Table this - the things that matter

Spent the afternoon at a 40th birthday party barbeque. It was fun and rather interesting.

During the course of the partay the dj played a couple of songs by The Clash.

The Clash is a band that has generally stuck in my craw. Penned a few good choruses perhaps but i generally found the band kind of phoney, pretentious, laboured - curiously 3 qualities which i pride in myself and other bands.

In keeping with the sophisticated nature of this entry I would like to conclude with

the clash sucks.

tooods dooods

The death of Arthur

Following my pleasant luncheon, in between work, mental tirades and whatnot, I had quite a nice and productive time this arvo.

While having a breather from that I read about Patch Keating and his father-in-law's alleged antics, sounds like a good way to bond with the old lady's olds. The newspaper article concluded by stating that Patch and his wife, Amber or Amba, recently had a baby daughter who they dubbed Avalon "after the Roxy music song”. Named after a lady who danced the bossa nova.

And there I was thinkin’ byebee must have been named after the Sydney northern beaches suburb and gracious home to the King Arthur Knight Club and theatre restaurant . Top night out if you’re keen on ladies in wimples and conical hats, men in chain mail, stoner surfies brandishing swords, and loads of laughs. See you there this Saturday, or Sat'e'dee as they used to say in the olden days.

inanity made me do it

Had a fabulous lunch and bang on today with JQ. We had two glasses of house white and all, oh and a tasty feed too. A hoot to boot.

So I returned after a lunch hour of fun and fine fare feeling kind of chipper and no longer feeling the bolt jolt panic, the mistress is a fickle and stupid variety of beast, after all.

Upon my return I was greeted by someone with “have you been shopping at the sales?”

A perfectly friendly, conversational query but at that moment i thought hmmm, sales, I really didn’t know they were on and actually couldn't care.

Still it hardly left me feeling perplexed which is how I feel when I tell people I’m going/have been to Melbourne and they sigh, "oh lots of great shopping there." Is there? Why? Aren’t most shops throughout Australia the same these days?!

hold on to your hats as I launch into a "what’s with " whinge routine

I find those standard responses and "addictions" somewhat tedious. It’s like that cliché that women just love, love, love and live for goddamn shoes. god how that bores me. I'm happy to admire or purchase a stylish pair but someone shruggin’ cutely and confidin' to you about her love or worse, a "weakness" is so hackneyed. A friend told me, when i was griping about this phenomenon, about someone confidin' to her about having a “weakness for shoes", while placing her (meaning contrived crazy shoe lover) pinkie finger to her mouth in an attempt at conveying girlish vulnerability, but probably resembling Dr Evil.

Furthermore what is with people who when they find out that a male acquaintance is gay, generally a particularly handsome man, say " shame" or" typical , it’s always the way. " I find that so annoying and insulting to our ‘omosexualiste bretheren. Are these dames implying that straight females should get all the redskins and homosexualistes just the clinkers?!? I don't know what they are trying to say but their mindlessness gets my goat.

Another favourite is the morning/afternoon tea/dessert "oh I shouldn't, titter, titter, followed by greedy scoff, scoff" reply when object, objectionable interlocuteur, more like, is profferred a lamington, piece of cake, or Arnott's cream assorted biscuit, (let's face it with the latter no one bloody should, and imagine offering that for dessert?!), it's along the lines of wicked magnum made me do it.

Finally, love and generosity will prevail shortly, promise, is the confession about "loving chocolate", well whoopie zing and a hot mothery cockadoodledoo, who doesn't, um oh my niece that's right, good to see the contrarian streak, um, vinegar, is still coursing through the family veins.

WE must rise against this boring chit chat and create our own mindless prattle . I can't do it all alone, godammit!!

Next time someone confides to you of her/his love of chocolate, worse refers to her/himself as a goddamn chocoholic, please do nod your head in agreement and say "yeah, and i sure like a good movement first thing of a morning, don't you?" or perhaps that is too crude, sorry, but i'm really riled and going off big time, so throw in something equally non sequitur such as "Yeah, and chuckle, shame about Lady Di. Still we did get to hear another great Elton John song but. "and then start humming New Rose, Planet Earth, or Careless Whisper.

