Hexagons.

Almost 2 years ago I learnt to hand sew hexagons at Bronnie's.

The pattern that you usually use to interlock hexagons is called "Grandma's Flower Garden" which for most people is meant to denote something sweet and old fashioned.
Sadly to me, it was more aligned in my head to the naughty concept of the "dried flower arrangement" often sported by older women. ;O)

So I knew I had to use hexagons for good instead of evil and having already taken 5 years to choose the fabric I thought I'd sew them into diamonds instead, thus avoiding any further smutty references.

Finding Australian Aboriginal fabric that is actually designed by indigenous artists has not been easy. And even when I did find some, my concern about who was actually profiting from it was large enough to prevent purchase.

But find it I did. And it seems genuine, to the point where I can now tell you the names of the individual artists and have access to the meaning of their stories depicted on the fabric design.

Choosing colour ranges with this type of design was really difficult, due to both their and my inclination to get excited and stuff in plenty of colour all over the place. So I simply chose the ones I liked and worried about how they'd look combined later.

Sometimes I like to make it up as I go. Free balling is my thang.
That will possibly not surprise anyone who's seen me sew.

I even thought about turning this one into the shape of Australia and then doing blue marbles around the outside for ocean...just another 3 years work, no problem.

At that point though, my neck and shoulder became so bad from scrunching up as a I sewed that my osteopath asked my what the hell I was doing to aggravate my condition.
I had so much trouble explaining that I gave up and took the quilt in to show him what he was up against.
His response was, "Oh, gee..."

Apart from one side of a hexagon that Bron did for me as she taught me, every stitch was done by me, and very few were sewn with any impatience or frustration.
I really enjoyed the mobility of this kind of sewing. I love being able to watch TV with the boys but still do something with my hands. TWSS
I miss it.

I cannot imagine how many football games were stitched into that quilt. Even more than actual hours of 19th century BBC literature programmes though.

Sometime s when I look back at my sewing, I can recall any strong thought patterns I had while working on particular sections. Running my eye over this quilt brings up thoughts and feelings related to:

• Souths
• Jane Austen
• wanting to quit a job I was very unhappy in
• thyroiditis
• starting a new business
• the History Channel
• sewing on the beach/s
• sitting on the couch at my in-laws, my Dad's and Yoga Boy's and later, in the car, at Souths games
  

Anyway, Bron is coming over next week to have a look at it and to show me how to finish it so I can hand it on to be professionally quilted.
The lady who will quilt it may even be able to quilt Aboriginal motifs onto it. I'm thinking a big dreamtime snake (TWSS) or kangaroo prints.

So, it's not even been 2 days and I feel at a loss of what to do next.
I only have 3-4 quilts to finish, but they're not TV watching quilts, so I really think that even before the day is done, that I will start another hexagon quilt.

I'm going to use the fruit and vege fabric that I bought maybe 6 years ago. I'm just busting to sew mushrooms up against raspberries up against rockmelon and then broccoli - if only to see if it can be done.
Maybe I'll make it look like the inside of the fridge or the displays at the green grocers.

And this is how it starts...

The Yoga of Pies.

Back in the olden days, when I was a kid, our school had no canteen.
Thinking rationally now, perhaps this was why my parents chose it.

And back then, during winter, we would excitedly expect a visit from the pie man.
Mondays I think.
Yoga Boy believes it was every Monday throughout winter, but I thought it was only once a month.

20 cents? 30 cents? Something like that anyway.

First thing in the morning, before class had started, the teacher would grab the list and ask you to raise your hand if you wanted to order a pie for lunch.
The groans and shufflings form the children who, for one reason or another didn't have the money was awful.

But it never fascinated me me as much as the kids who would raise both hands straight up in the air, declaring that they could eat two pies!

Two?!
Bloody hell, to me that was like some sort of contest that was worthy of prime time television.

Matthew Crawley. I can still see him with his arms right up over his head like he was about to dive into a pool. His were the first up and the last down- just in case the teacher missed his order.
He can't have been the only one, but he's the only one I can remember. Funnily enough, that's the only thing I can remember about him save his name.

I do also remember that you were meant to bring along a bowl and a spoon on pie day.
WTF
We had one teacher who would dogmatically enquire whether you'd brought it all along before asking you to raise your hand, thus briefly (and cruelly) implying that if you did not, that you might be facing disqualification.
Ghastly stuff for nine year olds to deal with.

Just last year when Hell Boy and I visited Henry VIII's Hampton Court in London, we checked out the kitchens and learned that pies were invented to save money on buying expensive crockery.
The pastry itself, which was discarded, served only as a case or bowl for the pie's contents, and also made for the very first "fast" food in that it could be easily transported and eaten on the road.

Bring a bowl indeed.

Now, you may not know this, but there is in fact, more than one way to eat a pie. TWSS
And usually, I would quietly imply that the inclination stemmed from genetics or familial example.
But I can't, it stems directly from peer influence alone, and I have photographic evidence to back me up.

Yoga Boy, my senior by two years, seemed to have learnt all about pie eating on those Mondays at Burnside Primary.
I'm glad I missed it back then, but some thirty something years later I must now watch it each time we go to the football.

Still.

Last game I took the camera so that I could capture the technique for you.

1) Peel off lid
2) Eat lid
3) Mix tomato sauce into now luke warm filling with bare, unwashed fingers
4) Scoop out filling with first two fingers, straight into mouth, disregarding all hygiene regulations and any sort of manners
5) Repeat
6) Make a big show of "cleaning" fingers with tongue despite the fact that it is in far worse shape
7) Scrunch up empty base into a cylindrical shape and eat
8) Wipe excess spittle and gristle from fingers onto trousers - right thigh area seems to be the best for this
9) Smell fingers whilst pretending to scratch nose - pfnaar pfnaar

So, if you're feeling up to it next time you're in public, give it a go and let me know how you get on.

On turning 40.

Bring it on!

My God, what a fuss too.
Why is that? Simply because a number ends with an O, we're supposed to do all sorts of different things to every other year?

Such nonsense.

But worst of all seems to be the inclination to make trite, lame, age related jokes in a 10 year cycle. Is that because these people assume we've forgotten their stupidity from last decade so soon?
Well I certainly haven't, I have an excellent memory - and I use it.
I won't be dispensing any polite laughter at my own party.
Be warned.
If you forget yourself and come at me with any of this, I will leave you swinging- that's what she said.

"Blah blah blah, it's all down hill from here - blah blah over the hill - blah blah - you're not as young as you used to be..."

