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.