It's been great whinging to you, thank you and good night.

BOLT JOLT PANIC phhtt

No, that title is not a line from a duet sung by Serge Gainsbourg and BB. It's a wild, crazed plea from me to you.

Oh such a yearning, such a desire for change, some excitement, a thrill, all i want to do is up and bolt.

Do you ever want to bolt? Do you? Do you ever want to up and run? Do you? impassioned plea Errol Brown style , please.

Skye Mangel and me, who'd've thought. I really must stop watching Neighbours it's filling my head with such crazed fanciful notions. Why, the old neighbs has got positively subversive these days.

Oh to be tied to the tedium of work and bound by the bank until the end, not to mention the ennui and malaise, it's a positive drag and a like fully scary prospect.

And all I can do is carp and demean, I know, so tedious for you.

i've recently learnt that many, many, positively loads, right, jobs in my neck of the woods will be scrapped so no doubt i'll be longing for the job ball and chain soon. bet your bottom dollar you'll be reading about that too. Still it could create the much needed jolt of adrenalin, which is a strange phenomenon for me as i generally feel as though i've been more of a driver than a passenger on life's great highway. Curious given my lack of driver's licence, have achieved so much, you see.

Wonder whether you're a passenger or a driver, well you won't have to wonder too long, a quiz regarding your modus operandi in life will be blogged shortly. Still if you're waiting for it by Friday, you pretty much fall in the passenger category.

Anyhoo enough of this moaning.

I know what i need to do, I need to write a book.

Nothing big mind, no airport blockbuster or Oprah book club just yet, and i should leave the Pulitzer for the genius that is G. Brooks.

Actually i might write a book about England from wwii until 1963, touching on the cold war, villainous foreigners, gypsies, smugglers, ingots and life with four children, high on ginger pop, macaroons and tinned tongue, and a confounded dog who cannot help but fall into adventures. It will be called Quent and written from the perspective of the brilliant scientist "Uncle Quentin" Barnard of Kirrin Cottage.

Hurrah!

Hodder and Stoughton or Little Golden Books here i come.

Doppleganger goddamn

Today i am looking the worse for wear.

My sinuses are wildly inflamed, i've got bags under the eyes, and well, i seem to have grown jowls over night. In fact my face is all puffy and pudgy and I look like goddamn Lexie Downer, well not completely my lips aren't exactly cupid bow shaped and i'm sportin' jim jams and bedsocks not fishnets and stilettos.

Hey, i hear you all sucking in your breath with disgust, and i'm furiously exhaling back at youse an'all. Total bringdown. I'd rather resemble Dorian Gray's portrait, but let's face it old Rupert Everett has pipped me to that post.

The cause for this alteration in my once serene and beautiful visage is not a life time of gross incompetency and mendacity nor a dissipated life of booze and pills and pacts with pirates. No, I attribute the general nasal inflammation and overall swollen face to imbibing some rough David Williamson red and sitting out in an hotel beer garden on a rather chilly evening.

We were at the Courthouse Hotel to welcome FJG back to Sydders and have dinner. Landsakes has that hotel become the place to be "of" a Friday night. It was chockers. Among the throng I espied a very boring MOR pop balladeer , and later Joanna and I bumped into Elizabeth Jagger outside the ladies. It was so busy, the restaurant not the dunnies, well apart from toot and G hour, natch, that we didn't get our meal until 2 hours post order!!! Still they did give us two bottles of wine on the house, resulting in today's disastrous doppleganger effect.

Overall i think members of our party of 8 enjoyed themselves despite my general grouchiness. Yes, that funk is ever present and cannot be shifted. Furthermore, it has only intensified since i learnt that now Mick Jagger is getting his own sitcom on the television.

