Friday, 21 December 2007

Have a kool yule

Was that first uttered by Skeeter (RIP James Kelmsley - Jack Wild last year and now Skeeter, lordamumsamercy me), the Fielders' Frrresh boy or the six white boomers?

Or was it the title of an Ol' 55 Christmas LP or the slogan for ice on sale at service stations? Did you know that petrol stations in Tasmania still have attendants to personally pump the tiger in your tank?! Well you do now.

Speaking of life as a 7 year old, here is a favourite Christmas carol from the time.

Christmas Day by John Wheeler and William G. James

The North-wind is tossing the leaves,
The red dust is over the town;
The sparrows are under the eaves
And the grass in the paddock is brown;
As we lift up our voices and sing
To the Christ-Child, the Heavenly King

The tree-ferns in green gullies sway;
The cool stream flows silently by:
The joy-bells are greeting the day,
And the chimes are adrift in the sky,
As we lift up our voices and sing
to the Christ-Child, the Heavenly King

Now i must go and listen to "An Australian Christmas".

Tomorrow: do's and don't's for Christmas fare and flair.

Monday, 26 November 2007

We’ve got a P.M. called Kevin

What an absolutely fantastic result and such a marvellous contrast to the 2004 election.

I went to a brilliant election party and was lucky to partake in much exuberant celebration. After retiring about 4.30 I woke an hour later with a headache and got up to get some water and fresh air and investigate whether the party was still going. I staggered out into the backyard, there didn’t seem to be any revellers left, and stumbled up the path to the backyard’s tippity top where you get a wonderful view of the district and a good breeze.

After much weaving and swaying I finally finished the ascent to witness the party's host jumping up and down in a gleefully triumphant dance with his two dogs.

It was a wonderful sight to behold.

I let out a whoop and a cry, lost my balance and rolled down the hill.

Friday, 23 November 2007

Vote early and vote often

If I were running in an election the first thing I would do would be to consult the stars for myself and my opponent.

John Howard is a Leo, 26 July, shares his birthday with Mickey J, George Bernard Shaw, Jonty Rhodes, and many more including Amanda’s 2nd youngest brother.

Johh Howard is jealous because I share my birthday with Donald Bradman or is it because Glenn Matlock and Willy de Ville were also born that day? I guess i'll never know for he just went tomato red and refused to talk to me. And there i was trying to bond....

Kevin Rudd is a Virgo, born 21 September, shares his birthday with Leonard Cohen, Bill Murray, Henry Gibson, Luke Wilson and Nicole Richie and loads more - perhaps even you if you're lucky, pumpkin.

Here are their stars for 24 November, which is also the birthday of sister Lucy, a Sagittarius.

LEO (July 23-Aug 22) - On November 24th a full Moon illuminates something significant around your group of friends, and the station of Uranus on the same day indicates that something unexpected and surprising happens with regard to any bank loans or tax issues.

VIRGO (Aug 23-Sept 22) - . On the 24th a full Moon in your career sector brings with it some sense of completion or attainment in career matters, and the station of Uranus on this same day gives you a surprising event or development with regard to your significant other.

Johnny, Krudd, Peewee and Jules
Leo, Virgo, Leo, Leeebra
Vote, Vote on
Vote, Vote on

Hi i'm Kevin 07 and i'm Virgo
I know you're busy and I like the working fam
Take, take my hand
And vote me to victory in election land
Vote, vote on
Vote, Vote on

Tuesday, 20 November 2007

She cracked

Mirror mirror in one's hand

who's the cutest in the land?

No longer, no more and never again will one be able to make that daily enquiry of one's pocket mirror - a nice piece of glass backed with a spectacular colourised photo of Shirley Temple looking cute, natch, but also rather grumpy and matronly at age 6ish.

Shirley was involved in a melee with Ruby kiss no 5 and and Lady Jane the wide tooth comb in the confines of a make up bag after midnight no doubt for that's when all inanimate articles come to life. Ruby and Lady Jane, and let's use that broad's title loosely please, did Shirley over and whipped her glass in a most artistic and dramatic fashion.

What in the June Dally-Watkins am i going to do without my little grooming buddy. Forget your ship without your sail, it's like Mrs Everege without a hoame, Arthur Fonzarelli without a comb.

And what could it possibly foretell for Mrs Temple-Black or the Republicans.




Monday, 19 November 2007

If you wanna cruise you can cruise

Is what a dude in the lift said to me at lunch time. And no the mistress was not eyeballing him in a highly salacious fashion. He'd just told me he was having a "cruisey day" and i looked a bit sceptical so he then imparted the above maxim. I didn’t reply with an Interesting but I can’t say I agree but smiled and popped a fruit mentos in my mouth to prevent articulation of juvey riposte, all juvey outbursts are reserved for blog or email.

Eating sweets in a lift on a Monday after luncheon. How’d you be? Slightly seedy if you’d like to hazard a guess.

Carousing on a Sunday night? Traipsing down the main drag in search of an open hotel at ten. Who on earth am I? More’s the point how the f&^% old am I? Act your age not your shoe size mama indeed! Blame it on the silly season, blame it on Rio if you must (another top little film with Michael Caine) but we all know where the blame really lies, with old mr good times von dipso that is who. Ever ready to appear at the sound of a cork popping or the unscrewing of a liquor lid, pop, glugg, glugg and out he bounces brandishing that laughs and liquor banner. Cheeky little fellow.

It was fun and out of the blue. Fun’s like that.

Things I love at the moment: driving lessons, Will and Grace Season 3, Powderfinger, bios about aristos, and whiskers on kittens - well on anything but one’s visage, sugar.

Dumb things I gotta do: work (?!) for my living?! and repeat Year 9

I am feeling rather optimistic about the result of this Saturday’s election. I wonder if Antony Green has framed my pome...

Spin it out sisters

Hasn’t Edina Monsoon been busy?! And hasn't she lifted her game? So much PR about the Kidman sisters’ trials and tribulations. I just read that Nicole Kidman has announced to the media that she lost two children. Sweetheart, we all know that; They're called Connor and Isabella and you lost 'em around the time the press lost interest. Cold mountain also claims not to use botox and that her wrinkle free face is a result of not smoking and generally "looking after herself" of which she is really proud?! Oh pet – cure cancer and then you’ll have a reason for some self-satisfaction. Futhermore, don’t you know that every time the use of botox is denied a beauty therapist dies or worse, gets busted for smuggling marijuana in a boogie board bag.

Inevitably Connor or Isabella will write his/her mommy dearest. Oh the golden age of Hollywood has indeed returned: Nickers is the new Joan Crawford, Angelina currently doing a very good mamma mia farrow, oh the scandale that lies ahead, and the Minogues have been cranking out a glorious tribute to Joan and Jackie Collins for decades now - does that make Jason Donovan Tony Newley? The mistress hastens to add that she could search the whole world over and she’d never find another you, Oh Judith Durham desist from stalking my febrile mind, I mean, Dame Elizabeth Taylor or Ms Bette Davis.

Friday, 9 November 2007

The sheer delight of it all

Every glorious morning one wakes up revelling that one is one, lovely, delicious one.

That’s a quote from the foot of a harbour calendar from several office desks ago, NSRS, and it has become a mantra of self-actualisation proportions for the mistress - ever ready to be plucked from her steel trap of mind to stir her from any funks threatening to descend.

Even when one remembers the thwarted dreams and ambitions, particularly that one is never going to be that child star of stage and screen, no longer adored nor understood, chiefly scorned as an adult, one no longer collapses in a heap or pours a tumbler full of voddie and orange over ice for one’s brekky juice. One leaps out of the old sackarooni to salute the sun humming "life, life is for living ".

Wednesday, 7 November 2007

Car, car, kaka

I did the "Knowledge" (hah!) at lunch hour and have just driven my first ever hour on the roads of the inner west; from Enmore to Lewisham via Marrickville.

I am so spaced out and wobbly. Did i just drive? That's an automatic motor for ya. It was rather fun at the time and I exclaimed so to instructor along with a few "Gordons" and "naughty driver" and one "shit". Instructor threw in quite a few "relax", "Keep your hands on the wheel!", you'll be fine, darling". I do find "darling" rather soothing no matter how close an oncoming vehicle appears to be approaching. I'm rather parched from my mouth being agape for so long.

Now i am just reeling; it's as though i dreamt the lesson.

I haven't got another lesson for a week so i guess i'll have to practise on the dodgems at Luna Park until then.

I would like to say that I need a nice watery whisky but i'm more in the mood for a large gin and tonic.

Monday, 5 November 2007

You are my rock

Ooh forget the fever in the funkhouse there’s heat in the economy which means that several interest rate rises are possible. It’s not a given, I’m just giving you a heads up that it may not be a be a win win situation for you aspirational hard working Australians, working mums and dads, hard working Australian families. So just watch this space.

Where have all the good men gone? (long time passing as Hesba Brinsmead used to sing.) I am so on the same page as those sexy successful singletons. Yeah I know - it’s tough there is a serious shortage of men. I mean seriously, they're either underage, married - yummy mummys blow, out and out homosexualiste, on the lam, or just not into you - go figure!

Still what doesn't kill ya only makes you stronger and it’s nothing that a good bit of retail therapy can’t fix, you feisty but feminine shopaholic.

I give you props.

I hear that there’s heat in the economy so spoil yourself and splurge on some sexy as, have to have strappy sandals, pamper yourself with a shot of botox and melanin, and pig out on a packet of Tim Tams and case of zero sugar cola - you're worth it, but girlfriend make sure you regurgitate, or you’ll never get a man.

Are we there yet? Not a problem.

Friday, 2 November 2007

Mistress Mitty

Ow. Mistress returned to work this week. It was A-OK, peachy and mellow; mistress works with some very nice cats and dudes. I have been very busy at work and play. Had a meeting that went on for half a day.

