'Simply having a wonderful-' MAKE IT STOP!

 Generally speaking, I enjoy Christmas, notwithstanding the crowds at the shops and the deluge of sucky and sappy songs wafting through the shops' speakers like a malodorous stench. I must confess I am one of the very few who doesn't hate THAT Mariah Carey number. Don't get me wrong, I don't go out of my way to listen to it, but I don't run screaming from the room, hands flattening my ears against my head, should it come on, either. That being said, there are tunes of such tedious turgidity they make my ears shrivel or else try to pull away from my head. Let's discuss these horrors, shall we?

1 Wonderful Christmas Time by Paul McCartney. Whoever finalised the decision to award McCartney his knighthood clearly never listened to this. It's just three or so minutes of mind-blowing banality that includes an inane 'ding-dong, ding-dong'. Used properly, the synthesiser is a worthy enough instrument, but not here. I don't play the synthesiser, so I'm not sure what's going on in this piece, but it's jerky and sounds like it's hiccupping. Maybe it got drunk to forget its association with this silly number. The most heinous aspect of this song is that you hear it, and remains stuck in your head, clinging to your brain like a needy octopus wrapping its tentacles around until they are firmly suction cupped into place.

2  Last Christmas by Wham.  Is it a metaphor for exchanging unwanted Christmas gifts? Anyway, if you need me to explain why the song blows, please don't breed.

3 Little Drummer Boy by I-Don't-Know-Whom. It's repetitive boring twaddle and if I were Our Lady and had just given birth in a stable only to have some snotnosed twerp come in and bash a drum, I'd push his freaking head through it!

That's me for now. I've been flat out catching up on uni stuff and trying to make heads or tails of the NSW Advanced English - Stage 6 curriculum. Chaucer might prove less challenging. 

On a different note, I'm really confused as to the vicious bile and hatred these pale old farts like Jeremy Clarkson and Piers Morgan have for Meghan Markle. What The Sun published by Clarkson yesterday went beyond the pale in its foul vitriol. It was filthily nauseating and if you're reading this, Clarkie, surely you can access Viagra to help you achieve the stiffy you know doubt hoped to acquire by writing that disgusting rant. Get in the bin and don't come out.

A Walk Along the Beach, Ending in the Sea

 Don't some things just make you want to walk into the sea? Yesterday, I read that some health expert wants Santa Claus to slim down because it would instill in children the importance of not being obese and making the effort to lose weight when necessary. 

Christ on a motorised pogo stick, really?

This inanity was headlined: Would You Like to See Santa Lose Weight? My answer to that is a big, fat (no pun intended) NO. The only creatures who probably want to see Santa lose weight are the reindeer who have to haul the fat bugger. Can you imagine what an arduous task that would be? The poor things would be sustaining slipped discs and hernias, not to mention the astigmatism from the glare generated by Rudolph's nose in the dark. 

I'm aware different iconic characters have the odd tweak to suit a generation (including nipples on George Clooney's Batman costume), but this idea just ruptures the very fabric of the time/space continuum with its sheer bloody dumbarsery. 

How about promoting fun activities that will help keep weight off children? Santa sits in a sleigh (sedentary behaviour) and visits pretty much every house all over the world, where he pigs into cookies and beer (gluttonous behaviour), so guess what? HE'S GOING TO BE FAT-FAT-THE-WATER-RAT, OKAY?! Just leave Santa alone. Please. 

Here are two more things that make me want to walk into the sea; they're connected, so this is why I'm including them in them in the one section. The first is news journalists (hah!) getting news stories from Tik Tok and the second is the actual stories sourced from Tik Tok. Case in point: the news article was a confused American woman who apparently now domiciles in New Zealand. She posted on Tik Tok a video regarding her confusion about the word 'bauble'. I guess they don't call those dangly round ornaments baubles in the US. Okay, that's fine. Just as accents and dialects vary from region to region and country to country, so does the lingo. But does this twit have malfunctioning psychological schemata that prevent her making the connection with the word ON the box to the things IN the box? And if so, is she too dense to Google the definition, or is this simply a case of requiring validation with a myriad of comments from those who travail the Tik-Toksphere? I'm guessing it's a combination of all suggested scenarios, which is giving credence to my theory that people are getting sillier every day. 

On the brighter side, today I did something I never do; I hung Christmas lights (and if the box had an unfamiliar word, I'd have the common sense to connect the dots). I haven't in the past, but today, I did. I'm happy with my handiwork. It's just a simple row along my front eaves, nowhere near Clark Griswold territory, but I'm feeling accomplished. I've had some stress in my life lately, so any accomplishment makes me happy.

Chat soon, but in the meantime, a tip from Auntie Bingells; please don't attempt to validate yourself with asinine questions on social media platforms. 

Sighs

Every now and then, things make you sigh and despair. For a while, I was saving my cynical ennui for my youngest son, who has been eating all the Saos. This is annoying because I would like to have a slice of cheese and tomato on a Sao occasionally, and he has pigged into them. Then I had a read of my newsfeeds and realised there are worse things out there. Far, far worse. Take, for instance, the father of the (alleged) Colorado shooter. By way of explanation, I have put included 'alleged' because it might be prudent at this early stage when due judicial process has not been finalised.  Anyway, the dude's father - I think I will just call him FW (short for Fuckwit) - he stated in an interview that upon being told his son had been involved in a shooting at a gay bar, his first thoughts were along the lines of: Oh my God, he's gay? Eeeewwww, how could something that leapt from my ultra-macho he-man testicles be gay? Never mind most parents' first thoughts would be concern their child had been injured or worse, this guy's first concern was his son might be gay. Then when he was informed it was believed his son was the shooter, he breathed a humongous sigh of relief because, as he said in words to the following effect: 'We're Mormons and we don't do gay.' So, this guy's concern is -* checks notes* - that his son might be gay instead of a murderer of innocent people? FW, what in the blue blazes ails you? 

Guess what else? FW is a porn actor! In fairness, he might not be doing porn now, but I'm no theologian, so if someone can enlighten me about whether Mormons do porn, I'd appreciate it.  From what I understand of Mormon proclivities, porn is not really on. Every time I go on YouTube to look up film clips of The Osmonds (and hey, I like to do this, okay?), I see titles like Down by the Lazy River and Crazy Horses. I don't see links to stuff titled The Osmonds do Salt Lake City, and if there were such a video, I'm sure it would be a concert held there, not some orgy featuring guys with big teeth and Lego hair. This alleged shooter's FW is one of the worst kinds of shit stains going and would be catapulted out to the Milky Way. 

The Red Font Supersedes the Red Ink

 The good news is this anxiety is dissipating. It's not entirely gone, but my guts feel substantially less like a washing machine agitator than they did a month ago. I guess the stressors that triggered the anxiety are improving; this is a great help. I used a semicolon in place of a conjunction there for tone. Guess what? There is a chance I will be teaching this technique tomorrow. I'm on my second practicum placement and tomorrow I have two double periods, both of which I plan to use for writing techniques. For relaxed or conversational tone, or for strengthening the sentence when the comma is struggling, get out that semicolon; it's a regular cure-all (and hey look, there's another one!). 