He'll only appear in it a few times as himself. General synopsis is four blue collar workers, no, not bill, charlie, keef, and ronnie, plan to rob MJ at Sidcup station.

Heelllairrious!

Mick and comedy it's not that far fetched really, comedy is the new rock and roll after all, and when you consider his cinematic performances over the years, Ned Kelly, Elysian Fields or that video movie for his solo lp are just a few highlights, he's a comic genius, his timing is pure and utter magic.

Then again perhaps i should not be so miffed. He could be interested in making a few appearances in a cooking show, this could be the way of getting my dream up and running. Oh the funk fog is lifting must give Reg a bell...........

D is for deluded

Hippity hoppity non sequitur risers. Well, that’s it for Peter Cottontail, H.C. buns, the cross and the rock, sounds like a good blockbuster, eh, and chocolate eggs for 2006.

So did you have a good time, yeah? Orright!! hit high hat cymbal. Ahem, sorry some residual inanity from last Tuesday. Now where was I? Ah yes, me, natch, will adopt more sober and usual decorous tone.

True to plan my Easter was a relatively quiet break, well that is when I wasn’t stilettoed, spaghetti strapped and feathered and stompin' to the Gees Gees at Royal Randwick Raceourse to frolic and stumble with the other Easter Carnival hippodrome “Princesses”, swill Bacardi breezers and be blown about in the wind; rubbing shoulders with those who want to be, sexy but intellectual crowd, arent they, the Sydney social set, at Sydney’s hot night spots such as Ruby Rabbit, in keeping with the Easter theme; or catching troubadour about town, Russell Crowe at the Royal Easter Show(e).

Yes, so apart from mixing with the fashioniste and the wannabes, and hurling myself at the feet of the papparazzi and Russ, a relatively quiet time was had. Finished one book, ditched the second, characters and story just too odious and stomach churning, and recommenced the third.

Still when you live in a "sexed up " metropolis such as Sydney, transformed from bustling country town to world class international city in 15 years, you can never completely rest now can you.

Why even stepping out to the 24/711 for a litre of milk and a newspaper is fraught with anxiety for a gel about town like me. You just never know when the Street Style photographer for the Sunday papers' social pages will suddenly appear and take a random photo of your goodself, forcing you to pose uncomfortably on the steps of the shops or in the street's gutter, capturing the awkward "photo look" suffusing your face, as you vainly suck in your cheeks and frantically itemise the origin of every article of clothing that you are sporting.

So like i said departing from one's digs for the triflest of errands can be a nervewracking experience as one fusses with one's ensemble in paranoiac anticipation of encounter with Street Photographer. So today i'm sporting feathers from Paddy's "flea" markets, a frock from Supre, Bonds control pant, shoes by Clarks and these earrings, why i picked them up in Paris, yeah from a gutter in the 20th arrondissement. Chic boho eclectica or what.

Ankles away

I am so looking forward to the four day Easter Break. Big thanks to J.C. for smiling down on me, oh and the rest of yas. Smiling back up at you and missing you already, J.C.

It’s going to be very nice and quiet. I am not socialising at all and will just seclude myself in the flat, begin the viewing of the British Film Institute top 100 project, and finish three books each of which I’m half way through, why, at that rate, I might even manage to start a new one.

None of the books are about rock n roll, they’re proper and fictitional like. As much as I enjoy the rock book, I generally don’t retain as much of the information as I once did.

These days the majority of rocknroll books that I read I access via David. The last rnr book I read was when I stayed Monte Woolley style at David and Mia’s in January. The room where I stayed is lined with bookcases and has a great selection of books with very interesting and titillating titles and subjects, I generally focus on the rock n roll bios though.

What I love about the rock book genre, apart from the generally, non challenging and entertaining read, is the index, particularly the indexes for 60’s/70’s rock n roll popular culture books. You know the type, you look up delusional, and you get several page numbers for tales about Marianne Faithfull, look up sex dwarf god you get Dudley Moore, and refer to smack, television defenestration, blood, and mounties and you get all the entries you could possibly want on K. Richards. a google prototype perhaps?