At times it got rather passionate and heated so rather entertaining but sometimes it was kind of long and rambling and dull like a group of musos jamming, so mistress would start daydreaming, which is not very sound when she is in charge of taking detailed notes. She was awoken from one reverie by hearing someone speak hesitantly, thought it was Godfrey from Dad’s Army so she sat upright and looked upon speaker with interest and wondered if it were just his voice’s timbre that he shared with Godfrey, and started thinking of Godfrey’s posh background and his sister, Cissy, and less tasteful matters Godfrian. That chain of thought was broken by someone uttering an impassioned cry of “it is what it is”, rather nonsensical in itself but it made me start thinking of Stella Street and a scene featuring the fabulous impression of Al Pacino talking to Les the Geordie gardner.

Meeting ended and I seem to have got the most salient points and added a bit of colour to it all. So a win win situation. I'm proud of myself and ought to be congratulated. Sorry, channelling Smug McSuck, aka your least favourite smug acquaintance, and no, not the mistress, I know all roads and whatnot but smug is one adjective you cannot apply, mistress comes over all teflon with that one.

And today is Friday and the mistress does not to want be at work. According to Dr Sputnik she’s suffering from "Post partying and peregrination pessimism", which is a sound diagnosis. I feel all Sticky Fingers Stonesy really when I should be all uptight and shocking 80's Let's work and Hang fire Thatcherite Stonesy. Hey, Mrs T started out as member for Dartford, don't ye know.

Not long now till Mr Weekend arrives, as Aerosmith belted out in the 80’s (track 12 –Aerosmith rarities – yes have been introduced to the joys of Limewire; does this journey on the Information Super Highway ever end, kids?), and I’m dining out tonight with Stefanie Powers and checking out Jonty’s new digs. Saturday am pottering around the mansions and swotting for the Driver Knowledge Test. Sunday I’m visiting the olds for lunch and some filial dooties - pater's broken down yet again on the I.S.H.; He had Limewired Flanders and Swann, Nina and Frederick, when he got onto Jabberjaw Sutherland and the computer went spare.

Top weekend to ya.

Sunday, 28 October 2007

i'm doing important hazardous business

I'm wearing a fluoro vest, don't ye know.

She walks like a bearded rainbow

Freak out. What is going on in Sydney shops? They are all playing songs by the Cream. Hey, mistress is not complaining but it's rather strange.

It all began around three weeks ago... cue swirly, whirly, romper bomper stomper doo in unstringed racquet effect.

I was in the Strand arcade looking for a birthday gift and went into this kind of fancy jewellery shop and that song from Fresh Cream "..Money, nothing funny, wasting the best of our life, bah, bah, felix papallardi, bah, bah." was blaring out. I did a shimmy and a shake, my gaze twitching upon this twonty something shop assistant in early 70's garb seated lotus like on a bench, twirlin' a tendril of her mouse-coloured hair around her finger and singin' along in a very loud and inane fashion. Hearing that song again and seeing gel singing muppet style left the mistress somewhat distrait and incapable of scrutinising baubles, and with a real urge to hear "what a bringdown".

Since the Strand i have heard the Cream at several other shops throughout Sydney. Then when i was staying at the house of mirth aka chez lorraine last week, Jeff Duff was playin' and that dude's voice is very, very Jack Bruce. Edwin Duff's is of course totally Ol' Blue Eyes.

Final meltdown for the mistress was this arvo while checking out clothing with Stefanie Powers at the House of Scrag - we were lookin' for clothes for Stef NOT the mistress. Tales of Brave Ulysses was playing on the stereo.

What is this about? Is it due to the recent publications by Patti Boyd and Clappers or does it augur summat worse? Take care, Ginger ...

Friday, 26 October 2007

Good times reigned supreme

I cannot stop thinking about that party. To left is a photo of fjg preparing for party. Blowing leaves sans fluoro - very desultory.

I think Alice was right; It was the best party ever and a school reunion with people you wanted to see. Of course some very significant people were missed, huwo AMP, but as my recent tatt on tummy reads, "shit happens", incidentally this greatly complements the "whatever" that is tattooed in ye olde English lettering arched across my upper back.

In between surfing the net, texting, emailing and swilling booze i've been padding about Tupper Mansions, picking up rubbish and throwing it down somewhere else, smiling and laughing as snapshots from the Jubilee celebrations float through my mind.

So much laughter and joy and everyone so nice. It was a booze fuelled Sherwood Schwartz production.

My current favourite snapshot is one from about 4 a.m. It features a very bronzed Française running around, lifting up her t-shirt to reveal her stomach and moaning about her menopausal belly. Oh well at least tummy was tanned.

Gonna make you a star

So yeah I have had the remainder of the week off from work but unfortunately the mistress was lady lather of indecision* prior to the hols and didn't she think she'd have anything to do in Mel, kept picturing herself wandering aimlessly for 8 hours a day around Federation Square getting addicted to the square's giant text message being broadcast on its walls, so arranged her itinery to return to Syd early in the piece.

Fortunately before leaving the State of play, i did have the time and good sense to catch up with Francesca and her daughter, Ada, and had a lot of fun and laughs.

Francesca had told Ada about Joanna's speech for Fran's b'day which featured everyone's alleged celebrity "doppleganger" in Fran the miniseries. Ada was rather taken with this concept, as we all were - irresistible really oneself being played by some ridiculously good looking actor, and compiled the photos of our celebrity dopplegangers and typed our names beside them. Ada created a list of minor characters; modestly placing herself on this page's tippity top - we did spend a lot of time pondering the celebs for the minor character roles. Brava Ada, brava.

We did note that probably three of the males we know would like to have Hugh Grant playing them, either because of vague similarity in appearance or just an absurd love of him. I found this rather problematic but as Francesca pointed out, Hugh would win an Oscar for playing so many roles and all the challenges in wardrobe and physique. It would be Hugh's Kind Hearts and Coronets, not that i am sure whether A. Guinness won such an award for that brilliant film.

Do not worry, Richard Curtis won't be writing the script. Joanna had touted Baz. Curiously RC, and no, I do not mean Russell Crowe, now seems appealing. It really is time that I returned to work

*which is not dissimilar from Bill Bryson's Lord Lather of indecision

Oh my god

x 2 or 3 were Lady Di's last words according to this morning's paper.

I had always imagined her last words to be something like "faster, faster". Was her god proddy Christian, Sufi Muslim, Versace, Le Bon or Richard Gere? Furthermore, if she had died several years later would she have said instead "OMG" x 3? And if i said you had a beautiful body would you, oh sorry i get so distracted these days....

I guess we'll never know. Death's like that.

Well as you can read i have not much to say. I banged on so much last Saturday and Sunday that i've exhausted anything that was remotely interestin' and had to return to a favourite topic of scorn from the 90's. Lady Di was then replaced by Nickers Kidman and Tom Cruise in the derision stakes, then i got hung up on bubble gum accented talk and text, and now it seems to be premature blooming jacarandas. I suspect the latter is further inanity masked by environmental concern.

What's new? Well i have to say i posed this question to the rambunctious chuckles and dance table on Saturday night and I received this amazing and unintentional beat poet-like response from an interlocuteur which i will now adapt to elaborate on my quotidian.

What's new

Returned to Sydney on Tuesday
Dicked about on the computer for several hours
Sank several light beers
Watched hot ploddy
Went to bed
That's what's new

What's new
Got up
watched the 2nd last episode of Sopranos
Had to download the final ep and the one where
Tony kills Christopher
Felt rather repulsed
so ate some chocky wocky and drank red wine
went to bed

What's new
Had nightmares about being a villain
Was in an American mafia setting
but talking like 70's English supergrass
was shot at by corrupt filth (told you so)
and hiding behind a big sheet of cardboard
It was very scary
woke up

What's new
Oh i've lost interest, haven't you?

Tuesday, 23 October 2007

Another obsession continues

Every single poppin' Jacaranda in Sydney is in full bloom; i surveyed it all from the plane this morning and my fellow passengers, with whom i had some very pleasant conversations, concurred that the blooms were premature.

Balmy old Syd - I fear something has shifted between her and me.

The big thrill

Oh i have returned to Sydney after a rather marvellous time in Vic and, nsrs, it's really rather rum to be back.

The celebrations for the milestone birthday of FJG in Bendigo were splendid and a whale of a time was had by all.

FJG and S O'N were marvellous, generous and very hospitable hosts;Providing bedding and copious quantities of delicious fare and plonk for the many guests.

We had a 10-12 hour dinner, booze and show deal featuring top bands, speeches and some spectacular dancing thrown in.

It was marvellous to catch up and talk to so many people from so long ago. How i have missed performing that party trick.

Thank you all and good afternoon.

The carnival is over, Dickie B

As widely communicated in previous texts, telexes and telegrammes, the mistress experienced the most horrendous and scary (nb you there perched on your little green chair by the white plastic computer (please note in this instance computer is pronounced as in Mr Kotter - Kottair but sounded out to that rock steady crew tune) flight to Melbournia.

Fortunately the flight back to Sydney was fine and rather pleasant. On boarding DJ inane rave 90210 the Virg blue hostie advised that i was in the middle seat. I replied "swell" (a la Margot Channing I thought) to which Hostie quipped "Rock on" and gave me a thumbs up sign. "I wish i could be that cool", i thought and then remembered to say thanks while scratching my nose with my middle digit. Now that's rocknroll, sugar.

I was seated between two very nice women and a two year old. Two year old's mother appeared to be teaching daughter the present continuous tense as they looked through the round window and noted about the mistress " The lady is eating, the lady is drinking her tea, the lady is picking her....." . I am NOT a lady, goddammit.....

Fortunately they were not beside the mistress on the flight to Mel or they would have definitely seen her through the nervy b window "the lady is looking startled, the lady is twisting her fingers, the lady is crying, the lady is staring blankly at the safety instruction sheet, the lady is closing her eyes, the lady is having auditory hallucinations, the lady is worrying about her funeral, the lady is barking mad........."

