Puddles of Puppy Puke & Poo

My year old pup (well, at a year old, I imagine he's still in the puppy stage) likes to sleep in my bed.  I don't mind this because he is a mini foxy.  I'd sing a vastly different tune if he was an Irish wolfhound.  This morning, he made a funny noise and puked in the bed.  My husband and I sprang out like scalded cats, and removed the offending bedding.  Given it was 4.00am, by tacit agreement, and exhaustion, it was decided the sheets would be washed later.  When I got up, oh sweet Jesus!  There is nothing quite so stomach-wrenching as discovering the pup has had diarrhoea in the house.  And although I'm not necessarily a religious type, I did offer a quick prayer of thanks that we have floorboards and not carpet.  I am actually a resilient type.  Trust me on this: I have trekked the Himalayas and visited some very questionable toilets, and survived.  It was not my idea of a good time to crouch over a hole roughly hewn into the floor, with the shit splatters left by previous visitors, all of whom had been inflicted with traveller's diarrhoea, gracing the edges of the hole and extending a little way across the floor (at this stage I was thankful for my sturding trekking boots), and the nostrils burning with Hell's own stench.  On this trek, our sherpas occasionally dug a hole, around which a small tent was erected.  This wasn't so bad, but it was horrific if one of the trekkers had the tummy bug.  I remember standing guard for the friend with whom I travelled.  'Aaaargh, it's horrid!' she cried from within.  Business done, and pants duly back up, she cried, 'Let me out!', and being the good friend I was, I unzipped the tent, rather than leave her there to suffer.  One idyllic afternoon, we were sitting at the entrance to our tent, erected on the side of a mountain, and watched a yak walk past the toilet tent and its hoof became entangled in a guy rope, and you guessed it: the tent collapsed like a house of cards.  We were rolling about laughing, imagining how funny it would be if someone had been in there at the time, and the panicked manner in which they would be pulling up their pants before being rescued.  But back to today's story.  My poor tummy was roiling and waving in comber-like swells, as I wiped up the, oh, don't worry; I'm not going to describe the appearance of the mess. 

This afternoon I was going to do some of my online training for work, but instead I've been mopping floors, and washing bedding.  I had to take the sheets outside and flick the vomit off, and for a moment toyed with the idea of going across the road and flicking puppy puke into the yard of that feral bogan who tears the tranquility asunder every second day by yelling obscenities at his missus.

And guess what?  I've just found a puddle of watery puppy poo that I missed earlier!  Off a-cleaning I will go.

On Assignments, Q & A, and Skulls

I've got a few assignments to do, mainly online.  Today I called into the office and completed a module on recognising and dealing with elder abuse.  I also have another assigment of a sort to complete, and it's a more amusing thing than elder abuse (which is not amusing and makes me want to club the miserable perpetrator like a baby seal).  My writing group have set ourselves a challenge to write a brief piece on natural disasters.  I think the theme was inspired by the flood that crapped in my house.  Yeah, there's the usual things: floods lead to death, damage, and disease spread by the sludge and mosquitoes.  But you know what else is also insidious about natural disasters?  It's the celebrity mewlings on Twitter, such as Sending my love and prayers to the victimes of Hurricane Madness #Overpaid Diva With Mediocre Talent.  Yeah, sending your love and prayers.  Good.  Surely sending something a little more tangible and helpful such as cash might be a better idea.  And what is oh, so much worse, my friends is this: the celebrity charity song.  Oh yeah.  Particularly the ones to assist famine relief.  Oh, don't get me wrong.  Nothing makes me tear up like seeing photographs of starving children.  But if you're going to do a charity song a la 'We Are The World', please, oh what they hell, just don't.  Send money.  Don't assemble in a studio and sing an unforgiveably banal song, and show how Down With It, Homies some drug-fucked sextagenarian in bandana is beside some tone def rapper.  Don't try and look earnest and caring, because the result is you all just look pained.  And if Quincy Jones et al wanted to gather the cream of American music, couldn't they have had Eddie Van Halen rip a beaut guitar solo into it?  Anyhoo, that's the angle I've decided to take.

