Memo to: Australian tabloid television media:
From: Me
Re: Shappelle Corby.
Please stop labouring under the misapprehension that we are all agog and sitting on the edges of our seats, fingernails tearing the fabric of the lounge, as we are regaled with each and every aspect of the minutiae of her return to Australia from Bali. We are simply just not. This woman's return is not orgasm-inducing. Far from it. She has done her time as duly (*cough*) imposed by a court in Indonesia. It's over. It's not interesting. It was all over a bunch of weed. Furthermore, the hounding and chasing of her, as you scramble over yourselves to report the car pulled in at the Shell servo for fuel, and the driver paid via paywave before emerging from the building with a packet of Allen's Party Mix and two litres of milk, then pulled into traffic behind a Volvo from which the sounds of Roger Whitaker could be heard, and then just beat the red light as it turned into a side street, is OF NO IMPORTANCE AND NOT IN THE PUBLIC INTEREST!!! As I mentioned, she has done her time and is entitled to be left alone. This cannot be good for her mental health. She does not deserve this absurd scrutiny and it assists nobody. Again, it's over and it was all about a bunch of weed.
Memo to: Margaret Court
From: Me
Re: Your comments re Qantas.
Why did you write a letter to a public newspaper announcing you would no longer fly the airline over their support of same sex marriage? Did you expect homophobic comments to not attract negative attention? If you have an issue with same sex marriage (or as I like to think, human rights), then why not just book a ticket on an alternative airline and keep your mouth shut? Some would suggest you fly on your broom instead. I actually support your right to have your view, but I think your view is offensive. Not expecting a backlash would be naïve in the extreme, and you might be exercising hindsight, which as we all know is 20/20. I recently learned that youth suicide is very high in marginalised sectors such as the LGBTI teenagers, and I don't think the attitude that denies them a right hetero counterparts enjoy, thus making them feel like second-rate citizens, is of much assistance. By the way, that thing you used to do whereby you were a champion sportswoman in your field? I don't give a fuck; I suck at most sports and don't care about them, and that includes tennis.
Memo to: Public calling for the renaming of Margaret Court Arena
From: Me
Re: Renaming of Margaret Court Arena
Why? Oh, I know. She's made some comments that are by and large unpopular. If you read my memo above, you will see that I actually think her stance is an offensive one, too. BUT - and here I am playing Devil's Advocate - should the arena be renamed just because someone has made an unpopular, and somewhat offensive, comment? If she had called for public stoning of homosexuals, I could understand the arena being renamed. However, the funny and pesky thing about free speech is this: you will occasionally be subjected to an opinion with which you don't agree. She was entitled to her opinion, and the arena was named for her formidable sporting prowess and achievement, NOT her politics. We can't go to the expense and drama of renaming things every time someone says something dumb-arsed, can we? To rename the arena is kind of like rewriting history. Furthermore, Tennis Australia and the management of the arena have stated they don't support the Reverend's (yeah, she's a sky pilot now) views, so why make this needless fuss? Just keep enjoying the arena for what it is: a venue where tennis matches are played, and concerts are staged. I will take this opportunity to point out what I said above, being I don't give a fuck about tennis. I do care about knee-jerk reactions.
Memo to: Peter Dutton
From: Me
Re: Your dream of purging the ABC
Poor diddums. Did the ABC hurt-ums feel-wings, did they? There, there, you poor pet. Here's a tissue, I'll hold it over your nose and you give a great big blow. Actually, listening to the crap coming out your mouth is bad enough; I don't want to be holding a snot-cloth over your snout when you expel your toxic nasal mucus into it. Eeeeeuuuuuwww. Anyway, so it's 'one down, many to go' following the axing of the program featuring Yassmin Abdel-Mageid, is it? You want to 'purge the ABC', do you? How about a purging of the clowns in Parliament? You'd be among that wave of fools washing out, that's for sure. I thought Yassmin's Anzac Day tweet was ill-conceived, too, but the way you jizzed your jocks over the show's axing to your boor-in-solidarity Ray Hadley was nausea inducing. You're a gloating prick and the way you treat refugees is nothing short of a disgrace. Oh, and what have you got again the Fairfax media? Is it because they're not fawning over the Liberal party like the toads at News Corpse, whoops, Corps?
Memo to: 2017
From: Me
Re: Scalps you've claimed
Okay, you've taken Gregg Allman. Please don't be a greedy fuck like 2016. Just settle for Gregg Allman, okay? RIP, Gregg. Lord, you were born a ramblin' man.
Memo to: My oldest son.
From: Me
Re: Happy birthday
Sixteen years ago my life changed irrevocably when the midwife placed you on my chest, and you looked up at me with huge, inquisitive, and somewhat indignant eyes as if you were saying, 'What was THAT all about?' I felt a surge of joy, relief, happiness, and protectiveness. Also recognition, a kind of 'so THAT'S what you look like!' I circled my arm around your warm, vernix coated body (you were a few weeks early) and said, 'Hello!', before placing a kiss on the head that was covered with matted black hair. Today you're playing Xbox games and gorging on chips, pizza, and soft drink with two of your mates, and hoping your mum stays well in the background and doesn't cramp your style. As I said, my life changed irrevocably, but I can tell you I wouldn't revoke it for quids!
Saturday 27 May 2017
Monday 22 May 2017
Melancholic Mumblings & Sixty Minutes Sucks
Just lately I've been stricken with a mild melancholic malaise, which alternates with a gnawing, niggling mild anxiety. I suspect these symptoms are the pay-off for having a creative mind, being a member of the Yartz, as Sir Les Patterson was prone to describing the industry. I have friends who are writers who have confided to feeling thus many a time, particularly when a project has a deadline. Thankfully, I can attribute my negative emotions to some social stressors in my life, and when these problems are resolved, I will feel a whole lot better. There are some people causing negativity in my life, true. I haven't come up with any more playlists for them, but promise to work on it because I know you're all perched agog on the edge of your seats, fingernails tearing at the fabric, as you await eagerly my next compilation album for dealing with arseholes.
But there are some things responsible for creating a big downer in me, and I can't explain why they have to happen. Things like nineteen people dead following an explosion at the Ariana Grande concert in Manchester, with people presenting to hospital with injuries consistent with a nail bomb. Truly, why do people have to be such low down scum? Why can't people live and let live? Don't we all have red blood and white bones? Don't we all just want to get on with our lives? Don't like Western civilisation? Fine. Get over it. Don't like adherents to the Islamic faith? Fine. Just get over it, too. Leave each other alone, for fuck's sake.
