I just don't understand people. WHY would someone want to strip off their dress and run around in their undies at a race meet, which is SUPPOSED to be a classy event for which one dresses to the nines? Come to think of it, we tend to see a lot of footage at the end of Oakes and Melbourne Cup, and said footage comprises sloshed slags and drunken drongos, teetering on needle-like stiletto heels, puking up carrot particles into the carefully manicured rose bushes. It always makes me think of the aftermath of a B & S Ball, rather than the prestigious sport of kings (not that I really get into horse racing, although I have good friends that are trainers, equine nurses, and race horse owners). The town in which I grew up used to have a B & S, and the morning after when walking through town there would be blokes asleep in the park, or the front step of a shop, their St Vincent de Paul dress shirts and dinner suits stained with spilled rum-and-coke. You know what? Any time I drink a spirit mixed with cola, I am transported back to those days from my youth. You know what else? I haven't drunk a spirit-and-cola based drink in yonks, mainly because I don't really like cola.
Anyway, whoever peeled off her frock in the rain at Oakes Day and ran around in her Reg Grundies was, I rolled my eyes and was very derisive of this action at first. I have softened my stance a little, after all, she didn't actually hurt anybody (except maybe our retinas). It's not like that silly prat who shoved a copper over into a bush - I know the copper wasn't hurt, but I do think between the two, shoving the copper into the bush was a bit more dumb-arsed. However, I will not soften my stance to the point of admiration. No way, nuh-uh, ain't gonna happen.
I do hope this is not how I am going to have to get my books sold. Is resorting to silly pranks the way to get the attention of the public? It will get the attention, but it will not get the respect. Also, if I do decide to do this, I will not be doing it in a daggy pair of witches' britches that have been washed repeatedly to the point where their original colour is but a distant dream, and they now are the hue of dirty dish water. Not to mention their nodding acquaintance with elastic.
It's been a crappy time for me on the personal front. Mr Bingells is a bit unwell. My kids were both off school sick today. I have been sleeping very, very badly. Indeed, when I attended the house of a client today her first words were, 'Christ, Simone, you look bloody terrible!' When I finally finished work, it pissed down rain. I imagined myself pulling over, yanking off my work polo and slacks, and then doing a run along the road in my underwear, which although not matching and not even my best pair of underpants, they are at least unlikely to succumb to gravity and trip me. They are also a more appealing colour than toneless-dishwater-dun-grey.
And then, what should come on the radio but 'Piano Man' by Billy Joel. Look, I'm in two minds about this. On one hand it is a guilty pleasure, but on another level it is a grandiose wank. I just cannot take it seriously when Billy sings, 'There's an old man sitting next to me/Making love to his tonic-and-gin...' Seriously, Billy? You're playing the piano and trying to sing with THIS going on beside you? Why not alert management and have a bouncer remove the pervert? Jesus, that sort of behaviour makes the shenanigans of those drunken race-goers almost palatable.
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