Last night I actually watched 'Q&A' in its entirety.  I enjoyed it muchly.  There were no politicians on, perhaps this is why.  The panel composed entirely of authors, artists, and actor-types.  They talked about art used as a form of protest over history, and I felt a twinge of solidarity.  I never really thought about it before, but I use my art, to wit my writing, as a form of protest.  My current book deals with the social issue of same-sex marriage (and the book is called 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth', and the link is http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm).  My previous book, 'Abernethy', dealt with adolescent bullying, and check it out at http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm.  I'm a huge believer in art for art's sake, and separate the art from the artist.  The question was put to the panel about that utter tragedy over the weekend, where some complete fuck-up again took to innocent people with a gun.  Tara Moss seemed to be of the view that the kid was partially a product of a misogynistic-themed attutide that prevails in society.  I see her views, but think he was more likely a complete fuck-up who slipped through the cracks, and sadly had access to a gun to fulfil and avenge his sense of entitlement.  Whatever the case, it's sad, sad, sad.

My 9yo has just walked in with the goat skull he appropriated from his uncle's station during school holidays.  Yes, it was today's 'Show & Tell' item.  He told me the afternoon bus driver (who should be ferrying a broomstick, not a school bus) pulled and awful face and snarled, 'Eeeeew, what's that?'  I told him he should have told her it was the mirror!  Bahahahahahaha!  My husband complained at me for teaching him that, but I seriously think it's a beauty.  So did our son.  He asked could he say that to her tomorrow, but we've advised it is perhaps best not to.

Haaaaa-le-lu-jah, make it stop!

I am going to reclaim what's mine.  I feel like Simba in 'The Lion King' (who I daresay was a blatant rip-off of the old manga cartoon 'Kimba the White Lion'), or Hamlet, or anyone who's ever tapped the shoulder of a queue-jumper.  I am going to barge into the lounge room and snatch (or maybe just gently clasp) my iPod back from my 9yo, who has been driving me mad with all the crap he's downloaded.  It's all fart sounds, dogs barking, and 'The Hallelujah Chorus'.  Handel did not compose this just to have some twerp of a kid press an icon that causes 'Haaaaa-le-LU-jah!' every five minutes, especially when someone in the house makes a declarative statement ('Look, there's your missing soccer shin pad, right there!' 'Haaaaa-le-LU-jah!').   I will admit the Handel hook was funny the first time.  By the twentieth time, it's lost its shine. 

Was reading a major newspaper today, and it was about the quarreling between two 'brothel barons' in Sydney, and about the impending parole of a punter who is serving time for providing cocaine to two escorts that actually killed them.  I don't mind this story, but I don't see why two businessmen having a dispute is actually news - it's just the salacious sex industry angle that's earned this a piece in the paper.  What's actually bugging me is the paper goes on to state that from having viewed documents, they can confirm well-known identities have paid for sex.  Well, knock me down with a feather pulled from the bottom of my cockatiel's cage!  No.  Really?  People have paid for sex?  So bloody what?  If these are legal establishments, and the transactions all involve consenting adults, I fail to see why it is being reported about.

Anyway, my holiday is over.  I return to paid work tomorrow.  Do I look forward to this?  No.  Do I like my work?  Yes, very much so.  But I'd rather stay at home and continue to work on the insurance claim, compiling monetary values on the things we have lost, and get things done so the repairs and painting can be done to the house.  I have to take my almost 13yo to the library so he can print out some work for school.  He will turn 13 this week.  I look at him, and can almost look him in the eye (and I am a tall woman)!  13years ago this week, a slippery warm bundle with a worried expression on his face was placed into my arms; that worried face now looks like it is developing its first adolescent zit.  Gawd.

