Some girls are so detached

all the vegetables in the fridge's humidity drawer are not fresh but rrrrrotten. I always thought that this drawer had magical abilities to extend the life of yer fresh produce but the floret on the broccolini has gone distinctly yella. Sink me and whatnot.

Humidity drawers and humidy cribs, so confusin', for several years in my long privileged life as a child i thought they were the same thing.

Mater smoked throughout all her pregnancies, as you did if you were a smoker, perhaps, ignorant, never, during the 50's and 60's? , i was, however, the only of her numerous children directly affected at birth by the smoking, and was slightly sick and somewhat of a weakling, my how things have changed. So from the time i cried "hello world here's the song that i'm singin' " until i was about 4 weeks old i was in a humidy crib.

Not very long and definitely not a big deal. I was a very "lively", accident prone and healthy child apart from the standard bouts of pneumonia and bronchitis, oh, and the legendary foot and mouth disease pandemic. "You blue eyed Sydney borns must never smoke, you've got weak chests.", mama used to advise my younger sister and me, with ever constant cigarette in mouth or in nearby ashtray. Apparently it was open slather for a woman with grey eyes and her offspring who had brown eyes and were born interstate. Ohwuh, they got away with everythink.

However, when I was a child I did seek confirmation from my mother that coventry in the humidy crib was no big deal and would not have affected my start in life, as she would have still been nursing me every day, checking that I had human contact, (several years earlier, i'd dealt with and sadly dismissed the adoption hypothesis and was now looking for a new angle, for which I blame Jan Brady, and really should have just been focusing on my schoolwork rather than my navel, a lesson that i'm yet to learn), and she replied,

"oh, of course there was lots of contact, Sister Sharp often picked you up. Don't get a complex. " uttering the term "complex" in a curious fashion, as though it was a relatively groovy term for her, despite living in a fairly chaotic household with several force of nature personalities hell bent on developing or giving someone a complex of some shape or form.

Sister Sharp indeed! The name conjures up such a warm, loving, and maternal being, not dissimilar to that of say, Nurse Ratchet or Sister Scott from the Young Doctors.


A word from Didactic Drawers: Cornelia Francis played Sister Scott in the Young Doctors and really was magnificent. Apart from also playing Morag in Home and Away, and tstern principal /host of Australian weakest link, and a slew of other groundbreaking performances in Australian entertainment, Cornelia Francis also happens to be the niece of Michael Powell, as in Pressburger and Powell. Not many people know that...............

Oh MY er!!

Dudes, what a vexatious day i have had!

I have had no time all day to read blogs, make comments, "add" new friends on myspace, and I like barely used the e mail. Imagine my surprise, i had to work hard for the money.

Lorrrrrrrrrrd love a duck, cos he ain't loving meeeeeeeeeee

All frickin' day i had question after question floating over my workstation's partition, in the style of the signal/beep sent out by Batfink, which is all good an well in animania but in belmania, let's just give it a nick nack paddywack, because basically, at the end of the day and ultimately, comes down to dollars and cents, yeah, it was getting to the point where i was waiting to be asked permission to go to the latrine, suh. I guess i'm going to have to remove that photo of Captain Mainwaring from my desk and buy a big wallet and put it in there, praps i should just buy a bum bag, retro cooool. I have to confess that it got to the point, it was pointerama, folks, where i pretended i couldn't hear because i knew that if i replied my voice would reveal my irritation and i really didn't want that to happen. So unseemly for a lllady to be shrill, innit?

Then i got inveigled into sitting on a last minute judging panel for a competition, the entries were very interesting but it's all terrrrrrrribly last minute, dahling. Verdict due yesterday and muggins here is rrrrroped in for the paperwork. Unfortunately not because i'm viewed as top drawuh material, no, because i am seen as a Mainwaring, a stickler for following prrrrrrrocecdure, no matter how goddamn inept. So it serves me right rally.

Anyhoo, lucky to have a goddamn job and work with nice people really, very nice people, they put up with me! Still i hadn't come to that conclusion by the time i boarded the bus with Tiger, Billie, Doughnut and the rest of the Double Deckers come 5.30 p.m.

Fortunately i got a window seat from which i could glower at "the streets of Sydney" (great song by Tim Freedman, surely? Dude , what a songsmith, larrikin yet intellectual, our next Peter Allen) while petulantly and maniacally chewing my lower lip.

Then it happened no i didn't bite off my bottom lip.

My eyes focused on a chap doing a kind of fitness stroll, yeah, a more sophisticated version of a power walk, I guess. And I looked at him and i thought while screwing up my eyes and nose, it helps me think and makes me look really, really cooote, better than a smudge on my nose and kerchief on my head, he looks familiar, and then i realised he looked like a young Mike Myers.

