There’s a new kind of stroller for the parent pedestrian, as Tom Springfield once wrote.
As you know, NSRs, that practical small foldaway stroller was long ago superceded by those ridiculous, ginormous and cumbersome four wheel drives of push chairs. Well, the latter model has now , like most things, you know, mothers, wives, friends and lovers, run its course and been replaced and upgraded/babooshkaed/carlabrunied by a new, super, deluxe, i mean, luxe and ridiculous form of transport for life’s most precious cargo.
This new contraption is such a curious form, and I’m being polite. It looks like a lazy Susan table come palette fixed atop a tallish three wheeled stand. I guess it’s kind of Jetsons Space Age (but no jet pack required, shame).
Parent, generally proud poppa, pushes the object while jogging but the byebee does not look like it’s secured by a belt on the palette. Baby just sort of lolls about, which causes concern for Constable Care. Well, until the next possible imminent disaster pops into my head as I stride around Darling Harbour, hands behind back, surveying her port and quays. What’s that unusual ripple on the water’s surface..? Why do those boats bob so?
Quick! Where is some higher terrain....?
Tsunami everyone! T S U N A M I
Higher ground people, (I myself personally am perpetually takin’ the high ground), I bark then squeal.
I swoop onto that palette-on-wheels of a pushchair, scoop up baby, transfer its bonnet to my noggin, and demand that poppa get a move on and push us up that nice, hilly street.
Friday, 28 August 2009
There’s a new kind of stroller for the parent pedestrian, as Tom Springfield once wrote.
Thursday, 27 August 2009
No I’m not pitching a program to aunty in which I hang out with teens and ascertain how their minds and hormones tick. I do that 24/7 – no bean bags required just a ‘puter and the world wide web. They call me June Dolly Watkins, cos grooming is my specialty. Woops that is not me either, more like another plodding plot for the filth at Sun ‘ill. Both sensational ideas but.
Now where was I ? Focus, focus, focus. Yes that’s it now I remember how it goes....
What I really want to share with you is a very curious sight I witnessed from the bus window last night.
Frank Sartor and Michael Costa in mufti on King Street Newtown chewing the fat and wildly gesticulating. Michael Costa’s mufti was crazy, crazier than his gesticulation! Army camouflage baseball cap and a smart but casual cotton knit with stripes, and chinos. Frank’s garb was kinda of drab, daggy leather jacket and jeans. Were they determinating Rees’ successor? Does anyone care? I don’t think even Quentin and the Stateline team can be bothered covering the state alp leadership tussle. It’s lame-O.
Posted by Mistress Bel at 2:57 pm
Sunday, 23 August 2009
Snatch pant, Snatch pant, l-l-l-ladies get your snatch pant.
As the Best & Less and K-Mart jingles and spruikers used to cry in the 80's and 90's. And very effective they were. Llladies of all shapes and sizes were sporting black leggings. Generally with large, long shirts but more often just with normal length tops and displaying their great smiling V to all and sundry. (oh don't choke on your pickle, prudence, i've got to give voice to this right here, right now! )
While I am a proponent of Lady love your cunt (why i think it was me on that celebrated Oz cover, wasn't it?) I consider the outline of the labia majora in the legging or high rise gabardine pant, or any outfit, as what Maggie T would call a major boo boo.
In the noughties the leggings have returned but are now known as the footloose or footless tight. Generally sported under dresses by stylish, chic, neat types (don't blow your pfff pfff valve*, yet, sweetness - worse is still to come!).
In the past few weeks as i've roamed around Sydney, from the haughty north to the I'm not a raShirelist South, from the battlers' west to the meretricious East, i have observed many things (about which i'm still to blog) but the most remarkable has been the return of the legging as trou - this time in faux denim stretch!!!
Granted the faux denim legging can look OK under certain shifts but when it is au naturel, l-l-ladies just put that smiling V away!
*a K.Elliottism i do declare.
Wednesday, 19 August 2009
Some hae meat and canna eat, and some wad eat that want it;But we hae meat, and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit
Hello NSRs, I truly do not know what’s going on with the old brain but for the past three mornings I’ve woken up with that piece of Little Robbie Burns prose on my mind. It’s nice though ain’t it and always looks so attractive on tea towels… It was emblazoned on one used for drying dishes at one’s childhood family seat, and whipped agin one’s seat amidst the oh get and rack off tetches of evening washing up sessions (faaamily good times, thank god they've rolled on by) which reminds me of this other favourite ditty from my enfance:
When I was a little boy
I washed my mammy's dishes,
I put my finger in my eye
And pulled out golden fishes.
Delightful. 'cept I was a girl then and I am really not quite sure what I have become.
Perhaps these pomes from one's childhood are coming to mind because of an sms text message received on the mobile telephone last Satdee morn. It advised that Tim Rogers and a superpoop were doing a recital of my favourite collection of prose from the time whence I crossed the threshold from enfance to adolescence, and where I have, in all likelihood, remained.
