Our garden.

Our house is kind of on a battle axe block, meaning that it's really deliciously private.
Like retire and run a nudist colony out there private.

A weird, half-arsed tropical oasis complete with banana tree, mango tree, koi pond and conceptual art, courtesy of the area's friendly, if incontinent fruit bats.
Absolutely nothing gets that stuff off, so we choose to regard it as beautiful.

The cats adore this garden, enjoying a variety of hidey-holes from which to spring at one another with no warning.

We also share land with a family of blue tongued lizards who appear to be evolving specifically to be better equipped at frightening the pants off me at regular intervals.
Bastards.

This block came to us, equipped with an intricate cat alarm system, maintained by those shitty little grey minor birds that some idiot brought over from India.

And you know what I like best about these birds?

They're blatantly rascist.

Seriously. They have major issues with black cats.
Brown's OK though.

These intolerant, noisy "junkie" birds as Hell Boy calls them , squawk mercilessly in groups of up to 20, as soon as they see one of our black 2 cats enter the garden.
I've had to turn the hose on them to be able to hear myself think.

Poor Poppy, she's never known anything different. She just thinks that's what the great outdoors sound like.
In one way it's quite good, in that we always know where the girls are.

Honourable mention to that community of hand sized spiders who string their webby business up from October-April each year.
Why they choose to live at 5m intervals in a direct line between our front door and our garage door is known only to them.
Sometimes it looks like an Indiana Jones movie out there.

What I do appreciate about them though, is that each year, they actually learn the measurements of our tallest regular visitor, and they then make the necessary adjustments to their nightly engineering, so that after about a month of mutual disaster, all webs are precisely 1 inch higher than their heads.

Nifty.

So, the garden renovations are about half done, with no immediate plans to advance that.
We can see that as being slack, or we can see it as leaving nature alone for a change and enjoying some level of domestic wilderness.

Anyhoo, for now, the frogs, ants, bugs, fish, cats, rats, white peacocks, possums and whatever the hell else is out there are all happy, healthy and noisy.
So all is well in our little piece of 'straylia.

Welcome any time.

Aggressive Beret Wearing 101 . Part 2.

My usual take on bad experiences that come in quick succession (TWSS), I picked up watching The World According to Garp, a movie a recently named a fish after.



My all time favourite movie scene is when Garp is inspecting a house prior to purchase when a light aircraft flies into it and wrecks it.


He instantly announces, "I'll take it!", later explaining that by his reckoning that the house is "pre-disastered."

Pre-disastered. An excellent concept.

Well, with this in mind, I figured that Paris had thrown all it's garbage at us nice and early and that we were therefore all set for an exquisitely easy and blissful few days.

Nuh-uh.

So we moved hotels and had breakfast at the new place. We are now relieved and happy.

We walked across the Seine and found Saint Chappelle, which although tiny, is spectacular.
Even has a tiled Rabbitoh on the floor and a red and green door. (see pics)

Pity that almost half of it is taken up by the gift shop.
Jeez it's gotta be bad for me to say that, hey?

Then we trudged a good distance to the Hard Rock Cafe to pick up our Paris passes. We had lunch there which was a God awful rip off.
Found an Aussie staff member who was a Souths fan. How do I do it?

He was telling me that as of January 1st, France went smoke free in restaurants etc. hahahahahahahahhaha
That explains why so many really angry looking French people are loitering around outside every cafe.
It's really quite intimidating.
They don't look happy. Or friendly.

Actually, they all look the same. Parisians I mean. Can I say that?
It's outstanding.
Less than a day here and I can tell them at a glance.
Dark, small, pointy and cranky.
They stare at you for inexcusably long periods of time, stand way too close and they walk right into you - even when it's not crowded.

Who walks into an 8 stone woman?
So far, there have been at least half a dozen encounters that I genuinely believe were deliberate.
I don't think I like it here.
Jeff always walks behind me, so I don't think he's noticed any of this yet.

hmmmmmmmm I'm getting all riled up just remembering this stuff...

