So many things to be pissed off about lately. Where does one begin? There's no beginning, and no end, it seems. I'm pissed off because I've been clouted with what is an irksome, albeit mild, dose of flu. My nasal passages are throbbing, and feel as though some cruel prick has shoved a softball up there. My throat feels as though some near-sighted welder has aimed his oxy-torch down it. My head's been aching, and sleep is only a nodding (not nodding-off) acquaintance. I did have a very pleasant weekend, staying en famille in Dubbo and doing touristy things before a family dinner (SIL's 50th birthday). Took the fruits of my womb to Old Dubbo Gaol, which they enjoyed, as did I. I stood in the claustrophobic darkness of what had been the solitary confinement cell - the blackness was like a thick blanket. I heard other visitors approach and look at the cell, and say, 'Nobody's in there.' I briefly toyed with the idea of moaning in a sepulchral voice, 'Who dares disturb the rest of Cut-Throat Annie?', and listening to them scream and take off like scalded cats, their feet not touching the ground. Oh, I know how scary this sort of thing can be. Years ago, before our marriage, Mr Bingells and I were looking into the grille of the door of a very eerie looking crypt in Waverley Cemetary. I jokingly asked, 'See any ghosts in there?' Unbeknownst to us, a small yappy dog (a pomeranian from memory) had sneaked up behind us, and it let forth a series of staccato, high-pitched, and extremely loud yaps. The beloved and I flew into the air, screaming. But I didn't, and I'm kind of pissed off that I didn't. Because it would have been kind of funny. A bit of an unpleasant trick to play, but an exceedingly funny one. Had coffee with an old school friend, which was lovely, and we also looked in a furniture store to get quotes on replacing the furniture we lost in the Anzac Day deluge. The list is almost finished. We can almost submit it. We can almost get some new stuff and not have our clothes in baskets all over the house, which is causing extreme piss-off in your blogger.
The Abbott government is not only pissing me off, it is making me want to club a baby seal (this from an animal lover). Tell me, you clods who sit in Parliament House, are you seriously thinking off offering asylum seekers up to $10,000 to return to country of origin? Are you all retarded? Why do you all consistently ignore the fact asylum seeking is NOT illegal? Why are you all such inhumane snot-buckets? And yet the budget seeks to demonise welfare recipients who are doing it hard, such as the carers of people with disability. The government seeks to forge ahead with the utterly asinine project of the school chaplaincy program. Yeah, that's right. Instead of counsellors trained in mental health, they would sooner install superstitious witch doctors with no relevant experience or training. The negligible constitutional validity of this program has been brought to light, but Abbott's still pushing away, like the buckjumping horse at the gate, just waiting for the gatekeeper to pull that pin (I spent many a weekend at rodeos when I was little - hence the simile).
I went to give a talk at my local library last Thursday night, but nobody seemed to wish to listen to an author that night. Bum. Bum-bum-bumbedy-bum! Oh well, it can't all be beer and skittles. I have been approached by the publicty officer of the library in a nearby town, and been invited to talk to the participants of the University of the Third Age next month. I'm sure I can recycle the speech I prepared for last week.
Finally, a friend has unwittingly reminded me of a song that used to send me abso-freakin'-lutely nucking futs. That song, reader, is 'Laid' by James. That song is not a bad song, per se. Actually, for vocals, delivery, and production value, it's probably pretty good. The message of consuming lust and infatuation, and fixation to the point of boiling a rabbit on the stone, is clear. I didn't mind it at all when I first heard it. When I FIRST heard it. However, my then-flatmate thought it the song to end all songs, and played it on a fucking loop (which is a dose of choice irony, almost send me 'loop'-y). I heard it when I had my morning coffee. I heard it when I ate my toast. I heard it as I stepped from the shower. It tortured me as I brushed my teeth and applied my morning make-up. It was the last thing I heard as I shut the door behind me and ran for the bus (I wasn't running because I was late, but to get away from the noise). It was the first thing I heard as I turned the key in the front door upon my return from work of an early evening. It was in the background as I told my then-flatmate I was one step from grabbing a gun and taking hostages, and never wanted to hear that bloody song again.
Well, I'd best be off and make sure I can find clean things for the kids to wear for school tomorrow, among the piles of washing higgledy-piggledy around my home. All this as my nose drips like an old tap.
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