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.