The Book Has Arrived!

Okay, it's here. They're here. They arrived two days ago. 'What arrived?', I hear you ask. Why, my fifteen complimentary author copies of my latest novel, Howling on a Concrete Moon, that's what! The website wizards at my publishers have not yet finalised a link to the first chapter (which will hopefully lead to some online purchases!), but when that's been done, trust me, it will be provided in my blog, and as a link in my author bio.

I'm having a celebration of this momentous occasion on Tuesday night, with a couple of my fellow local authors. I have a bottle of Moet et Chandon chilling in the fridge. If you're wondering how a writer who is NOT Stephen King, Di Morrissey, or J K Rowling can afford such a prestigious and expensive drop, let me tell you this: I can't. But I would have cheerfully drawn on my mortgage, because sometimes you just have to live a little. As it happens, this esteemed champers was actually a birthday gift to me some time back, and I have been waiting for the right occasion. The right occasion never seemed to arrive. It seemed I had nothing to celebrate, which is a sad indictment on the suckiness of my life of late. But if the arrival of my latest book is not worth celebrating, then what is? I don't know if the Moet has retained its integrity in the time I've had it, but I will be purchasing some fruit juice in case, and Howling on a Concrete Moon can be toasted with Moet-infused Bellinis and Bucks Fizzes. Mr Bingells will join us for a drop; he's not a champagne drinker as a rule, but what the hell, it's Moet et Chandon. I will invite our oldest child, who is now legally old enough to indulge in a tipple, to have some, too. He will probably refuse, as alcohol doesn't interest him.

In the interim, I have photographed both the front and back covers, and here we are:

Also, because I'm getting okay adding pictures to this, here's the publicity shot taken in the SBS studio the day I filmed Mastermind :

So, I'm not doing too badly these past few days. Just got to get onto the publicity trail.

Amusing Litle Tale From High School

Okay, it's been a maelstrom of crazy this past week. If you read my last post, you'll know we attended a production of Les Miserables, en famille, in the next town. And it was wonderful. We have so much talent in this area - honestly, the performances were on par with the many professional incarnations I've been lucky enough to view over the years. When 'Valjean' hit the final high note in Bring Him Home, I got chills. And as usual, got a bit teary when Valjean carked it at the end. My children have never seen the show, but we gave them a rudimentary outline of the plot, and what to expect. I knew my youngest, being a theatrical little soul, would enjoy it; my eldest, not at all a theatrical type, enjoyed it more than I thought he would.

Because I want to practise some writing, I might just tell a story from my school days. I was reminded of this legendary incident the other day. Well, I was in Year 11, and catching the school bus home. The back seat of the school bus was normally the province of the older kids, an unwritten rule that has been around ever since kids started getting the bus to school, but for some reason this particular warm afternoon, the little kids had hijacked it. Fair enough. So, a friend and I sat about 3/4 of the way from the driver's seat. The bus ambled along, as school buses are wont to do. My friend and I indulged in the chit-chat in which school students are wont to indulge. All of a sudden, an expression of abject and stunned disbelief clouded my friend's countenance, and she spluttered, 'Oh, shit!'; at the same time I was breathing in and my nostrils were assailed with the most ungodly, putrescent stench I have ever known. 'I think someone did!' I cried back. Being closest to the window, I stood up and practically pulled it apart in my zeal to open it.

My companion turned back and called out, 'Who farted?', and as the unholy presence travelled along the aisle, window after window was forced open, in the manner of dominoes being set to tumble.  The foul entity surpassed any frightful and ghostly horror that Stephen King could have conjured. One of the little kids who HADN'T sat down the back that day looked toward the vicinity of the culprit with an expression of such unfettered and contemptuous disgust, it saddened me; he looked like he would look as an adult because his innocence had been shattered, and no child should ever have to look like that.

I have never known a fart so virulent and vile, and the fact that it was produced by a child of about ten just adds to the dread. My friend wondered with trepidation what on earth that kid was going to be like as an adult.

Anyway, it's a funny story.

Oh, and my book Howling on a Concrete Moon has been printed, and should be available for sale soon. I will let you know, and provide a link to first chapter when the publisher's website wizards have organised one.

Fathead Folau & Dropkick Dutton

How big a hide does Israel Folau possess? Can anyone answer me? We are talking about a sportsman who wilfully violated the terms of a contract that he willingly signed with his employer, cried foul when he was dismissed by the ARU, is bringing legal action against the ARU, and has - I shit you not - set up a Go Fund Me page for this vexatious bullcrap! Furthermore, there is a disclaimer at the foot of the page specifying funds might not go to the legal bills. This seems he's not only putting out his hand for money for legal fees, but that any funds donated might end up elsewhere!

Hey, Izzy, you avaricious jackass, you supposedly drive a Lamborghini and have a supposedly have a property portfolio worth in the vicinity of five million dollars, so would it not occur to you to sell an asset and fund your lawsuit YOURSELF?

You might think it's about your free speech and right to practise your religion sans discrimination from your employer, but when you tweet that you're facing 'the biggest fight of (your) life' after cocking up your legal contractual obligations, any skerrick of credibility you still had had absolutely flatlined.