I read the Ian McLagan autobio during the January 2006 siege of david n mia's digs.

Generally the book was magnificently light and a fairly amusing read, usual topics covered: mickey j money grubbing and doing people out of song writing credits; rod stewart birdin’ and boozin’ it up; M.Faithfull being called classy and cultured, reading poetry to the small faces in her nightie, out of which her breasts kept tumbling; freebasing crap while spending days on end mixing in the stude; living your life through the bottom of a booze bottle; and making moolah and buying houses for your olds then losing all the moolah and having to live with your olds, etc. Good times, bad times, and not dissimilar to any of our lives, of course.

I can’t remember the title of “mac’s” memoirs, off our faces?, and my main memory about the book involves an anecdote about ankles and Orstralia.

David alerted me to this story, which I hadn’t yet reached for I was still savouring tales about Rod birdin’ and boozin’ it up and treating the other Faces like a backing band. So the beauty and potential of the rock book index was fully realised and “ankles” was duly looked up.

During “Macs” 2nd visit to Australia, some time in the early 80’s perhaps, long time after the “scandalous” who and small faces tour of the 60’s, apart from catching up with Renee Geyer in Sydney, he spent time in Perth, where he had a top time and all and did a lot of ankle spotting. While “mac” thought Orstralian birds were luvverly and utter ravers and that, he and his band mate, can’t remember who, or which band, sorry, i guess you can always google it if you need to know, couldn’t help but notice how the majority of Australian women had thick ankles. Anyway it went on like that for a bit and their road manager concurred with the geezers’ observation and told them how he’d been reading some memoir by Percy Grainger who’d also come to a similar conclusion about Orstralian sheilas’ ankles and couldn’t wait to return to Blighty where the ladies ankles were so fine and puhtty.

What a pack of ankle biters.

I do think a lot about ankles but it's more worrying about sprains, twists and breaks, future arthritic problems, and inevitable ankle replacement operations. Consequently, I have never thought of ankles as giving you an erotic charge.

Since January most evenings waiting for the bus at the stop outside David Jones have been spent furtively checking out ankles, on the ladies and the fellas, and even my own in the reflection of the dj’s vitrine, what a smashing, er smashed, set i've got.

The ankle fetish, I don’t understand at all really, some do seem bonier, couldn't say if that makes 'em bonnier, ask Percy and Mac, than others but I just find it a rather curious and quaint, almost strangely innocent?, thing to check out. I guess these days you’re more struck by an over exposed set of titty boom booms, a saucy tatt on the arse or midriff, or just some random codpiece floating down the street.

Rest assured I’m just a bit perplexed and am not being a prude, after all my memoir musical features a segment on the thrill gained on the sight of a male in a semi untucked shirt, tucked in at the front, left out over trou from behind, be it Midford school, Woah Maggie, or civilian shirt, thus making me of course a shirt lifter.

They are still my darlings

Charlie, MicknKeef, natch!

Well without my customary vim and vigour I went to see the dear lambs perform at the Telstra/Australia (which is more inspiring as a name, it's always your choice at NSR) Stadium tonight/last night.

while it was a joy to meet up with craig, tom and madeleine at bbq king and I was rather keen on the whole idea of the outing, i just felt kind of apathetic about seeing stonesy. and it is sad that the good fjg and daddy hairs are now residing interstate and were therefore not able to make the usual pilgrimage together.

Still, it was an excellent adventure as we boarded the train fromCentral. Gordon talk about a swirling mass . So many people, so hot, so cramped. It was kind of fetid . I didn't feel anxious on the train but was relieved to disembark and breathe some air and have a bit of space. Our party of 4 was generally enthusiastic about our expedition, madeleine and craig particularly, they really entered the spirit of things, purchasing a charming little hip flask of Jack Daniels for the occasion. Actually I guess I was being a bit of a doomsayer, and apparently not looking very "rock" for the concert. I was sporting one of my favourite 1940'sish floral frocks. It was a choice between frock or my big momma's house 2 tshirt playsuit. Rock on Tommy indeed, what am i expected to wear, dude? jeans and a ruddy t shirt with a great red tongue!! i was like railing against the corporate monster in my own special way, attending but not, yeah, no, oh hang on. I guess you are right it ain't rocknroll lest you're all dressed in black and showing crack.

