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.

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.

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.

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. "

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.

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?

Christ on a bike

Just saw a poster promoting the INXS and Simple Minds tour, a sufficiently vile concept in itself but said poster also features a photo of INXS.

What an eyeful i copped. They look like they've been cast to star in the very Hairbear Bunch reunion movie. Admittedly the lead role would go to Doug Parkinson. Hey, perhaps they should replace singer J.D. with Doug . I'm sure they would all love to crank out a heartfelt version of Dear Prudence as an encore.

Oh the grotesquerie.

Now this is happenin'. and please don't mess with stumblef.

Kinda young, Kinda now, Kinda free, kinda wow

The past five days or so the Mistress has been leading the giddy life of Charlie girl. She's been gadding about like leggy Shelley Hack promoting a perfume for Revlon. The things I do to fill this chasm of a soul yet plenitude, or a contract with l’Oreal, persists in eluding me.

The whirling dervish of Charlie bel began once her senses had settled after that electrical storm, several days post-tempest on International Women's Day when she was fortunate to partake in the festival of the lambs, celebrations for the 12th birthday of the lamb twins at the local family friendly hotel beestro beer garden.

A jolly night was had by all. I was seated at the kiddies' end of the table and was regaled with tales of school, its assembly hall's seats came from the Hub Cinema; favourite movies such as Borat, Jackass and some scene from the latest James Bond where his balls were whipped (?!!) - surprise was expressed by my not having seen any of these films, and general mirth and mayhem with the spillage of hot chips and chook on the lap (not mine). Then the rain bucketed down and we had to race inside where I bumped into a couple of indie from dayze gone by and promptly went home.

I only had a couple of glasses of red wine with dinner but still felt rather seedy the next morning when I rose at sparrows to be at work by 7 am. Had quite a productive day,completed a report and met some former colleagues for a pleasant lunch then left work at 3.30 to get home and have what I'm sure Dannii and Kylie would call a 'disco nap'. It did the trick and I fixed myself a pot of ambition and prepared myself for a nice night's entertainment at the theeatre.

Met up with Blonde Mischief at 7.15 outside the Toaster and we ambled our way along the quay to the Opera House's drama theatre. Had a glass of bubbles and enjoyed the gloriously glittering working port, let's keep it that way please, pollies, and had a good old pre-play natter about pants man pollies, disgraced hosties and raffish fiends.

We saw the Sydney Theatre Company's production of The Season at Sarsaparilla. It was excellent. Peter Carroll as Girlie Pogson and Pamela Rabe as Mrs Boyle were particularly outstanding. Play also featured a really clever set and use of technology. Catch it if you can. It was brilliant, highly moving and rather haunting. Blonde Mischief claimed to have read a review that compared it to Big Brother and Number 96....mmmh hot off her mind and straight to pixie press?

We were rather abruptly roused from our meditation and suburban passage when we hit the Rocks/Wynyard end of George Street. What a buzz. What a damn awful buzz. What was the reason for this buzz? It was 11.30 on a Friday night and it was crazy, so many people, so many really young people, natch, joyfully roaming the streets like packs of cockroaches on Christmas night. Far-out.. There was no way i was going to catch a bus it would have just prolonged the agony of waiting to hit the hay. We eventually managed to hail a taxi, that in itself seemed to be a cut throat affair. I'd busted my 10 pm curfew and boy, was i paying for it.

Finally got home where the mistress downed a couple of 'dols and water, unstitched the Charlie bel shadow, and put herself to bed for a good night’s rest in preparation for a few more days of striding around in a tailored pant suit, smiling maniacally while playfully spraying perfume into the mouths of sailors, Harpo ('mooooovie star ' not Marx) look-alikes and silver foxes sportin’ cravates.

Past five days have been like this;

Sugar titty

The weekend weather was relentlessly humid and the sun blazed baldly, one was constantly bathed in sweat, somewhat cantankerous, and a little hung.

Relief finally came last night in the form of a most magnificent electrical storm. As the southerly approached around 10.21ish i positioned myself in front of the wide open bedroom windows and did a sterling impression of Mrs Danvers, standing bolt rigid, nightgown billowing in the breeze, tits flung out the window, staring like some nocturnal beast at the rapid flashes of lightning attacking the district as the thunder did a ferocious number. Eventually i got a bit wet and the lightning gave me the jim-jams so i closed the windows, ouch, and scuttled under the bed.

The storm lasted two hours.

Since that storm I have been feeling rather skewiff, it has caused havoc with my senses, i've now got about 7. My antennae have been all over the shop and picking up the wrong vibe and misinterpreting text, email and speech. Am sure a night of the long knives is imminent but am not sure when, where, who or .....