Poor Funeral Form, and Spinnin'

I think I might have definitely crossed the bridge over the generation gap and kept right on driving through the next few towns on the road.  Yes, I know the bitching I am about to bombard you with is a few days behind the event, but I've been a bit busy, okay?  Now, I believe love conquers all, and age is only a number.  I do.  Really.  But does anybody really believe the latest woman linking her arm through Geoffrey Edelsten's is seriously in love with him?  Maybe she believes it, but going from an interview I saw her give, I am having misgivings.  But what really made me gnash my choppers was seeing him parade (yes, parade) her on his arm at the funeral for Tommy Hafey.  Eds, were you there to mourn and celebrate the life of Hafey, or did you just want to figuratively shout, 'Look what I scored, everyone!  Another potential trophy for the shelf!'  Could you have not hinted her outfit was inappropriate for a FUNERAL?  This woman stated she hadn't packed anything else that was black when planning her trip from the US to Australia.  A word of advice: you don't HAVE to wear black to a funeral.  What you should wear is something respectful (unless the invitation states otherwise because it's what the deceased would have wanted).  And guess what? Here in the Antipodes we also have shops, and you could have quite easily slipped into one of the many boutiques in the city and bought something that was at least halfway decent.  Saying you've never been to many funerals just doesn't cut it with this cynical old blogger, I'm afraid.  Did this pair of show ponies honestly think it was okay to rock up to a funeral in what appeared to be PVC cut three sizes too small, thus making the bosom jut out the top and wobble about so that it looked like there were two bald men having sex in there?  And it's this distasteful gaffe that's got people talking, myself included, instead of the service for the deceased.

Now for my next rant.  There has been much criticism of our PM for winking during a filmed radio interview, which just happened to be while the caller was describing herself as a 67 year old who was doing phone sex to make ends meet.  Abbott's spin doctors, surely the most stressed and busiest people in Australia, have said it was in response to a signal from the radio presenter, and Abbott was giving the okay to continue.  I'm actually willing to give Abbott the benefit of the doubt here; it does make sense to me.  But by the living Harries, it was creepy to watch.  Next time, Abbott, how about you just nod, okay?   The winking was as nauseating and shudderworthy as discovering bats having sex in your hair.  Okay, so the Prime Ministerial spin team has hopefully got his body language sorted out.  Their next brief, and one for which I do not envy them, is to explain why there have been 80 billion dollar cuts to education, juxtaposed to his daughter receiving a $60,000 scholarship from a board upon which one of his liberal donors sits in order to complete her design degree. 

Okay, have been shmoozing like a pro, and will be giving a talk at the library in a few weeks.  Have also been onto some other libraries in the Hunter Valley.  I'm tired.  My leave is almost over.  I will return to paid work next week.  I'd rather be drinking margaritas on a yacht in the Bahamas, personally.

Out to Launch

I sit at the laptop on a Sunday evening, two nights having passed since the official launch party of 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth'.  I am plum exhausted.  You know, the launch didn't go late, but so much adrenaline and emotional energy goes into the day, and it's left me tuckered out.  I also went to a friend's house for dinner and it was a late one.  I didn't drink, as I was driving, but I am soooooo tired now.  Years ago, a weekend of such high social octane calibre would not have affected me.  Now, it does.  I am tired.  I am emotional. Friday was all go-go-go from finalising my speech, to collecting the ice and deli platters from the supermarket, to setting up the art gallery, to figuring out how to make a separate playlist on my iPod for the glam.  Bless the friends who helped me.  Bless, and I mean BLESS! - the manager of the art gallery, a totes music tragic, who brought along a collection of 70s records that could have sunk the Titanic.  Through hte evening it transpired he used to roadie for Supernaut (remember THEM?!!).  I just basked in the reflected glory from my possie at the signing table (hey, it was Supernaut!).  Bless too my children for behaving themselves.  The youngest did earn a mighty scolding at the beginning of the night when he switched the playlist on the iPod.  Bless me for not stuffing up during my reading.  I had warned my kidlets their mother would be reading some swear words and sexual content during the night (nobody wants to hear their mother talking about sexual stuff in public, really).  Someone told me they didn't flinch.  Bless too the little one for his comic timing.  He stood at the podium as people took their seats and said, 'Everybody be quiet, please!'  (Well, it was cute, okay?).  Actually later on I hugged my oldest at home and asked was he proud of Mum (that's me, always fishing for compliments), and he said, 'Mum, you shouted those swear words like a professional bogan.'  I think I might have channelled the Alpha Male Bogan who lives across the road from us.  Seriously, you should have heard him this afternoon.  I'm surprised you didn't.  Effing and blinding at his missus, and shouting he'd end up back in gaol owing to his criminal record.  Someone clearly got jack of the prick, and called the cops about a domestic, because a paddy wagon rolled into our street.  Unfortunately, it didn't take him away.  But back to the launch story.  The launch that is now over, leaving me feeling like a burst whoopee cushion.  The hard work begins now; convince others to read this tome.  I have this coming week off so alert the media is high on the agenda.