So the vexatious mood weakened and my eyes returned to the bus and started looking at the other passengers with a softer perspective and near benign smile on my lips. Then diagonally oppposite I spotted me a strawberry blond version of Mike Myers.

It really, really is true. It was crazy. I kept darting my eyes from Strawberry Blond Mike to Fitness First Mike on the street. I was kinda hoping that a like fully blond Mike would appear but alas he didn't board my bus. Still it lifted my mood and made me smile and think of Mike Myers and how great that "so i married an axe murderer" film is. My first proper introduction to him. Then i thought about his brilliant impression of Ronnie Wood as a celebrity reporter for Entertainment Tonight.

Talk about larrrrrf!

Images and highlights of the comedian that IS Myers just kept rrrrollin' through my mind. By the time I had to get off the bus, i'd come over all cheerful again, ready for good time central.

Cue for song, come on everybody, get down, get with it!

A co meeee deee enn, A co meeeee dee enn,
he/she'll never let you down
They're honest and funny, right up to the end
A wonderful, wonderful, co meeeeeeeeeeeee deeeeeeeeeeee en

(To the tooon of " four legged friend " by Smokey Dawson. If you don't know it, you haven't lived, sweetheart, i mean, ring me now! i''ll sing it to you for 75 cents a minute, just song, just song)

That sinking feeling

Oh man, I have the body corporate agm in half an hour. I hope there are no major dramas. I feel like i am about to sit an exam. will be back soonish.

Phew. It only went for 90 minutes. I managed to extricate myself from this year's Executive Committee, thus no more abusive emails from angry old man.

And what is more, my embezzlement of the moolah from the sinking fund, to finance the french doors, balcony and pergola on the patio extensions, hasn't been discovered!

Flashman, eat your heart out!

NSR apologises for cuckoo time stamp on this week's blog entries, it will be back to normal on Sunday. Time is out of sync due to extension of daylight savings for Told You So Games.

Steppin' out

Good mornin’, good mornin’, good mornin' to you but with the first day of those new work laws it will be a while till sunbeams smile through. What a downer, a major downer of the galooting Lexie variety. All you can hope is that by this time next year, the population will be so aghast by it all, that the current govt will be toppled. Mmm, hasn’t happened over the past ten years, and with Splodge "fill me with inertia"Beazles at the Opposition's helm, is that possible?

In keeping with the insensitive and self centred tone of JWH Australia, I will now regale you with tales about me, my forte, for I’m fully cognisant that there’s a limit to how long I can keep your attention with my simplistic polli patter, which hasn’t really developed much over the past thirty years.

To the History Boys, by the lambiest, modestiust and cleverest of the Fringers, Alan Bennett, ooooh, controversial corner, set in Blighty during the 80's, not mentioning her name.

Yes, indeedy, caught the matinee session with the ladies. What a wonderful treat of an afternoon and evening. The play, its production, the performers, were all really terrific and you should see it if you can. Unfortunately, I think the season is sold out in Sydders, the production is going to Melbourne shortly where there might still be tickets available. My only disappointment was that Alan Bennett wasn’t about, I kept imagining him backstage and perhaps catching a glimpse of him peering through the curtains, but there were no curtains!, and then bowing with the actors at the end of the play.

The whole experience was truly wonderful. It’s the perfect excursion. It’s so beautiful down by the Sydney Theatre Company, Walsh Bay, such a wonderful building, as are all the others around there, and such joy walking around the harbour and under that enormous bridge and being able to touch its ludicrously enormous nuts and bolts at the pylon. That aspect of the bridge is so exciting, it’s like being in land of the giants, love the whole when "I was small and Christmas trees were tall" feeling, yet still remaining small as an adult! That bridge is the one true constant in my life.

Catching a matinee really is the most delightfully indulgent pleasure, going indoors and being entertained during the day, not doing usual Saturday chores, imbibing champers with all those seniors. The seniors are having the time of their lives. Quaffing, fagging, chattering away. Most uplifting.

I first fully appreciated the joy of the matinee when Amanda and Francesca very generously took me to see School for Scandal directed by Judy Davis at the Opera House, several years ago. That was a wonderful production. It was hilarious and so was the audience. It was there that we were introduced to the Pinkie set. As we strolled to the House, a gaggle of female seniors skittled past us, one of them calling out to a lagger, “Come on Pinkie, get your skates on”. And a powderball of coiffed hair, perfume and pearls blew past. Then while I was at the bar, getting pre-show snifters for me and the ladies, i stood beside another sharply dressed, vivacious Pinkie, and overhead her telling her companion, “I haven’t seen it since Larry and Viv. "

Larry and Viv, Old Vic tour, Orstralia, 1948. What more can you say. Um, Peter Finch.

