How low can you go?

Age and time were no barrier to enjoyment at last night's Brownlows.

My man and me had a top night out. Dinner and a show cannot be beaten, let's face it.

It was a very classy evening.

I was glad to have an occasion to sport an old red Osti frock that a friend, oh alright, yes it was Brian, we have called a truce, had very kindly revamped for me.

It was quite simple really. Don't want Brian to get ideas above his station.

The dress had been blessed with a plunging v neckline but Bri just cut that a bit lower, tore some holes out on the back at chest level, and used the K-Tel Bedazzler and sequins for a bit of razzle dazzle or bling as we call it nowadays.

I wore the dress back to front and hey, presto i was very Cop Shop Danni/Paula Duncan saying buona sera to Kelly Le Brock on a sultry spring evening circa 2006. A salute to some old style Hollywood/Cinecitta glamour with a contemporary slapper, if you willl.

The outfit and I were a hott surefire hit - prompted some dagger looks and scrag fights in the dunnies. Mission accomplished.

Lovely night and some very heart felt speeches were made, on stage and in the lavs, oh, just joshing.

Speaking of Paula Duncan as Danni in Cop Shop I think Paula/Danni's shoulderbag holding style, which i've adopted, is the cause for the abysmal tennis elbow that i've been suffering from for well over two months. I've been constantly clutching the bag's shoulder strap and keeping the arm bent at a right angle. So if you have a hand or man bag hanging from your shoulder, do not, i repeat, NOT, constantly clutch the strap keeping your arm bent at a right angle. Ladies, metros, keep that arm straight and stiff . And to keep your bag secure and avoid flaccid fish hand, gently cup the bottom of your bag with your palm. So you'll be nimble, secure AND stylish.

OMG

Today at work i was looking at the year 1956 . Yes, I write the in this year column for the office weekly bulletin, which is electronically circulated cob Tuesdays, so i was totally stressed out.

And do you know what, there were quite a few political events that year, let me tell you, revolutions, struggles for independence, deportations of bishops from islands , Kruschev criticising Stalin and his " cult of personality" leadership (and I thought Richard Lewis coined the phrase, must check with Kel Richards) , oh and tv and the Olympics arrived in Australia. Have i just plaigarised a top little verse from a Billy Joel tune?

Oooh yeah some very heavy shit went down , man, political upheaval, turmoil and that so i couldn't help but get distracted and start looking at birthdays.

I discovered that


Marcia Brady/Maureen McCormack recently turned

50.

An August Leo

now matooer

or is that old?

I wonder if she can still have

hair of gold?

(naturally)

And Tiger,

how old is Tiger?

in dog years?

Goodbye, Tiger.

My first concrete pome. I have always had the creative flair, well that's what Mrs Melvaine said in 3rd class.

She, Marsha not Mrs Melvaine, who must be like ancient, is the same age as Johnny Rotten and Kerry Chikarovski. I was surprised by the latter as i thought she'd be well into the 50's by now, but hey, give a Chick a Chance , and that sensational election campaign must have been in the 90's.

But really my lament is not about age but that goddamn sand and the hourglass.

Oh time suspend your flight.

Still if Marcia can do it so can we.

Email me if you want that badge.

Oh, blt, you'll be interested to know that Ann B. Davis , Alice the housekeeper, is alive and well and acting up a storm. Currently in Bali filmin a mini series about the Bali Nine for Channel Ten. She is playing Renae Lawrence. Oh and Bobby, no sorry, Oliver is playing Wa-Wa for the joint channel 9 and 7 documentary rescue. Real wa-wa has already lost his cute factor.

Chuckles central

I was given the series 1 deeveedee of the Good Life for my birthday. Rather puzzling thing to have bestowed upon me but have rather enjoyed watching it, after my initial slump at being a year older than Tom Good and being in as dead end job as he. Oh my have i appreciated the fact that Richard Briers, who plays Tom Good, was trained as a Shakespearan actor and revelled in his amusing Shakespearan actor send ups in several episodes. ho ho ho. Sheer genius. But it's Felicity Kendal who is the stand out and feather in this eye.

I recall watching the Good Life on the telly when i was in primary school but it had no impact on me really, just enough to twig that Barbara Good as played by Felicity Kendal was a dick and i was later kind of amused by the mocking of Flick in the Young Ones. I have to confess that recently i got rather hooked on that terribly clunky Rosemary and Thyme, in which Flick plays an horticulturalist come detective sailing to Lesbos. Sensational. But it is only now that i've had occasion to really marvel at and be maddened by her.

I have really honed my impression of Felicity Kendal's excruciating voice, mannerisms and style, am sportin' oversized pair of spectacles and some overalls as i type.

The Mistress has thus acquired a particularly fetching air and is very well equipped to deal with any folly that comes her way this week.