It's been a HUUUUUGE weekend, and it ends with one tired writer sitting here, still gasping from an incident when I dropped off some kids who had played at our houes today.  One of the children decided to microwave popcorn as her mum and I had a cuppa.  I think the packet must have said 40 seconds, and she took this to mean 4 minutes.  When the microwave beeped, my friend opened teh door, and the room was engulfed in billowing clouds of acrid smoke.  We gasped, our eyes streamed, we dry-retched and stumbled around, feeling as though the Hun had given us a good blast of mustard gas.

Before I go, I have one question.  Must every dislikeable character, or unsympathetic character in a work be a heterosexual WASP type?  I have received a request on FB to petition the ABC to stop screening 'Jonah from Tonga'.  Stop the racial discrimination, this petition implores.  Now, I haven't seen this show.  I did see the Chris Lilley show 'Summer Heights High', wherein Jonah makes his first appearance.  You know what?  I laughed my guts out.  Know what else?  My first impression of Jonah was that he was a disruptive pain in the arse of a kid.  The fact that he is meant to be Polynesian is just not relevant, and it just gives Jonah more depth as a character.  I don't believe for five minutes it is Lilley's intention to vilify the entire Islander culture and race.  I don't believe his character Ricky Wong is meant to be representative of all Chinese students studying in Australia.  I don't belive that character he did of Pat, the Rolling Housewife, represents all middle aged, middle class women in Australia.  So, if anyone is thinking of sending me a petition to have this show removed, don't waste your time.  I will admit to not having seen this show, but from what I've seen of Jonah in other Lilley vehicles, I just think everyone is So. Missing. The. Point.

Counting Down, and Elephant

There are times when 'tis prudent to see if there is a circus in town, and if there is, check to see whether they use the outdated and unpopular entertainment of animal acts.  If they do, then let them know they might just want to check and see if the elephant has escaped, because it would appear to be in the room of what appeared to be an art gallery that was featured in aYou Tube clip to which a friend referred me.  This clip was of Yoko Ono's, um interpretation of the Daft Punk song 'Get Lucky'.  Now, an elephant made an appearance years ago when the Yoke-ster recorded 'Walking on Thin Ice'.  I daresay this new elephant is its offspring.  I am unsure what power John Lennon wielded over the recording studio (which must have almost had its equipment go into meltdown after being subjected to the caterwauling that comprises 'Thin Ice').  John possibly had quite a lot of say in what was to happen re his wife's music (hah!) career, and maybe nobody had the gumption to tell him his wife's vocals were like cats fucking as fingernails scrape a blackboard.  Truly, John was an intelligent and perceptive man with heart and soul, and musically brilliant, but ye Gods, surely the man had ears and could hear the godawful racket Yoko produced?  Everybody probably sat around lauding and applauding like born-agains at a tent revival, as they battled for breathing space and elbow space from being squashed by the ever-growing pachyderm that was encroaching on all physical space, and that pachyderm was not to be mentioned under any circumstances.

Now, the elephant's baby is in the room, to wit, this gallery or whatever in which a microphone was installed for Yoko to perform 'Get Lucky'.   She approaches the mike as those familiar chords are played.  She grips the mike stand.  She opens her mouth so wide it would appear she is going to actually fellate the elephant in the room.  And then, oh God, and then it starts.  The strangled, hideous noise that continues in bursts and roars, and sounds like she is alternately channelling the soundtrack of a porno movie, and a horror movie.  I tell you, it has overtaken Madonna's 'American Pie' for most pointless, hideous remake of a song every.