Cliched, I know, but things have changed since I was a student. Today, I found myself assessing and reporting work I'd set via an online program, rather than the old hand-in-the-book method, during which a teacher would write in red ink (and if you were unlucky, you'd cop a batshit crazy nun who'd erroneously put a conjunction over your appropriately placed comma, and then scream like a startled banshee when challenged - but I'm not bitter about this). However, in keeping with tradition, I used a red font to make my comments on the work.

Also, I was required to attend bus duty this afternoon. This was quite an informal affair compared to what I remember. Students casually interacted whilst the teacher called out the route of whatever bus had pulled up. A far cry from my bus line, which entailed standing in line on a blistering hot day, waiting to be dismissed by this scruffy harridan whose countenance bore a photographic resemblance to that of a constipated gargoyle. We would stand soldier-like, bored and in increasing discomfort, which one day prompted the kid behind me to scowl sotto voce, 'Let us go, you ugly old shit!'. It was my great concern today that a kid would refer to me in this manner, disgruntled at having to wait for dismissal.

Anxiety, Begone!

 It's been well over a month since I last wrote anything here. I'm going to resume soon but I wanted to drop by and give an explanation for this rare, prolonged absence: I've had an incredibly shit time and the anxiety in the fallout has overwhelmed me. Don't get me wrong, I've functioned at work, with family, and with study. I can function when I have to; if anything, I tend to go into 'pragmatic' mode when shit happens. And shit did happen. More shit than I'd dreamed possible in a short space of time. The factory where they manufacture those Ford pills could not create this amount of shit in a year, no matter how profitable the year has been. I'm not going to say what caused me to become stressed, for which I apologise; it's like vague-booking when you post on Facebook how pissed off you are but don't want to talk about it. I'm not ready to talk; it's as simple as that. However, I did want to touch base and try to write.

Anyway, yes; stuff happened, and it kept me busy, stressed, and exhausted. The situation involving this damnable stuff is slowly resolving and improving. Notwithstanding my gratitude that things are improving, I did fall victim to a major bout of anxiety, which prevented me writing. I'm a writer, for the love of Christ, and I should be writing, but it wasn't happening. Of course, I had to catch up on uni work (I'd been granted extensions on assessments, but then I had to do another essay almost immediately after uploading the extended assessment). 

Other things happened, like my son finishing Year 12 and commencing his HSC. And I'm a parent, so this is going to stress me. 

I hate having the anxiety, but as things resolve, the vile spectre will dissipate like a foul fetid fog in the sun. It's even starting to alleviate somewhat now. But for a while, whilst it didn't stop me functioning in real terms, it has stopped me writing and been a constant torment from which I could not escape. It gnaws at the insides and really impacts upon the enjoyment of life. This current bout is no doubt a response to the trauma we experienced a few weeks ago (yeah, the one about which I am not yet ready to speak), but it's drained my energy.

But tonight, I wrote something. It might have been a piteous pile of bleating, but I wrote something. And you know what? I can write something else again very soon. This feels good. 

From Covid to the Classroom

 

Again, I have been remiss in running my fingers over the keyboard; but then again, it’s been damn near impossible to be creative in the past three weeks. Here’s why, Gentle Reader:

In the first week of this past three weeks, I had FUCKING COVID, and as the old ad went: Not happy, Jan! I don’t know from where I caught the virus, but given my husband and eldest had symptoms before I did, I’m guessing my son caught it at work from a customer. I woke on the Monday feeling a bit lousy, so I carried out a home test. Lo and behold, it was positive. I rang my work to report my result, then asked my youngest son if he had any spare RAT kits for his dad and brother, explaining I had just tested positive (the school supplies kits to the students).  Sure ‘nuff, Mr Bingells and our oldest spawn turned out the same.

Everyone’s experience of Covid is different. My own experience was colossal fatigue, which when trying to finalise two university assessments that are due, is a nightmare. I also had to produce some lesson plans for the practicum placement I was to undergo just after my isolation period, and it was a Kafkaesque clusterfuck trying to plan something for Year Tens studying Journey of the Magi when my brain felt like a pile of confused dung. It took me two hours to plan one lesson! All I wanted to do was sleep, and I’m still feeling the exhausted after-effects. My son is still coughing. My husband struggled greatly because he is in the vulnerable category. We had to put off builders who were to clad our house that week. I lost income because I am a casual and I also had to cancel my tutoring.  In the miserable mire, we were very grateful we are vaccinated; I cannot imagine how dastardly the experience would have been otherwise – particularly for Mr Bingells. I have no sympathy for those who choose not to get vaccinated and then come down with the damned thing. I worry about people who cannot take a vaccine and are therefore vulnerable.

Today, I was able to go to my backyard and hang out washing for the first time in three weeks (feeling weak and sick necessitated the use of the dryer during my bout of ‘rona). It felt good. It also tuckered me out somewhat, but I’m slowly getting stronger.

Moving on to my practicum placement: I loved it! I had some ‘moments’, but I learned from them and have been perfecting my classroom management skills. I really enjoyed the classroom discussions wherein I explained Blackstone’s principle in judicial matters when contextualised to the breakdown of society in Lord of the Flies with Year Eight and the themes in 12 Angry Men with Year Ten. Other highlights included:

1.     .  Using Shakespearean insults to teach Year Seven the difference between ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ (the poetry we studied had archaic language).

2.       Playing Kiss to the Year Tens to demonstrate how judiciously placed trochaic words can make a piece, whether it be a song or modernist poetry, really pop.

3.     .  Explaining the ‘empty wine skin’ in Journey of the Magi was the equivalent of an empty goon bag (I think ‘goon bag’ is a funny term).

4.        Explaining Piggy in The Lord of the Flies is the deuteragonist to Ralph’s protagonist and Jack’s antagonist (I don’t get to use ‘deuteragonist’ in a sentence often enough)

But the main highlight for me during my placement was the realisation that not only am I capable of teaching a class, I am also really going to enjoy it. For the most part, anyway.

Before I go, can I just say this to the people criticising the Finnish prime minister for dancing with friends at a party: UNCLENCH A LITTLE, ALREADY! For the love of God, the woman is thirty-six years old. I’d do the same if I were thirty-six. Some say it’s not a good look. Our last prime minister secretly awarded himself multiple portfolios. That look is so bad it would offend thine eyes (I also told the Year Sevens ‘thine’ goes before a noun starting with a vowel, a well as being the equivalent of ‘yours’).

To Michael on Your Eighteenth Birthday

Okay, Michael, you've travelled around the sun eighteen times now. Eighteen! It's a milestone because it means you're legally an adult. I must confess to having felt a bit sooky and wondering can I still call you my little boy. What a journey you've had en route to your adulthood. This journey has been akin to a roller coaster ride (in more ways than one for you), and it's a ride in which we have all been sitting in that carriage, waving our arms in the air as we screamed with both terror and hilarity, as we go hurtling down the slope. Like a rollercoaster ride, your life has had its ups and downs - but they're mainly ups. Let's talk about it. . . 