Also, there are things that just have me grinding my molars. I'm fed up to my freshly washed hair with hearing about Cassie Sainsbury. I'm sick of her family. I'm sick of it all. Dear media and social media ranters: how about letting the Colombian legal system do its job, and just let Cassie's lawyer do his job and advise her accordingly, and let Cassie make her mind up whether to plead guilty or not? But the award for the Most Arsehole Behaviour goes to - drumroll and envelope, please! - 60 Minutes for its cutting edge (*cough* sarcasm! *cough*) and insightful (*cough* also sarcasm! *cough*) ex-poh-ZAY on what Tara Brown (who following a bungled child grabbing attempt has apparently decided it's not really for her), with great gravitas and meaningful pauses between words reported on a 'vital piece' in the puzzle of what she was doing prior to travelling to Colombia, and 'her secret life...' (insert meaningful pause here) '...as a...' (insert another meaningful pause here) '...prostitute'. From memory, Mike Willessee was one for the meaningful pauses, which always made the segments go five minutes longer than they needed to. But pray tell, how is someone doing sex work a 'vital piece' of anything in this case? What was the purpose of this article, other than to create scandal and grab ratings because it would appeal to your viewing audience? It was all tabloid faecal excretion, complete with stock footage of a blonde woman in black lingerie. Cassie's grandmother learned of her granddaughter's second job via 60 Minutes. That Cassie had not told her family what she was doing is pretty indicative that she did not want them to know. And you know something else? That's her right. She doesn't owe anybody the information; it's relative to absolutely nothing. Your so-called journalism is shocking and revolting, and you should hang your stupid swollen heads in shame (after you've looked up 'shame'). Boy how jealous would Woodward and Bernstein be over your Clear-The-Front-Page and Hold-The-Presses scoop? Pffffft!
But, in the wake of this bleakness, life can still hold a surprise. Today I redeemed my iTunes gift card on my iPad. Normally, I type the code in. Today I discovered I can actually photograph the gift code straight away, rather than ferret around for my glasses and look from card to device as I ensure I have the code typed in correctly. It was so quick, and I got myself three songs from the iTunes Store. Gone are the days when my mother would purchase on my behalf an album from the physical music store when she undertook a big shop in the next town (and return with the wrong album). Gone are the days when I grabbed a pencil and wound rogue tape back into the cassette cartridge. The songs I purchased, by the by, are:
1. 'Dancing With Myself' by Billy Idol.
2. 'Fortunate Son' by CCR.
3. 'Ride On Time' by Blackbox.
Yes, three very disparate tunes, but then again, I have a broad, disparate and eclectic taste in music.
But there are some things responsible for creating a big downer in me, and I can't explain why they have to happen. Things like nineteen people dead following an explosion at the Ariana Grande concert in Manchester, with people presenting to hospital with injuries consistent with a nail bomb. Truly, why do people have to be such low down scum? Why can't people live and let live? Don't we all have red blood and white bones? Don't we all just want to get on with our lives? Don't like Western civilisation? Fine. Get over it. Don't like adherents to the Islamic faith? Fine. Just get over it, too. Leave each other alone, for fuck's sake.
Also, there are things that just have me grinding my molars. I'm fed up to my freshly washed hair with hearing about Cassie Sainsbury. I'm sick of her family. I'm sick of it all. Dear media and social media ranters: how about letting the Colombian legal system do its job, and just let Cassie's lawyer do his job and advise her accordingly, and let Cassie make her mind up whether to plead guilty or not? But the award for the Most Arsehole Behaviour goes to - drumroll and envelope, please! - 60 Minutes for its cutting edge (*cough* sarcasm! *cough*) and insightful (*cough* also sarcasm! *cough*) ex-poh-ZAY on what Tara Brown (who following a bungled child grabbing attempt has apparently decided it's not really for her), with great gravitas and meaningful pauses between words reported on a 'vital piece' in the puzzle of what she was doing prior to travelling to Colombia, and 'her secret life...' (insert meaningful pause here) '...as a...' (insert another meaningful pause here) '...prostitute'. From memory, Mike Willessee was one for the meaningful pauses, which always made the segments go five minutes longer than they needed to. But pray tell, how is someone doing sex work a 'vital piece' of anything in this case? What was the purpose of this article, other than to create scandal and grab ratings because it would appeal to your viewing audience? It was all tabloid faecal excretion, complete with stock footage of a blonde woman in black lingerie. Cassie's grandmother learned of her granddaughter's second job via 60 Minutes. That Cassie had not told her family what she was doing is pretty indicative that she did not want them to know. And you know something else? That's her right. She doesn't owe anybody the information; it's relative to absolutely nothing. Your so-called journalism is shocking and revolting, and you should hang your stupid swollen heads in shame (after you've looked up 'shame'). Boy how jealous would Woodward and Bernstein be over your Clear-The-Front-Page and Hold-The-Presses scoop? Pffffft!
But, in the wake of this bleakness, life can still hold a surprise. Today I redeemed my iTunes gift card on my iPad. Normally, I type the code in. Today I discovered I can actually photograph the gift code straight away, rather than ferret around for my glasses and look from card to device as I ensure I have the code typed in correctly. It was so quick, and I got myself three songs from the iTunes Store. Gone are the days when my mother would purchase on my behalf an album from the physical music store when she undertook a big shop in the next town (and return with the wrong album). Gone are the days when I grabbed a pencil and wound rogue tape back into the cassette cartridge. The songs I purchased, by the by, are:
1. 'Dancing With Myself' by Billy Idol.
2. 'Fortunate Son' by CCR.
3. 'Ride On Time' by Blackbox.
Yes, three very disparate tunes, but then again, I have a broad, disparate and eclectic taste in music.
Wednesday 17 May 2017
Dumb-Arsery I Have Observed This Week
If any descendants of Charles Darwin are traversing the blogosphere, and happen upon this post, can you tell me if your ancestor had any theories about reversal of evolution? Please have a look in the old trunks and boxes in the attic; there might be some old notes or parchment on this. You see, I seriously think the human race, as a species, is starting to devolve.
It's a theory that's been circling satellite-like around my brain for a little while now, but phenomena I have observed of late is just lending credence to my long-held theory that the populace is growing sillier by the day. Last night I was online assisting my almost sixteen-year-old son with a job application to a well-known multinational fast food restaurant. The online application form had misplaced apostrophes. Yes, there were apostrophes in plurals. My evening, originally a bonding exercise between mother and son to assist him in finding casual employment thus gaining life skills and independence, became a one-sided slanging match between myself and the unseen author of the damnable application. I suggested to my son should he be granted an interview, discretion would be the better part of valour; don't let on to the interviewer what his mother thought of the dog's breakfast punctuation the applied by the restaurant.