My youngest son is a fan of Pharrell Williams and of Daft Punk.  Both my sons are fond of pointing out I have the worst singing voice ever.  Yesterday afternoon, I said, 'Children, there is a lady who sings worse than Mum.'  My oldest, a gun mathematician, denied the stastical and physical possibility of this.  So, with my husband's laptop connected to the HMDI of the television, I went to the You Tube channel and played them the clip, and they looked on our television with interest.  Then, a few bars into it, my youngest screamed, 'Turn it off!'  I turned it off and looked at my children.  The oldest was flattened against the back of the lounge from the forceful velocity of the utter badness, and my youngest son looked as though he were replicating Edvard Munch's 'The Scream'. 

Anyway, I am counting down to the launch of 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' tomorrow night, and ticking off the list.  Yesterday I found a Glam CD in Big W for $2.00. My husband and I played 'My Coo Ca Choo' and danced.  Our oldest saw us, and said, 'That's just disturbing,' and slunk away.  But hubby and the art gallery manager have conspired to create a great ambience; the art gallery manager is going to bring along some of his T-Rex album covers for decorations.  It is the little things like this that humble me, and put a lump in my throat. 

But I have organised the cash float, and bought myself something to use as a cash box.  I am now off to purchase the beer.

Is It A Holiday, Really?

Is a holiday spent working on your project still a holiday?  Forgive the airy-fairy existential opening question to this post, but I'm wondering.  I am enjoying what is officially the first day of a two week vacation, but I am at my local library googling phone numbers for a local cafe to do sandwiches for my Friday night launch, the number of the venue I have booked; I want to ask if they have an iPod dock as I'm thinking of blaring some glam rock to the literati when they arrive.  Well, blaring might not be a good idea.  Just play it at a level where they can still talk to each other but get a 'vibe' for the book, 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' (http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm).  If you're not coming to my launch, and chances are if you're reading this you aren't, click on that link and read the first chapter, and then you can go to the shopping cart icon of the publisher's website, and click 'purchase' or 'buy', or whatever it is they have there.  I cannot find the number of the cafe I want, they might trade under another name, but what the heck-a-roonie, I can just pop by and speak to them.  Also on this ever-increasing to-do list is to enquire about an antipasto platter from the local supermarket.  The menu for Friday night has been written out.  It did start off with the pork-and-prawn spring rolls that have made my husband and I very popular with our friends, but I have since scored through that line with my pen.  To the potential attendees, I am deeply sorry about this.  The spring rolls are always a hit, but by the Almighty Lord On His Throne Above, they are fiddly to prepare, and along with buying the ice, making sure there is a strong enough receptacle to hold the melting ice (last time I had a cheap bucket of pliable ice and water leaked as the ice melted and challenged the intregrity of the bucket, and the staff at the venue were a tad worried), setting up seats, and making sure I don't leave the colorant in my hair too long, there is enough to keep me occupied.  As to the colorant, hubby has requested Julianne Moore red, if you're interested.  I think that might be a tad too dark for me.  I do not want to look like a red-headed Goth at my launch.

If you've been following my bleatings of late, you will know my computer hard drive took a good thumping from the mixture of slurry and water and general muck that coursed through my house after a freak storm on Anzac Day (I didn't get to the Dawn Service this year!).  This is why I'm researching and blogging at the library.  Hubby does have a lap top, but it is prone to overheating.  This is of course due to two Gen Y-ers in the house who are coming to understand the concept of not being stuck at an electric gadget all day.  As loathe as I am to use the phrase 'back in my day', I must tell them that 'back in my day, we watched whatever your pop wanted to watch, and if we whinged we ran the risk of a swat across the bum from Pop's slipper!'  Still, might be able to buy a new one soon-ish.  Hubby has informed me he has spoken to the insurer, and they will email a list of things to be replaced, and we have to provide a dollar figure as to their value.  This means I have to work out how much to replace fifteen years worth of Mad magazine, probably. 