Get in the bin.  Oh, and I'm sure people who are facing life-threatening illness can totally sympathise with you. Pffffft!

And while I'm on the subject of utter twatwaffles, how odious a grub is Peter Dutton? He's accused women of making false claims of rape that require abortion to get into Australia. Just when I thought he couldn't get any worse, lo and behold, he comes out with a statement that just dredges the foul lake of noisome offensiveness.  What is wrong with our Ministers of the Crown? Seriously, they denied a birthday cake to a two-year-old in detention! What's wrong, guys? Scared the people providing the cake had planned to shove a file in it? Ministers of the Crown? More like Monsters of the Crown!

You're a miserable reptilian swine, Dutton. Get in the bin next to Folau.

I will be interested to see how Folau's case plays out. If the court rules, in accordance to law, that ARU DID discriminate against Folau, then I will - with exceptionally bad grace - accept that ruling.

Well, I'd better go and get ready. We are going out to see a production of Les Mis in the next town tonight. Should be a nice evening for the clan.

Vague Vagaries

The scene: me driving my fourteen-year-old son to a birthday party a few weeks ago. We were discussing his older brother's attendance at a joint 18th the previous night - his brother was one of the birthday boys, and a boy in his year another. It was one of those parties with the mates - no uncool parents allowed.

Me: 'I think he only drank a vodka/lime/soda last night.'

14yo: 'No, Mum. He drunk a vodka/lime/soda last night.'

Me: 'No, he 'drank'. 'Drunk' requires an auxiliary verb such as 'had', 'have', or 'has'. You can say 'They have drunk', or 'they had drunk', or 'they had stunk', or 'that person must have stunk'. That is the past participle. However, the simple past tense of 'drink' is 'drank', and we say that your brother 'drank a vodka/lime/soda last night.' Speak proper English, and you will always sound a lot smarter than you necessarily are.'

Trip continues in relative silence as 14yo wishes to High Heaven he hadn't opened his mouth because he has a mother who is an insufferable grammar Nazi.

I guess that's been one of the highlights of my life lately. That's tragic, when you think about it. But when preaching the importance of the Oxford comma, I read an immensely funny thing on Twitter the other day. There was a thread asking people to state their favourite sexual positions and acts. Somebody wrote: 'Performing oral on a woman and doggie', and there was a reply about the forgotten Oxford comma! Think about it, peeps: the absence of the Oxford comma in this sentence has relegated the original poster to some kind of depraved bestial dog-fellator.  Unfortunately, this is likely not a good example to use when tutoring school kids, but I might save it for any adults who require some brush-up skills.

I have to shake off the fugue of guilt and depression that has consumed me since the euthanisation of my lovely dog last week. I am getting stronger, and more at peace with it all, but I still miss the old bugger dreadfully.

My latest novel was due to be uploaded for print the other week, so that's something to look forward to. I'm not working on another book just at the moment, but I'm going to put together some short stories.

Watch this space...

Grieving a Loss

Life is a capricious bitch at times. Yesterday, I was relatively happy. I was making notes for tutoring the Stephen King story Crouch End, and loving the knowledge I can impart on my student. In the back of my mind was a bit of sadness and worry about my old dog, Brock, who was clearly unwell.

Today, my heart is broken. Brock was old and sick and likely suffering cancer. His quality of life was diminishing. I know we have made the right decision for him, but God, it hurts so much. There is a physical ache in my throat and my heart feels as though it has been pierced with a barbed poniard.

He joined us as a six-month-old stray German shepherd/kelpie cross. He howled at our front door at 1.30 one morning - frightened the living daylights out of us - and when my husband opened the door, the dog wandered in as though he had come home. And our home became his home. He chose us, and we are so lucky he did. He was protective and patient with our children (then aged 5 and 2). Just after he moved in with us, he stole a chicken I was defrosting, and that was the naughtiest thing he ever did.

We loved him so much. He just encapsulated all that was good about dogs. When he moved in, my oldest was just about to start school. My oldest is now in his final year of school, and came with us to the vet (our youngest felt he could go to school, and I suspect he would have found great comfort with his mates). We sat with our beautiful, tired, sick dog, passing a box of tissues back and forth to each other, and said our goodbyes. Without being asked, my son removed the dog's collar, and it's hard to explain why, but it set off a real torrent of emotion for us, his parents. There was a finality to the act, and a sign that our son is maturing into a good young man.

The vet and his assistant came in, and explained the procedure. I feel so sorry for vets at times like this. My son held the dog's paw as the injection was administered. Presently, the vet placed the stethoscope to Brock's chest and said gently, 'He's gone.'

Be at peace now, beautiful Brock. No more suffering and sickness for you. Thank you for being our dog.

Life just stinks at times. People stink and dogs are fantastic. Why can't dogs live forever? I guess the grief is the price you pay for loving a pet as much as we did.