Yin yang

I spent most of today at an excellent conference about initiatives for cultural exchange, countering racism and promoting multiculturalism, in primary and secondary education. The students and teachers were absolutely brilliant. I almost yearned to be a teacher again.

Of course before going to the conference I was dreading attending it, worrying about having to initiate conversations and being effective, which is really silly as all you have to do is just ask people lots of questions about them and their projects, which is very interesting, and the reason for which you are there, and deflects any discussion about you, because i hate talking about myself, that's why i started a blog.

This dread is all par for the course before any event that will entail mixing with more than four people, who I haven’t known for at least twenty years. Hey, I'm not saying that I'm complicated, am as straightforward as they come, just spazdual, one minute loving the social mix next vanning to be alone and/or psyching myself to be physically ill or wishing I’d break an arm or leg to avoid whole thing. So enough of that, not very interesting nor original, I’m pretty sure most people feel like that.

It was a great conference and a wonderful location. It was at the old Eveleigh Railway Workshops. Fantastic. You approach it from platform 10 at Redfern Station. I loved walking down to the Bay where the conference was being held. No one was around, and there were empty railway carriages, wonderful buildings, and an eerie silence pervaded the atmosphere. It was thrilling as I felt like I was playing a possible victim in an opening scene from the Avengers, the Steed and Peel years, and that I was about to happen upon a forgotten community, or even better, some midwich cuckoos, or be pursued by some evil clowns who had been lurking in some abandoned railway carriages.

So all in all it was a perfect day for me, my desire for ludicrous fiction was tempered with some very intelligent, sensible yet creative non-fiction.

I feel almost balanced and ready for tonight’s dinner party chez Meister. What a night that will be but I will be sticking to the theme of balance, for tomorrow I’m catching the matinee of the History Boys with the Llllllladies and Pinkie.

The Mistress bids a buoyant and safe weekend to all NSR readers.

The Ham's funeral

Just read that Al Pacino will be treading the boards to play King Herod in Salome. What an absolutely risible performance that will be. Hoo ha indeed.

Still it would be hilarious to see hamster Al play King Herod in Jesus Christ Superstar.

The rising G is on the wane

Have you noticed while beetling about in your quotidian that your eyes are no longer assaulted and bruised by the sight of buttocks, crack and pieces of flimsey material rising above trousers, generally sported by females?

I have and I am delighted.

For the past five years no matter where you sallied, be it the ‘burbs, the city or even rural and regional Australia, commonly known as “the bush” in polliparlance, you couldn’t go for two minutes without copping an eyeful of cheek and G string rising from the trou. It was an obscene trend. And now fortunately the high rise pant and slack must be back in fashion for the ladies, or they've discovered the hipster brief, as I haven’t seen the rising G for donkeys now and its absence cannot be attributed to cooler weather, didn’t stop the G bandits previously, nor to one becoming inured to that fashion, impossible!

The rising G has sunk. Hooray.

Big thanks must go to Mrs Brett Dean Craig for making the G fashion’s followers see their folly.

Small town boy

On my way to lunch i bumped into Jimmy Somerville on the corner of Castlereagh and Park Streets. I guess he must still be on holiday here after Mardi Gras unless he's done a Leo Sayer and has emigrated to God's Own. I guess I'll never know. It was our first meeting and I was running late for luncheon so it was more tip of the hat than stop and chat. Oh the hustle and the bustle that is the Sydney C.B.D.

Rear window rambler

“My Sharona” is blaring from the block of flats across the eastern way. Woo hoo, rock on Tommy and hot damn. I think i’ll peek out the window to see if I can see any bopping.

I won’t cop an eyeful of “shit happens guy” nude today because there is a week’s worth of bath towels hanging out to dry on his flat’s balcony, thus concealing the windows to his flat's sitting nude room area. If it really worried me, the nudity, I could always keep my blind down I suppose. But of course it doesn't, i'm a naturist from way back, don't ye know. Dude has a lot of good times in his flat, I can tell by the impressive stash of empty brown long necks that are lined up against his kitchen’s window. Hell, he ain’t a closeted dipso, shuffling down to the block’s recycle bins with a ginormous paper bag full of empties. No, he’s out and he’s proud, good on him.

So what’s the buzz, shall I tell you what’s been a happening? Am I a fool to think you’d want to know? Well not much and yes I am and of course you do.