I had an inkling you were in the wings, so I bought a home pregnancy test and I was thrilled to see a blue line appear. I wrapped the test like a present and presented it to your dad when he came home for lunch. You should have seen his face; he looked like he entrance to Luna Park! He made a joyful 'Oh!' sound and he had tears in his eyes. 

I had a textbook pregnancy and birth. You arrived quite quickly after I went into labour and your delighted dad cried out, 'Another little mate!' We agreed that if you were a boy, you'd be Michael Barry. Michael was the only name we could agree on and Barry was your wonderful Poppy (Dad's father) whom we lost the year before you were born. The midwives brought me toast with Vegemite, and like with your brother Aaron three years beforehand, I spilled crumbs on your head. We were so happy when you joined us; our family felt complete.

What a cheerful baby you were, always smiling at everybody. You developed into a cheerful toddler. Remember when a stray dog howled at our front door and adopted us? We named him Brock and he was so protective of you, and he didn't mind when you would steady yourself by hanging onto his lip as you negotiated the back steps or when you would just sprawl against him.

You always such an unassuming and well-behaved child, with the exception of your brother Aaron's first Holy Communion, when you thought he was getting a treat and you were missing out, whereupon you threw a tantrum of such ferocity your father took you outside. When the service was over, you were still protesting the unfairness of it all, so much so, I asked the priest did he feel you might need an exorcism. Hey, I have a ratbag sense of humour at times, and over the years, it's become wonderfully apparent that you do, too. 

I first noticed your innate theatricality in the preschool end of year concert. The second half comprised a nativity play and I saw you ready to take the stage, with a camp pair of fake donkey ears attached to your head. Many would not rate too highly being cast in the role of the ass in the stable, but you made it your moment to shine. You took your position next to the manger, and when the shepherds and Magi made their arrival, you made grand ta-da! gestures at the Little Prince of Peace.

Your sense of humour and personality ensured you had no trouble making friends at school. You also enjoyed listening to music and dancing. How you loved an audience and an impromptu performance. Our shopping trip to Coles, when you were seven, illustrates this. You saw your image on the CCTV camera and performed a moonwalk. Then you dropped your pants and mooned the camera. That ignominious episode aside, we encouraged you to develop your flair for dancing, and you enjoyed hip-hop and musical theatre classes for several years after that. You received an encouragement award from the dance school when you were twelve, and you strutted to the stage as though to the manor born. You received your award with aplomb, and said, 'I'd just like to thank my mum and dad...'. The school's teachers were shrieking laughter. Here you are from your last year at the school. You rock those jazz shoes.

Your dancing earned you some income when you did some busking in the playground and you had a group of women copying your moves at a Queen tribute show we attended when you were thirteen. You are quite the Mr Bojangles. 

You're old enough to know life throws curveballs at times. It threw you one that manifested when you were seven. We thought you were daydreaming because what kid isn't imaginative at times? It was a different rollercoaster this time, and no fun at all. You ran around, crying you were on a rollercoaster (the seizures produced a similar sensation to you).  As parents, it was so scary to watch. Your teachers were frightened, too. We got you into a pediatrician who observed and filmed you. As luck would have it, the man who became your treating pediatric neurologist happened to be in the building that day. He checked you over and asked questions. Your dad's voice sounded like piano wire when he said, 'It's scaring the hell out of us.' He reassured us and prescribed you medication. You also had to undergo a series of tests that were no fun at all. We were so proud of how stoic you were when you were in the huge MRI cylinder or putting up with wires stuck to your head during the EEGs you've suffered through over the years. Dad signed a waiver to allow the footage taken of you to be used for training pediatric neurologists. We wanted to help and we know you'd want to help other families affected by epilepsy.

Sure, you've made us worry, but more than that, you've made us laugh. Your timing and wit are impeccable. I will never forget the time our house flooded in a freak storm in 2014. You would have been nine. Anyway, we were standing with our mouths hanging, water halfway up to our knees, just gazing around in abject shock. In imitation of a contemporary television ad that featured a similar situation, you deadpanned, 'Mum, you're gonna need a bigger boat.' Oh, how your dad and I laughed. You broke the tension beautifully and gave us the belly laugh we badly needed. 

You have developed broad and eclectic tastes in music. Sometimes we will hear you playing Motley Crue, and other times, Frank Sinatra. You deliver zingers and one-liners in the manner of a latter day Dorothy Parker. Your maternal grandmother (my mother) was funny and a music lover, and it is a sorrow to me that she never knew you. 

You've proven to be a great concert companion and I love how we share similar interests and tastes. Now that you're eighteen, you can accompany me to some of the pub gigs that were hitherto unavailable to you. I know you will be sartorial. You've developed your own style and taken up drums in lieu of dance:

It might be incumbent upon you to now act like an adult, but please, NEVER stop acting like the amazing, funny, witty raconteur you are and always have been.

Happy birthday, Michael, from your family, who love you to the moon and back.

Trying To Not Crack over Prac

 Okay, I got the assessments in. How did I go? Don't know, but I will find out soon enough. In the meantime, I've been getting myself ready for upcoming university practicum placement. This involved uploading every competency I have ever earned, or so it seems, as well as gaining a few new ones, such as specific anaphylaxis training (the training including in my first aid certificate apparently doesn't count). I also had to have my Working With Children Check verified by the department. Okay, I thought, but then I had a hassle uploading it. I figured this is because I have uploaded it before for a tutoring role, so I rang to check. My hunch was right, but I had to wait on hold for the equivalent of a geological epoch whilst the clerk checked. The hold music was The Look by Roxette. On a loop. Over and over and over. What I had once considered an innocuous piece of Eighties Europop became pure torture and I was one step from the fetal position, alternatively wailing for it to stop and wailing for my mummy. 

But it got sorted.

So what else is happening? Unless you've been under a rock, you'll be aware the US Supreme Court overturned Roe v Wade, thus placing termination laws in the hand of the individual states. There is no nice way I can think of to say this, so I will just be blunt: fuck you people, seriously. I get it, it's an emotive issue for many. But it can be emotive for the person making the decision, too. It's a procedure that is carried out for myriad reasons, none of which are the business of anybody but the person with the uterus. So can all you whackjobs waving your gruesome placards outside clinics just fuck off and go away? For all your blathering about saving an unborn, how much of a shit do you proffer when it is born? I'm guessing somewhere in the vicinity of none. I will go further to suggest that you would describe the mother as a moocher leeching off society. What next? Seizing data on period tracking apps to ascertain whether a skewed cycle is proof of an abortion? Monitoring people of childbearing years who might be travelling out of the state? If nothing else, think about the potential loss of dollars for the tourism industry; I can't imagine many people wanting to go on holiday in Gilead. 

Anyway, even though it seems I have done nothing but uni related work lately, I still have more to do. I am hoping with every fibre of my being this multitudinous paperwork I had to submit is because it is my first prac, and the information will be applicable to the subsequent practicums I undertake, because I must tell you, it is arduous and tedious and lengthy, and made me want to snap nails in half with my teeth. 