That's one example. The other day I read an article reporting the National Union of Students (a body in England, I believe) has proposed banning 'whooping' and 'clapping' at future events. It is instead proposed that people show hands in the air, or do the jazz hands gesture. I know it is expected students will be subversive, rebellious and want to change the world with brave new ideas. This notion just doesn't make the grade, youngsters of the NUS. You may as well know the truth: it's downright fucking stupid. The argument (hah!) that it might trigger clapping anxiety is really pointless. Anything could be a trigger if confronted by the 'right' person. The other point put forward that it excludes the deaf is also pretty asinine; the deaf community can SEE people clapping. Can you imagine what an auditorium of people doing jazz hands would look like? It would be a crowd of people channelling The Black & White Minstrel Show, or with onset of Parkinson's, or drying their hands in a public loo because those hot air hand dryers are useless, or drying their nail polish, or else shaking away tenacious boogers. And in typing that previous sentence, I daresay I've managed to offend just about everybody.
Now here's another example. Has anyone else heard about the bloke in the US suing a woman he took to the movies for the princely sum of $17.31 after she spent the movie texting on her phone? What is with people? I can't quite decide who's the biggest donkey dick out of the pair of them. When it comes to the female's behaviour, I cannot believe people don't know how ill-mannered it is to pay no attention to your date (or in this case the subject of the date: a movie) when on an outing. I did my courting before the rise of the mobile phone, thankfully. But the bloke: mate, a lawsuit? Seriously? I'm not sure how your civil claims courts work in the US, but here in New South Wales I'm trying to imagine you filing your claim in the Small Claims Court for that pissy amount, and paying the court filing fees which from memory are calculated on a scale pursuant to the amount sought, as well as bailiff fees and calculated interest on the claim. Trying to calculate the amount in the 'TOTAL' section of the Statement of Claim isn't going to be difficult; however, even attempting to fathom that someone would be so imbecilic as to actually DO this is IMPOSSIBLE. You'd be representing yourself because no lawyer I know (and I do not lots and lots) would be so desperate or pond-scum-feeding to take on your matter. If your claim goes ahead, I'm interested to know the legalities of it.
Why not just chalk it up to bad experience and not go out with the asshole again? We've all been there. We don't issue frivolous and vexatious lawsuits over it. I'm trying to imagine some of the Statements of Claim I'd be filing. In the Particulars of Claim section it would read:
'...the claimant was offended when the defendant openly flirted with a waitress and rhapsodised about his ex-wife...'
or:
'...the claimant was subjected to great embarrassment when the defendant made loud racist remarks regarding a group of Japanese tourists who had joined the bus queue...'
or:
'...upon advising the defendant she felt ill, the defendant refuted this. The claimant vomited behind a car and the defendant asked had any bits become lodged in her nostrils, thus causing the claimant to feel even more ill...' Come to think of it, with this one I think that awful date should garner me a damned good settlement! Too bad about that pesky Statute of Limitations thingamabob.
But getting back to the hapless clowns who had that awful date at the cinema. I cannot say this enough: you are a pair of twits. To the woman: put the phone away and have some manners when out on a date. To the man: get over it and don't see her again. To you both: it is probably a good thing Cupid's arrow's didn't land. The notion of you procreating is horrific, and there might be some concerned scribblings in a dusty old box in the attic of one of Charles Darwin's descendants that just might apply here.
It's a theory that's been circling satellite-like around my brain for a little while now, but phenomena I have observed of late is just lending credence to my long-held theory that the populace is growing sillier by the day. Last night I was online assisting my almost sixteen-year-old son with a job application to a well-known multinational fast food restaurant. The online application form had misplaced apostrophes. Yes, there were apostrophes in plurals. My evening, originally a bonding exercise between mother and son to assist him in finding casual employment thus gaining life skills and independence, became a one-sided slanging match between myself and the unseen author of the damnable application. I suggested to my son should he be granted an interview, discretion would be the better part of valour; don't let on to the interviewer what his mother thought of the dog's breakfast punctuation the applied by the restaurant.
That's one example. The other day I read an article reporting the National Union of Students (a body in England, I believe) has proposed banning 'whooping' and 'clapping' at future events. It is instead proposed that people show hands in the air, or do the jazz hands gesture. I know it is expected students will be subversive, rebellious and want to change the world with brave new ideas. This notion just doesn't make the grade, youngsters of the NUS. You may as well know the truth: it's downright fucking stupid. The argument (hah!) that it might trigger clapping anxiety is really pointless. Anything could be a trigger if confronted by the 'right' person. The other point put forward that it excludes the deaf is also pretty asinine; the deaf community can SEE people clapping. Can you imagine what an auditorium of people doing jazz hands would look like? It would be a crowd of people channelling The Black & White Minstrel Show, or with onset of Parkinson's, or drying their hands in a public loo because those hot air hand dryers are useless, or drying their nail polish, or else shaking away tenacious boogers. And in typing that previous sentence, I daresay I've managed to offend just about everybody.
Now here's another example. Has anyone else heard about the bloke in the US suing a woman he took to the movies for the princely sum of $17.31 after she spent the movie texting on her phone? What is with people? I can't quite decide who's the biggest donkey dick out of the pair of them. When it comes to the female's behaviour, I cannot believe people don't know how ill-mannered it is to pay no attention to your date (or in this case the subject of the date: a movie) when on an outing. I did my courting before the rise of the mobile phone, thankfully. But the bloke: mate, a lawsuit? Seriously? I'm not sure how your civil claims courts work in the US, but here in New South Wales I'm trying to imagine you filing your claim in the Small Claims Court for that pissy amount, and paying the court filing fees which from memory are calculated on a scale pursuant to the amount sought, as well as bailiff fees and calculated interest on the claim. Trying to calculate the amount in the 'TOTAL' section of the Statement of Claim isn't going to be difficult; however, even attempting to fathom that someone would be so imbecilic as to actually DO this is IMPOSSIBLE. You'd be representing yourself because no lawyer I know (and I do not lots and lots) would be so desperate or pond-scum-feeding to take on your matter. If your claim goes ahead, I'm interested to know the legalities of it.
