It is difficult to try and unleash the creative juices while I'm watching the clock because I'm collecting Master 11 from the cinema at 3.15pm (it's currently 2.37pm AEST), and Mr Bingells and Master 15 are sanding the windowsill of the bathroom, which is just next to the computer/dining room. I'm enjoying, more or less, a freaking chilly Queen's Birthday Weekend. I took Master 15 to my home town yesterday to watch the Festival of the Fleeces. If you're new to this blog, and haven't heard of this spectacle: yes, there is such a thing. My late father was of the view the 'only thing stupider than sheep running down the street is the idiots who watch' - hahaha! But what the heck, it's fun. And it draws a crowd. The spectacle started with a warning from the booth announcer for the children to not have their feet beyond the barrier (huh? It's not like Pamplona!), and a welcome from an auntie elder of the local indigenous tribe, the Kamilaroi people. There was an interdenominational blessing of the sheep (hoo boy!), and then they were off and, um, NOT racing. No, they just meandered along at a rather leisurely pace, and when it was over, I took my son to the pub that had been owned by my grandmother to show him where his mother used to play as a child. The railing and newel post of the staircase has not changed, nor has the carpet upstairs. It's the same carpet from when I was a kid! We went out to the large verandah/balony structure, and I confessed to my son it was over that very railing his uncle, one of his second cousins, and myself had spent some devilish time spitting on the parked cars in the street below. In hindsight, I should perhaps be glad of his technology addiction; I'd rather he play on the x-box than hack on motor vehicles. I have a reasonable excuse: I was only about six and therefore easily led. On a brighter note, I was able to incorporate this gruesome activity into my upcoming novel 'Howling On A Concrete Moon', which is in the queue for edit with my publisher. Also, it was touching to see a photograph of my father in his buckjumping hey-day had been placed on the wall of the main bar (the tiles of which have not changed since I was a pre-schooler).
This goes out to the dick who honked and flipped me off at McDonald's this morning. First of all, and ask this as respectfully as you deserve: mate, what is your fucking problem? Gentle reader, here is the scenario: I drove through the drive-thru and ordered two cappuccinos for Mr Bingells and myself. I was requested to park in Bay 1, which I did. Wholly and entirely; my entire vehicle was in that spot designated for drive-thru-ers whose order might take a few minutes. Anyway, this deadshit in a - I'm not sure what - pulled up beside me and motioned for me to turn, and I get the impression he was trying to communicate he couldn't see around me. Or perhaps he was trying to give directions for a plane to land. Dude, I was in a parking bay; go around me! So I shook my head, and indicated for him to keep going, wondering all the while was he some kind of idiot, and could he not see I was parked in the first of the series of parking bays. So I watched this imbecile continue to travel, he was scowling and muttering - I don't read lips but I'm guessing he wasn't saying, 'Gracious me, I appear to have erred and I have right of way and must keep driving, whilst that hot mama is sitting there in the parking bay where she is entitled to be when awaiting her order' - and he stuck his paw out the window and made the age-old gesture with raised finger. I'm certain he was not suggesting I look heavenward because there was a hot air balloon over head, or perhaps he had had a skywriter leave me a message to have a good day.
Now, aside from the needlessness of his stupid behaviour, what really gets my molars grinding is this: having had a good look at the knob-end, I'm pretty sure it is his wife who is the worst vehicle parker in town! Before my kid started catching the school bus, I would drive to the school to collect him, and often arrive first. Upon my arrival I would gentle pull over to the kerb and park no more than the legal allowance to the corner of the road. I would listen to the radio and wait for the bell. But more often than not, my solitude was shattered and destroyed as though by a lobbed frag when this woman in a van would go by, pull up with a squeal of brakes that sounded like mass murder in the pigpen, and then clumsily fishtail the van in a backward motion, making me fear for the front bumper of my car. The van would come to an abrupt halt, leaving a cat's whisker of space to spare between our vehicles, and she would alight and strut off to the playground, leaving me wondering why she would park illegally, and fuming that she was blocking the view of all and sundry with her illegally parked people mover.
It is for this reason I would submit the dickface in the turd mobile at Maccas this morning had no call getting huffy with me.
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