ‘The Love Connection’
(The Bulletin – 20/03/2007)
For those of you who might be reading this and who don’t already know, Brian Houston and wife Bobbie are the Senior Pastors’ of a rather large church – Hillsong.
Hillsong church began 23 years go in a school hall, now demolished, and operates mainly out of a building that resembles a sports stadium.
There are several campuses of this church across Sydney – but the main evangelisteria emanates from the one at Bella Vista.
Bella Vista, for those who have never been is a little like Canberra in its own way. There are plenty of roundabouts, and there is something missing – but it is difficult to put ones’ finger on what that is.
Many companies HQ’s are housed at Bella Vista – I remember driving past one once and being quietly disturbed that while I could plainly see the office building, housed I might add in beautifully manicured grounds, no name was displayed anywhere that I could see - however there was plenty of references to the site being private property and under 24 hour surveillance.
Hillsong large as it is – could be the reason the Hills District is sometimes referred to as the Bible Belt.
It size is definitely threatening (it is rumoured that 300,000 people attend services on Sundays), and the stories told of this Church, it’s mission and leadership style – attract a lot of media attention. Not all of it positive.
Houston responded mainly out of annoyance to an article published in a previous edition of The Bulletin ‘Jesus Loves Money’ an article about a book that so far cannot be printed – for its subject matter is too contentious.
I’d like to point out three or four glaring inconsistencies that hit me in the face with the force of a McGrath Delivery.
Houston states that he and his wife endeavour to be consistent and practice what they preach. They apparently preach wisdom, generosity and an outward focus. I guess the generosity bit is true – Bobbie is very generous toward her plastic surgeons, but I can’t see this is consistent with having an ‘outward focus’ unless one is referring to looking in a mirror. I just cannot see how this is living a spiritually enlightened life.
(She energetically recommended this is a way of keeping ones’ husband faithful in the Australian Story piece – she is obviously blissfully unaware that 1 in 4 Australians suffer serious health problems as a direct result of not being able to afford dental treatment).
Houston also states that Hillsong is non-political. I sort of thought religion attempted this above everything else so to state it makes me question the validity of what he said – rather than accept it. Particularly as I know that John Howard gave a speech during the opening ceremony of their annual convention in 2005.
I also know and can source the Good Weekend article where Houston was directly questioned about why their organisation above all others are in receipt of an $80k grant on a quarterly basis.
Politicians regularly speak during services – and to have the congregation of Hillsong Church on your side in the run-up to local and state elections pretty much ensures you win your seat.
I agree that Houston’s private financial affairs are no ones’ business but his and his family’s – I disagree however that if you say you are a silent partner in a company whose main business is Property Redevelopment – that a year or so later it is okay to say that this is untrue, and entirely based on rumour.
I would also be fairly confident in saying that being a senior pastor in a church that requires a stadium to house it’s congregation AND having financial interests in a company that is associated with construction – could be deemed a direct conflict of interest.
Hillsong ideally wants its own society. Houston does not mention that there is a Hillsong Business Directory that is only available to its congregation which would indicate that he does not uphold the concept of free trade with in this country.
In the good weekend article he spoke freely about the bigger plans he had for his congregation – he wanted schools, shopping malls, medical centres, hospitals and supermarkets run by Hillsong, for Hillsong.
The article also gave the impression he was reluctant to answer questions about Mercy Missions – an arm of Hillsong that provides accommodation and counselling services to needy single mothers – however on the proviso that they attend services at his Church or face eviction. Yet in ‘The Love Connection’ he waxes lyrical about the wonderful things he is doing in his community.
I have actually met people who were advised that it would be better for them to commit suicide when they sought counselling within Hillsong when discovering their sexual preference was for their own gender.
While God (according to ministry at Hillsong) loves every one of us – except for homosexuals.
He mentions in The Love Connection that he has supported grieving parents whose children were taken all too soon, celebrated engagements, weddings and births, anniversaries and birthdays. Provided support to those whose marriages are breaking down, who have admitted to addictions, celebrated the good times, and been there in the bad times – I just don’t see that he deserves special recognition for what most of us do without blinking.