Crazy week at work, deadlines, last minute requests and inane questions left, right and centre, and no it wasn’t muggins here posing them, ok. I was fit to burst last night and then I visited my parents to help my father with his computer. Was I any help, ask him. It was a curious evening but I did actually sleep very well.

During the week I went and saw Matchpoint. Hmm. Generally quite good, didn’t like one single character, I doubt you were meant to like them, they were horrid, well I was sort of sympathetic towards the Nola Rice character, and as for the rest, " the creamy English charm” of that upper class family, the spineless, pampered children and their controlling parents. So vile that my neck and shoulders are still really stiff from hunching in disgust while viewing. I think my irritation with them and their accents, their excessive consumption, snobbery, condescension, complacency and insensitivity, distracted me from just appreciating the story, which was rather Highsmithian, quite good, well, ok, um, perhaps you should just wait until dvd. The last half hour got a bit much, I did need to go to the toilet but didn’t want to miss the murder and resolution so I was probably getting a bit toey, i.e. madly twitchy and impatient. After the build up to the murder, things became a bit drawn out, really, post mortem, the hammy detectives and that subplot - lameO, and some of the lines and the delivery, particularly in the scene between the victims and the murderer’s conscience, oh man and to hear murderer respond with “as Sophocles said………”.

As soon as the credits rolled I had to bolt and then as I raced down the concrete stairs to the cavernous depths of the isolated basement bathroom, became overcome with guilt, and a bit of terror, imagining a murderer could lurk and pounce. That type of film always makes me grapple with my conscience and I have to do a stop check to assuage the guilt. No, you haven’t committed a murder, no, you haven’t done that, well, not for 20 years, nor that, check, that doesn’t count, check. The only things that i care to come to mind include a fair bit of internet surfing at work the week before and even blogging there, and the purchase of a couple of dresses in the past month, but they were very reasonably priced, on sale, and first new items of clothing i'd bought in 8 months. I still managed to be on the verge of conniptions central but fortunately was with someone so we went out to dinner and drank some wine which always soothes the Guilty feet ain’t got no rhythm syndrome.

But what is with that? the Guilty feet ain’t got no rhythm, I mean, the feet while guilty must still have rhythm mustn’t they? Double negative equals a positive doesn’t it? And is that applicable to all things in life. If you were the product of two positive parents would you be a negative personality and would two negative parents produce a positive child, well perhaps not, look at George Costanza, and if it’s a mixed coupling, i.e. negative with a positive, are all progeny spazdual - swingin’ on high only to plummet to despair personalities. So perhaps opposites shouldn’t attract then but isn't that better than two positives attracting and producing a negative?

As Maria the nun/governess/stepmother to von trapp kiddies said to Mother Superior, “ohhhhhhhh, I don’t knohhw…………………”

However, it is something for you to all ponder over your weekend, and then please phone Sandy McCutcheon about it on Monday night’s Australia talks back, I hear his producers have no idea what Sandy should discuss next week. And life matters has a surfeit of themes and isssewes so don't go bothering them.

Over and spun out.


actually i think the line is guilty feet have got no rhythm, so those feet are definitely unco. I think you can still phone Radio National about the positive negative parent conundrum though, and have a lot of lengthy anecdotes ready, they are really hard up for stories this coming week.

I'm in love again

with the David Jones Food Hall, hah!. You see since that fabulous emporium was renovated, what three years ago, probably more, things between me and Mr Jones haven’t been quite the same, kinda strange, a little tense, my dear, practically glaciale. Still I guess any kind of frisson is better than none at all.

Yeah well the renos, man, all the counters were made so high, made me feel like Keith the midget in Dead Babies, and the service had become very haphazard, bedlam, pet, completely contrary to the whole reason why one would visit Mr Jones. In essence, they had ditched the whole goddamn ticketing system and consequently the soothing Jeeves like quality to the service had evaporated. Well in truth the ticketing system hadn’t been entirely ditched but it was very laissez faire, you could use it if you wanted to, grandma, or just push your way to the counter and bark. DJ’s had gone both ways. And both ways is not a good thing for service, fine if you’re in need of a servicing but leave that to the Supernaut and the beesexualistes, god bless ‘em. Oh my, see how Mr Jones had let himself go, imagine puerile smutty language in the same para as mention of that purveyor of luggzurious goods.