Well, I must away.  So many little things catch my mind of late.  I see headlines on breakfast television that say, 'Monica Lewinksy Speaks Out'.  Well, I guess now she can.  After all, it would have been difficult to speak out when her mouth was full of POTUS penis.  That snarkiness aside, I always felt sorry for her during this scandal.

Trying to find out who is, and who is not coming along on Friday night is occupying what passes for a mind on me of late.  Know what gets up my shnoz a bit?  Someone said to me, when I mentioned to her my launch, 'They're just kids' books, aren't they?'  Well first of all, no.  I write adult satire (not surprising given I was once an avid collector of Mad magazine).  And I hate the qualifier 'just'.  I feel it devalues the work of people who do generally work in children and young adult fiction.  Not sure about the young, young stuff like 'Where Is The Green Sheep', but that's not to say the author has to come up with a rhythm and cadence to get kids to learn to talk.  My oldest toilet-trained as I read about the Green Sheep to him.  The author of this book seems to think everything I do as a parent is wrong, I'll wager!

Well, as aforesaid, I must away.

In Pursuit of Publicity

There is no fun to be had in trying to publicise your book when you have recently had a small scale tsunami assault your abode.  None.  None at all.  I am actually in my local library trying write this post, because as you will be aware, my computer's hard drive took an unwanted bath on Anzac Day.  I do not feel like fiddle-farting at my husband's laptop later, so I'm sitting in the library hissing at my kids to play nicely on the play station, and not to bother me for anything else out of the vending machine.  Someone today told me I sound like a committed mother.  I think I am more like a mother who is about to be committed.  Hands up who likes having all their clothing shoved in various laundry baskets all over the house and being unable to locate anything?  Yes, just as I thought: there is an underwhelming show of hands out there.

The other day, I lifted the lid to a trunk which had contained photographs.  The whiff that kicked the olfactory was akin to what must have greeted any stake-armed hunters after opening the lid to the vampire's coffin.  I pulled on the rubber gloves, and got out the photographs, albums, toys.  Mold was forming on the inner walls of the box, so I wiped it out with white vinegar, tea tree oil, and oil of cloves.  I am quite the environmentally friendly little cleaner-upper when I am in the rare mood to clean.  I am just going to throw out the photographs that are all clumped together.  Fortunately, other photographs survived.  The ones at the top of the pile, that is.  My wedding album wasn't in that box, thank the Lord.  I found an old black and white photograph of me.  I am about three or four years old, wearing checked overalls, and standing in the back yard of my old childhood home, holding a rope attached to the halter of one of my father's horses.  I see so much of my younger son in the shy-yet-sly smile I am giving the camera.  Some photographs made me a little misty-eyed, like ones with my late mother and late father-in-law.  Some made me wonder what I had been thinking at the time I pressed the shutter: I had no recollection of the people in the subject, and remembered they were friends of friends, and ergo not worth bothering over, and into the garbage bag they will go.

Was all geared up to pre-record a radio interview yesterday.  The journalist was delayed.  I was going to just try and re-schedule when teh decision was taken from me: the school advised Number One Son had had an injury in the playground.  Well, he won't watch where he is going when playing handball and run into a bench, will he?  So, I ended up with him at the surgery where he was given three stitches and advised no soccer this weekend.  This is the same kid who on Thursday asked me to help with his homework that had to be typed.  He had a paragraph to be typed, and I said we would go to the library to do this.  I typed it.  He said the teacher had said it had to be at least two pages.  I looked at him and said, in the hallowed sanctuary that is the library, 'You are shitting me, right?' So I had to wait for him to do his homework, and bang went our other plans to visit an op shop to purchase some cheap blankets to replace ones ruined in the flood.

But launch coming up this Friday.  I hope people are practising their 'mwahs', and saying 'faaaaabulous!'

