Wednesday, 10 December 2008


Oh yes, Sydney, the hustle, the bustle, the diabolical pluravit multivitaminess of its busy, busy world-class-sur-penury buzz and bile. How can one survive it all? By keeping schtum and observing. For the mistress not only creates her own language but, like the late Arkie Whitely, is a self-proclaimed people person – can watch 'em all day every day in a most non-judgemental but amused fashion, natch. Oh, am always lurking in the background, me.

Lawks what curious things these glauque pools have witnessed the past few days.

8.00 a.m. Monday in the foyeh of the bureau. Two of the lifts were sick and quite a crowd had gathered, one couldn’t ascend via the fire stairs until after 8.30.

After some time, crowd increasing at a furious simulated time lapse rate, a lift arrived. As I was first in the queue I boarded the old elevator along with quite a few young guns from the financial sectors. Then a man with an enormous box of fruit (not a euphemism) entered causing one young gun to comment how tight it was in the lift. To which another young gun who had entered just after fruit man replied “Yeahm well FUCK YOU! You’re alright jumping the queue and getting a space in the lift, you stupid fuck”. Young Gun 1 retorted with “FUCK OFF, you fuck”. I didn’t know where to look so surveyed that fruit box (and let me tell you there was not much variety, loads of bananas and a few large spotted red apples, which were no doubt floury). I’d just finished wincing in disgust when Young Gun 2 shouted “No, YOU FUCK OFF!!" and alighted at level 2.

Lift Rage.

Not only do I blame the parents but a little bit of the Ida Jessup/Mrs Mangle in me cannot help but attribute it to the Sopranos - Young Guns 1 and 2 were no doubt spawned by Pauly Walnuts and the delightful Janice Soprano. Now before I die please somebody make sure i get a stonesy tongue tattooed on my bosom - hottt and chic!

On the bus this morning I was standing next to this woman who prickled with efficiency and bossiness. What a powerful VIBE she had.I don’t know whether it was the curious black satin epaulets of bows that adorned her sundress, her barking at everyone to move down the aisle or her appraising me from head to toe – I don’t think my appearance pleased her. Hanyways, a seat became vacant, and the mistress was closest, so V I C T O R Y. However, it was short lived for I shifted uncomfortably imagining Sgt Major looking down on my crown wincing at the grey regrowth, I like to think of it as silver tinsel – so festive and fey, valiantly resisting an urge to pluck the hairs out. I protectively placed hand to head to smooth the fuzz that is my hair all the while noticing that the label of the shirt of the woman seated in front of me was poking out. It said she was "medium". Hmm, funny I thought, I would have classed her as "small" – oh what my eyes do not see, nsrs, what my eyes do not see.

The place next to label lady became free and Sgt Major took her place with great alacrity and force. As she parked her arse on the seat, she reached over and firmly tucked the label lady’s exposed label into her shirt!!!

She did not know la belle in question. Bold as brass is that Sgt Major and her proprietorial paws. She probably lifts adorable looking toddlers, who she does not know from Adam, from strollers and plants sloppy wet kisses on the poor lambs' cheeks. The height of impertinence in Snooter Pooter's handbook.

Bluster burst petering out...

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