I wonder how many of these twits I've successfully weeded out of my intimate circle -that's what she said- since my last milestone birthday?
I'll let you know - unless you're one of them.
No, actually, especially if you're one of them - fuck it - I'm 40, I can do and say whatever I want now.

Hey, maybe that's what it's all about - a direct measure of how well you've managed your social life during the last 10 years.
I'm watching you...

How about lashing out with something useful instead like, "You've come through a lot, you've faced all your life lessons head on, and I admire the person you've become."
That's what I tell the people close to me when opportunity arises.

And then there's my personal fave, the obligatory mention of age but once a decade.

Did you take the time to write 39 on my card last year?
Will you be bothered to do the arithmetic next year and the year after when it involves just a little more thought and consideration?

Does everyone forget your age for 9 years in a row and then suddenly feel bad about this and have to display their involvement by demonstrating that they have been paying attention all along?

You see, I don't care about such things.
In fact, I'd be far more appreciative if you celebrate my 41st with gusto for no reason, or my 49th, being that that would mean I have dodged to breast cancer curse and have outlived my mother.
But just don't surprise me.

My original plans for my 40th were just to turn 40 and mind my own business.
But it quickly became apparent that there were those who had no intentions of doing the same.
"I don't want a fuss", was somehow translated into ,"Please ignore my wish and organise a surprise party for me."

Now, I hate surprises. I really, really, really do.
And let's not suppose that that's simply because I'm an uppity sort of a thing with strong opinions about minutia.
There's way more to it than that!

I detest surprises so much, that I will no longer even attend a surprise party even as a guest.

Dreadful things.
Pure hoax too.
Surprise parties have always and will always be about the people/perpetrators organising the thing rather than the recipient/victim.

Anyway, I begged Hell Boy a cool 6 months ago to act as bouncer and to stamp out any such daft pretentions for my birthday.
I knew that a birthday ending with O would make me likely to have to endure this from some ninny.

"Hey, we think this birthday is so important that we went ahead and organised it without even consulting you!"
To which the only possible response from me would have been, "Surprise!" and to walk out.

I had promised Hell Boy faithfully that this would absolutely have been my course of action should such rubbish come to pass.
I believe that he was quite tempted to let it happen just to enjoy the spectacle.
Few people enjoy a spectacle more than him.
It would have made quite a blog too.

But common sense prevailed, and I decided to just do my own thing, my own way. That's what she said.

And I'm glad I did, and not just because it rules out any nasty little surprises.
I'm glad, not because I'll be 40, but because I have gathered around me so many wonderful people, that I think it will be really cool to collect a bunch of them in the same place and see what they all look like together.
Like putting out the good china on the nice tablecloth.

As it happens, I now have a duel reason to be glad of this celebration.

I'm leaving my job after 10.5 years, so it will function as my farewell also.
More on that later, I still don't really know how to compile those 10 years just yet.

So, no, I won't be saying whoop-de-doo because my age has an O in it, but I will be doing a social stocktake at my party on the 27th.
The next morning, I will be standing on the Harbour Bridge, throwing my arms up in the air and celebrating my many triumphs over adversity during first half of my life, congratulating myself on keeping my own counsel and genuinely from my heart of hearts, looking forward to a very powerful, rewarding and peaceful phase of my life.

And to a Souths game in the evening, right after a Yum Cha lunch and perhaps a little visit to the cross stitch shop.

Nothing surprising about that.
No polite laughter.

Of fish and strudel.

Just over a week ago, we had no fish in the house - except Frubert the unusually calm Siamese Fighting Fish.

Now we have my two boys from work as well as two baby koi, named Virgil and (O)baki.

My work boys, currently on their fourth set of names in five years, are known as Wartie and The Big One.
I had to fetch them home from the dispensary at work because we're moving and there is no-one there atm who knows about fish care.
Also, moving fish is a tricky business, and if it was attempted without me and it went wrong, I would be devastated.

So, for something different this year, they've spent the last few days watching me do the Xmas baking and such.
They're used to watching me, we've lived in pretty close quarters these past five years.
What these two don't know about natural health and the problems of the good people of Merrylands is nobody's guess.

It's OK though, they they're not blabbers.

Right next door to their South Sydney tank is the hatchery.

This was certainly an unplanned pregnancy.

I sent Hell Boy down to the corner store for cream, and he returned with koi.

Bill, the crazy Chinese guy who owns the store is a fellow koi enthusiast, and often pops in to visit our fish as well Hell Boy himself.

In fact, when the boys recently upgraded their pond, it meant that they suddenly had two 1500L ponds to spare.

Bill decided he would like to buy one from us, but within a matter of days, his tiny little wife came up and determined that he was not allowed.

Maybe two weeks later, Hell Boy came in laughing and told me he'd just struck the deal of the century with Bill.

"Get this," he said, "Bill's going to buy both ponds for $600. But, he's telling his wife he's only paying $250.Then, every few days, he's going to sneak up here and slip me $200 cash. I love that guy."

Being that each pond was worth that much, it didn't seem like such a hot deal to me, but we decided it was worth a few hundred just for the anecdote.

True to his word, Bill snuck up every few days when wifey wasn't looking, and slipped Jeff the blood money in an incredibly conspicous manner.

As Bill's shop is also a small garden centre, so he's using the ponds to grow and store water plants as well as baby koi.

He actually came to the last koi auction with us and bought around twenty white and blue baby koi.

Since Hell Boy's last trip to pick up cream, Bill now has only eighteen blue and white baby koi.

The other two are parked next to Wartie and The Big One.
Obaki is the Japanese word for ghost. He's the white fish.
But we quickly noticed that he has a habit of facing you and barking at you, so within a couple of days, his name was shortened to Baki.
Yoga Boy prefers to call him Baba-bow-bow-bow.

Virgil was my choice because it's just a super cool name, although I did consider Bela and Nosferatu, due to the fact that he has a rather pronounced widow's peak and his koi moustache looks like fangs.

So, our kitchen is standing room only.
Well, that's not true, there's plenty of space for them and they're welcome for as long as they'd like to stay.
Once the little boys are big enough not to be harrassed by the others, they'll be tossed into the pond anyway, and my fruit bowl can return to it's original position.

OK, to the strudel.

Fucking Apple Strudel, I hate it.

I decided to use Filo pastry this time instead of puff and I chose to include rum soaked raisins in the Viennese tradition.

During the course of the morning, I found I cannot tell you how many jobs required my urgent attention, just in a bid to dodge the inevitable.

I had the filling ready to go, the pastry defrosted and unrolled, the oven on, and I found myself outside, hanging over the balcony, chatting to Hell Boy as he sorted out the pond's filtration system.