The Week of the Dumb-Arse

This would appear to be the Week of the Dumb-Arse.  If I had a desk calendar, I'm sure there would be a notation to this effect. Seriously, they're everywhere.  Dumb-arses.  Take last night's unruly interruption from what appeared to be a Central Casting provided mob on 'Q & A'.  Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed hearing from the other Yoofs, who could get a point across eloquently and without the need to interrupt their opponent.  Yes, I know Chris Pyne comes across as an old maid who has just been offended in church, but did you think that raucous behaviour was going to help your cause?  What was your cause, anyway?  Does anyone know, or was everyone too gob-smacked by the utter stupidity of your carry-on, and is everyone, like me, living in fear that (sc)Abbott will use that gutter-level behaviour to swoop upon the opportunity like an owl swooping upon a mouse wandering across a wheat field in the night, and deny funding to the ABC?  Think about your actions, kiddies. Please.

Next up in the Imbecilic Cab Rank is whoever decided to ban cigarettes in Queensland gaols.  Given this would probably be someone operating under the auspice of the numbnuts Campbell Newman, I should not be surprised.  Now, I know people out there think prisoners should not be given privileges.  I say privileges should be earned in order to rehabilitate and reduce any chance of recidivism.  In an ideal world, there would be no cigarettes.  But this world is not idea.  Nay, it is a cesspit of fuckwittery much of the time, and banning cigarettes in a prison is an example of this.  Why?  Well, have you ever seen anyone go through nicotine withdrawal?  Can you imagine this happening in an intitution chockers with hardened and potentially violent men?  Surely just leave the ciggies and keep the peace and harmony.

And if you're only now hearing about the street punch-up between James Packer and David Gyngell, let me welcome you back from the Moon.  I hope you're acclimatising to the Earth's gravitational pull okay, without too many ill side effects.  As well as the boganish buffoonery of two grown, middle-aged men who have had more opportunites in life than most of us have had hot dinners acting like common thugs, I dispair at the newspaper that devoted no less than nine, count 'em: NINE, pages to this incident.  There were headlines like 'David vs Goliath'.  Seriously?  David vs Goliath?  How was this a David vs Goliath battle?  As far as I can tell, the adversaries in this battle are similar in build, give or take a few schooners of beer.  Unless, the Goliath reference is because they behaved like a pair of Philistines.  Who wants to see photo upon water-marked photo of James Packer in a pair of trackie daks that thankfully didn't fall down and show an expanse of butt crack in the fracas?  Who else doesn't believe Gyngell's spin that they are still friends?  That ain't warm rain running down your leg, folks, trust me.  The worst job to have at the moment must be the spin doctors to Packer and Gyngell.  But what's really got me grinding the teeth is while the newspaper devoted nine pages to a pair of rich pratts brawling, there was only a tiny article about the 270-odd Nigerian school girls who have been kidnapped with a view to be sold as slaves or wives. 

And people wonder why I get so pissed off?

Today's Post Flood Vagaries

I am sitting here typing away on my husband's laptop, with my soon-to-be-13yo on the lounge beside me. A British show is on.  It's called 'Embarrassing Bodies'.  Tonight's ep is focusing on teenage sexuality.  The doctor has just rolled a condom over a dildo at a contraception expo type event.  I am not embarrassed.  I am pleased my son is comfortable enough to sit here and watch this with me, and by God I hope he's taking notice.  Maybe he's not comfortable. Maybe he's burning like phosphorus on the inside.  I do not want to give him the 'icks' by asking, and I would rather he take some notice of the issues raised on this show. 

He will soon go to bed and I will give a look to 'Q&A'.  Will I be impressed by the guests, or understand why Elvis Presley shot the television?  We will see; we will see.

So much to do this week. Tomorrow I am conducting an interview with the local rag about the upcoming official launch of 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth'.  I have washed my hair in an attempt to make it look nice for the photograph they will undoubtedly take, your not-so-humble author posing decorously with the book held up, probably close to her face.  I am to conduct a radio interview at some time, too.  I have not forwarded a list of conditions such as 'Ms Bailey not being drawn in to conversation about the time she squeezed between the turnstile of the local pool one night when aged 17, accompanied by a few friends, and some vigilant Neighbourhood Watch type telephoned the police.  This was so not good.  It scared the living snot out of me.  I am sure one of the guys who was in on this silly prank still wakes up screaming remember the floodlights coming on when he was outside the Ladies change room urinating against the wall.

