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.

That's what she said.

That's what she said jokes are a big thing around here.

And they've been big for a while and they're not leaving anytime soon.

In fact, HellBoy works with them so often and with such commendable mental dexterity that he's developed a gesture capable of replacing the statement itself in order to save time and conserve energy.

He once told a friend that he should just write it on his forearm and simply raise it when it suits him. (TWSS)

Not being in the least bit commitment-phobic - he's been with me these 19 years, he recently announced his intention of taking it that step further and having That's what she said! tattooed down his forearm in Chinese characters.

After snorting my chamomile tea through my ears and scratching my head at his comic timing - we were watching the weather I believe, I asked him why not choose Arabic writing?

He tells me he would like to be able to travel without being rubber gloved each trip, which is fair enough, but such encounters would surely give rise to many juicy opportunities for TWSS, making it almost worthwhile.

Or auf Deutsch in lovely old Teutonic script?
Yoga Boy kindly translated TWSS to Das hat sie gesagt!
Made even funnier of course by the complete absence of appreciation that most Germans would have for such lame double entendres.

So, he's off to school to ask the straightest Chinese science teacher he can find to write the characters for him.
He even tells me that he hopes this guy deliberately or accidentally writes something else.
That's HellBoy's true sense of humour, and I salute him for it.

Correction.

A few months ago when I posted my blog detailing proceedings for my funeral, I told you that I didn't know anyone who shares my spiritual beliefs AND makes money from doing so.

This statement has since become absolute bollocks.

Her name is Eve Adam (yes for real) and her qualifications are as follows:

• she has a bizarre blend of interesting yet reasonable beliefs (except that one about DNA/Palladians and the Middle East)
• she is my friend
• she is a Pisces
• she really doesn't like the name George
• she can belly dance
  
• she is a militant vegan yet is a strong advocate of human organ transplantation
  
• she is now qualified as a civil celebrant
• she has already agreed to do it providing she still has breath in her own lungs

So let it be written, so let it be done.

Left holding the baby.

Hell Boy possesses an extreme talent for dealing with difficult teenagers; mostly because he was one himself.
But also because he likes them.
You can't fake that.

Whenever there is trouble at school, they head straight for him to come and sort it out.
And this he usually does with just a look or a gesture.

After all these years of teaching, he remains baffled as to why other teachers cannot just as easily accomplish the same.
But then he doesn't know why teachers would choose to eat their lunch in the staff room instead of outside with the kids.

I doubt very much whether any teacher (ever) has been as beloved as Hell Boy.
Grand statement I know, but then maybe you haven't been with him when we've been out shopping.
He gets mobbed. Regularly.

I would have added kilometres to my journey to avoid a teacher socially when I was that age.

One group of boys used to tease each other with fake Affas sightings.

We've long since run out of places to shop locally without being offered extras by students and ex-students alike.

It warms my heart just to think about others loving him, but more importantly, to think about them liking this guy as much as I do.

As the years tick by, layer after layer of good karma is built up, or repaid as he sees it. He's almost done, he thinks.

So, with this kind of raw ability for taming and moulding headstrong and disadvantaged children, what do you think he might have done when asked to mind sick 14 month old Lina while her mother, Tone and I ducked into a German supermarket for dinner supplies?

I'm sure I wouldn't have been able to guess what they were doing.

This clip makes me cry for all sorts of reasons.
I recently played it to Viv, she was wiping tears away by the end too. But she was laughing.

Typical of Jeff, he doesn't see what all the fuss is about.

Who knew that the highway to hell was actually in the car park of Tengelmann's Supermarkt in Solingen all along?
Certainly not the locals.

Anyway, teach them well.

:O) :O) :O)

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.

Nutritional Necronomicon

Please Sir, may I have some more?
These are words that never were uttered due to the recipes which follow.

Having slept very poorly Wednesday night for one reason or another, I had to haul arse to work in a somewhat shabby state.
Not since I was in my early twenties have I left the house feeling so rubbish.