Why not just chalk it up to bad experience and not go out with the asshole again? We've all been there. We don't issue frivolous and vexatious lawsuits over it. I'm trying to imagine some of the Statements of Claim I'd be filing. In the Particulars of Claim section it would read:
'...the claimant was offended when the defendant openly flirted with a waitress and rhapsodised about his ex-wife...'
or:
'...the claimant was subjected to great embarrassment when the defendant made loud racist remarks regarding a group of Japanese tourists who had joined the bus queue...'
or:
'...upon advising the defendant she felt ill, the defendant refuted this. The claimant vomited behind a car and the defendant asked had any bits become lodged in her nostrils, thus causing the claimant to feel even more ill...' Come to think of it, with this one I think that awful date should garner me a damned good settlement! Too bad about that pesky Statute of Limitations thingamabob.
But getting back to the hapless clowns who had that awful date at the cinema. I cannot say this enough: you are a pair of twits. To the woman: put the phone away and have some manners when out on a date. To the man: get over it and don't see her again. To you both: it is probably a good thing Cupid's arrow's didn't land. The notion of you procreating is horrific, and there might be some concerned scribblings in a dusty old box in the attic of one of Charles Darwin's descendants that just might apply here.
Sunday 14 May 2017
Happy Mother's Day
Happy Mother's Day to those who have taken time to read this blog, and who have found themselves in the role of motherhood whether that role be brought about by biology, marriage, fostering, adoption, or just plain natural gravitation because you're the motherly type. What did you all get? Flowers? Chocolates? Breakfast in bed? Michael Buble CD? I got none of that. Let me tell you want I got. I got a mild dose of the flu. I believe my oldest gave it to me, and I've almost finished with it and Mr Bingells is about to have a turn.
As well as a nurturer and carer, the role of a parent is that of chauffeur. Yesterday I ferried my oldest to his soccer match, and my youngest to his musical theatre lesson (he doesn't normally have the lessons on a Saturday, but owing to circumstances there was an extraordinary lesson held yesterday). I collected a friend of my youngest to come over and spend time with him. When that time transitioned to sleepover mode, I drove him home to collect his PJs and toothbrush. I also had to drive my son to the cinema where he was to meet a group of friends and view the latest 'Alien' movie. One of his friends was already in the foyer, and I muttered to my son, 'Do you want to introduce me to your friend?' His reply was, 'Not particularly.' Not particularly. My son does not want me to meet his coterie. I know I am the mother of a teenager now. Years ago, I would collect him from preschool, and he would spring up from the mat and race across the room, arms outstretched and gleefully calling, 'Mum-meeeeee!' Now it's insinuated requests that I not go near him and his friends. Notwithstanding I was a potential embarrassment to him in front of his friends, I was still required to drive him home after the movie. This entailed standing well back in the foyer, and trying to blend in with the wall. Trying to get your son to see if any of his friends need a lift home is like trying to extract information from a tight lipped KGB agent. How is it going to embarrass him if I drive his friends home? I just have to blindly accept there is no logic or reason; it just WILL. It's kind of like having faith in a deity. You can neither see nor explain it, but you know it's there.
I try to give my sons advice. It's different for me than it was with my mother; it is the social media generation and I am raising boys. I have to tell them to be respectful, and not expect any future partner to partake in all of the activities they have viewed in some of the more nefarious footage I'm sure they have sneakily viewed when I am not around. So much different to my mother's advice, some of which I'm sure was fallacious. I will share some of her gems:
1. ' If a balloon bursts in your face, it will blind you.' I'm sure this is not true, but to this day I am terrified to blow up a balloon in case the awful thing bursts in my face. When younger, my children endured balloonless birthday parties for this reason.
2. 'You're pretty enough without makeup.' Not true at all. If you'd seen me this morning, clogged up and be-snotted, sans makeup, you'd have been begging me to get out the war paint. Or a paper bag.
3. 'Don't wash your bum and then wash your face.' Now this one makes sense. This is the truest, purest pearl of wisdom from the sagest oyster ever. I have always adhered to this dictum, this paradigm of sagacity, and have imparted it to my own children.
Baloney-riddled adages aside, my mother was a very funny and whacky woman, with a glorious soaring singing voice. She was always clowning around and loved the stage, traits which you can tell were passed on to my younger son (and me, too!). She died from cancer in 1993, aged just sixty-four. I look at my youngest and think how proud she'd have been of his wit and theatricality. I see my oldest and think how proud she would have been of his academic gifts. I grieve for the grandmother and grandsons relationship that never eventuated. Happy Mother's Day, Mum. I've done something right in my life. Written books, like you thought I would, and married a terrific loving guy who's helped me produce a couple of relatively decent human beings.
Happy Mother's Day again, however you've become a mum.
As well as a nurturer and carer, the role of a parent is that of chauffeur. Yesterday I ferried my oldest to his soccer match, and my youngest to his musical theatre lesson (he doesn't normally have the lessons on a Saturday, but owing to circumstances there was an extraordinary lesson held yesterday). I collected a friend of my youngest to come over and spend time with him. When that time transitioned to sleepover mode, I drove him home to collect his PJs and toothbrush. I also had to drive my son to the cinema where he was to meet a group of friends and view the latest 'Alien' movie. One of his friends was already in the foyer, and I muttered to my son, 'Do you want to introduce me to your friend?' His reply was, 'Not particularly.' Not particularly. My son does not want me to meet his coterie. I know I am the mother of a teenager now. Years ago, I would collect him from preschool, and he would spring up from the mat and race across the room, arms outstretched and gleefully calling, 'Mum-meeeeee!' Now it's insinuated requests that I not go near him and his friends. Notwithstanding I was a potential embarrassment to him in front of his friends, I was still required to drive him home after the movie. This entailed standing well back in the foyer, and trying to blend in with the wall. Trying to get your son to see if any of his friends need a lift home is like trying to extract information from a tight lipped KGB agent. How is it going to embarrass him if I drive his friends home? I just have to blindly accept there is no logic or reason; it just WILL. It's kind of like having faith in a deity. You can neither see nor explain it, but you know it's there.
I try to give my sons advice. It's different for me than it was with my mother; it is the social media generation and I am raising boys. I have to tell them to be respectful, and not expect any future partner to partake in all of the activities they have viewed in some of the more nefarious footage I'm sure they have sneakily viewed when I am not around. So much different to my mother's advice, some of which I'm sure was fallacious. I will share some of her gems:
1. ' If a balloon bursts in your face, it will blind you.' I'm sure this is not true, but to this day I am terrified to blow up a balloon in case the awful thing bursts in my face. When younger, my children endured balloonless birthday parties for this reason.