Still, I got it uploaded, and it's made me feel oddly proud. What else am I proud of this week? Well, I didn't get into a huge argument with someone about Roe vs Wade who used the trope of 'keep your legs shut and don't destroy life because you've had five minutes of fun'. You might be wondering why I didn't go ballistic; well, I was at this person's house when the view was expressed and I have this thing about being civil to someone in their own house. One thing I am weirdly proud of is, after viewing an instructional video, I figured out how to change the ringtone of my new phone to the opening of Anarchy in the UK. This might seem childish. It could appear unseemly. But what the hey? 

Oh well, study awaits and then I'm going online to purchase clothes for prac. 

Ian Dury & Kanye West in The Same Post!

 I've spent the past few hours thinking about lesson plans for my upcoming university assessment, as well as for my upcoming practicum placement. My ideas are magnificent, or so I like to think, but the hassle is mainly ensuring I have the correct template for my plans, and have I developed a good enough understanding of Piaget and Vygotsky and Bandura to understand how the adolescents will be learning, and have I got a good enough hook for each lesson plan. Getting into the assessment and study has proven difficult because my son's new dog has been whining and whimpering - my son was outside mowing the lawn and she wanted to be with him. I haven't really planned any hook for each lesson yet. Some of the ideas bandied in the collaborations included giving the students a quiz: 'Lyrics from a Song or Words from a Poem?' Lots of fun, I think. The potential for LOLs (pronounced, according to my seventeen-year-old: Lollz) is myriad. How about these little beauties for the young minds I will be hopefully shaping? Hint: they're all song lyrics, not poems. 

1. 'I'm spasticus. I'm spasticus. I'm spasticus autisticus.' (Ian Dury and the Blockheads). 

2. 'I am an antichrist. I am an anarchist.' (Sex Pistols).

3. 'My penis was missing again.' (King Missile).

4. 'She's cool in bed, and she oughta be 'cos Ethyl's dead.' (Alice Cooper)

5. 'Why don't you just fuck off and die?' (Kid Rock).

Or maybe not. 

Speaking of songs, I had the most disheartening experience at a trivia game last Friday night. It was held at my son's high school. Normally, I am pretty good at music trivia. But I was definitely at a disadvantage in the audio round that night. The snippets lasted for about 1.5 seconds at a stretch and were definitely not my era. Well, I'm proud I didn't know one of the answers was Kanye West (frigging tone-deaf and talentless gronk). I was definitely hobbled in that race. Also, the brevity of the snippets might have been to minimise the chances of people cheating by using the Shazam app. Let me just say this, if you're going to cheat at trivia with apps like Google and Shazam, you're low enough to parachute out of a snake's arse with space to freefall. I would rather lose fairly than win by foul means, and like I said, not knowing a song is by Kanye West is by no means a source of shame. Now if they'd only played snipped from (1) to (5) above, my team might have been in with a chance. 

To Aaron, on Your 21st Birthday

 How do I start this? I guess at the beginning. Okay, picture the scene: it was Sydney, 2000, and the entire city was basking in the afterglow of the recently contested Olympic games. There was a general good mood over the city and a rather apprehensive one in the flat in Lane Cove where your dad and I were living; we were sitting side-by-side on our bed waiting for the result to appear on a home pregnancy test. We had undergone so many months of heartbreak trying to achieve a pregnancy, including invasive tests to correct an issue I had, but this month was different. Sounds corny, but I knew. 

Didn't stop me being scared to look at the test in case there was more heartbreak. 

The pink line appeared, growing stronger and more distinct.

'Wow,' your dad whispered. 'I'm going to be a dad!'

Your paternal grandparents were staying with us. We told them the news. Your late Poppy kissed me on the cheek. You don't remember him, but he loved you very much, and you enjoyed playing with him. Your Neena told us how happy she was for us, but she was not as happy as we were. We were going to be a family! 

You arrived two and a half weeks prior to your expected date. Until then, I thought the most beautiful thing I had ever seen was a Himalayan sunrise. You eclipsed that. I had never seen anything so wonderful as the tiny, vernix-coated scrap with black hair growing over his skull in the same pattern as his dad's. The midwife put you against my chest and you looked at me with an expression that was a mix of bewilderment and indignation. You looked like you were thinking: What the hell was THAT about? I felt like a question had been answered (So THAT'S what you look like!). I also felt amazingly protective and welcoming of you. I greeted you by saying 'hello' and gave you a kiss on the head. Your dad was crying, 'Look at him! Look at him!', and when the midwife asked what was your name, your dad tried to say 'Aaron', but instead made incoherent 'Aaaaah' sounds like a Bee Gee. We toasted your arrival with sparkling wine that had gone warm served in unenvironmentally friendly polystyrene cups, but it felt like we were drinking Moet et Chandon in Waterford crystal flutes. The midwives brought me some vegemite on toast, and I spilled crumbs on your head as I ate it. 

You were a pleasant-natured baby who developed into a pleasant-natured little boy. We moved to the Hunter Valley, where you attended school. On your first day of school, you showed me the drinking bubblers and suggested we install some at our house. You did well at school, achieving a host of merit awards for school work and showing good manners. With the exception of one year, you were awarded Academic Achievement at every end-of-year assembly throughout primary school, and were nominated for Dux in your final year. Your dad and I would clear the calendar because we anticipated receiving the invitation from the school! You clearly get your mathematical and engineering skills from your dad, as well as your looks. We both gave you a good grasp of literacy. Once you showed me a cartoon your younger brother had drawn, wherein a character was uttering a misspelled F-word (the 'c' was missing). I asked you whether you had actually done this yourself in an attempt to get your brother into trouble. You rolled your eyes and replied, 'Come on, Mum. I would have spelled that properly!' 

You continued the upward curve into Fine Young Man throughout your high school years. You enjoyed soccer games, and played well and with sportsmanship. You continued to perform well academically, too. You also developed a sardonic wit that would give Paul Keating a run for his money (look him up, my son!). How we enjoy your company and the conversations we have! We have become a formidable force, together with your buddy Drew, at the pub trivia. It's not only the fact we play well and win the occasional bottle of wine, I enjoy the conversation and repartee. You are not only our son, you are our friend.

You have lived twenty-one years, so have had the opportunities to realise life isn't always great. I remember the mixture of sorrow and pride I felt when I saw you carrying your Pop's (my dad) coffin when you were just fourteen, and performing the duty of pallbearer along with your dad, uncles, and cousins. You were stoic and strong, and when Pop's coffin was in the hearse, you wept in your dad's arms. I cried watching you as you experienced grief. A few years later, we said goodbye to our beautiful dog Brock. We sat in the vet's surgery, passing a box of tissues back and forth. You held Brock's paw to let him know you were there for him in those final moments. Again, I felt pride with my grief. You were there for Brock when he needed you. You are there for your dad when he needs you. You are there for Michael when he needs you (you were the person Michael wanted when he experienced bullying in primary school). You were there for me when I needed a support person for some unpleasant business last year. I don't think you realise the strength I drew from your presence on those occasions. I was proud of the dignity you showed when it was required. Your dad was proud of what you did for me. Your pop would have been very proud of you, too. 