So, my plan of attack was to brighten myself and my surroundings up by grabbing my newest book, "Toilets of the World" and taking it in to work with me to show Mark.

Mark genuinely believes that the male staff toilets at Merrylands are third world, and blessed as I am with an innie not an outtie, I must take his word for it.
I thought this book may give some pretty tidy visual comparisons, thus providing me with a ball park to work with.

Perhaps half way through my second coffee, I had to presence of mind to remember the book and due to my rummaging around looking for that, I also managed to put my lunch in the fridge.

One of the few examples of dirty toilets keeping food fresh and disease free that you may ever read about.

As I emerged from the back room, clutching said trophy, Mark himself came scuttling around the corner with his very own trophy, wrapped neatly and deliberately in order to prevent even the smallest amount of damage.

So precious was it that I was able to read through it at lunch, but I was not allowed to take it home.

Those books are my favourites.

It was falling apart, bound simply in tomato red.

Mrs Beeton's Cookery Book.

New and enlarged edition.
350 wood engravings.

OMG Mrs Beeton's!
The retro recipe collector's holy grail.

Published 1896.
Mark had bookmarked the section for dealing with servants for me, which was very kind.
However, my sixth sense for booky nonsense being what it is, I randomly opened it up to page 79.

Hooray for page 79 too.

To my delight, this featured the following recipe.

BOILED TONGUE

Ingredients:

1 tongue

Awesome stuff.
What a no nonsense Victorian matron Mrs Beeton must have been.
I like her.

In choosing a tongue, select one with a smooth skin which denotes it's being young and tender.
If dried and hard, soak for 12 hours.
If fresh from the pickle, soaking for 2-3 hours will suffice.

They pickled tongue?
Imagine peeping into that pantry as a child.
Makes me think of the anatomy museum at Sydney Uni.

Put the tongue into a stewpan with plenty of cold water and a bunch of sweet herbs and gradually bring to the boil, skim and simmer gently until tender.

Peel off the skin and garnish with tufts of cauliflower or Brussel's sprouts.Tufts!

Everybodies favourites!

If serving cold, fasten it down to a piece of board by sticking a fork through to top to keep it straight.

Well clearly it's not just the French who know how to present their food after all.
English cuisine may not be as flashy by comparison, but they do know how to bring sideshow alley to the table.

I believe the right underneath the tongue instructions lurked information on how to make a sauce out of onions and milk to dress boiled tripe.
mmmmmmmmmm

My next discovery came on page 162.
This is a few pages into Cooking for Invalids.

Joy O Joy!

Gruel!

Yes Virginia, gruel does exist.

Gruel

Ingredients: 1 tbl groats, 2 tbl cold water, 1 pint boiling water

Mix groats with cold water, pour over boiling water, stirring, bring to the boil and boil for 10 minutes stirring constantly.

I'm not certain, but I think that's also the way you make wallpaper paste.
It's absolutely falls into a category I like to call bum glue.I wonder why this generation of people were so horribly constipated?
Also in this section are Invalid's Jelly and Egg Wine.
I wonder the first person was to stir beaten egg into hot sherry and feed it to ailing children and geriatrics?
Don't you just love the British sense of humour?

Possibly the same person whose ancestors went on to make things out of crushed Jatz biscuits and white bread in Anglican Nursing Homes all those years later.

Good on them.

Well, that was all I had time for. But I'm sure you'll agree that the rise and rise of fast food is a direct result of this type of approach to cooking.

And so, applying no logic whatsoever, my implacable conclusion is as follows:

Mrs Beeton's Cookery Book -->McDonalds --> modern obesity/diabetes epidemic --> mass invalidism --> Jerry Springer --> the return of Satan

Far be it fom me to play the blame game, but realistically, it's all her fault.
Clearly her aim was to fatten up our babies and return from Hell's kitchen to eat them all with Lucifer himself when the Mayan calendar ends 21/12/2012.

Consequently, I suggest that her cookbook be retitled Nutritional Necronomicon and that her name be changed to Mrs Beast-son.

For what we are about to receive, may be truly evil.

Amen.

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