He knew immediately what I was up to. Or not up to.
He surprised the absolute crap out of me by saying,

"I'll come up and help you."

This was his first encounter with Filo pastry.

You must peel two layers off, spray it with oil or butter and repeat until your pastry is as thick as you'd like.
He quickly diagnosed Filo pastry as having a "design fault".

Yep.

Anyway, we got the layers sorted, with my agitation nearing 9/10, thus leaving me still functional.

Then came the dreaded stage of rolling the fucking thing up so that the filling doesn't spill out the sides, the pastry doesn't rip and the liquid from the apples doesn't seep out and wreck the pastry.

After three attempts, I was honestly crying tears of rage and I need not tell you that there was swearing.
A nasty mash of English, Yugo and Lebanese. This is what happens when I'm really frustrated - my language centre overloads and I speak in tongues.

At this very moment, Hell Boy says t me,

"Should I be filming this for your blog?"

I returned with, "Don't pick me! Not over strudel!"

Only really a handful of things that shit me as much as strudel.

The Roosters.
Repetitive unpleasant noise/breakfast radio.
Injustice.
The vacuum cleaner becoming unplugged while I'm using it.

Anyhow, four fish got to see the whole thing, and they still love me.

And you know the worst thing of all?

That fucking evil strudel turned out perfectly as if to annoy me further still.

Evil prick of a dessert.

Great Harry's tree.

Last year, whilst hyperventilating in the gift shop at Westminster, I noticed that they sold Xmas decorations of Henry VIII and his six wives, plus one of his daughter's, Elizabeth.

I almost peed my pants.

I almost peed them again very recently when I went looking for said decorations at home and couldn't find them.


Distracted, I think is the term.
Jeff solved the problem by saying,

"Well, it doesn't matter, we'll be there again next year and we'll buy more."

But they came all around the world with us.
They're the only ones I want.
They're special.

And so they are now that I've found them, tucked safely in the Westminster Gift Shop bag in the study cupboard, pretending to be a bag full of printer ink refills.

Bastards.

I took the greatest of care as I trimmed the tree, to place the girls in order of consequence (as I saw it), and in the event of a tie, I placed them in strict chronological order.

I considered hanging Great Harry at the bottom of the tree to teach him a lesson, but being such a ranga, he looks good right next to the South Sydney decorations, so what can you do?

My doll of Me.

Jeff's sister Lila makes dolls too.

This year, instead of buying each other a gift, I had the brilliant idea of exchanging dolls.

But the dolls we each make will be of ourselves.

My doll sewing is very unorthodox.
This stems from the fact that I just make it up as I go ala Vicki.

Vicki is a sewing friend we met through Bronwyn.
She is what I would term a free-baller and I will ever be delighted that she taught me how to make dolls this way.

I dig.

Just grab some fabric and slap it on and around, just roll it up and twist it, stick a ribbon on it if it doesn't work out, despair of the whole thing and wonder if it's too late to throw it in the bin, swear, have some tea, sew one more stitch before realising that it looks fucking awesome and that you couldn't be happier with the result.

Once she's done, you need to assess her and give her an appropriate name, although, in my experience they name themselves.

I often think that I must experience each and every emotion when I make something before I can actually begin to like it.

No pattern, no understanding of how to make clothes, no control or real clue as to the outcome.

Except that this time, I did need to control the outcome.

It's taken me some months to work up the courage to decide whether to represent myself accurately, take the piss or to make the doll of my essence.

But what is accurate, what is piss, and can they live together in harmony?
Won't my essence put them out?

I originally thought it would prove to be an easy task.
Nuh-uh.
It was quite daunting in many ways.

And to be truthful, I'm still not sure which approach I took, but it kinda felt like a little of each.

After buying a metre of delicious lime green lace, thinking it would team up nicely with my lime green leopard skin fabric, I panicked, backed out and dressed her in a sassy black and leopard skin number with black lace, silver butterflies and emerald green detail.

Yes! That's me.
I would soooooooooooo wear that.
I probably have too.

Even as I dressed her, I got that powerfully feminine feeling that you get when you're pulling on an outfit that truly makes you feel totally together and sexy - although I do get that feeling in my Souths jersey too.

You feel like the ant's pants as Viv would say.

Like it.

For me that's vampy black lace, ribbons and boots with just a splash of colour.
And something silver.

It.

Well this doll has my mojo in her.

And you know, trying to sew a face is really, really, really difficult.

Trying to sew your own face and capture an expression is fair nigh impossible.

And maybe because I'm no good at it, I pulled it off.
Or maybe the sewing God herself heard the all commotion and dropped in.

Who knows.

Well, I'm not quite done with Ms. Simone.

She has no pubes yet, poor thing.

No good at all.

I did warn Lila that my doll would be anatomically correct, so I fully intend to go ahead and sew myself some red and green stripey pubes.

And maybe add a seed pearl or two.

Ahhhh, hang the expense, I'll add three.





Now that I've added the photos, you may care to notice the 4 kitties crawling all over her, the skull necklace from Sophally and the gingerbread in her hand.

I also made her a lime green lace and black gift bag, tied with a hot pink ribbon.

Head full of gravel.

Rolling over last night, I became aware that I was still actively planning our next Euro trip while sleeping.
I suspected as much, but now have concrete evidence, hence the gravel in my head.

Around about 3am, I was pitting the elegant virtue of Vienna against Leipzig and Trieste.
The battle wasn't all that pretty either.

Never mind.

Anyway, I thought that spitting it out might prevent Potsdam taking on Venice tonight, thus sparing my muddle from confusing the Earth's energy any further.

Three weeks of course has become five, and various magnificent cities have been auditioned, only to be cast aside due to reasons I can no longer pretend to guess at.
No Dubrovnik, no Oslo, no Northern Lights or fjords, no Split, no Heidelberg, no Amsterdam (boo), no Cologne.

OK, poor darling Hong Kong bought the farm this trip because it can be stinking hot October and I have to dodge hot weather.
Plus we're out of time.

We can easily duck across to Hong Kong for a week next year.
Also because I discovered that I can take sleeping pills and bomb myself for several hours during long haul flights, thus making the Asian stopover less necessary.
HellBoy informs me that after about three Temaze, I can sleep with my head on my knees.

hmmm

Paris disqualified itself by being self important, smelly and full of pretentious fuckwits on cheesey romantic weekends.
In fact, Paris can bite me on the fuzz.

Just yesterday, both London (my fault) and Venice (Jeff's fault) made it back into the mix.

By 9:36 this morning, I had to place an urgent phone call, almost waking HellBoy up, to tell him to start mentally preparing for Vienna yet again.

"OK. Good."