A true confession (opposed to all those phoney ones) and all bad.

All I can wail is how would you have reacted?!! To be mid-air on flight DJ 858 Virgin Blue and witness some hosties racing down the aisle, lifting up the overhead luggage doors, visibly panicking and loudly puzzling about the whereabouts of a burning smell and asking passengers whether they'd left on their mobiles?!!

Yeah, I hear you, crying "don't even go there, girlfriend".

Incompetent Virgin buffoons. Get your laffs and giggles over and down with while on land please and get some good old fashioned common sense about you when airborne.

Fortunately it was just a "technical fault" and i'm still alive, loving the skin i'm in and well enough to have enjoyed Saturday's party and avoided Sunday's great debate for which i am truly grateful - thank you Idol.

Thursday, 18 October 2007

Flutter little children and fly forth from me

I was just shaking my jeans before folding and packing them in my trolly dolly suitcase, off to Victoria for several days, when a moth flew out of one of the trouser legs.

Those Bogan moths are everywhere aren't they? Don't worry you haven't accidentally landed on the smh website, i'm sure that was front page story there a couple of weeks ago squeezed in between NicknBaznsorryRussimhiringHugh filming Australia and the lady Di inquest. Yes, it's 1997.

Fortunately no moths have flown into my ears.

The other night as i was drifting to sleep i felt some flapping around my person, below my waist, and leapt out of bed. However, the commotion continued in the nether regions. I hopped about somewhat panicked finally managing to flick wide the elastic of my drawers and out flew a giant Bogan moth. Had I spawned the blighter? Of that I will never truly be certain but I do feel that at last my life has meaning.

Sunday, 14 October 2007

A storm in her b cup

While reading the papers the past three days, each time i've happened on the entertainment section i've been struck by the full page advertisement for the Police tour of Australia which depicts the band members in their heyday and not how they look now. Promo features a picture of a youngish Sting leaping in the air picking his bass (?) and the other two sourly looking on, well plus ça change and whatnot there. I mean to say even the tour posters for self proclaimed rocknroll star Stevie Nicks feature her in the now and not the past.

I guess i expected to see Sting looking older and smugger, admittedly still leaping in the air but entwined around Trudy "the scold's bridle" Styler in the middle of some tantric sex session - both pulling some really excruciating "hot" grimaces.

As the t-shirt says, "make Sting history".

While I am here may I just say that if I read one more journo or hear someone paraphrasing that Mark Twain “rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated” quote, well I, I, splutter ..... Why, it's almost as hackneyed as slagging off Sting with tantric sex put downs.

And, yes the election has been called and yes, I will be voting for the opposition even though Kevin Rudd’s delivery of counterargument reminds me of some prissy captain of a secondary school debating team, and let’s not even go into the content.

Please can the next speaker of the House not be like Andrew Harwood or my life will have truly come full circle.

I wish Lindsay Tanner were the leader of the Opposition.

Jacaranda trees are in bloom all over Sydney which seems rather premature or perhaps I’ve been obsessing too much about Sting over the years to notice when blooming commences. Still I am sure that there was some old saying, by Twain or Wilde, about the Jacaranda in the quadrangle at the University of Sydney and that if you hadn’t started studying by the time the Jacaranda began budding you were bound to live your life through the bottom of a booze bottle or worse, fail your exams. And even though I was rather conscientious during varsity days, and boy, did that get me places, I cannot recall that much study taking place before rocktober.

See you at this Saturday's jubilee celebrations or at the Alpaca show.

Tuesday, 2 October 2007

Bucolic idle (part i)

New South Wales has just celebrated the Labour Day long weekend. To those who were children in the 70’s and listened to 2SM or enjoyed some very good birthday party danceothon rages (never raves) most labour day long weekends in the 80’s and 90’s, it will always herald Rocktober.

Speaking of good times and labour (oh dear my mind’s eye just got a flash of Krudd bopping to ELO, oh no and here comes Richo tapping his toe to the Eagles) I spent most of the long weekend with some of my family west of the Blue Mountains. It was a lovely change from that zany Sydders’ hustle and bustle lifestyle – so exhausting staring into space and moaning.

The weather was glorious; sunny, blue skied and cool but rather blowy.

As I reclined in a comfy armchair re-reading bits from the Alan Alda autobio (I was savouring Alan’s anecdote about his doing a cartwheel down the aisle on his way to collect the Emmy for Best Writer, won for an episode of M*A*S*H), dunking a milk coffee biscuit in a cup of tea (constantly sticking it to the man me), I sensed a frantic and agitated movement to my right periphery. I looked out the window to see pater brandishing an enormous pair of secateurs and pruning prunuses with no prudence whatsoever.

Here's to you Daddy Scissorhands. Branches were flying at a furious pace and I feared that one was about to fall and scratch papa's eyeballs, from which cataracts had been recently removed and replaced with a curious and occasional glinting flash that lends him the air of an inscrutable ancient feline. Constable Care threw on the fluoro vest and grabbed some hideous big goggle-like sunnies to shield scissor happy pappy’s eyes from the twigs. I then passed the remainder of the morning playing gardener’s assistant, exhibiting more grace than I did as child in the same role, and gathered the branches, carrying them away to my secret stash of sticks for some future arsoner’s delight.

After that exciting and dutiful activity it was time for some exploration and a picnic. We hastened to Sodwalls and happened upon a railway track and an old viaduct. I wanted to explore the viaduct but it was fenced off. I no longer trespass after a few instances incurring the wrath of landowners and landing in almighty pickles. The railway track still functions for a coal train passed us, or was it phantom, which was rather exciting. Then it was on to Tarana, Oberon and Hampden passing houses and farms with names such as Sweet Pea Cottage, Cherry Tree farm and Pussywillow ridge. On the outskirts of Oberon and on the way to Duckmaloi passed a property named Ponderosa which was adjacent to another called Altamont. There was a strange vibe in the air, Rocktober had indeed begun…

Monday, 24 September 2007

The glad game

Admittedly leaf blowers are one of the most ridiculous and disgracefully wasteful gardening tools invented. You all know and think that – in fact I think we could conclude that it is a given as Kerry O’Brien repeatedly stated in his interview with the PM last week on the 7.30 report (the power of KathnKim what).I cannot for the life of me understand how Diana Bubbles Fisher supported the leaf blower machine on the Inventors, particularly with its rather utilitarian colour scheme – the only functional thing about the mother,leaf blowers not Bubbles.

Saturday just past was an exceptionally blowy day in Sydney – the type of wind to whip up school kiddies and murderers. I strolled down the road to purchase my newspaper wishing that the newsagent would just let me buy the Spectrum but remembering how she got annoyed with me when I left the other section wads last time – and while she is always polite, excessively so, I feel that a serial murderer or feverish poison pen letter writer lurks at her inner core waiting to be revealed by Alan Bennett, so she must not be crossed, when I passed the Anglican church and witnessed Reverend Philpot and four male seniors (grey power?) in the midst of a gardening frenzy.

Boughs were being felled, clivia uprooted and one senior was using a leaf blower with a fervour that’d make Paul the Apostle seem docile, let alone sane. Talk about a whirling dervish. There were leaves already blowin’ all over the joint without the good padre’s little helper pointing that ridiculously noisy and insensate nozzle everywhere. The prospect of heaving all them Saturday sections home and the frightful wind were already placing the Mistress in quite a fit of tetch but senior and his leaf blower formed the final bee in my bonnet.

And then my blasphemous thoughts and state of vexation were interrupted by a curious longing and need for a sugar dusted jam doughnut so I bought one from Victor’s Patisserie. It was duhlllishous.

Tuesday, 28 August 2007

Blast off

On Friday night Joanna treated the mistress to a night of hilarity, nostalgia and entertainment of the highest quality.

Not Dirty Dicks but Countdown Spectacular 2!!! I'll reserve the lech and wench themed carry-on for one's 43rd anniversary, bags your seats now!

The show was a four hour spectacular with a punctual 7.30 kick off and 20 minute interval. We got there early to have our bubbles and the delicious rolls that J had kindly prepared for our tea. I particularly savoured the camembert and sundried tomato variety.

The bell rang and a firm but fair sounding bird instructed us to get to our seats, we did. Once seated i surveyed the punters who consisted of some baby boomers, many generation jones (1954-1965 don't ye know. Well i only do because Nickers keeps me apprised of such matters - he gets to listen to Life Matters and I rarely have the opportunity), and a smattering of generations X, Whine and Z. I had a couple of gels from generation Z beside me who leapt up and hollered when Katrina and the Waves opened the show. I don't know what i found more curious their age or reaction to K and the W. Oh settle, bel , that is not the spirit for countdown spectacular.

Where does one begin with such a show. Do you know what, almost all of the performers were great, admittedly the majority only had one song to perfect, occasionally two or three.

Gavin Wood got us settled, Joanna found him too cas, but i rather liked his toode, not to mention his look. It was strangely soothing and womblesque.

Highlights for the mistress:

Supernaut - BIG NATCH. Only did i like it both ways but. Would have loved to have heard too hot to touch, and even i don't want to be unemployed for a bit of comic relief. The look of Gary Twinn (lead singer) has like completely changed (extraordinary after 30 years!) He looks like some kind of US daytime soap star/contestant for INXS singer comp. Perhaps I'm a little bit Kath Day-Knight but i preferred the perm with its peroxided streaks and the long scarves on bare chest image. The gels that I went with thought he was gorrrrrrrrgeous but. So there you go and his new look was worth sighting just to hear them sincerely saying "oh he is gorrrrrrrrrgeous." But the highlight was when they waved a banner which said "Gary u spunk".

The Radiators. Coming home. Tops.

