I type this and hear thunder in the distance, and pray/hope/wish there is a downfall imminent. But no lightning strikes - PLEASE! There have been bushfires burning not far from here, and the grass around my home and indeed the town is tinder dry, or as we'd say in school, 'as dry as a nun's underpants.' The smoke circling the town, a hangover from the controlled burns and out of control fires, is making me think I live in Los Angeles, and not the Upper Hunter Valley. I keep thinking of the opening credits of 'LA Law', an 80s/90s show to which I was pathologically addicted. But I could not stand Anne Kelsey. If you watched it, you would know what I mean. She was this holier-than-thou, piss-elegant, la-de-da type with a forked stick wedged firmly up her date. She vehemently opposed the appointment of Rosalind Shays to position of senior partner, and a lot of it was based on gender. She sniped at fellow lawyer Victor, who was preparing a case defending a death-row murderer, with the self-righteously intoned, 'How can you defend this scum?' I sat in my beanbag, probably scoffing Thai takeaway (I was single then), and rolled my eyes as I said, 'Because. It. Is. His. Job. He. Is. A. LAWYER!' My background is actually law, and I tend to get a bit irked when people ask (or they used to ask) did I not have qualms about my job, a job that entailed assisting in the defence of people accused of some heinous acts. My answer to that is a big, fat, "NO!", accompanied by a cheekily blown raspberry.
I walked my dogs yesterday and became out of breath. I am vastly tired of this smoke in the atmosphere. The frickin' coal dust is bad enough.
Don't you just hate standing in a queue at the supermarket and the queue doesn't progress because there is a dumb-arse in front of you typing a text on her mobile phone? The fact that she was all fake-tanned with Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses perched atop the carefully straightened, glossy locks just makes it worse. And I feel guilty that it makes it worse. She is entitled to dress and groom herself as she sees fit. But is it necessary to hold up the supermarket queue sending a text? And a big hate-fest goes out to those clowns that walk around the supermarket whilst texting, ergo not watching where they are going, and then plough into you, or bang into your trolley, causing a jolt that sends a shockwave up your arms that then rattles the fillings in your teeth. These people are mega-dumb-arses.
The other dumb-arse at the moment is Kim Kardashian. I sometimes wonder if she deliberately cultivates her dumb-arsedness for publicity's sake, but then again she's too dumb to realise that feigning stupidity is even MORE stupid than natural stupidity. She's said her labour was easy. Fine. My second labour was a relatively easy one, too. It happens. She said she couldn't wait to check out her vagina in the mirror. Again, that's her business entirely. She said, and herein likes the kicker, her paternal instincts have kicked in. Yup. Alert the media; a BLOKE gave birth!
Let me just point out who is not a dumb-arse. It's the Great Gutsby, aka my 12yo son. Yesterday he advised me he, and a handful of the other Year 6-ers, are to sit a test today. He doesn't know why, but I have a very sneaking suspicious it is to determine who will be the student named Dux at the end of year assembly this year. He has been awarded Academic Achievement every year he has been at school (with the exception of when he was in Year 2 - WTF was his teacher thinking?). Except that it would make typing difficult, I would be crossing my fingers for him. His dad and I spoke last night about how utterly wonderful a Dux-ship would be to our beautiful boy. As long as we don't get as passionate and one-eyed about it as that awful woman who murdered the mother of her daughter's cheerleading rival some years ago in the US. I think we will be okay.
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