Anyway back to the ticketing system, are you bored, I think I am, but a blogging I must go. Well I’d had so many instances of the ticketing system not being used and being trumped to the counter by ghastly Sydney super slick blondes with tans, sunnies on their heads and no goddamn manners, that come January when I was almost trounced by some rude pushy minx trying to get served before me, I madly waved my ticket before her pert brrrrrrrrrreasts and botoxed visage and I said in rather clipped tones, “I think I was before you, do you have a ticket ?” (I know totally barmy but it was before my annual leave, holidays that is, the senses had evidently left a long time ago. Aren't you glad that i am not your mother?) Naturally said arriviste didn’t have a ticket, had only just arrived, and conceded defeat, who wouldn’t when you’ve got Hattie Jacques on the frontline.

I was glad that Hattie Jacques triumphed over Sydney celeb wannabe. However, not sufficiently satisfied, I went and spoke to the customer service man and enquired about the ticketing system and why it wasn’t universally used in the Food Hall. Said customer service man was Jeeves incarnate and placated the savage Mistress, and said he understood, probably meaning, I’ve got your number, lady, come over here full tilt spinner and be gone.

So my dears, today I returned to David Jones to buy some fruit salad, very extravagant, but it’s delicious. Blonde Mischief herself, Joanna Q, had introduced me to it when she was with Munchkin. Anyway it was a beautiful moment when I saw big signs on every goddamn counter at David Jones stating “Please use the ticketing system”.
Ring BobnBono NOW!! Because it was all down to me, mich, moi, mi, meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Into every life a lunatic must fall and I guess it was the turn of David Jones. Poor pets. As Norman Gunston would have sung, I might be a nut but I love you, baby, honest I do, truly, rooley, I do.


Yesterday was the Ides of March, which is curiously also the date of birth for G.H.A. Happy birthday, Chuckles, and many hale, hearty and happy returns.

Two new rock'n'roll playmates

Have just enjoyed a very hearty fry up at a caff on enmore road.

On my stroll back I stopped in at the local mixed bastard to buy myself some fruit nectar . By the drinks and ice block fridge I made a new friend in the form of this truly delightful 3 year old curly top who enthusiastically informed me "i'm going to a get an iceblock, yeah, i'm opening the fridge top now. I just had lunch, a peanut butter and honey sandwich, that's my favourite, oh and I also like tofu and peanuts." Anyway our conversation continued like this for a bit, my favourite type of conversation to boot, and then i paid for my drink and left my new friend in search of her mother. As i walked down stanmore rd, a very chatty senior stopped in front of me and said "Lady, here, have a flower, it's beautiful". How could i resist, i really love being called "lady" particularly by senior gentlemen so i eagerly waited while said senior rummaged in the rather capacious pockets of his trousers, eventually to produce a lovely yellow and beautifully fragrant frangipanni, which i accepted with much enthusiasm, and we both sang its praises, and then I bid (bad?) him good day and returned to my pad.

Boy, i dig the street life in my neighbourhood after midday, it features my favourite demographic, and naturally it's the one to which i appeal the most, kiddies and seniors.

Rockbottom of the steep red stairs

Pets and lambs, cats and dudes, the mistress bids you bonjour and whatnot in a fairly addled state.

You know how I was taking that mystery flight last Friday, well, get this, it took me to Melbourne and didn’t return until Sunday!!! Crazy Verjus. The flight attendants going to Mel really lived up to my expectations. And let me tell you how I relished observing it all from my second row pew, peering over the latest Vanity Fair, from which I was reading all about Bette Davis, and My space, incidentally my outrage about my space is totally vindicated. I was on board the 50th Verjus Bleurgh aeroplane and to celebrate, no we weren’t given champers, but our overhead lockers for the carry on luggage were emblazoned with the names of the flight attendants, cult of the celebrity or what! I’m not sure if this list included the name of every single person who’d ever been an f.a. on Verjus bleurgh, but 85% of em would have done sweet f.a. while on board.

Enough of that gripe but who doesn’t love having one and Verjus is my current favourite, out of 5 squillion. However, the Verjus one may have to go down a few notches because of the flight attendants’ courtesy on the trip back.

Fortunately, I have some very dear friends in Mel Bourne Gridleigh and was able to stay at the charming chez lorraine b'n'b whose hosts are truly delightful. So yes, I had a whale of time, got to gad about the suburbs and see a fair bit thanks to my driver, Parker, saw the former family seat and bought some really great lps in Blackburn, again with Parker’s guidance, lps will no doubt provoke some fantastic pop star dreams starring Kris Kristoffersen, Todd Rundgren, Steve Harley and every single line up of the Models. Then spent most of Saturday night in a love me bubble fuelled by all forms of Mr Tipple, I was mixing and not worrying, worrying is always for the next day, don't ye know. I don’t think I landed in any major soup, and if I did that was so last Saturday and I don’t want to know, just general loud mouthery, balderdash, mayhem, high kicks, prancing and generally finding myself thoroughly entertaining, it is a given that that was probably not the general consensus, and loving everyone. I will, however, be forever haunted by a set of steep red stairs but really cannot go into that incident, lest it bring on a Hitchcock moment of “Spellbound” proportions. Oh well, when you tap too much into Mr Tipple, something hilarious or horrendous is guaranteed around the corner. Big thanks to Mia and Boy for organising a fabulous party and producing the party’s accompanying CD. Brilliant. And thanks to the lady Deejay, and to the hosts of the post part-ay party for their hospitality.

