Images

This frigging cold's been hanging around like an annoying drunk at a party.  You know the type I mean: thinks you're impressed about his (minimal) knowledge of current affairs and that you're agog that he knows Troy Cassar Daly.  I've had such a beast in my face at a 50th a while back, and given my dislike of country music and slurring drunks, naturally didn't give a rat's ring that he knew Troy Cassar Daly.  It's almost gone - I've been sleeping better and no longer reliant on Codrals.  What I have discovered is if I go to another pharmacy in town, I can select my Codrals from the shelf and pay at the till with no questions asked, and go about my business without feeling like I'm reporting at the cop station pursuant to some bail conditions.  But I'm still at that stage where I wake up, and fantasise about when I can next lie down. 

But can't quite do that because I've got to give a talk to the U3A about writing this afternoon, and my topic is imagery.  I've prepared some rudimentary notes, and I'll wing it.  Perhaps my comparison of a malingering cold to an annoying drunken party bore would make a good example?

I've also committed to helping a local art student restructure an essay today.  So that will blow apart at the seams a chance of a good snooze, too.

Perhaps I should have had an earlier night, but Jeez-Louise, Professor Brian Cox was on 'Q & A' last night, and oh my giddy aunt, is he a dreamboat, or what?  I have been crushing majorly on him for ages, and I just sat enthralled at what he had to say, even if I didn't understand some of it, not being blessed with the brilliant physicist's mind he has.  Loved the bit about time slowing on the watch when one is moving quickly.  I THINK I understood it.  I don't know if this is within the realm of physics, but I fear I may have constructed a bimbo force-field where he is concerned.  I am concerned about this, because I really hate women who do this in the presence of the male of the species.  I've known some reasonably smart women who would reduce to giggling, inferior, B-class things so as not to appear to bright or threatening.  I cannot knowingly do this.  Take me as I am, or not at all. A lot of this insidious phenomena was observed during the Eighties, when I worked at a place specialising in insurance law, and compensation claims.  We acted for the epitome of Eighties Corporate Greed - the insurance companies who would have had Gordon Gecko jizzing himself.  Occasionally, the office would have a party for the clientele: a bunch of boozing buffoons whose own senses of attractiveness would become more warped with each passing cocktail.  I was introduced by one of the solicitors, and some slob drooled, 'What a good looking sort!'  I arched my eyebrow, a la Roger Moore as James Bond (this was probably the gamut of his encapsulation of Bond), and snottily replied, 'Brains, too.'

Well, unless you've just woken up, it's RIP and Vale to Gough Whitlam.  What a superior dude.  People of a certain age always remember 11 November 1975.  I remember this miserable specimen of a nun, a nasty piece of work who should have been garrotted with her own rosary beads, sticking her veiled head into our classroom and gleefully crying, 'They've sacked Whitlam!'  This was probably the only time Sister Mary-Slag ever smiled, now that I think of it.  She maliciously gloated at the downfall of a man who introduced Medicare, free university education, indigenous recognition, no-fault divorce, abolition of conscription, needs-based education funding, arts funding, and legal aid, among other things.  In hindsight, she probably didn't like him because he was helping unmarried mothers and divorcees.  Will we ever have another visionary like him again, or are we stuck with the imbeciles we have now?