Speaking of Pop, remember how proud we all were when he led the Scone Horse Parade in 2013? You will understand what an important honour it was to Pop, but do you know what was his favourite part of the day? It was when you hugged him after the parade and said, 'I'm very proud of you, Pop.' You made his day! 

We are so proud of your intellect, your kindness, and your tinder-dry sense of humour. There is a good reason you are entrusted with creating the team name every week for trivia! 

You are so many things, Aaron. You are our son, Michael's older brother, Neena's grandson, a special person to Jialin, and a mate to that coterie of fine young people you call your friends. You are now the adoptive father of Daisey the Beagle-And-Who-Knows-What-Else-Cross. You're a Star Wars nerd, a fine Lego builder, a collector of anime themed plushies (I think we're going to need to hire a shipping container for your collection soon!), a dog lover, and a 'quiet' raconteur. You are kind to animals, but have a steadfast conviction the sunfish is a useless and ugly creature with no right to exist on our planet. Your humour is a marvelous dry and sardonic blend of Paul Keating and Stephen Fry. You follow politics and have a detestation for injustice. 

The day you were born, your dad filmed me giving you a message. I cannot locate the tape; I daresay it's been destroyed in those floods we had. I recall what I said: 'I'm really looking forward to getting to know you and being your mum'. 

I was right.

From all of us: Happy 21st birthday, Aaron. We love you. 

Fat-Bottomed Girls You Block the View of the Stage

 It's been a while since I last decided to run my fingers over the keyboard. I've been as busy as a one-armed fan dancer, what with uni assessments, handing out how-to-vote cards at polling booths, and attending the Queen tribute show. We have also welcomed a new family member: my son, for this upcoming 21st birthday, wanted to adopt a rescue dog and we now have a bitzer, but mainly bits of beagle, named Daisey - four months old. 

Last Saturday, my younger son and I travelled to a venue some one and a half hours away for the Queen show. We were fortunate enough to score seats at the end of the front row. We were unlucky enough to be seated next to a gaggle of drunken she-gronks who staggered and swayed by, cackling like chooks on nitrous oxide, slopping Moscato from plastic cups and stepping on my son's foot (one almost landing in his lap) as they lurched into their seats. 'Don't mind us,' one shrilled, 'We've been drinking since four o'clock!'. My son, something of a wisecracker, replied, 'So have I.' 

This particular venue has a flat seated area at the front, which is where we were. Being considerate, we stayed seated until specifically directed otherwise by 'Freddie' for Fat-Bottomed Girls. We did not wish to block the view of those behind us, and it's not fair to expect others to stand in order to see just because we might wish to stand (which I don't, anyway). Unfortunately, the Moscato had annihilated any sense of consideration the lushes next to us might have once had, and they decided to stand up and dance. Being on the end of the row, this meant my son and I had to endure what looked like gelatinous satellites squashed into poly-cotton blend swinging and swaying, obliterating our view of the band. An irritated tap on the back of the behemoth nearest me gave them the hint, but it wasn't long before they were on their feet again, miraculous that they could stand given they had consumed enough booze to sink a battle ship. My disgruntled son remarked, 'Freddie sang about fat-bottomed girls, not fat-arsed beached whales!'. We ended up standing next to a speaker near the wall in order to see the show and not block the view of the elderly people behind us. 

Despite that, we had a wonderful night, which included catching up with an old friend of mine who happened to be at the gig. My son navigated for the drive home and we eagerly discussed our next planned trip to see a tribute band, which is going to be an ELO show in about ten days. Serendipitously, Rockaria came on the radio, and we sang along, operatic bridge and all. 

Anyway, that's it for now. Posting again soon and hope you're all doing well. 

Pondering the Most Effed-Up Fictional Characters I've Ever Encountered

 I'm of that generation that devoured novels by VC Andrews throughout our late teens and early twenties. Who else enjoyed with guilt the vicious cruelty of the four Dollanganger/Foxworth children's family in Flowers in the Attic, a novel with themes that only differed from those in Deliverance by the absence of banjos in the background and the presence of teeth in the characters? Some of the works, penned by ghostwriters after Andrews' death, had Byzantine plots and seriously annoying characters. In this instance, I'm thinking of the Casteel family, whose protagonist Heaven Leigh (say it quickly and feel your eyes roll) is one of the most irritating paradigms of piss-elegance ever to grace a page. SPOILER ALERT: she borrows from the Flowers in the Attic series and dresses like her mother to freak out her father, which distracts him while he's - get this - working as a lion tamer in a circus. Disaster ensues. Also, she takes it upon herself to water the plants when she's awaiting an interview for a girl's school. People like this annoy me: they're not your plants; leave them the fuck alone! I once had a flatmate whose girlfriend would water the plants when she dropped by. God, she pissed me off. 

Anyway, I got thinking about Andrews' well-known Southern Gothic masterpiece (if that word applies), My Sweet Audrina. I read this when I was a teenager in the Eighties, and years later, I still think it is jam-packed full with the most fucked up characters in the one book. If you've read it, I would love a comment here on your opinion on who is the villain in this book. Vera is the obvious choice, but I think she's running neck-and-neck with Damien (aka Papa). Anyway, hereunder I submit my reasons for why the characters in this book are assholes and fuck-ups. As before, there are SPOILERS. 

1. Audrina. I know she is a product of her environment, but she's annoying. The way she craps on about the chameleon quality of her hair (and her mother's) is so irritating. Does anybody's hair really change from flaxen to chestnut without a packet of Loreal? 

2. Lucietta (Audrina's mother). She's a flip who went along with screwing up her daughter's mind after she was gangraped on her ninth birthday. She also lies around reading soft-porn romances and stuffing her face with chocolates, having given up a potential career as a pianist. Oh, and has mock weekly afternoon teas with her sister as they communicate through a portrait of another sister, who was apparently cooked and eaten by cannibals when working as a missionary in the jungle. Yeah, I know. The bourbon flows along with the spiteful insults as Lucietta and her sister do their best to antagonise each other. 

3. Elsbeth (Lucietta's sister and Audrina's aunt). She's unpleasant and bitter, but I think she's reacting to the crappy hand life dealt her. Let's face it, being treated like a servant in your ancestral home by the guy you once loved and who decided to dump you when you were pregnant and marry your younger sister must suck somewhat. 

4. Arden (Audrina's childhood friend and eventual husband). He's just a turd who shagged Vera (more about her soon) whilst Audrina was in a coma. And before Audrina was in a coma, for that matter. He was also willing to pull the plug while she was comatose.

5. Vera (Elsbeth's daughter and Audrina's cousin, whom we later learn is - courtesy of Damien's dalliance with Elspbeth - Audrina's half-sister!). She was probably the most interesting character in this book.  She was incremental in what happened to Audrina in the woods, so she's definitely a villain in the piece. She also appropriated Lucietta's dirty books after Lucietta's death (I warned you there were spoilers) and rubbed one out as Audrina was watching. Another great moment was miscarrying on an expensive rug and throwing a clot of dead fetus at her mother's apron. 