Plastic Bertrand. He looks incredibly young, plastic by name...., so slim for such a middle aged mec and so energetic. Ca Plane Pour Moi was the first 45 I bought. So now that i have seen the stars of the first 45 and 33 i purchased play live i feel truly fulfilled. I didn't purchase a 78 but the first one i encountered was under the house and belonged to my grandfather. It was by Eartha Kitt. I haven't seen her perform live though. Oh so many memories triggered that night.

Bloke from Pilot. Magic. January. When he began singing "magic" he had to give up the ghost for fits of giggles - the audience's singing along was drowning him out.

Ignatius Jones. They won't let my girlfriend talk to me. I'm not like everybody else

Dave Mason. Quasimodo's dream.

Martha Motello. Total control. L out of lover. and another one. There was also some marriage proposal pantomime performance between her and Molly which then led to Molly talking about giving up the booze but not being able to give up the fags. The next day I watched Carry-on cruising on the television and was struck by its sophistication.

Squit from Racey. The two hits.

Wa wa nee. Most contemporary. Sugar free and stimulation. Paul Gray is the spectacular's musical director, which is rather a YTT Greg Millsish destiny. The back up band was pretty good and those backup singers, the Wolfgramm Sisters were sensational.

Rick Springfield. Jesse's girl. Don't talk to strangers. Speak to the sky.

Angels No Secrets. Long line. Ever see your face again - audience did that no way, get fucked, rack off reply - rack off always manages to sound ruder than f.o. The way Bobby from Home and Away uttered rack off made her sound like Summer Bay's answer to Frank from Blue Velvet. Positively xxxx rated delivery, my dears and goldLogieworthy.

Lots more but i need a breather.

Poor little Graham Bonnett was an utter dud but at least he appeared almost oblivious as he hectored "it's all over now, baby blue". Perhaps he should have gone with "warm ride", slightly less challenging. I had an awful vision of him at the end of the evening backstage going up to people saying '' great show, eh", and people smiling weakly at him then turning away. He'd swig back some booze and proceed to the next person, fishing for a complimentary comment about his performance, finally crumpling in a heap, seeking confirmation from the walls that he'd done a good show. Rocknroll can be a tough game, well, so i 've read.

If only cocking Katie Cebs would be struck by a bit of self-doubt. Landsakes what a totally smug article she can be. Sang trust me which was fine but then as she introduced the next song Love don't live here anymore, she had the gall to say that at the time i'm talking released its version someone else did a cover overseas (Madonna?) and scientology talking's was the best. Both seemed to be very closely modelled on the original by Rose Royce. And really such skiting was not in keeping with the event - anyone would have thought she'd made the top ten in Rhodesia.

Later in the show Les McKeown, Smanfa Fox, Sharon O'Neill, LRB, Molly, Squeak but now Chartbusters...

Thursday, 23 August 2007

Like a heartbeat ... drives you mad

Since Brian banished me from my own musical (see Street of dreams post July 2006 - i prefer brackets to footnotes) I had no recourse but to put the precious fuck on ice. I made no contact, didn't return her majesty's calls, mildly dissed him in one subsequent posting and crossed the road upon any possible sighting. Unfortunately last week at the pedestrian crossing I was smiling my thanks at the driver for stopping to let me cross when my eyes looked directly into those of Brian who was smack bang behind the steering wheel. I hastily turned the other way, ricking my neck in the process.

But you know what, NSRs, Brian is one tenacious so and so. No sooner do you attempt to freeze him does he insouciantly return, bouncing back up at you like one of those inflatable Romper Room clowns when pushed to the ground. In all honesty how can i cull someone i've known since my mystic days as a tween, besides the mistress cannot afford to lose any more pals.

So that night when the phone rang i didn't screen the call but answered. Sure enough it was Briannon on the blower. My frostiness and reserve didn't even register with him, he just steamrolled on and arranged me to meet him at the cafe down the road from Rockdale library.

As I entered the coffee lounge the next day for luncheon, I was rather intrigued to see seated beside Brian a dude with silver hair what was all new waved up and stoodio lined, sporting a Dennis the Menace red and black stripey long sleeved t. I then recalled that Bri's phone messages had featured a lot of "we" "us" and "our" (also a hilarious film starring Lucille Ball and Hank Fonda) which i had attributed to further evidence of high and mighty Bri.

With great flourish and smugness Bri presented Sylvain, introducing him as his "life partner". Sylvain is a Belgian francophone performance artiste. He seems to be about 50 and his biggest claim to fame is making parties with Plastic B and the lads from Telephone in the 80's. He talked of nothing else during our meal. Brian had a diet coke and a nice air sandwich, and Sylvain imbibed from a 2 litre bottle of orange juice that i suspect was mixed with voddie. The mistress wolfed an open melt with grilled tomato and a side serve of chips, beetroot, grated carrot, onion rings and limp lettuce washed down with a malted milkshake. The only things the mistress relished that lunch hour let me tell you. Oh and the 'ello 'ello accents. Yes, Brian has developed a curious accent, distinctly francophony. Precious and affected - how does he do it!

After we cordially said goodbye, I walked aimlessly down the Princes Highway in search of a bus or train station, tetchily mimicking the previous hour's Brinanities, and realised that Brian and i had yet again called a truce of sorts. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em as Robert le Clair-le Beau used to frequently pronounce to the puzzlement of the patrons at Doug's Place.

Wednesday, 22 August 2007

"Foot not dissimilar from bottom" corner

The expression done and dusted has probably been around 4eva (ohwuh everyone wants her!!) but it’s only recently registered with me.

I seem to hear done and dusted every day (“once we’ve gone into lockdown, embedded this and rolled out that we’ll be done and dusted before APEC was a boy”; whole lotta cheerful and successful completion of tasks happening in Sydney).

I must confess that I have even tried saying dnd a few times but have got confused and muttered dusted down or it’s all gorne dusty. This morning my tongue even twisted out dusted gold lady (must stop reading mojo – as if! It’s the perfect music magazine for the mistress – it’s crammed with the type of info and opinion I find fascinatin’ even though it's not spouted from me - fancy!)

I think my problem with saying done and dusted is that it does not ring true. I mean you would only be done after the dusting wouldn’t you. I rather like Pledged and Proper because that is how the mistress runs Tupper Mansions. I absolutely love those Pledge grab-it dust cloths and dusters. They are sensational, handy, not to mention wasteful. They remove dust, dustballs and hairs from all surfaces in a trice. Frankly I don't feel completely satisfied with dwelling’s cleanliness until the floors and furniture tops have been Pledged.

Then i can settle on the couch with a soothing cuppa and Scotch finger to watch a nice dvd and feel like all is right. And we all like a bit of alright now don't we.

Friday, 10 August 2007

You're all i've got tonight

It's extraordinary that it's August; I still feel like it's July - it won't truly feel like August until the Virgo's reign commences.

Let's face it we all feel so settled and happy, not to mention superior, when Virgo's time comes.

Virgo is Madge to Dame Edna; Fanny to Linda; Ronnie Corbett to Ronnie Barker but never Ronnie to Keef - sweetheart, there are some levels to which even a Virg will not plummet. It's not all bad* - Virgos make great teachers, accountants, librarians and public servants. Anything a Virgo cannot do? Have fun? Oh downer desist with your negative meddling, and that goes for you too Lllexie!! Wooh, alright Mistress (sorry, am just imagining if this were blogged live in front of a stoodio audience .)

So from end of August until lateish September we can all feel rather good about ourselves, unless of course mid-superiority stride you realise that you are a Virgo. And it's at that point the expression "nervy b" is coined.

Yeah so the Leo part of August has been hotttt, which is all you can expect from a Llleeo, natch.

Good times but also kinda mellow. Had my first beginners yoga class on Wednesday. After initial irritation by ultra mellow guru's sonorous timbre, bel got with the strength and asanaed about. It was fun to do exercises i recalled from childhood and it's reassuring to know i'm as unco now as i was then. However, with sheer determination i will again surmount the unco, temporarily, but i don't think i'll ever come third place again in high jump.

It was a very good stretch session i must say - my neck feels pretty marvellous and my mind not as tetchy as it has been, which admittedly is not saying much.

Still when i saw four people pick their noses today, two on the bus ( a senior mother and her middle-aged son - oh i blame the mother), one on the street and one at work, I did not get het up. I embraced their public quest, made four new friends, and scooped the oyster. So my perspective on life has really improved.

Now NSRs this is the part of the posting where the Mistress has to make a confession.

She has become a fan of a contemporary rocknroll band!!

How do you like them toffee apples?!!

*seems such a quaint expression in the age of it's all good

Friday, 3 August 2007

I who have NOTHING to say*

In the 70's and 80's when midday movies and less racy soap operas wanted to indicate that a heterosexual couple had just had sex, the woman wore the man's shirt in the next scene; generally a big blue number because everyone looks good in blue. It's true. Blondie sang so.

Well that post-coital indicator has well and truly vanished from the screen, only fitting in this the PLASMA age. It's spent, i tell you, spent! As is the sheet-wrap-around-the-torso effect. Now everyone wears white fluffy robes and you know that they have done it. They were probably wearing white fluffy robes to convey consummation in Love American Style or the Love Boat but the trend only hit Australia due to the great love story that was Maggie T and Dickie Z . Dickie actually also inspired all the pollies to wear chambray and chinos when hitting natural disaster zones. And as for Maggie, well hasn't she inspired each and everyone of us in some way. Neighbs has only recently cottoned onto the fluffy robe as root indicator in the past two years. Poor Neighbs no wonder it needed a revamp; so slow on the uptake.

It is a phenomenon that has extended to real life. Last Saturday while doing a spot of shopping in Kmart, I was perusing ladies' undergarments when this man raced up to me from another aisle wearing a white fluffy robe and gleefully cried "you'll never guess what i've been doing!!" Astonishing and true. Poor public doesn't yet realise that you don't need to announce it as sportage of w.f. robe says it all.