2. 'You're pretty enough without makeup.' Not true at all. If you'd seen me this morning, clogged up and be-snotted, sans makeup, you'd have been begging me to get out the war paint. Or a paper bag.
3. 'Don't wash your bum and then wash your face.' Now this one makes sense. This is the truest, purest pearl of wisdom from the sagest oyster ever. I have always adhered to this dictum, this paradigm of sagacity, and have imparted it to my own children.
Baloney-riddled adages aside, my mother was a very funny and whacky woman, with a glorious soaring singing voice. She was always clowning around and loved the stage, traits which you can tell were passed on to my younger son (and me, too!). She died from cancer in 1993, aged just sixty-four. I look at my youngest and think how proud she'd have been of his wit and theatricality. I see my oldest and think how proud she would have been of his academic gifts. I grieve for the grandmother and grandsons relationship that never eventuated. Happy Mother's Day, Mum. I've done something right in my life. Written books, like you thought I would, and married a terrific loving guy who's helped me produce a couple of relatively decent human beings.
Happy Mother's Day again, however you've become a mum.
Tuesday 9 May 2017
Fudge-It Budget; Lemon (Meringue Pie) Of An Idea; C & W
The other day I was alarmed I might have been morphing into some hybrid of Alice from 'The Brady Bunch', and June Cleaver, with all my Woman's Weekly-ish housewife duties. Like June Cleaver, I was smiling, but I forsook the pearl necklace and high heels (get your minds out of the gutter, you filthy smut-mongers).
I need worry about that aberration no longer as today I am back to my usual pissed off self. My ire is directed to the Government, and the pile of dung disguised as a budget handed down by Scott Morrison last night. My main issue at the time of typing is the drug testing of welfare recipients. This truly, seriously, really, fair dinkumly shits me big time. Yes, I am well aware welfare is not a gift, but a form of assistance. However, what purpose does this achieve? Am I the only person in the world who doesn't care if someone on welfare has a drink, or sucks a bong in privacy? Do what you like in your own home, provided you are a consenting adult of sound mind and not doing it in the street frightening the bicycle couriers. Many drugs are actually flushed from the body rather quickly, so by the time the a welfare recipient was tested, the test would be returned with a negative result. What a waste of time and money. It's hard enough being on welfare without being treated like a child. Many people who have found themselves on welfare have been tax payers themselves, too. I don't buy into that chestnut about how, 'Oh, I have to do a drug test to keep my job, so therefore people on the dole should, too.' That's utter cow dung, freshly flopped onto the ground and steaming. If you're getting drug tested at work, it's a WHS issue. The notion of drug testing welfare recipients is often just punitive and petty in its origins, and like I said, something of a waste of time. Why not drug test the politicians? Some of their ideas make me think they've chomped on a few tabs before handing into Parliament House. Want more money in the coffers? Then how's this for an idea: TAX THE FUCKING CHURCHES!
Speaking of churches, and religion - to the man who hit Qantas CEO in the face with a cream pie: you're a dick. No, really; you are. A complete, unadulterated, pure, thoroughbred dick. Qantas' support for same sex marriage offends your Christian sensibilities, does it? But carrying out a deliberate assault on someone doesn't. Yeah, makes sense. I sometimes question the wisdom of corporations buying into political hot potato arenas, but I don't lose sleep over it. If a corporation promotes an agenda with which I disagree, I will as far as practicable avoid that corporation. What I won't do is shove a cream pie in someone's face over it. Seriously, I saw this on the news, and it gave me Forest Whittaker eye. Who goes out and buys a pie, bides their time, and shoves it in the face of someone speaking at a conference? Oh, I know the old pie-in-the-face-gag is as staple of old slapstick comedies, but this is not a slapstick comedy; this is real life and whilst a pie is not exactly a lethal weapon, it's a really moronic thing to do. So you don't like gay marriage? Simple: don't marry another bloke, okay? Got that? Think about it for a minute, and maybe write it in a sentence to help it absorb. If you ever shoved a pie in my face, pal, you'd get an enema with it. Particularly as it's my understanding the dessert you chose was a lemon meringue pie, which comes direct from Satan's patisserie.
I'm not a song writer, but I think I know how to produce a country and western number. I heard one on the radio today, and it appeared to adhere to the principles of Country Music 101. Don't know the name of it, and don't intend to try and find out because I'd rather roll around naked in a cathead patch than listen to it again. Still, if I know the name of it, I can probably avoid it next time. Anyway, it was a text book example in that it followed these simple rules:
1. Tell a self-pitying story that nobody who has a life could possibly give a fuck about.
2. Fixate on a person or an object that, as in 1. above, nobody who has life could possibly give a fuck about.
3. Sing through your nose.
4. Enunciate in the manner of somebody with dentures chewing caramel toffees.
5. Sustain the notes in every diphthong to the point where you sound like you need oxygen.
Good news: worked on my author bio and started my dedications for the upcoming 'Howling On A Concrete Moon' yesterday. Got a little teary, because I now have less family members to mention. Oh, there will be a special mention for them, yes, but the fact that life has reached the point where they get that special mention made me feel somewhat emotional yesterday.
I need worry about that aberration no longer as today I am back to my usual pissed off self. My ire is directed to the Government, and the pile of dung disguised as a budget handed down by Scott Morrison last night. My main issue at the time of typing is the drug testing of welfare recipients. This truly, seriously, really, fair dinkumly shits me big time. Yes, I am well aware welfare is not a gift, but a form of assistance. However, what purpose does this achieve? Am I the only person in the world who doesn't care if someone on welfare has a drink, or sucks a bong in privacy? Do what you like in your own home, provided you are a consenting adult of sound mind and not doing it in the street frightening the bicycle couriers. Many drugs are actually flushed from the body rather quickly, so by the time the a welfare recipient was tested, the test would be returned with a negative result. What a waste of time and money. It's hard enough being on welfare without being treated like a child. Many people who have found themselves on welfare have been tax payers themselves, too. I don't buy into that chestnut about how, 'Oh, I have to do a drug test to keep my job, so therefore people on the dole should, too.' That's utter cow dung, freshly flopped onto the ground and steaming. If you're getting drug tested at work, it's a WHS issue. The notion of drug testing welfare recipients is often just punitive and petty in its origins, and like I said, something of a waste of time. Why not drug test the politicians? Some of their ideas make me think they've chomped on a few tabs before handing into Parliament House. Want more money in the coffers? Then how's this for an idea: TAX THE FUCKING CHURCHES!