Getting back on with it, moving back in to our house post-flooding incident.  The mayor told us he would send an engineer to inspect the drainage system in this street.  As well as doing something about the drains, we might want to consider something about the brain-dead retards that infest this town.  This goes out to the cock head who came screaming down the hill just after that phenomenal flood on Anzac Day.  I don't know if I mentioned before, but I live at the bottom of a hill that T-intersects with a street that has quite a prounounced camber, and of course the water probably didn't have much choice but to do what it did.  I am not an expert in hydro-dynamics, but I kind of get what happened.  What I do not get is why the deadshit in the Pajero (or similar vehicle) came screaming down the hill just after the rain with the sole intention of creating an almighty splash akin to a Red Sea parting either side of his vehicle.  Doing this created an almighty wash that sent water rippling, guess where?  My normally civilised, mild-mannered husband made several large, splashy strides through the lagoon and shouted after the idiot, 'DON'T SEND MORE WATER INTO OUR HOUSE, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!'  I don't know if this imbecile is reading this.  More likely having it read to him, when you think about it, but here's a message: Can you not breed?  That would be good.

Coming Home

Well, having been a guest of a local motel for six nights, last night the boys and I spent the first night in our own home after that friggin' deluge that coursed through on the morning of Anzac Day. And I thought I'd be okay.  I was for a while, but ended up having a mini-meltdown and wondered had there finally been a straw laden that would send the poor camel to the spinal unit of Royal North Shore Hospital.  It's all well and good to say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but I didn't sign up to be Charles Atlas.  But tonight I shoved the buds of my iPod in my ears, played some tunes, and just got on with the washing up.  And I bopped away to some AC/DC.  Speaking of music, why do the compilation albums put out for Mothers' Day all feature 'luminaries' such as Michael Buble (who I do rather like, admittedly), Cliff Richard, or Celine Dion?  'Make Mum happy this Mothers' Day,' the ads gushingly tell us.  Children, if you're reading this and give Mum a Celine album, Mum will smile sweetly and the very minute you're out of the house, teach the infernal CD to fly.  But tonight, bopping away as I washed and dried, reminded me music is a healer. Unless it's Celine Dion.

But again, it's just us.  No cleaners or anybody in the house.  It's weird to see strangers picking up your destroyed stuff.  I saw my milk crate of old records set up for photographing, and gave thanks that it was my Slade at the forefront, and the Charles Aznavour belonging to my sister that somehow found its way into my crate was hidden among the discs.  I felt horribly embarrassed when the cleaner picked up the sodden 'Fifty Shades Of Grey', and hastened to advise I had the read the book for research in order to commentate on the blog I run, and that I thought it was 'the worst fucking book I've ever read'.  My exact words to the pleasant natured guy charged with clearing my ruined stuff, and cleaning and applying anti-bacterial solution to my water-logged house.  'Don't worry,' said the man, 'my missus read it and she thought it was shit, too.'

Life can suck so.  The government are currently sucking like rent boys in industrial vacuum cleaners.  Whaddya mean, work to 70?  I reckon Joe Hockey et al are planning to work people until they drop down dead thus negating the need for the payment of the aged pension.  I'm onto your little game, Hocks; you won't get away with these dastardly shenanigans.  I've got a few ideas for getting the budget back to surplus: tax the Churches, and cut the politicians' perks like the free trips in business class to which their KIDS are entitled.  Why are they so determined to make the struggling people suffer even more, if the initial indications of the CoA's recommendations are anything to go by?

Bah, I'm going to bed after my shower.  I might watch this show the male contingent of the house are watching. It's a reality show called 'First Dates'.  It's British.  It's got ore car crash potential than Mt Panorama on a wet day.  One guy being interviewed about himself said he didn't want his 'dates' to know he has slept with 250+ women.  On the count of three, after me: One, Two, Three: HELLO?  Is this dork unaware he's just told the viewing audience of however many?  I don't care who he's bumped uglies with, I reckon he was just trying to brag.