So come Sunday and boarding time for DJ inane rave at 3.15, let’s just say the Mistress was not quite 100 percent. She was very focused on her self inflicted wounds, groaning “oh God” and "oh Gordon"out loud every 2 minutes, moaning, coughing, spluttering, noisily pulling down blinds against this interminable summer’s blinding sunshine, completely oblivious to her surrounds, even had to resort to using the courtesy paper bag. But as the sweet young man in my row said, after I pathetically apologised, “what can you do?” Fortunately for him there was an empty seat between us. Anyhoo the flight attendants were very kind to me, gave me a washer and some smelling salts, and once we'd landed and I fumbled for my wits and my handbag, promptly dropping my washer and glass of ice, the gel even took my luggage out of the locker.

Hmmm, was that latter action courtesy or just hurrying me off the plane, I was the last to disembark............Oh the outrage, I was sick an’all, Miss. Well farewell Verjus Armistice you are the weakest link so back to the top of my gripe list you go.

The one and only Capt'n

Was in the abc shop on Wednesday when I espied a new Dad's Army dvd, series 4, I think. The cover features an absolutely wonderful photo of Arthur Lowe as Captain Mainwaring, capturing his pomposity, bluster, frustration and capacity to cock up. I chuckled out loud, picked up the dvd case and brushed the photo lovingly against my cheek.

I keep chuckling when i think of that photo, i think i'll have it framed and place it at my work station.

A cult and an outrage

I am very irritated by myspace.com. I have just been trying to read a blog on there and cannot even properly access the blog until i fricking join up. Each time i try to go back to the blog's page this goddamn box pops up telling me to join, enticing me with the fact that it's free. Well whoopie zing, i don't want to join and why can't i just look at the blogs. it's really annoying. it's a goddamn cult.

Spleen vented. RRRRRRRRresult!

Up, up and away, no TAA to be flohhhhhhhhhhn

I’ve bought me a ticket on an aeroplane, first time since the demise of TAA.

A mystery flight for Friday night. Oh yeah. Couldn’t get it with the Qantas* or the Jetstar line. Oh no. I have to ride on that mean machine, the line of the greedy groovy guru, the man who Mickey Jagger would really like to be, I’m flying Verjus, the allegedly non-elite (pronounced AYleeet as in Sydney Football Club ) airline.

The flight attendants on that line, why, they are so zany, cute and hip. And, those tan, red and white uniforms that the Verjus ragazze sport really look a treat. Kind of reminiscent of the day time ensemble worn by Liz Taylor as Maggie the Cat, but come to think of it their uniform features too much tan and not enough red, actually, don't quite hit the mark.

(cue for FANG)

And that about sums up Verjus Airline Incorporated, it doesn't quite hit the mark. It’s true, my dears. A couple of times I flew with ‘em, plane did a wheelie while landing, couldn’t quite hit that giant X on the runway. Poor lambs, and poor man beside me whose arm I grabbed as I shrieked. so yes, I guess I have flown since the TAA hey day, caught me out, again, howzat.

I feel so ill at ease while on board the Verjus, as those fun loving gals and guys (the Verjus flight attendants) strut down the aisleway selling nibbles, flirting with the passenger versions of themselves, ignoring my wequests for a blanket. Hey, it’s not because I feel left out, and long to be part of the cool group, no, of course not! Constable Care here worries, lord, how I worry, about their capacity to deal with an emergency when the plane descends into the sea or worse on land. Gordon, what a to do. They won’t be able to deal with it, I have no confidence in them. And then the Bossy Bertha within moi will have to break free from her seatbelt, so comfortably fastened over her girth, and take charge. She’ll push open those exit doors, blow up a few rafts, shove the people on ‘em, only to see all her good works foiled by some flight attendant’s sharp heel piercing the goddamn rubber raft, then aforementioned attendant will titter and pash a passenger. Accordingly, Bertha will push people aside, and lie chest to floor, spreading her arms wide, like a supine Winged Victory, passengers clambering onto her great broad back, as she slides down the ramp into the sea towards safety and far and away from the crazy "DJ" Verjus "rave".