Ladies Night = Late Night

I've always enjoyed live theatre, and am something of a ham. Last night I was afforded the opportunity to see a show. I won tickets in a local radio giveaway for a production of Ladies' Night, which was staged at a venue in Newcastle, which is about a ninety minute drive from where I am currently domiciled. 

If you haven't heard of it, it's a New Zealand play and is kind of a precursor to The Full Monty, having a plotline entailing unemployed men taking up stripping. I saw a production of this in 1991, with a troupe of Kiwi actors. Without giving away too much - but if you consider this a spoiler, you should consider not breeding - the second act of the play features the 'show' the characters perform. The Kiwi cast I saw years ago were aged twenty-something, and all obviously professional dancers. The production I saw last night has been tweaked a little in making the characters a tad older. 

Ladies of a certain age will be interested to know that one of the actors last night was American Chris Atkins, whom you will recall from classics such as The Blue Lagoon and, um, The Pirate Movie (this latter movie might qualify as classic bad shite). To tell the truth, I didn't like the former either. There was controversy and brouhaha in its release because the Brooke Shields character was depicted as experiencing menarche. I didn't care; women get periods and as far as I was concerned, those who had issue with this should just get over it. I had not wanted to see the movie, but was holidaying in Nelson Bay with my mother, and catching up with other relatives, when some younger cousins who needed supervision begged me, 'Will you take us to see The Blue Lagoon, Simmie? The girl gets her periods in it!' The word 'periods' came out as 'peeeeeeer-reee-yods', such was the impish exuberance and frisson being experienced by my younger kinfolk. Being a kind older cousin, I took them to see the movie. And was bored out of my skull. But then again, I have never been a 'chick flick' type of gal.

My friend and I enjoyed the show last night, and if you're wondering: Chris Atkins is still immensely cute, particularly without that ludicrous perm he sported in The Blue Lagoon. Finding the venue was quite easy - just take the Expressway, go along Newcastle Link Road, blah-blah-blah. This was significant for me because my navigation skills are total pants. I was so proud of getting to the venue in plenty of time and without wrong turns. It was the freaking venue that proved treacherous to navigate! It was a labrynthine maze with corners and nooks where corners and nooks should not be. We were directed up a staircase that apparently led to a cupboard (but turned out to be the rear entrance to the auditorium). I had to collect our tickets, and decided it would be less trouble to text my friend (who was purchasing the refreshments at the bar), than try and weave through people and architectural booby traps. It was a Wonderland-type hive of deception and false hope that would seen Lewis Carroll jizzing himself.

Obviously, I did not get home until close to midnight, and I had a cup of tea and a snack when I arrived. So it was an exceedingly late bedtime for your blogger. I was not rostered today, and harboured hopes of a lazy day with a nap. No such luck. I discovered my youngest was scheduled to perform a duologue at the local Eisteddfod this morning, and I had time to dress, bolt down coffee, and drive to venue. He and his partner did very well. Hashtag proud-but-exhausted-mum.

Ponderings for Today

I am officially the mother of another adult, and I'm not quite sure how I feel about that. He's still at school, and I still make his lunch. However, on Saturday night we went out to dinner to celebrate his eighteenth, and I took a great glee in sending him to the bar to buy a round of drinks. It's something of a Hallmark moment, this business of watching your kid buy a round of drinks at the bar for the first time. I didn't film it and upload the footage to my socials, but only because I'm not quite that vacuous. What I did find interesting was the crowd at the pub. I haven't been in this particular pub for a very long time, but I recognised the clientele - however, the last time I saw them they were getting on the bus to go to primary school!

I had a very busy weekend, doing things I like (for a change). It was a bit like those heady days before I had children. I shopped for jeans, I went out for dinner, and on Sunday morning prepared soup with my own homemade stock.  Sunday afternoon I attended a screening of Rocketman with my fourteen-year-old, who loves glamorous and flamboyant Seventies artists (he's also a huge Queen fan). We both enjoyed the movie.

My own writing is on the backburner at the moment because I've been carrying out writing jobs on Air Tasker, but not to worry because it is earning me income and making me feel like a more legit writer every day.

I worked most of today, but the only think I really noticed in my newsfeed is that there is supposedly another sex tape involving NRL players doing the rounds. I want to know why we care about this? I'm not judging the participants, NRL players or otherwise. From what I can gather, the act involves two men and a woman. Hey, if they're all consenting adults, then who gives a good goddamn what they're doing?  For the record, I don't understand WHY any woman would engage in sexual congress with NRL players. From what I have observed, they have the appeal and manners of  gorillas (and I would not be surprised to learn some of them have actually climbed a tree and flung their own crap around). I'm so over seeing the word 'scandal' in the same headline as 'NRL players' and 'sex'. Like I said, I don't CARE about NRL players because I find football about as interesting as watching a dog turd dry out and bleach in the sun. I have absolutely no issue with consenting adults banging each other. It's not illegal, and nobody else's business. My issue is with the grub who shared the footage. However, if I was on the news desk, I would roll my eyes, and just scowl, 'Wow. People fucked. Big whoop. Next item, please...'

Oh - my upcoming novel Howling on a Concrete Moon should be uploaded for print next week. Watch this space.