Any other response would have surprised me from him.

Should I call him tomorrow and tell him I'd like to collect space shells on Mars, he'd give me the green light without missing a beat.
He knows how much I like shells.

Well, in case I haven't told you, we decided that we'd bring our next Euro jaunt forward a year or so to coincide with Dad's trip.
Jeff's brother, wife and daughter have also decided to join us.

But not for the whole thing.
They are keen to go to Paris and EuroDisney and to Italy.
We are not.

Mickey Mouse + Paris = SIMONE HELL.

Plus, Italian culture is too dominated by Christianity to hold my attention.
Poor Jesus is almost as over exposed in Italy as Mozart is in Austria.
At least Mozart was real though.
And he has chocolates named after him rather than wars.

We all but sprinted through the Italian Renaissance section in the Louvre earlier this year.
I remember hearing HellBoy say,

"Oh fuck me, not this guy again," while looking at some crucifixion pic or other.

Anyway, Italy...I gotta tell ya, it's enough with the Jesus already.
Talk about monomania.
I'm trying to imagine my reaction to the Vatican City, better known as JesusDisney.
Quite probably the only place that would let Paris off the hook for being the cuntiest city.

We are having a total of three nights alone(!) after spending time with Tone and Line in Berlin and then are going to re-trace the Tischler and Planinc family footsteps with Dad and Viv through sleepy Slovenia.
After that we meet up with Greg, Giulia and Yasmin in Venice.

At this stage, the itinerary is:


Germany
Berlin/Potsdam(4 nights with Tone)
Leipzig (1 night)
Dresden (2 nights)

Slovenia (meet Dad)
Celje (1 night) = birth town
Vitanje (2 nights) = home town
Ljubljana (2 nights)
Bled (2 nights)

Italy (meet Greg and Gules and Yazzie)
Venice (2 nights)

Austria
Vienna (3 nights)
Salzburg (3 nights)

Germany
Munich (5 nights) incl trips to Rothenberg and Inglostadt

UK
London (4 nights) - return visit to Lizzie's underpants.

Yes.
I think I feel better with that stored somewhere.
It'll be interesting to see how much it changes before I make final bookings.

So, this time next year, we'll be in Celje.

Of course, my only real concern is that Souths will take this opportunity to make the finals and force a very ugly decision on me.
Those bastards.

The strange kindness of strangers.

Rumour has it that I like South Sydney.

So much so that strangers have taken to making me things for my altar at work.
Red and green things.

I have an Aboriginal player doll, a blonde South Sydney Cinderella doll, a Souths bunny doll, a tea cosy that looks exactly like a waratah, a few little bears with knitted jerseys - one as a replacement for one I gave to a small child at work who fell in love with it.
His parents bought 20 other bears trying to capture his interest, but no.
He remained staunch.

His mother, Christine would ring me before she came in and ask me to take the bear off my counter, hoping to spare herself a tantrum.
It didn't work.
He could feel it's magnificent presence.

I even went and bought a new bear for him myself - identical except that he has Warriors jersey on rather than Souths one.
Not fooled for a second.

In the end I gave the Souths one to him and he cried with joy.

I had a phone call a couple of weeks later to tell me that he sleeps with it, eats with it and it's the first and last thing he asks for each and every day.

I told his mother to let her husband know that his son was destined to be a Souths supporter.
He was unimpressed.
Or dare I say it, intimidated.
Not everyone can cope with spawning such greatness.
He'll learn.

The weirdest thing I've been given (made) is a Souths tunic which currently on my promotional Comvite honey bear.
A good customer, Marlies knits them and sends them to Africa so that they have something to put on the babies who die from AIDS with such monotonous regularity over there, rather than throwing them naked into a hole.

What kind of world do we live in?

Whatever kind it is, you can always depend on the kindness of strangers.

Vice rewarded.

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, I was told by a spiritually trustworthy person, that in our society, vice rather than goodness is rewarded.

She explained to me that all the big money spinning industries such as sex, drugs, pharmaceuticals (IMO), gambling etc, all attract the big bucks.
NB I include you in that mix, organised religion.

The poorly rewarded vocations (AKA traditional female roles) are tied in to an unconscious belief that good should be done for free.
All JC's fault apparently.

People who help others for a living feel bad charging.
God, the amount of health practitioners and counsellors I know who shrink when it's time reach out and be paid is shocking.

I doubt that the people working in the local TAB or at the casino, the brothel etc feel anywhere near as bad when they take your cash.

And what has this got to do with me and my happy little blog?

Well just this.

This year I came in 2nd in Jo's tipping comp, netting me the princely sum of $560. A profit of $505.

I pay no attention to the tipping other than I decided to tip for spite this year.

If a team had beaten Souths (seriously,who hadn't?), I refused to tip them for a few weeks until I was no longer upset at them.
If a player had made a comment about Souths (ever), I wouldn't tip them to win either.

If a supporter of a team made a nasty remark to me about Souths (ever),well, they were gone too.
You can't be too careful.

Except for the Roosters.
Jo's ex husband still has a bit to do with the running of the comp I think, and stupidly drew to my attention that every time I tipped the Roosters, they lost.

So, death riding them quickly became part of my weekly routine.

Tipping at all some weeks was difficult, in that there was no-one I was willing to tip.

But somehow I muddled through.

And I muddled right through to second place, just using spite and malice to make decisions.

And I was rewarded, just as my spiritual friend had predicted.

But, fear not. I shall be using it to pay my tithe to the red and green God in the sky (who has been asleep for some 3 decades now, the lazy prick), so I guess that's as Robin Hood as I am ever going to be.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Breakfast of champions.

I love breakfast.

I love Europe.

I love that you often have breakfast twice when you're there, and that if you plan you day right (or not at all), you can often manage a third.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Angry fairy dust.

You know how in Peter Pan, he shakes Tinkerbelle over someone so that her magic fairy dust sprinkles onto them, and then they come away being able to fly?
A little of that sparkley magic stays with them and they're not entirely mortal as a result of the encounter?

Well, in my own fashion, that's how I've been all day. Sort of.
But it's not been quite so glamorous or saccharin as Walt Disney would have liked, still it's been entertaining for both Hell Boy and Yoga Boy as we shopped and what not.

Last night, after months of planning not to go to the Souths /Roosters match due to emotional instability concerns, I gave in due to a last minute (surprise me) SMS from Hell Boy himself.

I told him it would be OK to go, but only if we sat with the Burrow.

No way could I sit with scum supporters. No way.

Besides, at these away games, the two warring factions (how quintessentially South Sydney) of fans, actually get together and sing the house down.
Most of their ditties are hilarious too.