There are far greater things going on in the wider non-Hillsong Community that perform similar functions merely because they need doing – no fanfare, no justification, no self-glory and certainly no lyrical-waxing.
On the positive side for this is not a Houston Beat Up, Hillsongs’ Outreach and Youth programs provide an excellent social setting for the young people of the Hills District. Being able to get boys and girls to socialise together without alcohol or drugs – will keep them with us for longer. For this Houston and his Youth Ministry team deserve to be recognised. It’s just the rest I’m not so comfortable with.
26 November 2006
One Perfect Day
Woke up early-ish. Well. ‘Twas 10:30am before I got as far as putting my feet on my bedroom floor. Had a brilliant night out the night before. Truly brilliant. Even if the band at PMF was truly crap. They were. There was so much tinsel and sparkly bits on the stage it was hard to tell if they were performing or just glittering for the hell of it. I suspect quite strongly that the sparkles were to distract from the fact that they were talentless drones. Not even the drummer appeared to be enjoying himself.
Stayed out a bit later than I should have.
Note to self – when the band stops, the show is over and when the show is over that’s when you go home.
Apparently I need to read my ‘notes to self’.
So yes, hauled backside with some difficulty from bed to kitchen. Coffee. Toast. Got dressed and packed my bag for ‘parking’. My version of parking? To go and find a park and read and write and listen to music and daydream and draw for a few hours. If a bit under the weather at the weekend, I find that exercise helps, as does sunshine and fresh air.
Couldn’t be arsed going all that way to Wendy’s park so found one a bit nearer my house. Rang Susan to ‘debrief’ and had a giggle when she told me that she’d managed to take a photograph of an ex-boyfriend she still has feelings for, and had accidentally made it in to wallpaper on her PC and could not seem to get rid of it. What a metaphor.
Returned book (unread) to Library. Tried to have a squiz at a couple of pages whilst walking to the Library. Um, another note to self. Don’t try to walk and read at the same time across uneven ground.
Felt a bit annoyed that I hadn’t managed to actually read the book at all – especially as it had been recommended to me by another writer and all. The couple of pages I saw before nearly breaking my own ankle were really good. But, on the upside, if had have broken my own ankle, at least I would have had a book to read whilst I waited in A&E.
Wandered a bit further down the hill. Had a beer in a quiet shady (as in in the shade from the sunlight – not the other sort of shady) pub and saw the same guy who has been giving me weird looks the last few times I’ve seen him. He just stares and it’s just a little bit creepy, but I try not to sit facing him, and am quite determined not to make eye contact. He’d tried to sit with me a couple of weeks ago – but I thought that I was fairly direct (yet gentle) and said ‘she’s right mate, sort of doing my own thing here’ and he went away immediately.
Still he stares. Guess I can’t stop him – but at least I can discourage him from talking to me.
Had quite a nice text message relay with a friend of mine that in the end lifted my spirits even more and couldn’t really concentrate on the reading that I had planned to do much beyond the current issue of Time Magazine.
Oh, and the brief-interview thingy in the Good Weekend. Laughed out loud at the comment the interviewee made about the last belly-laugh he’d had – which was when his son said he didn’t feel like going to preschool today because he was feeling a bit ‘fragile’.
Then realised I’d just laughed uproariously on my lonesome, and must be giving everyone else there the impression that am a complete nutbag (impression?) and decided that I should toddle off very shortly.
And anyway, was late for friends birthday drinks – and would be even later if I didn’t really get a wiggle on.
Remembered to go home via supermarket and even without my list remembered everything I needed.
Got home to meet the landlord coming through the gate. Told him about the leaking toilet. Said he’d be up in a minute to fix it.
Stupidly figured I’d have time to throw my sweaty self in the shower before that happened. But, timing being what it is in my world, had only just undressed and hopped under the shower when I heard him calling out ‘Hello? Hello?’.
By the way, in case you’re wondering – he’s an absolute sweetheart of a landlord. Not the creepy hang around the keyhole kind, but will do anything to keep his tenants happy.