Everyone in Neighbours, apart from wearing fluffy white robes - at it like rabbits they are, is moving to goddamn Queensland, Cairns in particular. But not one character pronounces Cairns with care, they pronounce it as cans and that, nsrs, absolutely gets my goat. Do you remember that singer Kim Carnes who sang bette davis eyes. Well, Gavin Wood on Countdown used to pronounce her surname as Cairns should be pronounced!! Topsy turvy am gonna have a nervy.

In other news I have had a hangover for 6 days - attended a great party for a great lady. Unfortunately my capacity to hold booze is not that great.

Post-good times for an old lady requires desperate guzzling of chamomile tea to abate the pounding head and impending nervy b. However, since sinking some light beer, I feel fine. How'd you be.

After next Wednesday the mistress is going to be a really calm and centred person. She is starting Hatha Yoga. And once got a few asanas down pat will venture towards the bank and motoring school.....The mistress is a woman of simple ambitions.

*Sounds like a Bee Gees' song title circa 67, eh? But tisn't. Would have been a great song but.

Tuesday, 31 July 2007

My dilemma is your dilemma

But is certainly not one for Premier Iemma who I happened upon at the Commonwealth flexiteller the other afternoon. There was a bodyguard stood in the gutter on Castlereagh Street observing the Premier extract some moolah from the hole in the wall. I wonder if the flexicard belongs to the security guard.

Do you know, nsrs, I am probably the first person you knew who had a handycard. Yes, that's right handycard. I was with the Bank of Wales, it could have become Westpac in 1984 though, and their automatic teller machines were then known as handybanks. I loved this term. It reminded me of one of my paternal aunts, who, apart from giving my sisters and me sponge bags every year for xmas, loved the adjective handy. Fishpaste was handy, ratsak was handy, even cocking Dolly magazine was handy - it kept her daughter from nagging her for 15 minutes or looking for food and then dipping her finger in the trail of ratsak that Nan had scattered on the shelves. But that is another story. My pin number for the handycard was 8613. It's ok i have new one now it's... Oh, you can't trick me like that.

So yeah my dilemma. Oh it is nothing as bad as picking at something to eat and discovering that it's poisonous or a flicked boo, no it's more of an olfactory dilemma.

I bought some tissues. A lovely big box that claims its contents are not only soft but large. Don't like them piddly little tissewes, inadequate for my schnoz, inflammed sinuses and watery eyes. The box also has lovely illustrations of yella flowers and the words chamomile and aloe vera are written in modern cursive (a style i could never quite master).

Very soothing, a veritable mater's hand stroking a hot and swollen forehead. Maamah.

Upon return to work i busily and importantly retrieved the box from my shopping bag and firmly placed the tissues on my desk. The box's bottom even has a tissewe "elevator" to facilitate the last few tissues' exit from the box. Classy and handy. So i pushed in the arrows to activate this elevator (for some reason all i can now picture is Jim Keays), opened the box, sighing with great satisfaction as i plucked a tissue and proceeded to do the bugle call. What a horrible scent i snuffed. It was overpowering like the old scent of Sunsilk poured over cat's piss. God awful. Worse the scent wafts from the box to my seat and over the partition to colleagues.

The mistress does have highly developed olfactory sensitivity but is not averse to perfume; signature scent is Chanel's Coco Mademoiselle eau de parfum and she does love Harpic's lavender in the latrine but this tissue fragrance is the ZaSu Pitts.

What is a bel to do, 193 tissues remain. I cannot throw them out, that would be too wasteful. If only I'd bought that big butch black and red box of Kleenex mansize tissues.

Friday, 6 July 2007

Flapping ears, flapping gums

Yes so hullo and whatnot. Since the new financial year I have spent my time in transit, on island holidays and then a spell in the sanatorium recovering from bronchitis. Let me tell you, nsrs, during this time I have kept myself entertained, even joining a few societies online - my this apron is stylish and just wait till you cop a handshake from the Mistress. Eh feel most powerful and important.

When I was at the airport awaiting the flight to antarctic paradise, I sat diagonally opposite some young pup of 21 who told this Macleans kind of a girl that he was a Fed pollie’s “advisor”. Before I go any further may I just add that I am so glad that when I was a teen and 20 something one didn’t greet one’s friends with kisses, just a bit of gob and a knee to groin, natch. Hard times. All the young'uns kiss cheek these days and it strikes me as very tiresome, I only kiss someone as a greeting if I have not seen that person for a minimwhah of 30 days or have got the moondog blues. Sure mwah mwah seems continental but are we not all on continent?

Back to the young advisor, my ears must have been visibly flapping and my facial expression rather curious for poor young thing kept darting nervous looks at me as he parleyed. He didn’t utter any interestin’ titbits though and I managed to smooth my grimace when I realised it was probably he who was responsible for his Minister donning the shrek ears and playing the role on the Kerri-Anne K show.

I had a loverly long weekend away and enjoyed great hospitality and had lots of fun. Unfortunately the chilly chilly climes encouraged my cold to extend its stay and I became quite poorly, still it was grand to have additional time off work.

Upon my return to Sydney and prior to my realising I’d caught my Merle Oberon, I took a ferry to a beautiful cove, opposed to all them rum ones what you happened upon in the 20's and 30's, and promenaded around one of the many glorious reserves that bless Sydney’s harbour foreshore. As I marvelled at its beauty I overheard a trio of seniors talking about a friend who had breast-fed her youngest daughter until she was seven. The most senior of the trio then added that said long lactiferous lady " has just got a grandson, hasn’t she?" Meaning…..?!

Perhaps there should be a 7 up version of teat veterans. Michael Parkinson could narrate, for he admitted to the bittie skit in Little Britain being his favourite. Docomaker send your commish to the mistress.

So when i was not flapping my ears or coughing in a consumptive fashion i was hitting cyberspace, watching and loving the Sweeney ("shut it !", "I should cocoa", oh and lots of bish to actress quips - heaven really), and listening to the wireless. Consequently, I have gleaned two important pieces of information, not bad for a week lying around, evidently spent too much time working on Jack Regan impressions - but let's face it, if i were a character on the Sweeney with my capacity to flap ears and gums (always with integrity, mind) i'd have to be a snivelling toe-rag of a snout and not a flash Harry villain, let alone a hard-bitten, heavy drinkin' Flying Squad detective. That's Sanyo, that's life.

Did you know:

Last week Enid Blyton’s first daughter died – she was aged in her mid-70’s.


The USS Kitty Hawk has docked in Sydney. Vessel’s wing commander goes by the name of Mike Hunt.

Monday, 25 June 2007

You feed off my mind like a jackal

On Saturday night my three companions and I (yes, was with Thommo and those still rather lissome and very blonde sisters Bimbo and Bambi; i fagged for the gels when they were in the Upper Fifth and i was in the Lower First) must have been the few Sydneysiders to see Keating! for the first time. Still it's pretty nice for Thommo to have a first at his ripe old age; even that son of a gun can't be a trailblazer all the time.

Keating! was absolutely brilliant. It was sheer comic genius and a superb melange of musical genres. The Bob Fosse inspired entrance of Keating, the soulful duelling duets, the wappy rap and Dr J (Hewson), and the lugubrious Gareth who was very Caiphus-like (as interpreted by Lloyd Webber & Rice) . I couldn't even begin to elaborate on the spectacular that was I want to do you slowly or the gyratin', galootin' Lexie Downer hot gossip floorshow - grrrrrrrr tiger.

My dears, the utter captivation and thrill of such a show. Sheer heaven and mirth.

It was so spot on and really rather flawless. The only time i could not laugh was when jwh became centre stage, that was too, too sad and chilling, positively sick-making.

I tell you what, nsrs, how grand was it to remember Keating as that dashing, sharp tongued, clever progressive rather than the bileous Panto Dame he has become in recent years. A source of the Mistress reveals that PJK has been to see the performance several times, i guess in between watching Joe Hockey playing Shrek on the Kerrie Anne Kennerley show.

Only pollie there on our night was Peter Garrett. But you know, when don't you happen upon that dude. He is like very tall and bald. Presented quite the contrast to a lot of those diminutive, luxuriantly snowy haired alp types.

In other news, not much to report. Have been working night and day, flat out. So much so that my dreams no longer feature pop stars, celebs or jaunty little trips to Ravello on a motorcycle with Gore Vidal in adjoining sidecar but entail my chasing paper, negotiating minefields with spinners, trying to beat the clock (not sure whether it's in a 39 steps or Sparx fashion - hey it's always your choice on NSR) and hearing people talk at me - so i'm living and dreaming the nervy B. Jim Dandy is so not 'ere. Perhaps he'll return in the spring?

Oh, you might be interested to know that "shit happens nude dude" from across the eastern way of Tupper Mansions has plum sold his digs and demenaged! I only realised this yesterday (see i've been like way too busy to peep) when I noticed that his impressive stash of long neck empties no longer lined his kitchen window sill. And then i saw lots of young men in overalls painting the walls.

I've got a hacking cough and have been wondering whether it's the old superpooperwhooping cough. Surely not but I do double up and almost vomit mid-splutter, haven't had a booster shot since 1985. So i've treated myself to a bottle of single malt whisky which i'm imbibing while i type making me feel very Gordon Jackson but i don't think he knew how to type, or coughed with such a lack of decorum for that matter.

Sunday, 10 June 2007

Andy's banana

Factory girls.

Sunday, 3 June 2007

The look of lust

It's official - RodnRonnie read NSR.

How do i know? Sitemeter of course.

NSR has had some hits from the UK - geezers googling "leggy tarts".

In India there is a googler doing searches for "rising cock pants" and ends up landing on the old NSR, after dark edition, natch.

And hello to the sweetheart in Korea who does a weekly search under "I love tv". I do and you do but, pet, it's just not meant to be.

Friday, 1 June 2007

Oh woh ohhh Juno

June Allyson

June Carter-Cash

June Dally-Watkins

June Lockhart

Junie Morosi

Jeune Pritchard (she pronounces it as dju:n though; is it better to be called young or June?)