We all had a hoot. i must confess it took a while for the old rs to move me. they started with jumpin jack flash and then proceeded to let's spend the night together. i did get kind of buoyant with the latter as it is such a marvellous song. But then i kind of drifted and they left me almost cold, which is a pretty extraordinary feat for them really, fortunately they didn't play that schocker of an 80's song. Just when i thought, oh well bit of a dud, the tempo changed , and they vastly improved, peformed miss you and were transported on this moving runway come stage that veered closer to the masses.

they really hit their stride when they played paint it black, that was a really great performance.

from then the set was goddamn blitzing. i just wish mick had chatted a bit more, i didn't want him to lament busting a button on his trou or recite any Shelley, god help us all, and let's face it no one can save those moths, but he could have just said alright or even all right a few more times. I'm sure he only said it once. He did, however, refer to Ronnie as the Rembrandt of Rock. Mick's voice was in fine fettle, singing not shouting, and he was a veritable dynamo running marathons across the stage and wagging that admonishing finger. Keith was very good and Charlie looked pretty fit. Charlie's drumming is beautiful. So there you go. Highly entertaining and thank you Craig for organising it all at such marvellous bargain basement prices to boot. $30 a ticket incl. transport cannot be sneezed at. and also thanks to Craig, Mad and Tom for excellent company and much mirth before and during the show and on the train trip home.

That must be the final time that i see rs. but i will be annoyed if it's because i die first.

tom took a good photo with my phone of the set that one of the ronnie's children probably designed for his/her O Levels. however i don't have the patience to work out how to place the image on this posting. will treat you with it another time. Technology can be very complicated.

Charlie, Mick and Ronnie have exceptional heads of hair.

Time for Bairdfordshire

Glory, I think it’s almost that time of year when all my pals from the television screen congregate to self-congratulate about the tripe that they’ve produced over the past year.

Yes, that glittering world class event is on very soon, the Logies. Anyway, this year my dahlings and luvvies from the plasma screen , you can count me out, I won’t be joining youse, youse can all rrrack off. Kind of aberrant from my usual cultured tones, eh, readers, forgive me. I was the understudy for Bobby in Home and Away during the 80’s and can still get down and get gritty when necessary, don’t ye know.

If you have detected a slightly sour, bitter, rancid tone to my touch typing, you are on the money, sugar, nothing gets past you does it, non sequitur risers, so please indulge the Mistress while she spills the beans on her latest petit score.

Nohhh, take that back, I don’t want to hear it anymore, culinary terms, that is. Lord am I one bitter almond. I still have not received one single offer after my brilliant pitch for a cookery show. You really wouldn’t credit it. My next stop will be the Pay Television, if Claudia Karvan can do it, well so can the Mistress, and failing that, well I guess I’ll be doing shows at the local shopping centre during the school holidays, otherwise it’ll be handing out tasty morsels, the preparation of which i will have just demonstrated "live", in the goddamn supermarket.

Oh the ignominy.

Another reason why I am boycotting the Logies, is that I am absolutely tired of being awarded the Logie for Personality of the Year for friggin’ South Australia!!! Ever since Anne Wills lost her mantle and my blitzing float entry at the Addles annual Christmas Pageant parade, the people of that State of mysteries, well that’s what is written on SA motor vehicle number plates, have been foisting the Personality of the Year award upon me!!

