Monday, 4 November 2019

The Healing Power of Dolmades

I'm kind of at a loose end at this very point in time (12.14 AEDT) as I type. Thought I might just toss about a few thoughts. I was rostered for just under two hours this morning, but am tutoring this afternoon. I guess I should plot my next novel, but I think I will plot a letter to my local council and suggest they build a few more drains in our street because we had some very welcome rainfall on Sunday afternoon, but it got quite scary when there was a very concentrated deluge going on.  We have been flooded twice in the past six years, and I am in no hurry to experience it again. It is amazingly distressing. It took me a long time to recover emotionally last time, and if it happens again, I will need some serious help. And you know what else? I feel like an arse for saying this because it's only WATER! It's not like losing a family member in tragic circumstances. Having to replace furniture is a first world problem, and I should remember this.

So, to stave off anxiety about heavy rainfall, I have been pigging into dolmades. Whilst not a recognised medication under the guidelines set to govern pharmaceutical bodies, the dolmades are doing a good job. I bought a tin yesterday - I do love me some of those tart little vine-wrapped fuckers - and as it happens, none of my family are all that keen, so I got to hog the lot. This is good.

Last Friday, between care work and tutoring, I pre-recorded an interview with my local ABC radio branch, to promote Howling on a Concrete Moon. I don't know if it's been aired yet, but the producer promised to email me a copy of the link, and when this is done, I will make a little video of it and share it to my socials ('socials' - am I hip or what?). The producer asked something along the lines of: 'Regarding the book being set in the Eighties, do you have a fondness for that era?' I almost snorted hard enough to send ribbons of snot from my nostrils that would have wavered like New Years Eve party streamers. I almost choked on the water I had been thoughtfully supplied, as I took a sip.  I felt like screeching, 'Are you fried? That was the worse decade EVER! Shit music, shit movies, shit attitudes, and shit hair!' Instead, I chuckled like the cultured yet cynical dilettante I try present as, and replied that I had lived through the Eighties and considered it a particularly horrendous time. Still, looking forward to sharing the interview.

Anyway, I'd better get going and work on my submission for more drains in our street. I'm aware you catch more flies with honey than you do vinegar, but at times I feel like buying a gigantic, weapons-grade can of Mortein, and a fly-swatter the size of a tennis court.

Cheers,
Your Blogger Bingells.

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