Fair weather friends.

Quick, I've snuck in here to write this one while Hell Boy is out, because we have a kind of agreement that in the interests of my mental health, I am not to discuss the weather.

Hell Boy himself, being descended from a long line of weather enthusiasts, could happily watch the weather channel all day.
That is, of course, if it weren't for me, and my horrifying tendency to making scathing, cynical and let's face it, far more accurate predictions that is commonly offered by the likes of a FOX meteorologist.

Few things wind me up faster that meteorology.
It is a topic that seemingly has some bizarre power over me.
The truth is that weather concerns me very little, but that I get upset by the "profession" of meteorology, as they quite obviously just make shit up and get away with it.
It's the getting away with that I find inflammatory.

Hands up who can afford to be as inaccurate in their job as the good folks at Fox Weather?
My hands are down, that's for sure.

I get so upset that I get to the point where I can't finish my sentences.
I once became so distraught by the nonsense on FOX Weather that I phoned them.
More on that later.

I have season tickets with South Sydney.
Rugby league is a winter sport and our seats are not undercover.
The rain won't stop me going to a game. It would make me wear a hat though.

What the rain will stop me doing, however, is going to the Opera.

Once each year, I like to go to Opera in the Park.
It's something I genuinely adore.

In fact, we enjoyed the best night ever last Saturday despite the performance being the worst choice of opera of the many years that we've been going.

Anyway, we arrive early for this gig.
This year it was 5:30 for an 8pm start.
The picnic before the performance being the very best part of the outing.
Good food, good company, reading, sewing, lying on a blanket under my favourite tree in the world....sigh
Incidentally, this is the very tree my ashes will be sprinkled under one day.
My tree.
And coincidentally it stands right besides Bonnie's tree. How cool's that?

So, 2-3 hours outdoors, and a bunch of picnic gear means that I want to know whether it is going to rain or not.
With that in mind, you would expect that switching on the Fox Weather channel just hours before the event, would in some way illuminate us.

I really do think that is a reasonable expectation.

Imagine my surprise then, to discover that the best they could tell me was that there was a 50% chance of rain.

50%

This statistic means that it might rain, or it might not.
Strictly speaking, that's true of every day, a five year old could tell you that.

Hedging your bets, they call it.
Covering your arse as well.

Not being content with that answer from our dear friends at FOX, I checked their online forecast as well, hoping that maybe they had a more thorough answer available for me.

And they did.

Trouble was that it bore precious little resemblance to the forecast they were showing on the TV at the very same time.

And so I placed a call.

After more than a minute of questioning, they were so kind as to tell me that, no, realistically they didn't actually have a clue if it would rain in Sydney that night at all.
And that's fine, just don't pretend that you do, that's all I'm saying.

Neither did they seem to know why they were simultaneously predicting conflicting weather patterns across their two mediums.

But what really got me, was that they didn't know the answer my final question, which was,

"Are you able to tell me how many billions of dollars of satellite equipment you currently have at your disposal?"

We drew a blank on that one as well.
I took that to mean that they might know how to interpret the information gathered by a satellite, or they might not.
50% chance.

Honestly, these people get away with blue murder, don't they?
At the beginning of each month, they stick up a chart with each day listed and either a sun, a cloud or a sun and a cloud, to let us dumbies know what's going on out our windows.

It is my wish to somehow print one of these gems and to bust out the red pen and correct it as the month progresses.
What would their accuracy be, do you think?

I know that the one month I really had a good hard look at it and didn't forget all about it, they didn't get 2 days without exposing themselves to be total Charletans.
The prediction of 20 days of rain in Sydney during a summer month cannot be dismissed as anything other than a moderately funny practical joke, or mental retardation.
And yet, they made that call.

Why?

Methinks it's because they know no-one pays attention or has the means to compare their calls against fact later, and so they just make the chart look pretty or they're pushing the envelope amongst themselves to see who dares to make the silliest prediction.

And that I might respect. Or I might not.

My fucking ripper of a funeral.

Jeff's suggested title for this blog was THIS IS NOT A DRILL. LOL @Jeff.

Just to let you know, my funeral will be very long.
So wear comfortable shoes.
Or no shoes at all, what do I care?

Don't panic, I'll not be taking up your time with religious nonsense, but with music, tea, laughs and a couple of live acts.

I have some very specific wishes, so I'd like to outline this all here and now, entrusting these plans to Clair and perhaps Yoga Boy.

Should both of them predecease me, instructions may be handed over to Taryn (who will hate them all, but carry them exactly), and maybe chkn and Monica.

I would like some Buddhist monks there to chant and do whatever it is that they do. It's not my belief as such, I just like the robes.

Because I don't actually know anyone who shares my spiritual beliefs, let alone anyone who makes a living from them, I think it's just simpler to ask people to write a few lines of what they thought of me (like a report card) and have someone read them out. That way no-one feels pressured to speak.

No priests. Don't trust 'em.
In fact, if one even happens to be walking by, I'd like the Benny Hill music to start up and everyone to pile out and chase the bastard down.
Yes. I'd like that.

No Jesus, no Christian prayers, no hymns.
At no point do I want the word amen uttered.
Should anyone feel the need to do so, they may replace it with glory glory instead.

Plainest coffin possible, red and green flower arrangement.
No carnations, babies breath or gladiolas - puke.
Souths flag on the coffin please.
No photos.

And please, no White Lady funerals. Those women look so stupid in those hats that the sound of my corpse spinning nearby may detract from the overall ambiance and tone of the proceedings. Probably not though. ;O)

You're welcome to wear black (I do so love black), but the request for people to also wear something red or green must be taken seriously. Souths jerseys considered appropriate.