I'd been telling Yoga Boy for years that he would love sitting with these people, but with little impact.
But I got him there, and very soon after he heard a song about Willie Mason being a cunt, his eyes shone with all the divine light of a freshly indoctrinated Hare Krishna disciple.

I spent far more of the game than I would have liked, with my head turned sharply to my left, pissing myself laughing at their songs, paying precious little attention to the game.
Oh well, at least I wasn't handing muffins around as well.

I have bruised hands from clapping.
My voice is in tatters.
My head is honestly still pounding 24 hours later.

And I'm still smiling.

Yet we lost and I don't care.
That felt like a win.
WTF? :O)

Well, I'll walk you through it.

Firstly, our boys played over those pretenders in the second half, we won the half time entertainment despite the fact that even their fans cheat at that, we outnumbered them, we out sang them, and best of all, we didn't have Siemens on our jersey. ;O)

Sitting in a packed bay at an aggro game, where people are constantly pushing past you due to beer going in or out of their bodies, stepping on your feet, knocking your jacket off the seat, yelling in your ear, imagining refereeing problems and burping hot dogs near you, and all the while, the fact that regardless that you've never met, you're instantly and irrevocably friends with them all, and that's a wonderful feeling.

If just one of them had those fucking filthy rags on instead of the majestic red and green, each and every one of these things would have caused untold agony.

But no.

To sit amongst a Souths crowd that large and be part of it as it functions as a noisy and powerful unit in a bid to protect and inspire the representatives of what it holds dear, is something I cannot describe to you.
You have to be a supporter of something to know this.
I'm sorry for people who never get to share in this with a large group at some stage.

My uncle told me once of a study he'd read that explained how people at football matches gradually and significantly increased their serum testosterone throughout a game.
Worse during close, aggressive games too.
Apparently it takes a while for this to return to normal, kinda like that fairy dust.

Well, my testosterone levels are at record highs and showing no real signs of backing off.

Seriously, I swear I scratched my balls a couple of times today already.
Felt pretty good too, I don't mind telling you.

But the fun doesn't stop there.

My attitude to shopping today gave me an insight into what it might be like for a man to enter a mall.
I am no longer surprised that they hate shopping.

I took offense at each and every person who walked in my path, wore something ugly, had too much perfume, I hated the lights, the noise, the smells - even the products.

I honestly wanted to confront the woman ahead of me at the fruit shop for individually bagging a capsicum.
I mean, come on!
It's a fucking capsicum you dumb whore.
And the bananas.
And the avocado.

Look, that shit upsets me anyway, but I usually don't want to take it outside.
I almost never visualise myself beating someone to death with an artichoke.

But then, they say that men are very visual.
And I was very visual today.

It's not good.

I take full responsibility for inflaming the situation by ordering a very large soy cappuccino right when I knew for a certain that what I needed was chamomile tea instead.
But I didn't want to look like a pussy in front of the boys, OK?

Got a problem with that?

BTW...

Still hate the Roosters
You know we still hate the Roosters
Still hate the Roosters
You know we still hate the Roosterrrrrs

They cannot win without cheating
They cannot win without cheating
Win without cheating
They cannot win without cheatinggggg...

Braith is a wanker
We know that Braith is a wanker
Braith is a wanker
We know that Braith is a wanker...


Epilogue:

After writing that, we went out for laksa and ended up having steak instead.
I really, really felt like steak too....

South Sydney - Part Three.

One of the most touching moments that came to me courtesy of the Rabbitohs, happened by the fridge one day at work.

Clair was telling me that she had been away and had encountered some scary guy in Souths thongs, had got excited and really wanted to approach him and talk about Souths, but was a bit put off by his general trailer creepiness.
But later she informed me that she,

"...had feelings for Souths."

How beautiful is that?
Just because it's something I love, she kinda loves it too.

That's what I love about being a supporter.
Nothing to do with the sport. For me it's sharing experiences - passion, triumphs, tragedies with the people I hold dear.

When we lose I worry about how Jeff will cope at work with the kids giving him grief, how Jo will feel all week, how it will impact all of the people I care about.

The joy of winning is just the same, only backwards.
I'm thrilled to finally see so many people who have done it tough, rewarded for their loyalty and endurance.
Good on us.

A few years ago on the forum, a couple of the boys were running an NFL Fantasy League comp.
My brother-in-law convinced me to join.
I thought that if I was going to learn a new sport that I should first choose a team - without any preconceived ideas.

So, I took myself team shopping on the internet.
I had to be careful.
I didn't want to accidentally wind up supporting the wanky, rich, cheating Roosters like side just because I thought their uniform was pretty.
Or because they were green like Souths.

Although, for the record, I do think that choosing a side because their fans wear cheese on their heads is quite a good idea.
Gretchen, it's probably best if you don't read that bit.
Good girl.

But I resisted the temptation to choose anything other than the perfect fit, and I barged into a few of the gigantic NFL fan forums.
Holy fucking fuck fuck.

There was something about the orange team that felt familiar and comfortable to me, so I posted an introduction in their tightly policed "football only section", telling them who I was, that I was thinking about supporting their team and asking them what the hell they were all about.

Then I went and did my grocery shopping.

By the time I got home, I had some proposals of marriage and a vote for Rookie of the year.

I also had a warning, "not to expect too much this year, we're in a rebuilding phase..."

I beg yours!?

They went on to explain to me that the club had been kicked out of the competition for 3 years (FFS- Twilight Zone or what?) and that they had pretty much been more or less fielding sub standard players, with a shitty admin and a crap coach...but were improving.
Slowly.

Sounds kinda familiar, hey.

"Pfffft, no big deal", I thought, "I can do that standing on my head."

And I did.
Am.

Once again, I recognised some extraordinary voices on that forum, even though I was asleep when they were awake and most of the time I had no idea what they were talking about.

I can do that standing on my head too.

And then Gretchen....the mother load.

Someone who is now loved by everyone I've ever mentioned her to.
And I pretty much mention her to everyone.

"Good morning, Vitamin King. Have I told you about my friend Gretchen?"

It could happen.

But you know what is going to happen? Tailgating at a Brown's game with Gretchen et al - hopefully as soon as next season.

I wonder what colour (color) her Tupperware is?

If she doesn't have any, I have a brown and orange 1970's set she can have. It's perfect.
__________________________________________________________________

PS You know what else makes me happy?
Clair and Gretchen have become friends.
That's as awesome a spectacle as Godzilla and Gamera uniting.

Hooray for football!

I can't believe how many opinions I have on fish, and this isn't even all of them. Sorry.