Trudged back, got lost - everything looks the same here.
It's surreal.
If you turn your head for a second, you're done for. It's impossible to tell which direction you came from (TWSS).

Well, we both turned our heads...so.. yeah. Octagonal blocks don't help any.

And it rained, so by the time we made it back to Notre Dame, we were kinda scruffy.

Notre Dame is nice - but after visiting the cathedral at Cologne just a few days ago and seeing St Matthias in Budapest, meh.
I don't see what all the fuss is about.

In fact, if they ever re-name Paris, my suggestion will be..."what's all the fuss about?"
Everything is smaller, dirtier and less interesting than I've been lead to believe. I feel I've been had (TWSS)

It seems to me that lots of things about Paris are over rated. I don't really know what I was expecting, but so far it's just not hitting me.
Which is good because the aggressive pedestrians still are.
Crossing the road here cannot be any worse that in downtown Calcutta.
The vespers are just ridiculous.
We've seen things on these roads here that defy many of the most basic principles of physics.
And lets' not forget that we've only been here 24 hours...

On a positive note, we did see the Notre Dame cats though- all fat black ones enjoying their dinner.
Why would you look at Jesus when you could be looking at cats?
Contiki have no idea. They should let me re-do their itineraries.

Have yet to see a single blade of grass here. Plenty of dogs though. You do the pavement math.

Now, I like berets.
I wear them even in Sydney, to the football even.
However, I believe I have enough good taste to choose alternate head wear whilst in Paris.
That was until this morning anyway.

After having so many rude experiences, I got a little testy myself (TWSS) and marched into a souvenir shop and purchased 2 green berets, 1 pink, 1 blue and 1 brown - the better the be able to annoy the locals.
Tourists seem to be their Achilles Heel.

I'm wearing my berets aggressively from now on.
Without intermission and without apology.

Fuck it, they're all playing prison rules, why shouldn't I?

And I'm not going to utter a syllable of French either.

Not to alarm you, but I believe we are now in a state of war.

Anyway, I'll sleep it off and hopefully Paris and I can reconcile tomorrow. We're off to the Pantheon, the Louvre, Concorde, Champs d'Elysee and the Arc de Triumph.

I'm counting on the Louvre to save my opinion of this narky little city.

Did I mention that there's something insidiously annoying about this place?

Something ain't right. It just isn't.

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.

Yesterday.

Yesterday at the football... God how many fabulous stories start like that?

Plenty in this house, I can assure you.

Well, anyway, we lost, but that's OK, we ran out like a pack of old moles and kept the tempo up for 80 minutes and then ambled off like, well, like a pack of old moles.

You can't coach that!
It's God given.

Boring, boring, boring.

I was so bored, I didn't even finish my thermos of chamomile tea for fear of dropping off to sleep.
I wasn't far off, I can promise you.

And you know something else, even sitting in Row 14, I was still closer to the wing than Hegarty was.

But that's not what I want to tell you.

In fact, I have deliberately steered clear of discussing Souths in my blog because no matter how I approach it, I just can't express any of what I feel properly.
Especially this year.

I believe I have one almighty blog in me (fnar fnar) about Souths, and I can feel it rising to the surface (fnar fnar), so it won't be long now.
It ain't gonna be purty though.

Anyway, yesterday after the game, while I was walking bleary eyed towards the car park, I headed a little off course and found myself nearing the red and green bus that doubles as a merchandise stand.

Members were entitled to 20% off, and I was checking out a jumper.
I decided against it and paused, waiting for my boys to catch up - apparently I sleepwalk very fast.
Gave me time to stretch and yawn anyway.

Just as I was coming to, a Tigers supporter (I have nothing against them as a rule), went by and made the single most appallingly daft comment possible.

Seriously, if I gave you all pen and paper, you'd none of you come up with this beauty.

Charles Dickens may have though, but the concept would have lasted a full page, if not a chapter.