Speaking of churches, and religion - to the man who hit Qantas CEO in the face with a cream pie: you're a dick. No, really; you are. A complete, unadulterated, pure, thoroughbred dick. Qantas' support for same sex marriage offends your Christian sensibilities, does it? But carrying out a deliberate assault on someone doesn't. Yeah, makes sense. I sometimes question the wisdom of corporations buying into political hot potato arenas, but I don't lose sleep over it. If a corporation promotes an agenda with which I disagree, I will as far as practicable avoid that corporation. What I won't do is shove a cream pie in someone's face over it. Seriously, I saw this on the news, and it gave me Forest Whittaker eye. Who goes out and buys a pie, bides their time, and shoves it in the face of someone speaking at a conference? Oh, I know the old pie-in-the-face-gag is as staple of old slapstick comedies, but this is not a slapstick comedy; this is real life and whilst a pie is not exactly a lethal weapon, it's a really moronic thing to do. So you don't like gay marriage? Simple: don't marry another bloke, okay? Got that? Think about it for a minute, and maybe write it in a sentence to help it absorb. If you ever shoved a pie in my face, pal, you'd get an enema with it. Particularly as it's my understanding the dessert you chose was a lemon meringue pie, which comes direct from Satan's patisserie.
I'm not a song writer, but I think I know how to produce a country and western number. I heard one on the radio today, and it appeared to adhere to the principles of Country Music 101. Don't know the name of it, and don't intend to try and find out because I'd rather roll around naked in a cathead patch than listen to it again. Still, if I know the name of it, I can probably avoid it next time. Anyway, it was a text book example in that it followed these simple rules:
1. Tell a self-pitying story that nobody who has a life could possibly give a fuck about.
2. Fixate on a person or an object that, as in 1. above, nobody who has life could possibly give a fuck about.
3. Sing through your nose.
4. Enunciate in the manner of somebody with dentures chewing caramel toffees.
5. Sustain the notes in every diphthong to the point where you sound like you need oxygen.
Good news: worked on my author bio and started my dedications for the upcoming 'Howling On A Concrete Moon' yesterday. Got a little teary, because I now have less family members to mention. Oh, there will be a special mention for them, yes, but the fact that life has reached the point where they get that special mention made me feel somewhat emotional yesterday.
Monday 8 May 2017
Pondering My Own First World Problems
Okay, I STILL haven't done the author bio. My kids had commitments and I had the transport. I also have to write and record a few things about myself for another situation, which I will elaborate upon in a later post. The thing is, I actually DON'T KNOW what to say. Being Australian, female, and a product of the Seventies and Eighties, it's not really the done thing to blow your own trumpet, is it?
I've been sitting on my lounge feeling anxious because I have to do something which is causing me anxiety - but don't worry, my health is fine. I'm just a little nervous about something to which I've put my name. Again, Reader, all will be revealed in a later post. Possibly. Should be. In the meantime, tonight I will attend my meditation circle and send loving healing thoughts to what is bothering me. And no doubt feel like a bit of a twerp because what bothers me is essentially a First World Problem.
Okay, Simone - deep breaths. Don't panic. What's something good about you?
1. I am the author of three published novels and looking forward to getting my fourth out soon-ish. I'm actually very proud of my fourth; it's a variation on my usual writing style, and I think it's a very good book.
2. I make a damn fine Caesar salad.
3. My trivia team, which comprises one other person (although my not-quite-sixteen-year-old has often come along to help) pretty much always wins. Unfortunately, the venue is not having trivia lately so my mate and I are missing our fix, as well as the $200.00 prize money. Either the venue didn't advertise it very well, or we scared off our rivals. If the latter be the case, I beg the fraidy cats to return. Myself and my team mate are not scary. We are smart, but we are not scary.
4. I am a loving wife and mother. Why, just Sunday gone I became concerned I might have been transmogrifying into some type of Stepford wife after I pegged out four loads of washing, prepared a baked lunch, and mended the rip in my son's school trousers. No, I did not type that wrong. I actually sewed up a rip. Years ago, I used to spend most Sundays hung over on the lounge, with the occasional hickey adorning my swan-like neck. Now, I'm a paradigm of nurturing goodness (I think).
I have some things to which I must attend. Of course, I must liaise with the publishers over my author bio and dedications, and finalisation of manuscript.
I must prepare a little piece for my Thursday writer's meeting. The subject this month is 'happiness'. Whilst pondering this theme, I have had 'Happy' by the Rolling Stones in my head. What is a little different about this song from most Stones' numbers is the vocalist is Keith Richards. Well, I guess he has credit as the 'vocalist', but he does have a pretty awful voice. Could have been worse. They could have recruited Bill Wyman to do the vocals. 'Je Suis Un Rock Star', anyone? Truly, Keith has defied every universal law going. He's still alive, he's still upright, he's still somewhat compus mentis; how is this?
Well, best get to work...
I've been sitting on my lounge feeling anxious because I have to do something which is causing me anxiety - but don't worry, my health is fine. I'm just a little nervous about something to which I've put my name. Again, Reader, all will be revealed in a later post. Possibly. Should be. In the meantime, tonight I will attend my meditation circle and send loving healing thoughts to what is bothering me. And no doubt feel like a bit of a twerp because what bothers me is essentially a First World Problem.
Okay, Simone - deep breaths. Don't panic. What's something good about you?
1. I am the author of three published novels and looking forward to getting my fourth out soon-ish. I'm actually very proud of my fourth; it's a variation on my usual writing style, and I think it's a very good book.
2. I make a damn fine Caesar salad.
3. My trivia team, which comprises one other person (although my not-quite-sixteen-year-old has often come along to help) pretty much always wins. Unfortunately, the venue is not having trivia lately so my mate and I are missing our fix, as well as the $200.00 prize money. Either the venue didn't advertise it very well, or we scared off our rivals. If the latter be the case, I beg the fraidy cats to return. Myself and my team mate are not scary. We are smart, but we are not scary.
4. I am a loving wife and mother. Why, just Sunday gone I became concerned I might have been transmogrifying into some type of Stepford wife after I pegged out four loads of washing, prepared a baked lunch, and mended the rip in my son's school trousers. No, I did not type that wrong. I actually sewed up a rip. Years ago, I used to spend most Sundays hung over on the lounge, with the occasional hickey adorning my swan-like neck. Now, I'm a paradigm of nurturing goodness (I think).
I have some things to which I must attend. Of course, I must liaise with the publishers over my author bio and dedications, and finalisation of manuscript.