We keep fish.
At home and at work.
And in the kitchen, and in Adrian's room, and now in the garden as well.

I started it and I'm not sorry.
I even have a red and green South Sydney tank at work with my two little men - Shane and Nathan, who were kindly named by my cousin's child, Matthew.

At that time, almost everyone who played for Souths was called either Shane or Nathan, and he spent a whole game one day, reading and re-reading his footy cards, thus making,
"Shaaaaaaane and Naaaaaaaaathan" his mantra for the day.
We lost.
Probably because of Shane and Nathan.

One day, Matthew visited me at work, and I was delighted to be able to tell him that the fish were indeed named, Shaaaaane and Naaaaaaathan.
Nathan's the smaller of the two.

They come to me for kisses through the glass.
They really are very well loved fishies.

One year when I was on holidays, Vyja discovered that one of the fish had done a pooh which was the very same three colours as their food flakes.

Imagine! A neopolitan crap! And me not there to see it!
Of course, to Vyja, the obvious move was to grab a tissue and fish it out and save it for me.
She kept it for over a week.
I love Vyja.
Her generosity of spirit is certainly not restricted to Hallmark style gestures.

I confess that earlier this year, Shane did a spectacular red and green pooh for me on the eve of our disastrous Round 1.
At the time I thought he meant to tell me that Souths would shit on the Roosters. Unfortunately, he was simply warning me that it it was going to be a shithouse season for Souths and that those arsehole Roosters would be the cause.
Imagery and symbolism.

I've decided to tell you this today because this morning I had a patient who, although outwardly conservative, went on the tell me that she and her husband have put off a major European trip until their "Betta" (fighting fish) dies.
My eyes widened in understanding and admiration.
She went on to explain that in the mean time, they take them on holidays with them and set them up in their hotel room.
I love meeting people like this, I really really do.
These are the people who should inherit the Earth, not those Geek fellows.

She reminded me of the power pussy business woman who came in once, interacted with me without a trace of personality or humour.
As she was leaving, I saw into her purse to where most women keep a picture of their children.

A rat.

She had a photograph of her pet rat in her wallet.

You can look at someone and assume, but you never never know.
Ever.

I couldn't help but ask her about it, and once she realised that I wasn't grossed out, she told me how her husband would get up early each morning to let the rattie out and how it would sit between the both of them in bed and share their toast.

And why not?

Bread and water so easily becomes toast and tea.


Anyway, I'm glad I've taken the time to remember all this, because it will make what I'm about to tell you just that little bit less strange.

Recently, the fish thing has spilled out into our garden.
We now have koi as well.

Yoga Boy wanted a pond and a meditation garden, Jeff has loved koi and Japanese style anything as long as I can remember.
So, they built a pond with a waterfall and the boys chose three fish:

The fish formerly known as Tito

• A lovely white and black tipped boy.
• Unwisely named by Jeffrey for a UFC fighter.
• Inclined to jump out of the pond for no good reason and lie around in the dirt for hours in such a revolting fashion that none of our three cats will go near him.
• Renamed Herring von Bismark by me in a bid to reduce the energetic aggression surrounding his name.

The Bismark sank didn't it?
So far, so good. He has remained mostly submerged since the change of handle.


Poe

• Named for Edgar Allen or Master Po from Kung Fu
  
• A plain orangey thing with no personality traits worthy of a mention.
  
• Main claim to fame = found one day on our footpath keeping company with Phoebe the cat.
• Neither could offer any reasonable explanation.

Hanuman

• Named for the Indian monkey god but not imbued with his pizazz or reputation.
• I think he's orange, but I'm not sure.
  

After a few weeks, we made a family trip to the koi farm in order to buy some water ager, but no fish.
We returned with three fish.
Not sure about the water ager.

Yossarian/Yo

• One large, very attractive white and orange boy.
• The catwalk model koi
  
• Briefly revered as saviour of the pond due to his size and beauty
  
• Had a fairly considerable fall from grace and is now under threat of being sold at auction for a tidy loss of $70.
• Panics the other fish and swims at full speed into the sides of the pond repeatedly.
• Dumb like a stump
  
• So good looking, yet so stupid. Who'd have thought?

Then we come to my picks.
Initially extremely unpopular...

I arrived at the koi farm with the ambition of seeking out the ugliest fish there.
I already knew his name, Pfuitsch (pronounce pfoit-sh) - a Dad word meaning foul of gross.

Pfuitsch

• butt ugly mother fucker
• looks like a mullet/changed salmon with slimy scale rot
• easily distinguished by me from his slightly less ugly brother by his inner lips being snow white and very very disturbing when he sticks them out of the water
  
• OK, he's not the best looking kid on the block, but he has the most personality
• provider of all merriment, entertainment and hilarity
• grows on people
• such a typical Simone pick that Dad had only to glance at him to know he was mine
• not being sold at auction due to stupidity
  

Bandette

• my gorgeous girl
• bright yellow with black markings and is absolutely wearing a bandit mask/nerd glasses- she looks great in glasses too
  
• often described by Yoga Boy as looking like someone dropped a banana peel into the pond
• sweet natured and smart
• not being sold at auction due to stupidity
  

So, that's where we were until Yoga Boy decided he needed a second tank and to rip our whole garden apart to accommodate this.

Yesterday, Jeff was busy finishing off an ad that he's making and unwisely left yoga Boy and I to our own devices at the koi farm....more water ager ;O)

OK, maybe one more fish...
But this was Jeff's choice and Adrian remembers which ones he had liked out of the hundreds there....

So, he grabbed a net and after pulling up a few fakes, he produced a fish Jeff had admired a very great deal.
For a split second, I hid my shock and uneasiness from my brother as he exclaimed over this thing lying in the net just inches from his hand.

But, with me knowing that Adrian had plans to pat and hand feed this thing most days for the next 20 years, I felt obliged to divulge the following information,

"I'm not surprised he liked that one, it looks exactly like his dick!"

There's no really good way to say something like that, but that doesn't lift the burden of responsibility, does it?
It had to be done. It just did.

And seriously, I'm talking exactly.
It was indecent and I think I may have blushed.

Yoga Boy, being the trouper he is, replied with,

"Well we'll have to get it now! You gotta admire that about the guy. He wants a fish who looks like his dick."

I talked him out of it because, well, go back and read that again, but also because they'd already chosen a fish on their last visit (without me) and named him:

Swampy

• ugly enough that he might have been my completely my choice - freckly, multi-coloured and irregular
  
• calm during long car journeys
• briefly named Sanjuro during the Wank Dynasty circa 6:12-6:13 pm
  
• personality undefined as yet

And, just because we had no adult supervision, Adrian also chose another beast called:

Scummy

• kinda blotchy and weird looking, possesses lots of scum which trails enchantingly from her body
  
• a girlie girl
  
• since named Maya by Yoga Boy

After installing these two in their new pond, Jeff arrived home and seemed disappointed that we had returned with out his penis (he now admits paternity) in favour of a couple of slimey swamp monsters.
So many comments, so little time...