June Salty-Melon

I have an opinion on 6 of the 7 Junes above but big whoop.

Have you ever had a friend called June?

Have you ever been mellow?

Are new born gels named June anymore?

Have you alighted from a train at Junee station?

Oh my love is like a red, red rose that is newly sprung in June.

June also happened to be a book what was adapted to film featuring the outstanding thespian who goes by the name of Sting.


The June Brides were from Coventry (as were the Specials but there's nothing special about NnK nor the JB's to this mind...)

I am currently in Coventry; it's a nice familiar location - i think i'll invest there one day, get myself a nice pied à terre, lovely.

June heralds the middle of the year and it's almost winter

You'd better wrap that coat around ya

Saturday, 19 May 2007

You can lick my mixmaster's bowl

In keeping with last week’s theme of food, the mistress will continue with the culinary caper, perhaps not as wacky as those Kids from c.a.p.e.r. (the theme tune for which my mind was playing as I stirred from my slumber this morning) but a divertin’ motif nevertheless.

Yes so the mistress has got back her baking mojo and been cooking up a storm. I’ve been delving into the Margaret Fulton cookbook and whipping up afternoon teacakes, lemon meringue pies, strawberry soufflés and chocolate mousse. And it has dawned on me that no matter what you bake, nsrs, if you are using eggs, it always pays to separate the yolk from the white, whipping those whites till stiff, and folding in the beaten yolk with the sugar aforehand works wonders. The lightness of that teacake was absolutely extraordinary. Margaret Fulton’s instructions, like that can of oil spray she used to promote, are pure and simple. Images of orangey red gingham are now flashing before my eyes.

I do wonder why my mind is so fixed in the past when I post. Is the now that bleak, bel? is it, bel, is it?

Well I tell you who found the now pretty bleak today, Princess Derrrek in charge of the counter at the local bookshop that is who. Gordonia de Benatar did he have a right royal attack of the snippety snoos this a.m. when the Mistress was purchasing some lovely birthday presents. Admittedly the mistress was in a bit of a courtesy counts flap, checking that she hadn’t jumped the queue and faffing about, dropping coins, bumping into displays, when ruddy old Derrrrek got most terse and heavy with the imperatives and the mistress, who did what she was told, ever obedient - only to stew about it several hours later, natch. Scold her and watch her slow burn for hours on end as though upon some whizbang K-tel rotisserie gadget.

While it is good to lay off the vinegar when you are serving customers, the mistress as cook finds it indispensable and sloshes it about when boiling water and cooking eggs, yes i know who doesn't. While every cook under the sun from Mrs Beeton to Elizabeth David, oh and lest we forget King, prescribed the use of vinegar, I think it was FCB who introduced mid 20' s mistress to its wonders when poaching eggs. FCB poaches a very mean egg.

It really is joy to flip through Elizabeth David recipe books; the delightful anecdotes and illustrations - the recipes aren’t bad either. Her pâte brisée recipe is indispensable for making pastry for all open tarts. It is so faultlessly simple to follow and absolutely delicious. South wind through the kitchen , which mmc gave me one christmas many baby J's ago, is an excellent compilation of E. David's Mediterranean recipes and a most soothing read to boot, i turned to it this afternoon. I cannot recall whether Gerald Samper is a fan...but are we not all Gerry Samper as the pop group once sang.

Friday, 11 May 2007

Of Orange Slice neglected

Orange Slice

Least loved biscuit

in the Arnotts Assorted Cream family

You are always the last to remain

in that biscuit packet’s row of cellophane

When placed in the tin or Tupperware

Your pungent scent permeates the flavour of your fancy siblings:

Delta cream, Monte Carlo – even resolute Kingston

Causing eater to wince and utter “ugh”

Orange slice you are the middle child

Destined to be played by Eve Plumb

In a very assorted cream biscuit hour special

Orange slice you are not universally desired but you are needed

You are the trigger and scourge of childhood memories Australian.

Thursday, 3 May 2007

Best legs in Australia but what about Frahnce

During the course of my day I had three people tell me that they were going to get their legs waxed.

No, I didn’t greet them with a "hey, hot legs" or a "what’ve you got in your basket?", I defer to the master, R. Stewart, for that kind of banter. I had just uttered a cordial greeting and they let loose so I duly responded with a “shame” or a “nice” depending on the manner of their delivery. Still at least they weren’t getting Brazilians or I guess they would have been telling me about the joy of waxed snatch to which one could only reply with a “yowzer “ or "let your minge keep her fringe."

Speaking of which this week I have been privy to the comings and goings of the city's fashion week courtesy of my post-work evening stroll to the bus stop at the quay, via Kent Street, the Windmill steps, Hickson Road, the laundry on the hill and the overseas passenger terminal- the latter is where fashion week is taking place. The attendees at fashion week just seem to be wearing super fly 70’s sunglasses, pieces of material around the torso and a belt or just black ensembles – sucked in cheeks and sullen expressions accessorise all outfits. I did see one woman in a beautiful cherry red woollen dress which was adorned with a matching patent leather belt but she was in her mid-40’s, so would understand the difference between style and fashion. Her only flaw was that she was on the mobe banging on about Fraaaaaaahnce.

Oh the recurring themes that plague. If i'm not being haunted by the sight of the bus to Castlecrag threes times per day, or having people waxing to me about depilatory methods and activities, i'm constantly hearing or being reminded about Fraaaaaahnce.

Oh ruddy Marianne!

I have several different groups of friends, people at work and now fellow pedestrians talking about going to Frahnce or wanting to go to Frahnce. Am I watching the final season of a US tv show or living in the south of England ? Are my friends metamorphosing into Peter Mayle, letting their inner Bonnie Tyler roam free (been there, done that) or is it just the perfect destination for the middle age rampage. Time for a nice Contiki tour of South-East Asia with the kids for me.

The veneration of France by Anglophones is akin to the esteem in which the Beatles are held, which of course means that if France were a pop group she would be the Beatles.

Saturday, 28 April 2007

Ombrageuse Amazone

This afternoon at the local hardware I shared an aisle with soaky runt the librarian from Fisher and Leo Sayer; it was a leggy moment.

Tuesday, 24 April 2007

Enmore monologue

Well the Mistress has been the veritable mamma with the gaily coloured plastic bag for she has been grooving it the whole night long with an abandon you could not possibly credit.

Lay it on me, brother, indeed!!

Catching shows by international pop stars and morose intense minstrels, showing the sights of her city of Sydney to guests from interstate, and droning on to very nice people about primary school days, the importance of the subjunctive and Wordsworth. Gordonia de Benatar. My apologies to the nice people.

Last Thursday M and I had the pleasure of seeing Glenn Tilbrook. It was a really wonderful performance and the audience was pretty marvellous too. Dicko's stunt double was at the bar and we were in the land of 1001 Grant and Phil Mitchells, i.e middle-aged stocky Englishmen with balding shaved heads who were sporting brightly coloured or patterned shirts that their mothers had no doubt posted to them for Christmas. It was a rollicking night, possibly not dissimilar to the Deptford Comprehensive Class of 75 Reunion, and wonderful hearing and singing along to all those top Squeeze songs and hearing GT’s newer compositions. GT was very entertaining, funny and involved his audience in a spectacular way. He is a top banana and I did not imagine that I would have two and a half hours crammed with such joy and engagement. Thank you GT.

The minstrels I encountered the following night – Dickie B and Edie, were quite a stark contrast. Fortunately I did have the delightful company of S and O who had come to town. We had a dinner and a show deal - the dinner was delicious, the venue tops, the show somewhat duddish. Troubadours specialised in tediously intense and monotonous tales of woe without an ounce of humour or showbiz zing. I guess i still equate dinner and a show with a night in Vegas and the Rat Pack - highballs, hi jinx and hilarity. Dear Edie read some Doris Lessing, girl. i know Doris Lessing mentioned in the same breath as the Rat Pack - crazy NSR. But really she could have just done a folksy version of Kim Hart's looking for love at first sight - her lyrics were that liberated! OH and Dickie B, Lou Reed could give you some tips on chatter and charm. The audience featured television and radio broadcasters, daughters of former radio broadcasters, indie of today and yesteryear, Pat the Rat, no she's returned to Erinsborough, and a bemused middle-aged dame knocking back Cointreau and ice, yes, I was in my element. The venue had very, very nice waiting and bar staff.

Still the turgidness of the Dickie B and Edie show was a mere blottini in four days of entertaining company, excursions, dinners and barbecues that were full of laughs and liquor. I am glad that tomorrow is a public holiday so I can rest on my new, marvellous mattress, bed and special pillow for pains in the neck. My new bed is so high I that I feel like that terrible Melissa from thirtysomething; if you don’t know who that is just picture a fully grown woman acting like a wittle girl but fear not the mistress won’t start posting or speaking in bubblegum talk. Not this week anyway. L♥v u:)

Tuesday, 10 April 2007

the lady vanishes

Cool it everybody, just cool it, don't worry am not about to release a mass of dead white moths, quote Pete Shelley or dedicate the posting to Brian (as if - not for that treacherous toad) ; let alone lamely attempt to call into line some blood thirsty racist bikers . Brothers and sisters everythink is alright, it's cool, not Kris Kristofferson cool, but A-OK cool, the mistress is back, safe, sound and smugly ensconced in the mansions after allegedly going AWOL for four days.

Wooh. Glad i got that out.

Apparently my absence from functions, cyberspace and text has been the talk of towns from Bellingen to Bendigo, a disappearance of Lord Lucan proportions. But i have returned - moustache intact.

Hey, i love being the talk of the town and can only imagine the type of chatter that would have ensued had others tapped into my answering machine and heard the message left on Thursday:

Hi Bel, it's me I got out of lock up last week and I'm on parole. The lady told me to give you a call and check in. Call ___ ____ on beeeeeeeeeeep.