I must prepare a little piece for my Thursday writer's meeting. The subject this month is 'happiness'. Whilst pondering this theme, I have had 'Happy' by the Rolling Stones in my head. What is a little different about this song from most Stones' numbers is the vocalist is Keith Richards. Well, I guess he has credit as the 'vocalist', but he does have a pretty awful voice. Could have been worse. They could have recruited Bill Wyman to do the vocals. 'Je Suis Un Rock Star', anyone? Truly, Keith has defied every universal law going. He's still alive, he's still upright, he's still somewhat compus mentis; how is this?
Well, best get to work...
Thursday 4 May 2017
Let Down LIke An Old Tyre
Who, like me, felt their expectations and anticipation levels sky rocket today upon hearing Buckingham Palace was in talks with staff, and an announcement would be made approximately 5.00pm AEST? I seriously thought either the Queen or Duke of Edinburgh had popped his or her clogs. I collected my oldest son from school for a doctor's appointment, and told him this was likely a day of great significance. He listened, not spellbound because he is after all a teenager, as I told him he would remember today; it is likely to go down in history. His response was, 'Yeah, one of the old farts finally died.' We sat together in the doctor's waiting room, and I told him about the day the Princess of Wales died. Of course I reiterated several times it wasn't certain yet that one of the senior Royals had passed on, but all the fuss and tension indicated there was something major afoot; if not a death, then possibly abdication, which would be a shock because it's known Her Maj not keen on that idea.
Once home, I ensured the chores had been attended to, and the dogs fed, poured myself a wine and settled in to view the great announcement. It became known the Palace would issue a statement closer to 7.00pmAEST. I felt slightly miffed, as did Mr Bingells - neither of us are by any means Royalists, but this suspense was gnawing at our insides, kind of like a rat on a rotting timber plank in a barn. Oscar Wilde said, 'The suspense is terrible; I hope it lasts!', a fabulous quote later appropriated in 'Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory'. Well, this wasn't that type of suspense. I wanted it over. I wanted to know, goddammit! Finally - FINALLY! - it was 7.00pm and the news station crossed live to Buckingham Palace, and some run-of-the-mill reporter looked at his mobile phone and said something along the lines of, 'Word just in - Prince Phillip is to retire from Royal duties.'
Mr Bingells and I looked at each other. 'Is that all?' demanded Mr Bingells in incredulous tones, before leaving the room. I sat there gawping at the television, wondering why I had spent about five hours on tenterhooks expecting momentous news, only to be told a man who's about to hit 96 is retiring. As macabre and bitter as it sounds, for this kind of build up, suspense, and tension, I want a death or abdication. Not that I would delight in the demise of either of them per se, not at all, but my psyche did kind of feel like a balloon deflating, flying around the room with the air pfffffft-ing from the puncture.
Truly, the last time I had a build up and let down like that was attending the 2007 Countdown Spectacular 2 concert. One of the acts was Plastic Bertrand, and I had been hanging out to see his segment (don't judge me). As we drove to Newcastle, I looked at my watch and squeaked excitedly to Mr Bingells, 'Three hours until we see Plastic Bertrand! How awesome! I can't wait!' Mr Bingells smiled indulgently and drove our Commodore along the New England Highway, the Hunter Expressway not yet in existence. We arrived at the venue, and took our seats. I was smiling and wriggling like a child on Christmas morning. The lights dimmed, and I almost squeezed my husband's hand in the excitement of it all. Then Gavin Wood (the voice of 'Countdown' as some of you will recall) announced that owing to unforeseen circumstances, Plastic Bertrand would not be taking the stage. I know, in the darkness, my face dropped. For a brief moment, it was as anticlimactic as anticipating a bottle of Moet, and being gifted with Passion Pop. Mr husband offered me his commiserations, knowing the depth of despair and abject bummed-out-ness into which I had plummeted. Didn't matter too much; I really enjoyed the rest of the show, with the exception of Dave Mason's performance of 'Quaasimodo's Dream' - the song is as creepy as fuck, and my brother, who was also at the concert, thought Mason looked like he had swallowed a packet of Mogadon before taking the stage. In any event, I kind of got to see Bertrand, the greatest thing to come out of Belgium since their chocolate, in the televised performance of the Melbourne concert.
But what a song and dance over the understandable retirement of an exceedingly aged man!
If the she-boofhead who was at the gym today is reading this, if you must text or read your phone, can you kindly do so from a safe spot near the wall, rather than walk around and practically trip/tread on me as I am on the floor stretching my hamstring muscles? Yes, I mean YOU, the woman with the black jodhpurs on. Oh wait... They weren't jodhpurs, but black leggings? In that case, put your goddamned phone DOWN, and get on the bloody exercise bike!
Once home, I ensured the chores had been attended to, and the dogs fed, poured myself a wine and settled in to view the great announcement. It became known the Palace would issue a statement closer to 7.00pmAEST. I felt slightly miffed, as did Mr Bingells - neither of us are by any means Royalists, but this suspense was gnawing at our insides, kind of like a rat on a rotting timber plank in a barn. Oscar Wilde said, 'The suspense is terrible; I hope it lasts!', a fabulous quote later appropriated in 'Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory'. Well, this wasn't that type of suspense. I wanted it over. I wanted to know, goddammit! Finally - FINALLY! - it was 7.00pm and the news station crossed live to Buckingham Palace, and some run-of-the-mill reporter looked at his mobile phone and said something along the lines of, 'Word just in - Prince Phillip is to retire from Royal duties.'
Mr Bingells and I looked at each other. 'Is that all?' demanded Mr Bingells in incredulous tones, before leaving the room. I sat there gawping at the television, wondering why I had spent about five hours on tenterhooks expecting momentous news, only to be told a man who's about to hit 96 is retiring. As macabre and bitter as it sounds, for this kind of build up, suspense, and tension, I want a death or abdication. Not that I would delight in the demise of either of them per se, not at all, but my psyche did kind of feel like a balloon deflating, flying around the room with the air pfffffft-ing from the puncture.
