This is my blog, and upon this blog I do a helluva lot of bitching. Today will probably be no different - I'm sure bitchiness will appear. Oh, perhaps I should deal with it just now - and it's one of my usual beefs which is the inane questions being asked on breakfast television. The one I heard this morning related to some people who had welfare payments suspended whilst they were overseas. My guess is they might not have liaised properly with Centrelink regarding their reporting conditions. But naturally it was blown waaaaay out of proportion, and the question was put to the viewer: 'Should people on Centrelink payments be allowed to travel overseas?' No, I didn't just make that up. And being a woman of sound intelligence and with a modicum of compassion, and a fuckload of cynicism, I am pretty confident this question is designed to appeal to the base element of the viewing audience, who consider themselves to be the little Aussie battler who has to fight for everything they've got and who hates refugees and bludgers. The tone of the answers appears to be in the negative. The underlying sentiment appears to be 'I can't afford to travel, so why should they be allowed to?' Well, the keyword here is 'allowed'. If a judge has not confiscated someone's passport whilst they are on bail, then that person is allowed to travel, and it is nobody's damned business how they came by the money to purchase a ticket. As well as budgeting, there are things called inheritances, winnings on a horse race (and everyone will whinge because we all know people on welfare shouldn't be allowed to gamble - pfffft! gimme a break!), et al. Shame on the television show for asking such an inflammatory question, and stop pissing down people's legs as you attempt to pass it off as rain, okay? I don't care if someone on welfare travels. Good luck to them. I'm more worried about highly paid politicians rorting and claiming all sorts of perks and lurks. To the people who complain that they cannot afford an airline ticket, so 'they' shouldn't be travelling either, I say this: I don't have a bum like Beyoncé's, and I want one so therefore all you people who are genetically blessed with great glutes, or who take the time to do multitudinous leg curls and squats and not pig out on camembert on crackers - you can't have a great arse like Beyoncé, either. See how much sense this makes? Then connect the dots and stop dumping shit on people who happen to have found a way to buy an airline ticket.
But I won't let it spoil my day. Nor did I let my downtown-Syria-looking bathroom spoil my day (and believe me, it has really been getting me down lately, but Mr Bingells has been out pricing sheeting). I looked at my shitty bathroom today and muttered, 'You can't upset me today.' You know why it can't upset me? Because every now and then something happens and you are reminded about what's really important in the world. Two days ago Master 15 handed me a note from his school advising he would be getting an award at the end of year assembly. I am exceedingly proud. That same afternoon I took Master 12 to the presentation for his dance school. We sat through the awards, and then the principal announced the encouragement awards were to be handed to the boy and girl who were doing well, were a little bit shy, just needed that extra encouragement, and the boy who won was - yeah - MINE. In the split second before his name, I thought it wouldn't be him because he's not especially shy. But - drum roll - it was HIS name, and up he got. He did not walk to the stage. He sashayed and strutted like the most vain peacock ever to be hatched from an egg. He clasped his hands into the self-congratulatory gesture of old as he walked, er, sashayed. He received his trophy, said loudly he wished to thank his mum and dad, gave me the thumbs up from the stage, then struck a Zoolander 'Blue Steel' type post with the trophy held aloft. He cracked up the audience, that's for sure. I think his line of thinking is he might not be the most accomplished dancer at the school, but by the Living Harries, he's the one everyone will remember.
Today he competed in his school talent quest, having successfully passed the audition process. I didn't know if I'd get there in time because I was rostered to work. I drove there as quickly as the speed limit would allow, muttering, 'Nice blinker, fuckwit. Nice checking of your blind spot, fuckwit' to the, well, fuckwit who pulled over without indicating just near Big W, and went to do a turn back into traffic as I went past. I got to the school, hurried to the hall, and quietly made my way in so as not to disturb the three girls performing a skit on stage. I sat just behind Mr Bingells, who whispered to me, 'You missed him. He was brilliant!'. This saddens me to have missed him, especially since again he mounted the stage as though to the manner born, and gave his name and said, 'Is my dad in the audience? Put your hand up, Dad!' Then he danced like a veritable Mr Bojangles. Whether he has earned a placing, I don't know - the winners and runners up are to be announced on Friday.
Disturbing Fact Of The Day: today I learned my younger son shares the same name as one of the band members of Bucks Fizz, those saccharine twerps who inflicted upon us 'Making Your Mind Up', sugary confection that won that particular year's Eurovision Song Contest, and makes one wonder what in hell the other acts must have been like!
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