The telephone call was not returned...Hell, i know the mistress is occasionally worthy of the moniker, Vinegar Tits, but she draws the line at the Freak - she ain't no screw, more Governor, natch, oh, alright, i'll concede to Bea with a dash of Lizzie. Nevertheless, not one of us was going to ring him. I'd never met the man, confound it.

Yeah, so when i wasn't on the lam or visiting those doing stir, i spent a marvellous Easter in the montagna, Rydal, Cox's river and Lithgow. On the way back was driven down the Bell's Line of Road. My it was pretty. Very green and lush. Bellbirds chimed on Bellbird Hill and Richmond looked beautiful. The town's sign claims that Richmond is historic and a Macquarie town.

Is there anything that bank doesn't own?

My mind then wandered to Richmond's famous resident, Mike Walsh, and pictured MW at home hosting an Easter Monday banquet with Midday luminaries such as Shirley Williams, Hollywood Howson, Jeannie Little, Dr James Wright, Jade Hurley, and leggy Jackie Love at his table, perhaps later performing Jesus Christ Superstar at the town's Regent Theatre, which MW restored. A bel can dream can't she?

I got back by midday, actually, and gave Tupper Mansions a wonderful spring clean. Then donned dark glasses, a baseball cap and proceeded to walk on my knees as i accompanied nicnkeith on their surprise walk with the plebs keeping it real visit to the Royal Easter Show.

Oh the media manipulation by the celebrity - surely it is time for a tanty in the Temple about that. Name your price i've got everything indeed.

Cold Mountain you are a caution! One minute you’re complaining about the invasion of the press and conducting drag races against the papparazzi on the south coast, the next alerting all media outlets of your queuing amongst the people to buy a show bag.

Live by the sword die by the sword or i'll be seeing you in the laundry just near that ironing press......

Sunday, 1 April 2007

Oh telepathic line

For those of you who have had the privilege of my acquaintance, my affectation and occasional fits of tetch (hard to imagine I know) over the past score or so, the following will come as no surprise but for my newer legion of fans i really feel that before things go any further there is something you should know. Not only do i have a gift for the inane but i have THE gift, i.e. I have a sixth sense.

A gift but at times also a burden.

I was first made aware of this psychic ability in the early 70's.

It was a glorious summer's day and my immediate family had an outing with my father's side of the family to Bilgola beach; curiously my father wasn’t there; no doubt beetling about doing important business - booze bargains to be bought across town.

Bilgola was a beautiful beach, no surf, water was crystal clear and sand rather pristine. It was also sheltered from the wind. My siblings and I had just been having a discussion about marine life and were smothering sniggers caused by an adult's comment about octopuses having such long testicles when my mother, tired of my er, exuberance, sent me to the sea to wash the sand from my hands before eating lunch. I didn't want to go to the water for fear of being stung by a bluebottle. My protests were ignored so I went down to the shore and stood in the sea limply dunking the hands, occasionally turning around to scowl, when I felt a very nasty sting and beastie wrap around my seven year old ankle; not an octopus' testicle but a bluebottle's tentacle.

While the sting didn’t result in my donning a blue catsuit and cape, saving lives and fighting villains or other duties required of a Portuguese-speaking hermaphrodite superhero, it did inspire me to visit the local stationer's the following week.

From Mr Mussett I purchased a thick Pentel black pen and a very big white sheet of cardboard.

With these tools I created a Ouija board and after snavelling a sherrrry glass and crystal ball paperweight from my great-aunt’s sideboard I had all the fixtures and fittings to peddle my psychic talents.

Miss Bel was a most enterprising young gel. While other kiddies would spend recess and lunch debriefing about Fester Fumble and Miser Meany or playing elastics, Miss Bel would loiter outside christian schools giving demonstrations of her talents; she had learnt that the clientele at secular schools were tougher nuts to crack. Soon Miss Bel and her Ouija board were doing a roaring trade. You might recall those kiddies’ parties that featured face painting, jumping castles and blousy dames and kiddies sporting fairy wings and tutus being the rage in the 90’s; well Miss Bel, her ouija board and sherry glass, empty or full, were the 70’s equivalent - unreal orange peel was how the kids described them.

It was at one of these parties that I met Brian the autodidact who became quite the devotee and eventually my assistant.

By the early 80’s, adolescent ennui an’that had well and truly submerged one’s psyche so the séances and general sense of enterprise petered out while i fell in with a rum set and went from junior miss to mistress.

However, the gift still lurked. My mere mentioning of stars' names could lead to their deaths, their walking down the neighbourhood street or their tv shows coming a cropper the very next day. Election results were predicted, spoons bent, clocks and watches stopped, traffic lights went from amber to red, telephones rang. I was later to make cameo appearances and provide some storylines for the television.

So like most gifted and talented I plodded on, aware of my endowments, making sure everybody else was, and occasionally using them. However, the other day I happened on that former assistant's blog where he denounced my power describing it as fraudulent and at its best coincidence.

A cowinkydink not a power?

Surely not. Or perhaps it was another example of the delusion and malaise that have beset the mistress in later years and her quest for elan, oh and bling. One minute feebly attempting to be different: adopting the Edwardian 'g' drop, baskin' in the reflected glory of some faded pollie or star of the plasma screen, and now skiting of powers; only to spend the next validating it and her existence by documenting it all in cyberspace.

Really where on earth is Brian when you start spiralling downward and out.

Dissing you in cyberspace that's where.

Gather your wits Mistress don't let that Hector projector undermine you. Breathe in, breathe out. Didn't you mention Donny Osmond in your last posting? Affirmative. Didn't you just read that the poor pet had his show cancelled? Affirmative. Well there you go, gel, you've still got it and the gift.

Ohhhh, of course i dooooo! (uttered Julie Andrews' style )

Now i know what tall poppies, won't mention any by name..., battle against every day and i've triumphed. I've gone from poop to poppy.

Steady with your scythe, Bri, this poppy will not be felled, she's blooming upward and sidewards, gift, girth and gall.

Friday, 30 March 2007

Friday's child - loving and giving

So what kind of personality type are you? Teflon or Velcro?

I know a few Teflons and their company is really rather marvellous and liberating for a Velcro. I think most people are probably Tefcro, you know: a little bit country, a little bit rock n roll. Actually I saw Donny Osmond on the television the other day I can’t remember which show but stars he still looked youthful - naturally not in a botoxed, recut and sewn fashion nor an utterly disturbin' Cliff Richard fashion. Donny is probably a Teflon personality type.

Today I am off work as I have a flexi. I have a feather haircut too. I am on a flexi and I have a feather haircut. It is the 1970’s! Good times. Now where did i put that brushed cotton blue denim jacket and will muhummm let me eat the last of the dried apricots.

I was in dire need of a flexi as it had been bedlam at work this week and one day i mucked something up, nothing major but at the time i did not think so and i was velcroed out. On the way home I had to stop at the local coles liquorland and buy a wee bottle of shiraz, it contained 2 standard drinks, so i bought another teeny tiny tipple, had takeaway for dinner, and my mind reviewed the muck up at least 1000 times, a couple of gamboling lambs gatecrashed, before I fell into a fitful night's sleep.

Fortunately, for my tense neck and shoulders, the next evening i had an osteopathic treatment, probably should have scheduled some cbt for neglected old brain, and while waiting i read the 2005 Vanity Fair best dressed list. Charlie Watts was nominated. Not surprising for he is a dapper cove. I also learnt that Charlie doesn't drive but i wonder if he can, and his favourite books are anything by PG Wodehouse. Didn't say whether he was Velcro or Teflon but i have my theories.

Today I’m going to catch up on the past 3 nights of Neighbs, do the housework, this feather haircut causes the hairs to shed more easily , buy a couple of birthday presents and do the shopping which all really sounds like too much hard work and could necessitate a trip to town. I think i'll just loll on the couch for a bit and read old filth and then go to the cinema. I want to see the adaptation of running with scissors.

The weather is glorious today; sunny with a cool breeze. Hippity Hoppity really is on its way. My favourite time of year. While you're out and about check out the Haigh's chocolate shop. Its display and packaging of Easter eggs are works of art. Particularly the Easter eggs covered in pale gold and lilac metallic paper ruched in the centre. It's like a 30's film star's gown. Hump's gone from leggings to gown, from Hump to Harlow. I love a good makeover and Easter celebrates the greatest makeover of all. Nice one J.C.

Tuesday, 27 March 2007

Sixth sense

Yep, i'm pretty sure I've got one.

Cash and Co

So following the strayanyoushouldbespeakin'it debacle, Huey and I could not quite part ways without a full debriefing.

There we were smack bang on Broadway wonderin' where to go. Despite the earlier incident i really did not feel like going to a hot carpeted pub to be entertained by Mr Tipple; so where else could we go but the waterhole established and favoured by the Hillsong folk, no, not Lassiters, your obtuseness, glory get with the strength, Gloria Jean's!

Cockadoodledoo and god bless the mounties, which one of you little schnuckers will be usin' that for your next posting's label or title, there really was nothing else nearby.

It was great to enter a place that was just like Central Perk on Friends, so fabulous when reality blends into fiction. However there is no waiter/ressing service so i told Huey to bags us a table and chair, all de comfy womfy wounges and armchairs were occupied, bummer, while the mistress ordered and received - i'm in training for next week's Passiona celebrations.

I ordered two soda waters with ice and was asked whether i'd like some nice hazelnut syrup in the soda. What no malt?! I don't know what come over me but i declined. Ideas above station alert.

I collected the sodas from Al, no Arnold, um Gunther (?) and took em over to Phoebe, er Huey ah Potsie. Into every life a special guest appearance by Anson Williams must fall, singing, natch.

We sunk our soda and proceeded to rant. I must confess, non sequitur risers, that the Mistress was not making a shrrrrred of sense.