By the way it's Felicity's 60th birthday on the 25th of this month, next Monday, so i think we should all sport overalls, oversized spectacles and speak like her to honour her special day. You don't need to go overboard with expenditure, after all I'll just be wearing the khaki overalls i wore to honour Crockie a few Fridays ago.

outpouring of grief

Haven’t really felt like blogging since my return from Hobart to work. Yeah I’ve been reflecting big time about Brockie and Crockie dying how they lived.

So if i die mid barb, high kicking and gargling champers youse can all comfort yourselves and wisely intone 'oh the mistress she died how she lived.' Please note that the playing of you can't always get what you want and video eulogies from Russell Crowe are prohibited, otherwise i might just have to rise up and bite yas. Also no black sunnies and exposed bazookas in Collette Dinnigan frocks to be displayed at the function. But you can wear as many ribbons and crosses as your sweet hearts desire.

From high kicks to high indulgence. Forgive me, NSRs.

Actually the return to work has been a major downer and i’ve been feeling like a cross between Jim Dixon and George Costanza with a dash of Tom Good thrown in. Yeah, sjuuper. Oh perhaps women are meant to identify with Bridget Jones, sorry i cannot.

Being asked to collect a superior's medicine one day and lunch the next sticks in my craw, no matter how nice and busy the superior can be. What next the drycleaning? You'd think I worked for McMahon and Tate or Justice Sir Guthrie Featherstone MP.

I get irritated too quickly to be capable of saying "when you ask me to buy your lunch, i feel exploited by such an inappropriate wequest." "Cock off and get your own chico roll/codeine" is a lot more direct and satisfying anyway.

My vexation with the calibre of requests was sufficiently soundlessly exhibited for last abzzurd request to be retracted. A mutinous pursing of lips followed by the scattering of papers and hurling of a computer on the floor work wonders.

Anyhoo shit happens and then you die as Billy Thorpe no doubt hollered after his final song at Sunbury. Thank christ for the good times.

And at least i've got fictitious characters to relate to when pondering my flagging career.

You've got to be optimistic and smile with the 9-5 hump, after all there are much worse things, at least i don't have to sit an English language skills test without any tutelage or sign my name to some document about mateship, a fair go and god's own values. Pardon me but enforcing an English test without previously providing adequate access or funding to language education programs for immigrants hardly epitomises a "fair go". The antics of bad government, and that lameo opposition, oh splodge Beazley you are lamentable, particularly the citizenship caper have equally contributed to the frustation. Time to write letters to and protest against those pollies. And won't it be grand to have a federal election based around values.

I’ve done a few job appos and stepped up the socialising to keep the vinegar at bay, mmm well just outpouring the bile to sympathetic, perhaps selectively deaf friends. No really, vinegar bay can be a very satisfying drop every now and again, and abundantly available at NSR.

things that matter #97: Where's our spwing gone

Warm spell preceding cold snap is a fairly standard cycle in Sydney, and probably most places, as mooother nature makes her gradual transition from winter to spring, well it has been most of my life here in this increasingly annoying but so visually appealing city.

Since Friday the weather has been rather warm verging on hot over the weekend. Inevitably it didn't last, as it was unseasonal goddammit, and there was a wild southerly buster come Wednesday. So today's Sydney Morning Herald runs an article about winter's return, or where's our spring gone, get the where's our summer gone generally two weeks after the summer solstice and there's been a couple weeks of rain! This year old Fairfax has jumped the gun in moaning about spring. Spring actually hasn't sprung officially and won't until 22nd September.

This "news story" happens most seasons and each time i get worked up and rrrabid. However, now that i've blogged this gripe i promise to suffer in silence each season instead of making your ears bleed with my impression of a sibilant, warped 78 on a grandmaphone.

the mistress and the kindness of strangers

Well last week I was like in Tamsinia right and on Tuesday after my escape from the clutches of that dastardly driver, I was kind of rushed, insane and had to catch a bus to New Town but without sufficient moolah. So in a mad and dizzy flap I went to the atm and withdrew moolah, collected the card, squatted down to tie up my shoe lace and then forgot to collect the cash. Yes I know, I did this a couple of months ago, I am a fan of Lou Carpenter* but this is ridiculous. Fortunately the sum I failed to collect was only a ‘lobster, cobber’ and I had enough to get me to New Town. Only costs $1.70 to gad about the town in Hobart which of course makes the Hobart Metro the Hollywood Seven of public transport, 1 buck 70 for a ride or a tour guide takes your life.

Imagine my surprise when I checked my bank statement the other day, in between checking the information being spewed forth from my ticker tape machine while I tangoed with Gomez Adams, to see that the Hobart branch of my bank had deposited $20 into my account. Someone had gone to that machine after me, found my moolah and receipt and the darling lamb had then entered the bank, no doubt queued on my behalf, I’m sobbing as I type, thanking god all along the way, finally proceeding to the living breathing teller and giving the moolah to her/him to deposit into the mistress's important business account.

Thank you kind lady, thank you kind sir. You are a lamb of the highest order.


*Neighbours character currently suffering from early onset of Alzheimers but of course everyone remembers Hollywood Seven by Jon English and if you don't i'm sorry to advise that you have Alzheimers, bucko.