Admittedly the Logies look lovely in my study; I bought a nice display cabinet especially for it. However, I’m really tired of explaining to my visitors that I am neither from Adelaide nor anywhere in South Australia. It also rankles with me that my State of birth has not adopted me or festooned me with awards. NSW’s personality of the year award I guess will go to Bec Cartwright or Georgie Parker. Humph. The less said about those minxes and rivals for that mantle, the better!

Fortunately, the musical is coming along swimmingly. Even if Brian does seem to have deluded himself into believing that he is the next Hugh Jackman. I have every confidence that the musical will make Broadway, and I’m not referring to that shopping centre in central Sydney. Mind you that would be handy in between my supermarket cooking gigs. And you can bet your bottom dollar that in 2008 it’ll be me hosting the Tony Awards following the outstanding success of Before the Bubble Burst on Broadway. It had better be or it will be time for BettyFordshire.

You can eat my madeleines

Good day non sequitur squitters, and I mean that in the nicest possible way.

Apologies for the kind of dullish tone to the blog of late. I have been flat out organising production matters for an autobiographical musical. Yes, at long last, I’m staging the rollick and frolic that has been my life so far, Before the bubble burst.

And in between the general buzzing about sorting out the production’s embryonic stages, hiring venues, squabbling with my friend, Brian the autodidact, about spelling, scripting and casting, I have found that when I have had a moment to myself I’ve been feeling a little flat.

You’re surprised; well can you imagine how i felt. I’d lost my usual smug gusto and thirst for myself. Feeling flat, why, it is such a drag, particularly when there is no reason apart from being a self-indulgent booby who wants every day to be sunshine and lollipop city.

Of course production of this musical romp through my life has provoked great moments of reflection and at times misplaced feelings of regret. So while in this funk I searched for reasons, and realised that, yes, despite my super bubble existence, picture Billie Burke as the Glenda the Good Witch, there was a feeling of being unfulfilled. Something was missing in my life, as Marcia Brady used to sing. After enumerating a few possible causes it became apparent that I’d never attained my life long dream of hosting a cookery show on the television.

Frankly I’d be happy with a segment on one of the morning shows which would then lead to my own 30 minute cookery show, Mixing it with the Mistress or perhaps Bel du jour. I don’t know and nor do I care. I’m sure Brian has a few ideas; he claims to have such a way with words.

Of course, I wouldn’t dream of creating any of the recipes and you can forget your verjus, crème fraiche, zest of pomegranate, and charred mango cheeks. I’d like my show to be a tribute to the Margaret Fulton Cookbook and Entertaining with Margaret Fulton. Not wacky, crazy zany 70’s retro nouvelle cuisine mind.

Furthermore I won’t be gallivanting to shops and markets or abroad. The show will be strictly studio, or stude as we call it in showbiz and in the art world, so i've heard, and not very instructive. All the ingredients will be ready prepared - measured, peeled, chopped, sliced, diced, julienned and placed in lovely clear glass bowls. So all I’ll have to do is remember when to tip the ingredients in the mixing bowl, while I chat to the viewers about this n that n me. I will of course occasionally savage the French and Italian languages and pepper my cooking banter with said languages’ cookery terms. Must get Brian to lend me his copies of Larousse Gastronimique, and il cucchaio d’argento.

So there’s the pitch, someone be a love, pick it up and run with it. I’ve got to dash to the community hall to meet Brian and Hetty. It’s day three of casting. Anchovederci and what not.

Blogworthy?

This morning I:
Learnt that a friend had been myspaced/added/like whatevered!, with a principally 18-30 demographic how would i know, by a member of the 80's band ABC , the band member's name I read as Body, and pictured that character, Boadie (sp?) from the Professionals, and then realised the name was something else and that Body was referring to the main text of the message that the former ABC band member had sent;

Realised that i was obtuse;

Was told that you could get a ticket to see the rolling stones for $40 on ebay;

Had my interest vaguely piqued; and

Flapped about and was at panic stations for work yet was strangely productive.