Buggeration.
Had to get dressed – still wet – and let him in. Then he went downstairs to get his toolbox, and spent another twenty minutes fixing it. Still, at least the thing is fixed now.
One of my pet hates is lateness – I get really stressed when I run late, so you can imagine by now I’m starting to stress that my friend thinks I’m not coming as I’m by now a full fifteen minutes late.
Then I’m late, and as I’ve been parking I’m a little dreamy and have forgotten to do the mental wardrobe shuffle and pick something to wear so that I wouldn’t’ have that hassle when I got home.
First thing I try on – nope – gives the appearance I’m about 2mths from giving birth. Second. Again, nope. Just isn’t working for me today. Try to decide what to wear as its Cocktails at 4pm – do you go with casual dressed down or halfway between that and a little bit of glamour (bright colours)? Decide to go with the half-way thing. Which is a dressy top, jeans, and black slides.
(In my book it’s half way at least).
This is about spot on just in case we decide to continue on anywhere after cocktails.
Had the loveliest chat during drinks I’ve had in ages. First time I’d properly met friends of friend. They are all lovely people, funny, relaxed, down to earth and what I’d class as real.
By the time we were ready to move our party onwards, my sides were aching from laughing so much. It’s awesome when conversation between a bigger group of people just flows so naturally from the outset.
Personally pretty pleased with my witty response when P asked me how long I’d had that – pointing at my leg – I said – What? My leg? Since I was born? God was generous that day – he even gave me two whole ones all to myself.
Actually P meant my tattoo. Then he asked me where I’d gotten it – have only just remembered ‘In Denial’ in Glebe Point Road. First person who hasn’t asked me what it means. Those in the know know that if not immediately obvious – then it’s probably personal and relevant to the person who has it. Besides, didn’t want to bring down the tone of the evening by revealing why I’d gotten it.
Well, thing is, I think I’m funny – but in all honestly am probably not – have heard the comment once before that something I’d said was about as funny as a fart in an elevator.
Bit mystified whether they meant ‘your pun is BAD’ or ‘you really really aren’t funny, and thinking that you are is a bigger mistake-a to make-a’ or ‘you are funny, but your timing is way off’.
Which is a similar response I got one day when trying to retell the barramundi joke* at work. Not a soul even cracked the tiniest smile. I think that’s a good litmus test personally.
*Barramundi joke:
Man walks in to a fish shop with a fish under his arm and asks the guy behind the counter if they sell fish cakes. Man behind counter says yes they do. Man with fish under his arm says that’s great cause it’s his birthday today.
I guess you can see why no one laughed huh?
So naturally we proceed to the PMF. Stopping along the way to admire very expensive wine glasses in a window display. One of which was priced at more than $120. Which is a fair bit for a wine glass. Still, I reckon that would be a good way to gauge if something was worth getting really mad over. As in, am I angry enough over this to actually smash a $120 wine glass? No? Okay, not mad any more. Yes? Smash wine glass. $120 worth of crankiness out of the way.
Sit inside – being the only smoker (and two amongst us have recently given up) decide it is only fair that we sit inside, rather than in the beer garden.
I sneak out for one about twenty minutes later and am joined by P who has very politely snuck one from my bag. Not that I mind. But I would rather not encourage a recent quitter to keep going. I prefer encouraging co-workers to start – the looks of horror and disgust I get are actually amusing. As if *I* would try and get others to join my team!
We talk about everything, from friends we’ve recently written off, to wardrobes (organising not malfunction), shoes (of course), bad hairdressing moments and what the throat-slitting haka was all about.
Out of the corner of my little eye I spy a band setting up. Excellent. I’d forgotten there was a band on at PMF on Saturday nights as well.
Soon the others decide it's time to be on their way - and friend whose birthday it is we're celebrating decide to stay on and dance the night away for a while at least.
Band is brilliant. Covers band, but they play all of my favourite covers. Each band member is brilliant. No tinsel. Always a plus. Very little equipment too - which is something I found to be a bit different. Very small mixing desk, but it made no difference at all to the quality of their performance.