One minute i was slaggin off Mr C and barking at Potsie/Huey to sit on it - to which Huey sweetly enquired "what?", am surprised i could hear her enquiry for all the canned laughter reverberating in my ears. Following that timeless catch cry I'd flick my hair away from face, tilt my head from side to side, all jaw and chin jutting forward and utter another classic riposte " uh yehuh" only to blithely begin ranting about bigoted conductors, canned laughter switching to collective oooooooooooooh.

Was I speaking in tongues?

It was all a bit of a freak out at this coffeshop, people.

I might have been better off down at the Peach Pit rooting and tooting with Kelly, Dylan, Brandon, Steve, Jughead and Donna. I guess I'll never know.

And then the iceman arriveth (sorry about that phoney ye olde English I was a journo for RAM in 1977 and haven't quite shaken the style from my system).

Fellow was coming down big time; slamming hands on table, rockin' the table, cuttin' his tongue on someone else's pie, yellin'... then he got up and quietly joined the queue.

Oh Hillsong, you've done it again.

It was 5 p.m. on Saturday afternoon and the witching hour was upon us. Time to get off the crazy streets of central. I now knew how Penne Hackforth-Jones felt as that lady in the wild lawless goldrush days of Austraya. Only to espy PHJ from the bus four days later- strolling outside David Jones, alas sans Serge Lazareff and Gus Mercurio. Spooky or is that feeaky? NB next posting will have to focus on my sixth sense.

It was time to get home to the election coverage.

Sunday, 25 March 2007

speak strayan

Yesterday was a scorcher but I still managed to have a generally delightful day. I met up with Huey and we went to the Fishmarkets for luncheon and sat at a table in front of the bay and had a most wonderful luncheon, a bottle of Jansz, two big bottles of mineral water and a good old natter for a couple of hours.

Following the delicious luncheon we strolled around the markets and ate a gelato, mango for me and coconut kaffir lime for the Meister. We then decided we should make tracks to our respective digs and walked to the light rail station to catch the tram to Central.

We determined we were on the right side of the tracks (always of the utmost importance, yours Lloyd Waddy) and sat at our stop marvelling at the sandstone, the spic’n’span station, my freckles rapidly multiplying and skin burning while we melted along with another passenger to whom Huey proffered a tissue and in unison we all sighed as we mopped our brows.

The light rail seems to be a most efficient service, runs every 12 minutes, and right on schedule the tram and its promise of glorious air conditioned comfort glided in.

We boarded and were instantly soothed by the coolness, quiet and spaciousness. Our conductor for this voyage came and sold our tickets. The conductor was a little taciturn. I idiotically showed my bus, ferry and train travel pass thinking that it might somehow cover a privately run tram service, no wonder she was gruff with me (“This is a tram, lady”) but when Huey cheerfully commented what a relief it was to be in the air conditioning after that stinking heat, Conductor snapped that the heat was to be expected in mid-summer. Professor Peabody here bit her tongue from saying as at 21 March it was officially autumn – it had after all been 3 days since I’d flipped my mattress. Still the conductor was working on a Saturday probably without penalty rates - lightrail is private, whereas we'd just had a long luncheon and she might have mistaken our bonhomie for smugness. It was bonhomie i tell you.

We bought our tickets and basked in the tram’s coolness and revelled going down Dixon street and the absence of traffic jams. We were soon jolted from our self-satisfaction by hearing the conductor in an altercation with some French tourist seniors.

The tourists were refusing to buy a ticket as they had an all in one day pass which had been accepted by a previous conductor on another trip earlier that day. Conductor barked that they had to buy a ticket as their pass didn’t cover light rail, tourists emphatically disagreed, in French mind you. The debate continued for a bit, both sides doggedly arguing in their first tongue, with le français exasperated and shouting in English “don’t you speak French!” to which the conductor retorted , “Don’t you speak strayan? People visiting straya should know how to speak a little strayan.” Her delivery not the content was very William Brown but he'd say oughta.

At this point Huey and I looked at each other, appalled and rolled our eyes. Huey said we had to intervene, which was right but I also felt both sides were well matched- the conductor a Hansonite and the français seniors probably lePenites and never penitent. However I could not stand by after hearing the strayan comment, touche pas mon pôte and whatnot, so dutifully got off my derrière and entered the fray.

We went up and switched from speakin' strayan to français to assist and explain; neither side backing down. Fortunately the tram soon drew into Central and the conductor yelled “you all have to get off now” – she had had enough and no doubt needed to be surrounded by some normal strayan speakers but the tram was also terminating.

The français got out of paying and we hastily alighted from tram and a possible episode of Rosemary and Thyme with a glower from the conductor and a merci from the français . Was this a rrrresult? Was an outcome achieved?

Perhaps the conductor was suffering from a personal trauma but no circumstance justifies the speak strayan imperative. Or perhaps she is just a bigot and currently telling her pals about the pesky foreigners coming here not speaking the language and these do gooders interrupting and adding to the chaos.

Metro Light Rail will be advised and Tupper Mansions no doubt torched. Here's hoping little Rusty Crowe will get a gorgeous bit of Hollywood backing and film the conductor's story.

Wednesday, 21 March 2007

the age of the monologue

What is new? How sweet of you to ask and how novel.

Most days this mellennium you just get emails and text blurbs about the scribes without a how do you do? or a how was your weekend? let alone a how's your father! Rude articles!

In truth i do get quite a few enquiries about me, and i duly send return message, but really that dilutes my complaint and there's no point complaining unless you edit all truth.

This week i am very much the cow with the crumpled horn and in social interaction have also been doing a sterling impression of the mother with late teenaged/early adult offspring - both roles - versatill and self-indulgent, i don't know how i do it.. If you were staying at my flat you'd get a "This is not a boarding house/hotel it's a hoame" rant to boot. Lord it's been a while!

Must remember to stay at Matermisguidedmartyr over Easter. What do you mean I'm already there?

As some of those 2Bl broacasters would knowingly and cheekily intone, "good old mum, we love our mums." Oh 2Bl, i mean, 702. Oh aunty. Oh mum. Oh brother.

That hoame NOT a boarding house rant must be fairly regularly uttered these days with the "i'm worth it generation" living chez olds till their 30's. Pity the poor parents fettered by their adult offspring.

It is only fitting that the “i'm worth it” generation, so cosseted, so cocooned and such fans of JWH reign, live with their olds until their 30’s - that’s what the boob did. Old Mooother Howard must have been in a permanent state of vexation. I guess he replied to her rants with an "it's all about faaaaamily" or a "business is business, the customer is always right" while deducting her fine from his board payment due to a late and sub-standard tea.

The "I’m worth its" are masters and mistresses of the monologue, harping on about their rights and how others' actions or words make them feel (surprised they're capable of any sensitivity) so it takes some finesse to keep up with their litany of me.

Thank J.C. and Passiona for cyberspace and the BLOG which places me at the forebore of the monologue front.........vdelish

It's goodnight from Brian, and a what about me from the Mistress. Goodnight.

*This posting has the modest tally of 8 x I and 2 x me referring to the Mistress who after all did live through the 1983 recession, 1987 Black Monday and that recession we had to have.

Pollie, Pollie, Pollie, Pollie talk

Talk about things you know nothing abouuuuuuuuut.

State election is on this Saturday and while the actual election is not that exciting - it's a given the ALP'll return to government and Admiral Denham will be going down with the SS Libs ( just as well he always sports those sluggos and swims at Bondi every day) it's the Cabinet reshuffle that will get us goin'.

Well that's what I was telling my brand new personal bus stop bestie as he pushed in the bus queue. That is cool, he is important and there are like so many electorates and things to think about but still i think i might lend him Brian's High Maintenance t-shirt.

So like i was so painstakingly explaining to Ant this morning, while he foraged through his rucksack for his blessed red travel ten, what will be really interesting is the Cabinet reshuffle. Will Tripodi, Costa and Sartor go? Will Linda Burney ascend to Cabinet?. And who will the new Opposition leader be? Pru Goward or Barry O'Farrell?

Hanyways Federal election is going to be a lot more exciting and full of so much promise and i can't wait to write a posting called

"Now we've got a P.M. called Kevin." And as he appears to be a bit of a godbotherer, i'm pretty confident the next line can be "he's sure to go to heaven. "

Thursday, 15 March 2007

Torpor calls

I have been doing battle with a tiresome low grade virus and consequently been having quite vivid dreams and waking up in odd positions. Last night i felt so exhausted I retired to bed around 8 only to wake at 11.15 feeling very dizzy yet lying straight and flat on my back with my hands above my chest, my fingers' tips tapping together as though i were pronouncing judgement.

Still rather tame behaviour compared to the capers that ensue after knocking back a capsule or ten of Stilnox.

On Monday night someone must have slipped some Stilnox into my bedtime banana smoothie for the next thing I knew I was seated in the dress circle at the Enmore Theeater watching

Weird Al Yankovic

What a night. Oh what a long and loud night. Live performance spliced with videos from ALtv featuring wackily edited interviews between Al and pop stars.

Birthday boys and teen enjoyed the show and while it was a joy to witness their delight, and the reason for which I was there, the show left me with the same feeling experienced after viewing Carry on camping – disquiet and despair.

Wednesday, 14 March 2007

The psephologist

Oh Antony Green

Star of the television screen
on election nights

2007 will be a busy year for you

But in downtime what is it that you do?

I see you at the bus stop watching bicyclists zip past

while you wait ...

Would you like a bike for Christmas?

When bus arrives you jump the queue
Naughty, impatient Antony Green

At night on the bus people chat to you

You laugh, feign interest, then bolt

Leaving chatters lookin’ out window - dejected;
poor puds are no match for

Elusive, athletic Antony Green

Striding purposefully down the main road

A pack of frozen four ‘n twenty pies in your hand

Peckish, carnivorous Antony Green

Star of psephology

Mackerras successor

When will you introduce the Greendulum,

Antony Green?