6. Damien (Lucietta's husband, Elsbeth's former lover, Audrina's father, and as it turns out, Vera's father. Also Sylvia's father, but more about her soon). Okay, where to begin? He dumped a pregnant woman, married and impregnated her sister, and took over the home like it was his own. He refuses to acknowledge Vera as his daughter, perpetuates patriarchal and sexist ideals, and fetishises virginity and sexuality in females, particularly his daughters. He manipulates every woman within a fifty mile radius. He convinced Audrina sex was evil, so much so, she could never respond to her husband (except when she wanted to win him back from Vera, so maybe this was Audrina's kink? If so, Andrews never explored this in the novel, which is kind of a shame). He subjected Audrina to electric shock therapy. He forces her to practise some kind of trauma memory recovery in a rocking chair. He entrusts Audrina with the care of her younger sister Sylvia who has intellectual disability - Audrina is about eleven at the time, mind you. He tells Audrina when Sylvia is older, if she goes to a special home, 'some boy will take her virginity' (again with the virginity, you creepy fuck?) and if Sylvia falls pregnant, then that child becomes Audrina's responsibility, too. He also banged his son-in-law's mother, who looks like Elizabeth Taylor, were Liz a double amputee above the knees. This book truly has fucked up scenarios and Damien is the type of sleazoid monster who should be yeeted into the sun. 

7. Lamar. Audrina's piano teacher who, when aged about twenty-six, shagged Vera who was about fifteen. Slime. 

8. Billie (Arden's mother). Billie is not an annoying character, per se. She's probably the most sensible one of the lot, and she's had to deal with the amputation of her legs owing to diabetes, after a stellar career as a figure skater. These trials pale in comparison to having her son marry into Audrina's family and her subsequent seduction by the manipulative Damien. 

9. Sylvia (Audrina's younger sister). Lucietta died giving birth to Sylvia, who has severe intellectual disability. She's not as annoying as the other characters, but she does get hold of glass prisms and uses them to dazzle everyone and just might have pushed some characters down the stairs. 

Yes, there is clearly a plethora of fucked up characters in this book. For what it's worth, the writing isn't terrible by any means. But the characters out-fuck-up anything else I've ever read. They make the incestuous brother and sister in Hotel New Hampshire, and the woman who dresses as a bear, seem normal. 

Come to think of it, it's been years since I read Hotel New Hampshire, and John Irving is one of my favourite authors. I guess I know what I will be reading when I next have a holiday.

Office Onanism

 I daresay the Prime Minister will be calling the election soon. Will we see a change in government? More to the point, will the toxic culture of Parliament House be improved? If it is, the cleaning staff will be mightily relieved. Seriously, the building must have dried, semi-dried, gelatinous, or still-in-liquid-stage jizz everywhere, if the allegations regarding the prayer room are correct (and at this stage they are ALLEGATIONS). And it's not just the Prayer Room, remember the staffer who jacked off over a female MP's desk? Seriously, what is wrong with people? There is nothing wrong with rubbing one out, but on a woman's desk? Did this priapic prat have an uncontrollable bout of satyriasis or - and I think this is the most likely scenario - a chronic case of Private-Schoolboy-With-No-Respect-And-Wild-Empowerment-So-Joined-LNP? I will admit I made up the name of the latter medical condition in the previous sentence, but I wouldn't be surprised if, in the future, it crops up in a medical textbook near you. 

These allegations are bugging me for the following reasons:

1. If true, this is in the workplace on taxpayer's dollars. 

2. If true, this occurred in a place of worship, which is the height of disrespect (this is not what they meant when they said you have to kneel down in the prayer room, okay?). 

3. If true, the alleged participants voted on policies in a manner that was detrimental, hurtful, and harmful to the LGBQTI community and these participants, assuming their alleged proclivities are true, could be described as having tendencies that are congruous with members of that community, so where is the sense in voting in a harmful manner? It's like cutting off your nose to spite your face. 

Anyway, let's whip around the hat or set up a Go Fund Me to reward the long-suffering cleaning staff of Parliament House, who have to scrub and clean up after the odious onanists have been spilling seed like a split sack of quinoa. 

Will Smith Lends a Hand

 Something we can take home from the 2022 Oscars is that disability does not mean inability. Well done to Troy Kotsur on his win for Best Supporting Actor. He has become the first deaf male actor to win the gong. It's pretty common knowledge Marlee Matlin was first female deaf actor to win the award. Indeed, this year's Oscars have had some diversity in their list of winners: a queer person of colour taking home Best Supporting Actress (Ariana DeBose) and a neurodivergent woman picking up the award for Best Music (Billie Eilish). 

But - *heaves a bone-shaking sigh* - alas, what we can also take home from the 2022 Oscars is that Will Smith is a total twatwaffle who has put himself forward as poster boy for toxic masculinity. I'm sure you are aware I refer to the onstage altercation between him and Chris Rock. I've read so many comments praising the former Fresh Prince for defending 'his woman', and that just makes my skin crawl like a phalanx of slaters under a wet Kleenex. 

I don't think Rock's wisecrack was all that funny, but the thing with comedy is you're not going to find everything you hear funny and some of the material you hear could possibly be offensive to you. But Rock was doing his job and if there's a problem, see the previous sentence. Anyway, as you know, Smith mounted the stage and slapped Rock, before returning to his seat and shouting abuse; abuse that was broadcast to a global television audience. 

If Smith found Rock's comments personally offensive, why couldn't he yell something from his chair? His actions pay into the trope that women are delicate flowers who need protection, and even worse: that violence is acceptable. Then he made an arsehat of himself when he got the Oscar. Love makes you do strange things, hey? Like slugging someone? With his patriarchal attitude about women and methodology when someone upsets him, the only difference between him and some of the feral gronks in the rougher area of my home town is the postcode and tuxedo. 

To make it worse, his son tweeted words to the effect: "That's how we do it". How we do what, Jaden? Handle conflict like savage troglodytes? I'm sorry for this kid if this is how he's been brought up. Smith could have used his platform for so much good: he could have brought awareness to his wife's medical condition; but better yet, handled the conflict and offence he felt with dignity. Imagine the kids who worship him seeing him behave with civility. What a positive impact he could have had. 

Instead he acted like a jerk and has tainted his Oscar win. Oh, to those who say he should be stripped of the Oscar, might I remind you it's an acting award, not a citizenship award. If you want to remove awards from people who've behaved reprehensibly, load up the truck with Harvey Weinstein's awards (and leave some room for Roman Polanski's awards, too). If he won it fair and square on his performance, then he should keep it. I note he got a huge round of applause when he won - was everyone too scared he'd too smite them across the chops if they didn't clap for him? I would have clapped to acknowledge his win, but damned if I'd give him standing ovation. 

One good thing about this ugly incident: it provided inspiration for naming our trivia team last night. My son, his friend, another friend, and I answered questions to a great victory under our team name Will Smith Lends a Hand. 

MAFS (Does it stand for Malicious Actions From Scapegraces?)