This afternoon I:

Ate a neenish tart. It was delicious. I think i will bake some neenish tarts over the Easter Break. this blog isn't called non sequitur rising for nothing, sweetpea;

Read that John Profumo was married to Valerie Hobson, an actress, who was also a real beauty , one of her best performances was in Kind Hearts and Coronets;

Discovered that Evelyn Waugh and Nancy Mitford were hired to work independently on the script for Kind Hearts and Coronets. However, neither of their scripts were used;

Learnt that this Sunday marks the 60th anniversary of the King of Thailand's accession to the throne;

Was introduced to a wonderful writer called George Saunders; and

Found out that the Blue Mountains suburb of Leura, where I am spending a weekend to celebrate a friend's milestone birthday, is so fancy it does not have one budget motel or hotel, only those of a luxurious and/or "boutique" nature, and it is cheaper to hire a "cottage" for one night.

This evening when i get get home i will listen to side two of Out of our heads, sing along, and play "the spider and the fly" three times and then deny being a rolling stones fan when my house guest knocks at my door at 7 p.m. Following the heated denial, Mick Jagger will rise and be made a knight, oh yeah, he already is risen, so I won't celebrate but I will cook my specialty for house/dinner guests - chilli garlic pasta with broccolini and tomatoes. We will watch neighbours and talk a lot, probably miss out on Russell Crowe "performing" at the Vanguard. shame.

Tomorrow night we will go to the cinema.

Last week I read that It's only rock n roll was someone's favourite Rolling Stones lp. While I appreciate how you veer towards middish 70's stones stuff after years of listening to the usual favourites, at 60 I will venture forth and listen to their stuff from the mid 80's onwards, oh the pain, I've been stuck on goats head soup as my favourite for about 5 years, i find it's only rock n roll has too much lameo faux reggae on it for me, well I guess it's just luxury, which is just so bad, after all it does have time waits for no one, the best song on that lp, and i find the lyrics and phrasing, and well everything on if you can't rock me and fingerprint file amusing, or is that risible, and very enjoyable.

Next week i will probably end up going and seeing the rolling stones and either get over this strange vague funk of a mood, or regret the experience, but then if i don't attend, i'll rue that too. Oh this is silly, i will just go. I always feel so uplifted after seeing them live. It is brilliant. So trying feeling 14 when you are on the cusp of 41.

Actually i think this mood i am experiencing is not being in a funk or feeling flat but known as "being mellow" or perhaps i'm coming down with a virus, i feel so disconnected, somewhat dizzy, my brain feels very removed from my body, dualism ? perhaps i have a temperature? i am rambling or on the verge of religious conversion................whatever it is i feel as though i'm doing an excellent impression of a sufferer of mad cow disease as i can't stop staring out into space in the most unfocused of fashions.

actually, i realise that I haven't taken my thyroxine thyroid supplement for well over a month and am possibly on the verge of cretinism.

the shape of things to come

Landsakes but it was a ludicrously frenzied hour that i just passed at my local supermarket.

Sheer and utter bedlam! I felt like was on a dodgem car circuit - the rear and front of my person was constantly getting bumped and jammed by shopping trollies as people wielded their shopping carts like those who push out their prams on a road to make traffic stop. Dear sir and madam, i do understand that your pram is carrying your byebee , precious cargo indeed, therefore, would it not be more logical not to make that blessed perambulator jut out from the road's curb or dart before a moving vehicle. Yours, Constable Care.

Yes, so the supermarket was crraaazy man and it was not a very happy atmosphere, so i was glad to get out. Equally perturbing was the fact that on the long ramble out of that shopping centre, i happened to observe three people sporting ankle and leg casts. victims perhaps of the trolley dodgems? They were wearing those modern casts, not made from plaster nor requiring afflicted to use crutches, they are made of canvas and sort of resemble a big ski boot.

It's curious that each day this week i have seen someone fitted with one of these canvas cast bootie thingies. I just hope that it is a new fashion item and not portentous, i really don't want to again sprain, let alone break, my ankle , nor my leg or any bone for that matter.