So if you happen to be on the same Verjus flight as me, and we're in a an emergency "type of situation", apart from considering yourself incredibly llllucky that Bertha is about, be prepared to stumble an' sneeze and see the fur fly, cos it's gonna be a helluva fight gettin' on that flight from hell to safety.


*am glad now that i couldn't afford a flight with the villainous ass that is the Qant- what a crazy, nonsensical sacking frenzy.

Hells bells buckets of blood

My sleep since last Wednesday while very sound has been filled with ludicrous and nonsensical dreams, yeah, shame, they are usually so profound.

The dreams of late have been so silly that I have reservations about “blogging” them really but I feel have to as the silliness is dominating my waking hours rendering me twitchy and embarrassed, which is generally a true sign that a bender of a confession is just around the corner.

Ok, I have been having dreams about pop stars, and real pop stars ok, if you happened to be in a moderately successful indie band that does not mean you !? I'm sorry but if you weren't big on the “hit parade”, didn’t appear on countdown, weren’t crowned king or queen of pop, we have a very different interpretation of a pop star. Frankly, after hearing this confession, falsely referring to oneself as a popstar is a fairly tame crime really.

Anyway I’m getting all jittery and het up, will have a chamomile tea and resume gripe and confession shortly.

So to dreams featuring pop stars.

It’s disquieting and I’m kind of tired of my mind’s walter mitty like take on life. So for the past 5 days to counter my natural disposition towards the inane and fanciful, I’ve been reading non-fiction and watching “docos” (so what if they are about pop stars), I’ve really reduced my neighbs intake an’all, and my work, when I do it, has also been lately rather sensible, literal, and dry, so I guess my brain is rebelling and reverts to Mistress at 12 up to the present, really, who am I kidding?

In the other day’s “posting” I referred to a general tetchiness when reading about the rolling stones upcoming tour to Australia. This is a consequence of an absurd fascination/irritation mania i have. Anyway at the moment I’m irritated by rs incorporated.

Oh cock, I’ve made black tea instead of chamomile. Hang on a sec.

So to the nub of this entry, there is one?, well my reading of the upcoming rs tour to Australia must have really messed with my mind, doesn't take much, let's face it, for the other night I dreamt that the rolling stones were in town and somehow I was entrusted with keeping Keith Richards entertained for the evening.

So the dream begins with keith and me sitting in a local RSL club, watching footage of World War II on a very big screen, and my having to listen to keith and sagely nod my head as he tells me about his mum and how his house was bombed during the blitz, which actually did happen according to one bio i read, and just drone on about the war (fabulous memory for someone aged 2 by the time it would have ended - keith not me but i think really my mind must have been confusing Keith with Mrs Huggett from Stella Street, it's all such an odd mish mash, except i do recall reading that keith as a lad had been a great admirer of "iron legs" Bader, that WWII fighter pilot, who'd lost both his legs in pre-wwII flying accident, so perhaps that's where it stems from, still he also liked roy rogers and i don't recall either of us in cowboy suits). The place was full of people who were all in military attire, Anzacs and what looked like the cast from that Powell and Pressburger Stairway to Heaven film in an Australian RSL club (unfortunately no sign of Leo McKern as Rumpole reminiscing about his wwII days).

Part of my role in keeping Keith entertained was being at his beck and call and running to the bar and attending to his every whim. Not scoring drugs but getting fancy sounding Italian wine, "not Chianti", he kept bellowing, and then 'ed say the name of some other Italian wine, perhaps valpollicello, at me in faux posh, so I’d pathetically and hastily order that, i think i was playing Uriah Heep, after calling from the bar “what, how do you say it” several times, and then I had to get silver goblets filled with 3 scoops of icecream. I was then in a pickle as I didn’t have enough money to cover the damage, and was deliberating whether I could just go back to Keith and get $2.50, when miraculously the coin part of my wallet suddenly filled itself with silver dollars. (mmm, blood money, price of my dignity?, whatever, i was still having this dream, gordonia de benatar)

Then I finally returned to bossy old Keith armed with eyetalian wine and several goblets of icecream and to my relief found that someone had sidled up to Keith and was sitting there blankly listening to him droning about the war and the movie. I then woke up rather relieved that I’d extricated myself from the whole sorry and sad situation, and then slumped back onto the pillows, sadly thinking why on earth did I dream about that, jesus.