I'm sure it won't surprise any of you that at 3:45, I spotted them putting back on their shoes and grabbing their keys so that they could go and fetch home Jeff's orange penis koi after all.

Toshiro

• I won't describe him for obvious reasons, but if you come over and exclaim at his beauty or size, you're going to have to excuse my reaction.

By the way, my suggestions for the naming of this fish, which sadly were ignored, were Wang and Hung-Me.

Toshiro? Such a dick head.

FFS.

Accidentally Purple Quilt.

Ohhhh, shiiiiiiiit.

I accidentally made another quilt.

I didn't mean to, I was just looking for an excuse not to spend all day dealing with a very painful stage of making my dad's jigsaw quilt, and I happened to notice those 6 squares of various 6 inch purple fabrics from that mail out block swap which never really took off.

"Better sew those fuckers together", I thought.

But now those fuckers currently number 121 fully sewn squares, and despite the fact that I was busily cutting, ironing, swearing and hammering them through the sewing machine at an incredible pace, I had no idea who those fuckers were for.

Purple's OK. I like purple.

I thought maybe I'd make it for my friend Pam, who could use it in her spiritual healing room. Or for my 10 year old niece, Yassie.
Nah, Yasmin's a green girl like me.

In the midst of my excitement, I closed my eyes, and just tried to match the vibe of the fabric (don't I sound flakey?) with the person....MAHEB!!!

FFS OF COURSE! My friend MAHEB.
The original purple FREAK!
Going through a rough patch too. Perfect!

At that precise moment, Jeff magically appeared at the door and handed me the phone......MAHEB!

Now, I can keep a secret, but not if it's my own.
Yours are quite safe, don't worry.

So, poor thing, within 10 seconds she knew I was making her a quilt, knew that it was purple, knew that it was all deliberately sewn backwards and that I'd knicked off to the belligerent quilting cow shop that very morning in order to expand my purple stash from plenty to fucking ridiculous, thank you very much.

A healthy stash is a beautiful thing. It really is.

Then today, I scrunched up said quilt top in my new Souths bag and tootled off to work with it for show and tell.
I also took the lunch box full of lollies that were left over from the re-make of Nanna's lolly jar blog.
We had a good day. ;O)

When I said that I'd sewn it all backwards, I meant it.
Once you clip the seams, they go all shaggy and look really cool.

And when I said I visited a belligerent fabric cow, I meant that too.

She's my hero.
She has a huge quad garage out the back of her suburban house filled with fabric.
And cats.

And it's all at a fraction of the cost that it is in a normal patchwork store.

But the best thing is that she really and truly hates people.
I'm down with that.
But I find it so enjoyable to watch her try to contain her angst that I feel compelled to engage her in annoying friendly conversation, even at the expense of my own health and mental well being.

It's hilarious.
She grunts out only the most basic pleasantries with such disdain and barely disguised disgust, that I can't help but see it as the all clear to demand more from her.

I ensure that the tone of my voice remains hideously familiar and invasive. I pepper her with the type of questions that she would clearly rather lose a limb than have to answer.

And I enjoy myself immensely.

As I leave I say "OK!!! Bye!!!I'll see you soon!!!", with all the energy and moderation you would usually reserve for dropping a 3 year old at day care.

My God, she must loathe the very sight of me.
But I love the very sight of her.
It's a symbiotic relationship.

And you know what I like about that place so much?
Apart from the fabric and the belligerent fabric cow?

Usually when you buy fabric -even from Ebay, the retailer will tell you that it comes from a smoke free, pet free environment.

Nuh-uh.

At this joint, I swear to you, she often has three lit cigarettes in each hand at any one time and there are 2 cats and a dog who hang around in there and sleep on the fabric.
I have picked up bolts before only to find them covered with ginger fluffs, and lots of it.
Saves my cats time.
If I ever find a print with a coughed up hair ball, I'm buying the entire bolt. Stuff it.

The smell of stale smoke is so intense that you must wash and air everything for days to restore it to health.
And God help you if you cough in there. She lights up deliberately and stares at you, willing you to object...
As much as I hate cigarette smoke, I immediately move straight over to where she is, in a bid to confound her and her dastardly plan.
So far, so good.

* hack* hack* hack*

PS Gretchen. I in no way forgot that you are a purple girl, or that you really want a quilt. I will bring you something special when I come tailgating/Bundrenetting. Just calm down.

Reality TV come on down.

I simply cannot begin to tell you how much I hate reality television...in all it's insidious, soul destroying forms.
I hate that it happens.
I hate that I have to hear about it from friends, I hate that there's nothing fucking else on because of it.

FFS - I know that Colin won the first Survivor, even though I never watched a split second of it. I couldn't pick the guy out from a line up of one.

I know that Ian Roberts can dance, I know that some fat blonde chick did the bum dance, and I know that some of my really good friends - people I respect in every other way, watch complete strangers clean their fucking teeth instead of getting on with their own lives!

Dear God.

I have some pretty terrible memories of being at work a few years back, when all this was at it's peak, or was it just in the days before people hadn't realised it was embarrassing to admit that they watch it?

But I can distinctly remember quite a few occasions when I would hear the girls discussing people in low voices, sounding deeply and genuinely concerned about their welfare.
Naturally, I would butt in to see who they were talking about (maybe it was a friend of mine or a patient) and to see if I could help, only to discover, to my horror, that they were discussing people they'd never met.

Imagine for just one second if even half of that collective concern generated globally over the years by reality TV shows, had been redirected towards people who actually needed it?
People you know.
Towards you?

How many times have viewers neglected to talk to the people who matter in their lives so that they could find out how much money some twat was going to make on his renovated house, or which dopey chick was going be chosen (don't start me) to marry (FFS) some guy the network picked out from agency promo shots and threw in a suit?

How do people think that's OK?

Did you hear about the Big Brother style show in the Netherlands where the prize was a donated healthy kidney for folks awaiting a transplant?

What can I possibly say about that?

It's all disgusting to me.

Aside from the social implications that I have observed, what about the knock on effect to the Television and Film Industries?

Have you wondered why they're now releasing perhaps two good movies a year now?
Why everything's a remake, a prequel, or something with no real story?
Why movies you thought were pretty lame are being heralded as genius?
Why special effects are in inverse proportion to story line?