Any Roosters supporters in attendance must stand together in one corner, facing the wall in a state of contrition.
They know why.

Tea and coffee is to be available all throughout the service. Good stuff too. Can you hire a couple of carts? Not Gloria Jeans, they support Hillsong.

OK, so to the entertainment... I cannot think of a time or place where you need entertaining more than at a funeral, so honestly, I don't know why it is so commonly overlooked.
Well, not on my watch.

• at the beginning - 2 bellydancers - 1 dressed in red, 1 dressed in green, but NO audience participation to be requested...it's a funeral FFS ;O). No, that just really annoys me...seriously, do your own job - I never ask people to join in while I'm doing mine.
  
• at the end - if Jo's still kicking, I'd like her to sing Glory Glory, as she has an excellent voice and no-one means it more than her. A song sheet (designed by Clair, with loads of stickers) will have been distributed so that everyone may join in. If Jo's feeling frisky, a round of "Still hate the Roosters" is definitely in order.
  
• finally, a group of bagpipes is to join in and the event is to conclude with them walking out playing Glory Glory.
• at this point, anyone with the balls to start the South Sydney chant, is be remembered in my Will (well, not really, but it sounded very Agatha Christie to say so, didn't it?)
• bonus points to anyone prepared to start the "bullshit!" chant randomly during the service. My money's on my brother-in-law, Greg, as he's successfully started it at every Souths game we've ever been to together during the last 20 years. He started it at the Cannes Film Festival too, when his Z-grade horror film was playing there, but he changed "bullshit!" to the film's title, which was, "Bloodspit!"
  

The music for the service and the wake is with Clair and Adrian, although I do need to update the listing.
Punctuate proceedings with tunes as you please.

I have yet to decide the venue for either the service or the wake, but neither will be anywhere churchy or deathy.
I'll let you know, otherwise, Clair would best decide on the service (outside is OK by me so long as the sound is good), Taryn would be the right person to decide about the wake.

Well, there you have it.
I've related most of these requests to people bit by bit over the last few years, but I thought it was best to cough it all up at once, firstly so that you can sort it out, and secondly, so that you may look forward to it. LOL

No burial. Yuk, I have no wish to be landfill.

I'd like my ashes to be, well actually, I don't really care where most of them go, but I would like some of them to be scattered around under that tree in the Domain where we sit for Opera in the Park each year. That way, I will be there nice and early for each performance and I can mind the spot. Shit, I just realised, that means I will also have to sit through Carols by Candlelight- eeewwww.

Just stuff the rest somewhere sunny.

I feel rather good now that that's sorted out.

So, my friends, when I stop seeing you tomorrow, I'll see you on the other side.


Up the Rabbitohs!

luv sim xo

PS I'm serious.

Sugar never tasted so good.

Please note that this is a follow up to an earlier post entitled IT'S A CRUST.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We had plenty of left overs on Wednesday night. I'd made Chicken Cacciatore in the crock pot.
God bless the crock pot. My hero.

Left overs are not uncommon in our house. Not at all.

I believe that both sides of my family have donated to me what I like to think of as "the catering gene".
Both sides, mind you.
There are only 3 of us here, but there's always plenty for 6 should the need arise.

Perhaps this familial inclination to over cater has come about owing to larger families, or maybe on Dad's side because they ran a butcher's shop and restaurant in Slovenia at some stage.

But somewhere, sometime, a portion of a DNA strand mutated within one of my female ancestors whilst she was innocently crumbing only 10 kgs of schnitzel for 3 people and bingo, Simone was condemned to a fridge full of Tupperware for all eternity.

But who knows?
Apparently not Charles Darwin.
I stood on his grave at Westminster Abbey recently and I'm none the wiser for it.

Leaving DNA out of the equation, perhaps we're just a generous, extravagant people who can't measure properly.

So, as the boys were clearing up after dinner, I was filling lunch boxes for the next day.
I asked Yoga Boy if he would like one.

"No," was his flat response.

After a few seconds (I had my back to him), I had to reply with, "What do you eat for lunch?"
I wasn't having a go, I just had never taken the time to imagine what he would choose for lunch and considering the rest of his diet, I was a little scared.

To my utter amazement, his reply was, "A salad sandwich."

A salad fucking sandwich!?

"BULLSHIT!", I shrieked at the top of my voice, quite reasonably.

Now, Yoga Boy hasn't ever read my blog, so he had no idea why I would be so interested or shocked by his lunch order.
In fact, he must have been thrilled to finally be able answer me without mentioning Tim Tams when I asked him about his diet.

Jeff on the other hand, knew precisely why I was all atwitter and had a good chuckle at both of us, as he often does.

Imagine discovering that these things actually exist!
And worse still, that the yoga doing, chocolate eating demon from downstairs is the one ordering them.
It's just too much for me.

I told Adrian that next time he ordered this nutritional holy grail that he had to phone me so that I could be absolutely certain that this event was taking place and that there truly is such irony and evil in the world.

And there is.
And it's readily available from The Industrial Takeaway from 5am, 6 days.

In the end, we went one better than the phone call. ;O)

Sugar never tasted so good.

Serious stuff.

People, something has happened within my family of a most serious and alarming nature.

One who walks among us has made a claim, which if true, will shortly see me blogging in a state of humiliated contrition.

So earnest is my desire to witness this travesty for myself, that I intend to rise far earlier than is usually necessary come Friday.
This will allow me to complete my jobs if plenty of time in order to film said spectacle from a cosy distance.

My anguish as I type this is quite extreme, I can assure you.
But fear not, I am woman and I shall endure.

It cannot be true. It must not.