Truly, the last time I had a build up and let down like that was attending the 2007 Countdown Spectacular 2 concert. One of the acts was Plastic Bertrand, and I had been hanging out to see his segment (don't judge me). As we drove to Newcastle, I looked at my watch and squeaked excitedly to Mr Bingells, 'Three hours until we see Plastic Bertrand! How awesome! I can't wait!' Mr Bingells smiled indulgently and drove our Commodore along the New England Highway, the Hunter Expressway not yet in existence. We arrived at the venue, and took our seats. I was smiling and wriggling like a child on Christmas morning. The lights dimmed, and I almost squeezed my husband's hand in the excitement of it all. Then Gavin Wood (the voice of 'Countdown' as some of you will recall) announced that owing to unforeseen circumstances, Plastic Bertrand would not be taking the stage. I know, in the darkness, my face dropped. For a brief moment, it was as anticlimactic as anticipating a bottle of Moet, and being gifted with Passion Pop. Mr husband offered me his commiserations, knowing the depth of despair and abject bummed-out-ness into which I had plummeted. Didn't matter too much; I really enjoyed the rest of the show, with the exception of Dave Mason's performance of 'Quaasimodo's Dream' - the song is as creepy as fuck, and my brother, who was also at the concert, thought Mason looked like he had swallowed a packet of Mogadon before taking the stage. In any event, I kind of got to see Bertrand, the greatest thing to come out of Belgium since their chocolate, in the televised performance of the Melbourne concert.
But what a song and dance over the understandable retirement of an exceedingly aged man!
If the she-boofhead who was at the gym today is reading this, if you must text or read your phone, can you kindly do so from a safe spot near the wall, rather than walk around and practically trip/tread on me as I am on the floor stretching my hamstring muscles? Yes, I mean YOU, the woman with the black jodhpurs on. Oh wait... They weren't jodhpurs, but black leggings? In that case, put your goddamned phone DOWN, and get on the bloody exercise bike!
Tuesday 2 May 2017
Tired Squeaky Wheel
I had planned to devote a significant portion of today working on my bio and dedications for my upcoming novel 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'. I did not do this. I guess life got in the way, as it is wont to do.
What I did do was run errands and marvelled at the stupidity and gormlessness, and downright fuckwittery of some of the populace of my town, such as the lazy bint at Woolworths who got in her Kia and left the shopping trolley in the adjacent parking space, when the trolley bay was about ten metres away. This is a pet peeve of mine, and there is nothing like the aggravation you feel when you see what appears to be a parking space, so you indicate only to find some lazy twat-waffle has left a shopping trolley there! I can almost understand it at my local Woolworths car park - it is the lousiest car park in the Southern Hemisphere with a hilly and potholed surface that purports to be tarmacadam-treated, but is in reality less fraught than negotiating an Angolan land mine field. It is understandable that if you were parked in the furthest corner from the trolley bay you'd be inclined to just leave your trolley in a tiny nook in the park, thus not obstructing a parking space and not having to do the dance of the cacky-wheeled trolley as you wrestle the contraption back to the trolley bay. But not so much this lazy bag of dirt; no wonder her arse looked like two dogs fighting under a blanket if she couldn't be bothered walking ten metres.
I did see the men working on the drains in my street, thus giving credence to the adage the squeaky wheel gets the grease. The squeaky wheel is different to the cacky wheel mentioned in the preceding paragraph in this post. The squeaky wheel, in case you're a thicko like that woman in the Kia, is a metaphor for the person who makes a lot of noise about something with which they are disgruntled. Mr Bingells and I have been making some noise to our local council about the state of the drains in our street, and have had cause to ring complaining during two recent heavy downpours. It is indeed gratifying to see some work being carried out on those drains, and maybe they will be rendered USEFUL next time we get hit with the vicious intense deluge those shelf clouds like to dish out.
Right now I'm a tad tired, so won't bother writing my bio. It's too complex to think about at the moment. My dedications is a touch more easy; my late father will be at the top of the list, and of course my younger son must be mentioned as he named the novel for me. At the risk of making a passive-aggressive vague social media post, something that makes me squint like Forest Whitaker when I see someone else do it, the list of dedications/acknowledgements will be a tad shorter than it has in the past. This is not my fault, but if people want to stir up trouble and be toxic bags of bile about things they have no real business being toxic bags of bile about, then they can no longer expect to be on the dedications list. Believe it or not, I didn't type that with my tongue poking out in a gesture of petulance and pique.
Oh well, off to make kids' lunches for tomorrow, and play a few games of online Boggle on my iPad. I've become a bit addicted to is.
What I did do was run errands and marvelled at the stupidity and gormlessness, and downright fuckwittery of some of the populace of my town, such as the lazy bint at Woolworths who got in her Kia and left the shopping trolley in the adjacent parking space, when the trolley bay was about ten metres away. This is a pet peeve of mine, and there is nothing like the aggravation you feel when you see what appears to be a parking space, so you indicate only to find some lazy twat-waffle has left a shopping trolley there! I can almost understand it at my local Woolworths car park - it is the lousiest car park in the Southern Hemisphere with a hilly and potholed surface that purports to be tarmacadam-treated, but is in reality less fraught than negotiating an Angolan land mine field. It is understandable that if you were parked in the furthest corner from the trolley bay you'd be inclined to just leave your trolley in a tiny nook in the park, thus not obstructing a parking space and not having to do the dance of the cacky-wheeled trolley as you wrestle the contraption back to the trolley bay. But not so much this lazy bag of dirt; no wonder her arse looked like two dogs fighting under a blanket if she couldn't be bothered walking ten metres.
I did see the men working on the drains in my street, thus giving credence to the adage the squeaky wheel gets the grease. The squeaky wheel is different to the cacky wheel mentioned in the preceding paragraph in this post. The squeaky wheel, in case you're a thicko like that woman in the Kia, is a metaphor for the person who makes a lot of noise about something with which they are disgruntled. Mr Bingells and I have been making some noise to our local council about the state of the drains in our street, and have had cause to ring complaining during two recent heavy downpours. It is indeed gratifying to see some work being carried out on those drains, and maybe they will be rendered USEFUL next time we get hit with the vicious intense deluge those shelf clouds like to dish out.
Right now I'm a tad tired, so won't bother writing my bio. It's too complex to think about at the moment. My dedications is a touch more easy; my late father will be at the top of the list, and of course my younger son must be mentioned as he named the novel for me. At the risk of making a passive-aggressive vague social media post, something that makes me squint like Forest Whitaker when I see someone else do it, the list of dedications/acknowledgements will be a tad shorter than it has in the past. This is not my fault, but if people want to stir up trouble and be toxic bags of bile about things they have no real business being toxic bags of bile about, then they can no longer expect to be on the dedications list. Believe it or not, I didn't type that with my tongue poking out in a gesture of petulance and pique.
Oh well, off to make kids' lunches for tomorrow, and play a few games of online Boggle on my iPad. I've become a bit addicted to is.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)