Notice how the only good releases are lifted directly from novels?

Where are the writers?

Well, let's have a think about how the domination of reality TV might have affected you, had you been trying to make your way as a writer when reality TV reared it's ugly head.

Reality TV's a network's wet dream. A multiple billion dollar orgasm.

Imagine their corporate glee when along came a genre which required them to pay no actors, no writers, no special effects people, hardly any editors, and in many cases, provide no set, no costumes, no make-up...hmmmm...

Compare that to the production costs of a show like the Sopranos, where, by Season 5 or 6, James Gandolfini was able to command $1,000,000 per episode.
Sure he never did the bum dance, but some of us liked it anyway.

And then think about how much the sponsors of these reality shows might be willing to put up for the prize money, location, wardrobing etc, sparing the networks even these costs?

So now I'm trying not to weep as I conservatively calculate just how many opportunities for writers were lost over the last few years as a direct result of reality fucking TV.
Can you imagine how many great shows/films will never see the light of day because the minds capable of creating them were discarded and shut out during these years?

And what are these people doing for a living now instead?

Has anyone else noticed that there are a lot of interesting and witty waiters around these days?

So, next time you complain that there's nothing on at the movies, nothing good on TV, have a think about how this all came to be and why it is absolutely the fault of Colin from Survivor and every single one of you bastards who tuned in.

Thanks a lot.


PS Special mention to Andrew Denton, who quit his high paid, high profile breakfast radio gig because he resented having to keep up with reality TV to be on the ball.

Homemaking with Mark!

After supplying my already troubled mind with The Anglican White Bread and Margarine Cookbook a few weeks ago, my friend Mark has once again come to the party with something rather special from his collection.

I can only imagine this guy's collection.
A Pandora's Box of well chosen kitschy nuggets spanning several decades.

Mark, you see, is an artist.
And a very good one.
Able to work in any medium he chooses, including those shitty Go-Lo pencils I bought for him as a joke one birthday.

You see, that impresses me.
It shouldn't, but it does.

Cat person too.

Knowing that I love to incorporate tragic things into my blog, he said to me recently,

"I have something at home that made me think of you."

I responded the only way I know how, and said, "Uh-oh."

"Yes," he tells me, " it's a book of 1950's style housekeeping tips. You'd love this thing, it has beautifully drawn, very graphic diagrams of women's hands up a chicken. I'll bring it."

And bring it he did.

This cherished copy is originally from Auckland Public Library, no less, and is titled, Modern Homes and Homemaking.

Somebody paid 50 cents for it - I hope it was Mark.

The contributors seem to be a veritable army of Margarets and Beryls, the book having been aimed at the good women of England, circa 1958.

The things that Mark wanted to show me were neatly bookmarked for me, as I expected.

His picks were the diagram showing you how to thump your upside down swinging baby, should it be choking.

But more importantly, the Holy Grail itself - a series of diagrams showing you how to ram your heavily manicured hand right up a chicken's arse, plus how to skin a rabbit (booooooooooooo), then neatly remove it's pellet filled bowel, all while wearing high heels and looking sexy in case hubby should come home early from the office.
You can never be too careful.
What would those neighbours think?

Please tell me what the artist was thinking about when he drew that pic on the bottom left of the chicken plucking diagram.
Seriously.

But my favourite parts are some things I think even Mark may have missed.
Firstly, the page where someone has been so pedantic that they neatly corrected the spelling of effect to affect.
I salute that person.
It's almost certainly not Mark - I am all too familiar with his "hand writing."

The second is on the page that instructs us how to do the washing up.

Both the page and the concept itself are amusing enough to be sure, but what caught my eye was the fact that there are a couple of stains on this page, which suggests to me that someone has indeed required and sought guidance with this task from this very book.

How wonderful.

I have also chosen to include a photograph of what they suggest are the most nourishing foods possible.

In that photo, we see:

• a block of Cadbury's Dairy Milk Chocolate
• a big old lump of butter
  
• cheese
• peanuts
  
• eggs
• fish - smoked for extra toxicity
  
• deep fried oily chips
  
• cakes and biscuits
  
• white flour
  
• liver
  
• sugar cubes and lots of them
  
• treacle and golden syrup - both kinds! War is over!
  
• plenty of red meat with extra fat
• are those kidneys?

Up the back somewhere, there are half a dozen mushrooms, something green and some carrots.
But they're probably just intended as a garnish.

I'm not sure what's in that tin.
If you figure it out, don't tell me.

Happy homemaking!

luv sim xo

Day trip to Clair's

Until recently, road trips involving Clair and Simone, have always started at my place, ended at Bron's, and have involved apples, incredible heart to hearts, the aggressive tooting of the car horn at The Hut signs, yelling "Up the Rabbitohs!" at Vicki and Gavin's house, plus a selection of music best described as uncalled for.

Oh, and KFC at Cesspit with the very scary locals.
I promise you that one time we saw a couple celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary there.
Well, not really, but it was certainly possible.
And that's bad enough.

But that was B.D. (before Daniel), and if you'd like to adjust your time pieces, it's now 33 days A.D.

And what this means is that road trips now go backwards.

They still start at mine, but now it's Bronnie's smiling face that greets me as I struggle out the door with my hexagons slung over my shoulder and altogether too many pieces of fabric crammed into my bag.

Tooting the Hut has now been replaced with waving at ANZ Stadium- home to the South Sydney Rabbitohs, the heart to hearts are different in content but just as warming.
Haven't yet settled on which of Clair's neighbours will be the lucky recipients of my particular attention, but my decision, once handed down, will be final.

A day at Clair's is always fun.

But then, so is having Clair follow me around whilst using a breast pump as I vacuum for her.
In truth, it didn't occur to me until today that that was a strange thing to do. Or even that she had done it at all.
It was all just so casual.

God knows what else she did that I didn't notice yet. ;O)

I mean, apart from decorating her toilet with faux skid marks fashioned out of vegemite and corn in order to make my dunny cleaning experience more interesting.

I'm perfectly certain that not every new mother can find the time to see to details like that before guests arrive to see their baby for the first time.
More's the pity.

I think Clair should achieve domestic goddess status for that.
Priorities define you, you know.

Meeting Clair's bubba for the first time was unforgettable.
Watching her relax and trust herself as a mother was extremely satisfying, and it left me feeling very proud and contented.

My wish for Daniel is that he is able to experience and enjoy his mother as much as everyone else does.
And I hope he has her laugh. ;O)


PICS: Me, Clair and the watermelon.
Bron and Daniel
Bron and Arrrrrrrgh the Pirate Baby.