I absolutely love dancing to live music - I don't care if I look like a dag (I'm convinced I resemble a whacked-out windmill anyway), and I care even less that my taste in music is well, more than a little old school - mainly. I enjoy it, and a good night of dancing helps me get all of the kinks out of my system - apparently a night of dancing is equivalent to a weeks worth of gym workouts. Except doesn't make the slightest bit of difference if you're drinking alchohol at the same time.
**to be continued**
Stayed out a bit later than I should have.
Note to self – when the band stops, the show is over and when the show is over that’s when you go home.
Apparently I need to read my ‘notes to self’.
So yes, hauled backside with some difficulty from bed to kitchen. Coffee. Toast. Got dressed and packed my bag for ‘parking’. My version of parking? To go and find a park and read and write and listen to music and daydream and draw for a few hours. If a bit under the weather at the weekend, I find that exercise helps, as does sunshine and fresh air.
Couldn’t be arsed going all that way to Wendy’s park so found one a bit nearer my house. Rang Susan to ‘debrief’ and had a giggle when she told me that she’d managed to take a photograph of an ex-boyfriend she still has feelings for, and had accidentally made it in to wallpaper on her PC and could not seem to get rid of it. What a metaphor.
Returned book (unread) to Library. Tried to have a squiz at a couple of pages whilst walking to the Library. Um, another note to self. Don’t try to walk and read at the same time across uneven ground.
Felt a bit annoyed that I hadn’t managed to actually read the book at all – especially as it had been recommended to me by another writer and all. The couple of pages I saw before nearly breaking my own ankle were really good. But, on the upside, if had have broken my own ankle, at least I would have had a book to read whilst I waited in A&E.
Wandered a bit further down the hill. Had a beer in a quiet shady (as in in the shade from the sunlight – not the other sort of shady) pub and saw the same guy who has been giving me weird looks the last few times I’ve seen him. He just stares and it’s just a little bit creepy, but I try not to sit facing him, and am quite determined not to make eye contact. He’d tried to sit with me a couple of weeks ago – but I thought that I was fairly direct (yet gentle) and said ‘she’s right mate, sort of doing my own thing here’ and he went away immediately.
Still he stares. Guess I can’t stop him – but at least I can discourage him from talking to me.
Had quite a nice text message relay with a friend of mine that in the end lifted my spirits even more and couldn’t really concentrate on the reading that I had planned to do much beyond the current issue of Time Magazine.
Oh, and the brief-interview thingy in the Good Weekend. Laughed out loud at the comment the interviewee made about the last belly-laugh he’d had – which was when his son said he didn’t feel like going to preschool today because he was feeling a bit ‘fragile’.
Then realised I’d just laughed uproariously on my lonesome, and must be giving everyone else there the impression that am a complete nutbag (impression?) and decided that I should toddle off very shortly.
And anyway, was late for friends birthday drinks – and would be even later if I didn’t really get a wiggle on.
Remembered to go home via supermarket and even without my list remembered everything I needed.
Got home to meet the landlord coming through the gate. Told him about the leaking toilet. Said he’d be up in a minute to fix it.
Stupidly figured I’d have time to throw my sweaty self in the shower before that happened. But, timing being what it is in my world, had only just undressed and hopped under the shower when I heard him calling out ‘Hello? Hello?’.
By the way, in case you’re wondering – he’s an absolute sweetheart of a landlord. Not the creepy hang around the keyhole kind, but will do anything to keep his tenants happy.
Buggeration.
Had to get dressed – still wet – and let him in. Then he went downstairs to get his toolbox, and spent another twenty minutes fixing it. Still, at least the thing is fixed now.
One of my pet hates is lateness – I get really stressed when I run late, so you can imagine by now I’m starting to stress that my friend thinks I’m not coming as I’m by now a full fifteen minutes late.
Then I’m late, and as I’ve been parking I’m a little dreamy and have forgotten to do the mental wardrobe shuffle and pick something to wear so that I wouldn’t’ have that hassle when I got home.