Yeah and every night since then I’ve had other dreams, of a similarly ludicrous yet strangely mundane calibre with me and popstars. Generally ones from records I’ve been playing during the day, fortunately not featuring R and J Stone as the stars and their soundtrack the dream's theme, but a host of Australian new waveish groups who did appear on Countdown during my teenage rampage.

However, as I tap my toe, slap my thigh, shake my head back and rambunctiously sing along to On the Beachhead by Dragon, I’m starting to get a little bit worried about the magic that Mr Sandman will weave tonight....I see myself in a pastiche of Dragon film clips, splashing around in the El Alamein fountain in Kings Cross with the lads, maybe standing by a street corner, colour a la Toulouse, or in a dark motel corridor, no matter where it takes place you can bet your bottom dollar, it’s gonna be some kind of louche situation in which I’ll find myself come Wee Willy Winkie’s arrival. I just hope that Mr Asia won’t make a special guest appearance or if he does, he’ll be spookily faceless, or the truth will be revealed in a blinding flash!

Gowings has gone

You may have read that Gowings, a rather old fashioned department store, for want of a better term, that got “groovied up” in a retroish way and became sort of Remo, I really don’t know how to accurately describe it, went bankrupt. It had branched out in too many locations throughout metropolitan Sydney. The Oxford Street, Darlinghurst location, it was actually in the same building where Remo used to be, was a bit of a mistake.

Anyhoo Gowings had an everything’s gotta go liquidation sale and folded towards the end of January 2006, I think.

Just walked past the site of its main city store, quite a handsome building on the corner of Market and George Street, and saw a big sign announcing that it would be housing Supré from next Monday.

Pinch an' a punch an' whatnot

Well it’s the 1st of March today. And in the land of me (which also happens to be a great song by Bucks Fizz) of course means that all my entries (grand sum of 8) for last month’s blog have been archived and I have a clean slate, so to speak.

Gordon, how on earth am I going to continue this blogging caper?! You know there’s a limit to the vapid thought that even my brain can produce (although every tip tap on the keyboard is testimony to the contrary.)

The 1st March happens to be either Randall or Vickie Lee’s birthday, and the other one’s birthday falls on the 5th March. Yes, they are twins born several days and years apart, crazy.

Happy birthday.

Mind you if it’s Randall’s b’day today you’ll all know about it. I recall in the old days, the late 80’s to early 90’s, when I shared a house with him, the celebrations went on for a week or so.
This is of course a very rich comment coming from someone whose last birthday was celebrated with anyone who I ‘d ever bored or breathed upon (same difference), and I'd forced 1 very nice and generous person to host the do and 6 extremely nice, funny and really clever people to give speeches, followed by my giving a very long winded and unstructured speech about me, really not dissimilar to this blog but I don’t know how to number crunch or kidnap in cyberspace.

But seriously, and sans barb, happy birthday Randall and/or Vickie. (and likewise to the other for the 5th March -but back to my uppermost worry, I wonder how many entries I will have made by then, might have to do another birthday greeting that day, or perhaps begin an "on this day in the 80's or 90's " segment and refer to great moments with friends and foes?)

1st of March in God’s own also signifies a change in season, we don’t determine seasons here by astronomy (?) ( like I know a thing about that), I mean to say that it's nothing to do with the autumnal equinox around 21st March. Our seasons were determined, I think, or perhaps this is just more balderdash, several years post invasion, the beginning of European settlement, by some hot and bothered English soldiers who wanted to change from their winter uniform to their summer one, gosh I remember that same dilemma myself in primary school, but at least we generally got into our summer uniform after the Rocktober labour day long weekend. So it was then decreed that summer was the 1st of December, and all the other seasons followed suit or in shorts, wo ho, oh, i.e. starting at the beginning of the month that the new season would commence. So it’s officially autumn today, not around the 21st March. Like i said don't quote me on that, but i'm happy to blog inaccuracies.

Anyway there’s no point getting worked up about that, what I’m worked up about is that in Sydney the weather won’t start remotely feeling consistently like autumn until mid April. And with global warming that’s been delayed until May, perhaps indefinitely. Sydney summers are fairly steamy at the best of times, but, my dear, this summer has been insupportably humid.

So there you go it’s 1st March and I’m so desperate for content for this month’s blog that I’ve resorted to banging on about the weather. I really must stop reading the Sydney Morning Herald. I guess they’d give today’s blog’s entry the title “Where’s our Autumn gone?” with a few nice grey shaded boxes comparing temperatures over the past 100 years, actually probably not the latter as that would be interesting.

So to my dear readers, and that includes you, Tracy and anonymous Jorja, I bid a pinch and a punch for the first day of the month, no returns.