Captain Ahab had his men search for Moby Dick, when he might have been better off accepting an aquatic beast was likely to chomp off his leg when he was in the territory of said aquatic beast, and joining a support group for amputees. Instead, he went out for revenge, and to eradicate the whale. He might consider a job as Premier of Western Australia if Colin Barnett gets fed up, or voted out. I'm putting money on the latter option.
Johnny Lee was looking for love in all the wrong places.
I have looked for my t.v. remote it in all the places where my kids have said they've already looked, and usually found it.
I have looked for my iPod in all the logical places, and found it in a box of tissues. My younger son was to blame, and subsequently banned from playing with my iPod.
But yesterday, I went on a fruitless search for a piece of confectionery. I took a pensioner shopping, and she said, 'Simone, can you get me a Pollywaffle? And if you can't find one, get me some Cherry Ripes.' Now, Pollywaffle I can understand, but Cherry Ripes? They are gruesome, and only marginally less nauseating than Bounties, which are possibly the bastard child of the foulest of all confectionery: coconut ice. Reader, you've probably connected the dots and realised I do not like coconut flavoured confectionery. Fresh coconut, yes. I recall having a lovely refreshing drink fresh from the fruit itself at a stall in Singapore many years ago. But in lollies and chocolates? Fuggedaboutit!!! But as I was saying, I searched high and low on those supermarket shelves for Pollywaffles. Do 'they' still make them? I had to furrow my unbotoxed brow and really think: when was the last time I had seen a Pollywaffle? I think it was on a hen's night, many years ago - over twenty, to be precise. It was being held at a 45 degree angle from the groin of a shirtless man, who was wearing skin tight black pants. The 'hen' whose pending nuptials I was helping celebrate was a former work colleague, and her bridesmaids had organised a night out on a boat, and it was called 'Studs Afloat'. Anyway, toward the end of the evening every 'hen' had to go to the middle of the dance floor and kneel before a 'stud', who was holding a Pollywaffle in simulation of an erection, and fellate the chocolate bar for a certain amount of time, and a winner would be declared. I was watching this display more bemused than amused, and some middle-aged woman exclaimed to me, 'That's my daughter out there!' I patted her on the shoulder and said reassuringly, 'You should be proud.' The other thing I remember is having a chat with one of the 'studs', who according to the younger soapie-watching crowd I was with, was a dead ringer for one of the actors in 'Neighbours'. I returned from the buffet and someone gave my upper arm a friendly punch, a punch so friendly it almost caused me to spill my potato salad over the floor of the boat, and cawed, 'I saw ya chatting him up, ya lucky bitch!'
But since then, I'm not sure I have actually seen a Pollywaffle. And I wasted a good five minutes trying to locate one yesterday. Do the manufacturers no longer produce these because of the negative associations of having them fellated by drunken women wearing tatty tulle veils on their heads, and necklaces made of blown up condoms? It just occurs to me, the very name of the chocolate bar sounds like someone talking with a mouthful of cock. Say it aloud, peeps; you'll see I'm right.
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