 I'm weighing in on this MAFS thing and I don't even watch the bloody show. Reality television in general does not thrill me and from what I've seen of MAFS, I would sooner watch those foul-mouthed feral gronks that used to live behind me having sex than watch an episode of MAFS. 

However, last night I was traversing my socials and saw it was trending for a particular reason. Briefly, a contestant named Olivia discovered another contestant named Domenica had an OnlyFans page, after which she obtained a photo of Domenica and showed it to other contestants. 

This really boils my piss. Not only because I ended up watching footage of the show, but also the motivations and actions of this contestant Olivia. Apparently, this hellcat is training to be a teacher, but good luck with gaining employment after what you've done, Liv. She tried to mitigate what she had done by pointing out things are simple enough to Google, but the affordances of OnlyFans mean a person has to create an account to see content, and furthermore, the dissemination of the content contravenes the terms and conditions associated with OnlyFans. To borrow from Wayne's World, Olivia is 'psycho hose-beast' to go such lengths to discredit a fellow contestant.

The diabolical dinner party conversation was along the lines of: 'I'm not slut-shaming, but...'. Yes, you were, girls. Why do people feel entitled to get on their high horses about someone's choice on how she earns her income? With Covid having such a devastating impact on people's work, Domenica is not the only person to have resorted to this platform. To the contestants criticising: get over yourselves. 

I wonder how much of this malicious vileness is orchestrated by the producers of this dreck? I am aware there is a petition circulating to have Olivia held accountable for her actions. If Domenica or OnlyFans don't take action, I'm sure Karma will give Olivia an almighty punch between the teeth. 

I respect other people's rights to view this show, of course, but I cannot see the appeal. I know the producers will manipulate it so someone looks like a villain - that's a staple of reality television and they know they will not get ratings if they don't have drama. But I don't want to see sniping from some toxic little she-gronk, with said sniping being galvanised by pontificating from some creature with the collagen trout-pout, enough Botox to paralyse an army, and hair straightened to the point where it's hanging like limp wet seaweed. Yes, I know how bitchy I sound. As an aside, do people still straighten their hair to that degree?

Anyway, it's nearly my bed time. I've spent the evening studying and chatting about enjoyable one-hit wonders. "Believe it or not, I'm walking on air..."

Goodnight, all. 

I Mention Poison the Band and Poison the Perfume!

Apologies for the lengthy period between posting, reader. Life's been crazy, still; as Poison sang in Nothing But A Good Time: 'It's the same old same old...'. What's on my mind is that I have to undertake practicum in the next study period. The university through which I'm studying has a policy that prevents me doing this at a school where I have a relative working or attending. I understand this. So, I am unable to do my prac at the school up the hill because my son is in Year 12 there. This gives me a problem: I am not spoiled for choice in this district, and whilst there are nearby towns with high schools, the cost of fuel has gone up to the stratosphere. 

The main writing I have been doing of late is a speech for a luncheon in a few weeks. I had started a post a few weeks ago that was directed to Scott Morrison attempting to weld and nearly blinding his stupid self by lifting the mask. Remember that? This is why the constant closing and selling-off of TAFE campuses is such a stupid idea; we need qualified people on worksites, not some publicity-seeking bag of desperation who is like an arrogant Frank Spencer in that he totally fucks up everything he touches, smirking whilst he does so. 

However, I was elated the other day to type up this little piece for my monthly writers' group meeting. The theme we set was 'beanbag', and I'm going to copy and paste here for your amusement. And yes, 'Beanbag' is based on a real person I knew in the dreaded and loathsome Eighties. 

"Greg wove his way through the milling and assembling assortment of legal types. They wore their colours like a biker’s club: blue suits or barrister’s robes or shoulder-padded-suits teamed with white high heels. He caught whiffs of various scents: Poison, Brut 33, the cloying assault of frothy hair mousse; the latter being rubbed and scrunched into the fringes of the female law students and paralegals. He checked out several of the them as he passed; there was a new one he hadn’t seen before talking to his mate Dave. He might go over and wangle an introduction, after which he would issue an invitation to Dave for lunch, with a courteous ‘You, too, of course’ extension to the young woman. No doubt the young woman would accept, only too pleased to be included and no doubt aware of the tacit agreement that would see her offering the occasional ‘absolutely’, and ‘oh, really?’, and ‘mmm-hmmmm’ to the conversation he and Dave would steer as they talked about what case was coming up in the all-important Worker’s Compensation Commission. It was tactical that the woman feel she was included, but Greg didn’t see the point to it; did the women really understand the niceties of this legislation?

If someone told Greg he was manifesting the attitudes of his fifty-year-old insurance underwriter father, instead of a twenty-two-year-old final year law student, he would have been surprised. Weren’t his attitudes just a reflection of the way things were? He saw it all the time at the Young Lawyers for the Liberal Party meetings, where every month the mostly male members would swill chardonnay and beer as they discussed the party’s next parliamentary moves. Greg inwardly smiled as he remembered the last meeting whereat the chardonnay and beer had flowed with torrential freedom, and he had not only snapped a few bra straps, but had actually managed to undo a bra strap as he felt for and fiddled with the hook-and-eyes, hidden beneath a shoulder padded jacket with a nipped-in waist.  The bra’s owner had scowled and looked uncomfortable, but Greg didn’t understand this. It was just a joke and meant she was accepted. Or as accepted as she was going to be because it was weird now the women were joining in. Never mind; the shitty moll was probably on the rag, anyway.

Soon it wouldn’t be chardonnay and beer, and lunch at the WCC’s cafeteria. Once he had graduated and was accepted with an associateship into a top corporate firm, it would be Grange and lunch at that new trendy Japanese place where the chef threw bits of food to the diners. Oh, and some top-notch cocaine with the other associates in the men’s washroom after the attendant was bribed to leave for a few minutes.

He joined Dave and eyed the woman, wondering would he even remember her name after they were introduced. She would remember his: Greg. Everyone knew Greg, the upcoming soon-to-be lawyer.

What Greg was oblivious to was that with his amorphous physique, honed by beers and meat pies in the WCC cafeteria, his not-quite-bespoke suit with the sagging around the crotch, and his overall flabby softness: he was known throughout the young female members of the legal coterie as ‘Beanbag’.:

Softening Blows & Scotty Finally Holds a Hose

 Today, I had a discussion about an upcoming International Women's Day luncheon whereat I've been invited to be a guest speaker. Not sure exactly what will go in my speech, but some of the themes the committee are touching upon are sustainability and growth as women. I am considering mentioning the protagonist of my first novel; she was particularly designed to be a strong type. By strong, I don't mean stoic and self-sacrificing in the face of adversity; I mean she has a metaphorical set of cojones and always asserts herself. She also makes a mean Caesar salad, as does her creator. There are not many strong and ruthless heroines in popular culture, most female characters are secondary to the male characters in the story.  I had a chat with the committee member about how at present it's topical that women are consistently told to be polite and spare feelings. Yes, I'm talking about the photo of Grace Tame wherein she appears to be giving Scott Morrison the greasy eyeball. Shit is being lost everywhere as people talk about how rude she was and how it wouldn't kill her to smile. No, it probably wouldn't; but rude? She was civil. She was obviously uncomfortable, and given Grace is neurodiverse, she probably wasn't inclined to smile and possibly didn't pick up on a social cue that she 'should'. So, that's what people are blathering about instead of the fact she was groomed as a teenager and has worked like a Trojan for the victims of sexual assault. The firefighter who shouted that Morrison can get fucked has an offer of a lifetime of beers, whereas a woman who doesn't smile near him is hauled over the coals. Go figure. 