As he approached the bus, he said,

"Souths stuff - it's free now."

Lordy, lordy, lordy.

Honestly, I was mid yawn anyway, so although I was put out by the fact that I had to listen to such a witless and dopey attempt at humour (?) or whatever it was, I didn't even bother myself by worrying about the unhealthy ratio of stupid people to smart ones.

Until....

Until a few seconds later when another (maybe I'm being unfair, maybe he was retarded) old guy kept staring at me in a most irritating fashion.
Eventually, he gave up trying to get my attention that way (I practice staring with my cats), and said,

" He said, the Souths stuff is free..."

I ignored him further.

He repeated his comment twice more, until I could no longer stand the utter stupidity of the situation.

I then (and no, I'm not proud of this) replied,

"Yes, I'm aware of that. I'm just trying imagine a lamer comment, but I don't think it's possible."

He was not completely satisfied with my answer. The reason/s remain with him.

I related this to the boys just as we arrived at the car.
Jeff looked at me, utterly amazed, laughed, and told me,

"Yeah, but, he probably really thought they were free..."

Ah, yes. Good point.

So, the moral to the story is what?

• Don't drift off to sleep at the football.
• Bone up (fnar fnar) on your ignoring skills.
• Accept that the relative stupidity gap is widening daily. Anyone seen Idiocracy? FFS That movie almost killed me.
• Stay on Hegarty's wing.
• Start adding pharmaceutical grade caffeine to my "Night Cap" tea bags.
• Start finding lame stuff funny.

So, no more catching 40 winks in public anymore.
I just thought that if the team could do it...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

IDIOT

I don't know about you, but I would go to the zoo to see something like this. ---------------->

Most days I wake up with it parked on my chest staring into my eyes even before they are open.

She smells like kisses and perhaps just faintly like cat biscuits too.

During the last 4 years, I've learnt to sleep flat on my back in order to accommodate Poppy's love affair with my neck, despite the discomfort it causes me. Sometimes I hear her arriving on the bed and think,

"Oh noooo...I'm so comfortable on my side...", yet the instant that first white pompom touches me, I rearrange myself happily.

I wonder if that counts towards my karma somewhere?

She's currently sitting on me as I type this, with her face tucked under my chin, my left arm encircling and supporting her, thereby disallowing any use of capital letters and my comfort in general.

Not a bad turn around for a flea ridden gutter waif.

Hooray for Pompoms.

Hello, I'm Simone and I'm a serial killer.

Hello, I'm Simone and I am a serial killer.
There, I've said it.
Let the wanky 12 step healing program begin.

And to think that I've gotten away with it for 39 years without it becoming socially inhibiting, makes me feel a good deal more proud than it rightly should.

It always takes a good friend to reflect back to you what you need to confront or be congratulated for.
And Clair is just such a person.

She has spent the last 10 months or so planning, cutting, piecing, scheming and stitching an offering for me which makes me feel joyous to my very core.

She has made me this beautiful quilt with 12 cats, each stitched with a name of 1 of my expired feline darlings on it. FFS I hadn't ever tallied them before.

Not taking responsibility for all those names either. Cripes. Certainly Fluffy and Chablis were not of my doing.

Indeed, it makes me feel as though I've been a little careless with my feline charges over the years.
To lose 2 cats is bad luck.
To lose 9 is closer to negligence.

Well, in order to remind me to pay greater attention in future, I'm planning on hanging this magnificent piece on my study wall.
Sadly, this wall directly faces Poppy's tree birds and we may run the risk of scaring the living crap out of them.
Pity then that they s(h)it right over my clothes line.
But hey, maybe they'll feel loved and protected by the 12 gay pride cats with bad names watching over them, in addition to Poppy herself.

You never know.

Does that count as all of Step 1?
Or have I already covered a bit of Step 2?

N.B. The pic of Phoebe sitting on the quilt, going in for a major arse lick. :O)