First thing I try on – nope – gives the appearance I’m about 2mths from giving birth. Second. Again, nope. Just isn’t working for me today. Try to decide what to wear as its Cocktails at 4pm – do you go with casual dressed down or halfway between that and a little bit of glamour (bright colours)? Decide to go with the half-way thing. Which is a dressy top, jeans, and black slides.
(In my book it’s half way at least).
This is about spot on just in case we decide to continue on anywhere after cocktails.
Had the loveliest chat during drinks I’ve had in ages. First time I’d properly met friends of friend. They are all lovely people, funny, relaxed, down to earth and what I’d class as real.
By the time we were ready to move our party onwards, my sides were aching from laughing so much. It’s awesome when conversation between a bigger group of people just flows so naturally from the outset.
Personally pretty pleased with my witty response when P asked me how long I’d had that – pointing at my leg – I said – What? My leg? Since I was born? God was generous that day – he even gave me two whole ones all to myself.
Actually P meant my tattoo. Then he asked me where I’d gotten it – have only just remembered ‘In Denial’ in Glebe Point Road. First person who hasn’t asked me what it means. Those in the know know that if not immediately obvious – then it’s probably personal and relevant to the person who has it. Besides, didn’t want to bring down the tone of the evening by revealing why I’d gotten it.
Well, thing is, I think I’m funny – but in all honestly am probably not – have heard the comment once before that something I’d said was about as funny as a fart in an elevator.
Bit mystified whether they meant ‘your pun is BAD’ or ‘you really really aren’t funny, and thinking that you are is a bigger mistake-a to make-a’ or ‘you are funny, but your timing is way off’.
Which is a similar response I got one day when trying to retell the barramundi joke* at work. Not a soul even cracked the tiniest smile. I think that’s a good litmus test personally.
*Barramundi joke:
Man walks in to a fish shop with a fish under his arm and asks the guy behind the counter if they sell fish cakes. Man behind counter says yes they do. Man with fish under his arm says that’s great cause it’s his birthday today.
I guess you can see why no one laughed huh?
So naturally we proceed to the PMF. Stopping along the way to admire very expensive wine glasses in a window display. One of which was priced at more than $120. Which is a fair bit for a wine glass. Still, I reckon that would be a good way to gauge if something was worth getting really mad over. As in, am I angry enough over this to actually smash a $120 wine glass? No? Okay, not mad any more. Yes? Smash wine glass. $120 worth of crankiness out of the way.
Sit inside – being the only smoker (and two amongst us have recently given up) decide it is only fair that we sit inside, rather than in the beer garden.
I sneak out for one about twenty minutes later and am joined by P who has very politely snuck one from my bag. Not that I mind. But I would rather not encourage a recent quitter to keep going. I prefer encouraging co-workers to start – the looks of horror and disgust I get are actually amusing. As if *I* would try and get others to join my team!
We talk about everything, from friends we’ve recently written off, to wardrobes (organising not malfunction), shoes (of course), bad hairdressing moments and what the throat-slitting haka was all about.
Out of the corner of my little eye I spy a band setting up. Excellent. I’d forgotten there was a band on at PMF on Saturday nights as well.
Soon the others decide it's time to be on their way - and friend whose birthday it is we're celebrating decide to stay on and dance the night away for a while at least.
Band is brilliant. Covers band, but they play all of my favourite covers. Each band member is brilliant. No tinsel. Always a plus. Very little equipment too - which is something I found to be a bit different. Very small mixing desk, but it made no difference at all to the quality of their performance.
I absolutely love dancing to live music - I don't care if I look like a dag (I'm convinced I resemble a whacked-out windmill anyway), and I care even less that my taste in music is well, more than a little old school - mainly. I enjoy it, and a good night of dancing helps me get all of the kinks out of my system - apparently a night of dancing is equivalent to a weeks worth of gym workouts. Except doesn't make the slightest bit of difference if you're drinking alchohol at the same time.
**to be continued**
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)