So, Grace should just simper and smile. Women should just simper and smile because we mustn't hurt a person's feelings, must we? To be honest, I will often tell a little white lie or make a mitigating comment to soften a blow because I do not like to hurt people's feelings. I'm nice like that. However, there have been times in my life when I have told an outright lie to defuse a situation when the truth would have been better. It is like an ingrained Pavlovian reaction. Let me tell you about a situation when I softened the blow to save a guy's feelings, when the truth should have been offered (or thrown with near decapitory force because the guy concerned was such a stupid twonk). 

It was in the workplace. I was twenty years of age. I had moved to the Big Smoke and being trained in this role by the guy, similar age to me, who was leaving. He probably thought he'd try it on with the new girl, who still carried a scent of eucalyptus from the gum tree she had brushed by as she left the bush. 

Speaking of scent, this guy had a case of B.O. that could have blistered paint. It was like he had a peeled onion stuck in his armpit. We had to go somewhere, and when I smelt it, I thought: 'Shit, I hope that's not me!', and took a discreet and surreptitious whiff of my armpit. I was relieved it was not me, but not looking forward to spending time with this pestiferous stinkbag. This was the least of my problems. Everything he said was a double entendre or a lie. 

I decided to steer the conversation by asking what the other people in the office were like. His answer, verbatim, was: 'Some of the girls think they're smart just because they're secretaries, but we go out in a group, and they all try to play with my penis, but none of them get me hard.'

No, I am NOT making that up. I was in two minds: firstly, trying not to laugh at the visual I was having of a group of women stampeding for this guy's dick; and secondly, I was offended that he thought I might be stupid enough to believe that utter codswallop. 

Well, he decided to ask me out. I declined (yeah, shocking, I know). Later through the day, he approached me and asked would I reconsider his offer of a date. Again, I declined. He asked why I did not wish to go out with him. 

I am too bloody polite and kindhearted for my own good. I gave my standard Let-Them-Down-Gently reply of, 'I'm not looking for a relationship at this point in my life.'

Why, oh WHY did I give such a milquetoast of an answer? Why didn't I just let this warthog scrote  have the truth? Why didn't I reply, 'Why won't I go out with you? Number One: you stink. Number Two, and most importantly: you're a fucking idiot!' 

Yes, this is probably a case where honesty would have been the best policy. 

The memory of that made me just shudder. So did the picture of Scott Morrison washing someone's hair today. Who else saw it? The person being ministered to is clearly an employee of the salon, if her shirt is anything to go by, and if I was pressed into doing something like that by my employer, I'd want a monster of a pay rise. UGH! I don't like anybody other than a professional touching my hair at the best of times, and the thought of Scomo being let loose on it just makes me want to be ill. The desperation for publicity in that stunt is palpable through the photo, but hey, Scotty's holding a hose this time! 

RIP, Meatloaf

 I shouldn't be surprised, given he was not enjoying the most spectacular of health, but Meatloaf's death has really saddened me. If you wanted a consummate showman with stage presence and an absolute belter of a voice: it was him. I know the Bat out of Hell album is sometimes considered a bit kitschy and naff, but there's a reason about twenty-five per cent of Australia's population has a copy of this album, be it on vinyl and stacked with other records in a milk crate, or on CD, or maybe on Apple iTunes playlist. Yes, I am in that twenty-five per cent. 

I will never forget being blown away the first time I heard the titular track, and I still love to crank it up now. I also have a memory of my school dance where You Took the Words Right out of My Mouth was given a spin, and who won't admit to doing the double clap at the end? You know how it goes; come on, do it with me: "You took the words right out of my mouth! (Clap-clap!). Oooh, it must have been while you were kissing me...(Clap-clap!)".  I associate this memory with a beige ruffle-neck cap-sleeved top, a brown drawstring skirt, and JC sandals (it was the late Seventies, okay?).

In 1993, Mr Bingells and I were fortunate enough to see him at the State Theatre in Sydney. What a great night. I didn't recognise him straight away when he took to the stage as the opening strains of I Would Do Anything for Love played because he'd slimmed down a little bit, but the voice gave it away. He conducted the show, handled an obnoxious heckler, and entertained the audience with humour, a magnificent stage presence, and of course that glorious voice. 

Since news of his death broke, I have read many snarky comments about the 2011 AFL Grand Final debacle. I'm not an expert, but I understand there were technical issues with the earpiece and he wasn't well at the time. To the people who've been cracking distasteful jokes, whilst I recognise your right to do so on your own timeline, I will say this: fuck you. Anybody can have a bad moment, no matter how good they are at their work. This was ONE crap moment out of how many amazing performances the man gave? 

RIP, Meatloaf. Thanks for the great memories. 

Speaking of not doing one's best in one's special 'line', I received back marks on one of my university assessments, and I'm disappointed. Don't get me wrong, I passed. Just. What's got me nonplussed is the subject was related to my specialty and my superpower. I know I'm good at the subject, which was about resources and justifications in teaching lower secondary school English, but I honestly thought my marks were going to be better. Clearly, I must not have grasped something, so will have to take on board the assessor's feedback for my next assessment. Pride goeth before a fall, as the old adage goes. I was talking to a friend today (another author), and she reminded me that 'P's get degrees'. This is true, and whilst I am RELIEVED to receive a passing grade, being proud about that particular grade for what I am trying to achieve is like the head chef at Doyle's Seafood Restaurant taking pride in heating a tray of frozen generic-brand fish fingers. 

And speaking of assessments, there is one in another subject to which I must attend. After I have done some work, I will drink a toast to Meatloaf and crank up Bat out of Hell. 

RIP Sidney Poitier

 I've been flat-out busy lately - work's been understaffed and I've had assessments to finalise for university. Got them in, and now I'm on holidays. 

Only thing I can think of at the moment is RIP Sidney Poitier. I absolutely adore the movie To Sir with Love. He is sublime, especially when his character Mark Thackeray has to contend with a classroom of slatternly skanks, one of whom has put a sanitary product in the heater. He articulately expresses his contempt and disgust in a manner that is pure dignity. I love it. And yeah, never cease to lose it when Lulu sings at the end. Yeah, yeah, I know - the school kids all look thirty - but so what? I do love this movie and Sidney Poitier, you were superlatively wonderful in it. Mr Thackeray is the teacher I'm aspiring to be. 

I sign off now with sadness, but hopefully refreshed in a few days after I have had a brief sojourn on the coast (presuming Covid doesn't go berko everywhere in next day).