Can you imagine my derision 'pon learning that that r-r-r-rasping ineffectual r-r-r-runt* was doing a tribute to Get Yer Ya Ya’s Out!! It has evidently stirred my inner Colonel Blimp, doesn’t take much, admittedly, and my nice kind friends say it’s more Mainwaring than Blimp but let’s face it, it’s Blimp (still it’s nice to have a bit of Pressburger Powell gloss atop your Perry and Croft - and no, foot not dissimilar from bottom, that is NOT an allusion to a fricking Marty Rhone song - god give me strength!).
Response? What would my response be?
Get Yer Ya Ya's Out tribute night? Step off and into a grave! Will someone be hired to call "paint it black, paint it black , you devils?" If so can they please ensure that rent-a-fan brings a needle and thread lest that Tim claims to have busted a button on his trousers, for nobody would want his trousers to fall down now would they? Thank you kindly indeed! (It’s a shame that Mickey J had not read any Dorothy L Sayers Lord Peter Wimsey by the time of that 69 tour because I’m sure he would have embraced Lord P’s “thankee” and perhaps referred to Charlie as the good padre.)
Lament-A-ble. I mean to say, just go and put the original piece of hot wax on mr twirley whirley or try and compose some new music. Dude-dah!!
*r-r-r signifies the rolling of r's, you know how to roll your r's now, donchoo?
Monday, 17 August 2009
I have been watching this year’s Idol and despite the excruciating auditions and all that honky soul hollering (howuh, howuh, howuh, ho – imagine Kylie and Dannii on YTT and their rendition of sisters are doin’ it for themselves (which was of course penned by Tony Newley and originally performed by Joanie and Jackie Collins)), I am absolutely fascinated by Marcia Hines.
Marcia is one riveting dame. Gone is the platitooodinal evasive adjudication such as “love the skin you’re in”, “you know who you are, you are what you are” and general proferring props all over the shop. Ladies and gentleman, make away for Marcia as pop psychologist, counsellor and heavy! During 2009 auditions she’s been workshopping potential stars’ scars, practically hosting rebirthing sessions and advising the young and upcoming that if anyone messes with ‘em, let her know and she’ll deal with ‘em! You go girlfriend!
Perhaps she sees the idol ‘gig’ as on its last legs and is laying down some foundations for a splendid new career as daytime variety talk show host/chanteuse combining Kerry Anne (granted MH has much better voice and crazier dance moves) with the sagacity of Dr Phil and the clout of Oprah. It would be rather marvellous and I would tape it, which is my totally giving Marcia props.
Sunday, 16 August 2009
Perhaps it's due to the unseasonally, oh sorry, unseasonably, warm weather, a premature primavera, if you like, but I have to say that the conks are out and at it in full force and it's wa wa wa waaah central.
Most nights around three am, if i'm not awoken by a feeling of doom i am stirred from my slumber by a rabble of conks buzzing the intercom of the building entrance. They are young, they run green, buzz my bell, make me scream. It's not like it's once and they run away. After all I recall that appeal, as a 9 year old.
No, this goes on for about 20 minutes and because the building's insulaton is pretty lame i can hear the other flats' buzzers going off too. It happened again on Friday. As the buzzing goes on I wonder whether it's some boozed out friend on the wrong route for good time centrale.I duly roll over only to twitch then turn back to lie rod straight on dootiful daughter alert.
Could it be a family emergency or just pater needing assistance yet again for his cockin' computer. Surely not at 3 a.m? However, octogenarians do keep curious hours. Oh woteva pops. Don't derange this fille rangee. I jam the earplugs deeper into my ear canal and slide further under the bedcovers to eventually sleep fitfully and later rise more Eds Monsoon than Doris Day.
The icehouse down the road had been doing a roaring trade until its great galoot of a kitchen wiz left some chips unattended in a vat of fat on the stove causing a fire and blowing out the power grid (?) across several suburbs for about five hours. It also brought the fuzz and the firies and caused quite the commotion.
I've now got a shocking bout of rsi (or is it carpal tunnel syndrome?) from twitching the lace curtains.
I thought that this explosion marked the icehouse's end but its owner seemed to just give the joint a lick of paint and a new lord has been installed. He is very garrulous, very flash harry and somewhat careless. I 've watched sufficient eps of season 1 of the Wire to have an inkling what will happen next, let me tell you.
And you know you can set your watch by this conk even if it happened in the northern hemisphere but oh, well, just sit on it, Mr/Ms C (and that ain't short for Cunningham) for this is NSR.
Thursday, 13 August 2009
God if I were really to divulge tales of that calibre you’d be utterly bored but also kind of tetchy. Aggravation centrale.
What eh really would like to say is:
Hillary Rodham Clinton’s response and reaction to that reporter's asking for President Clinton’s perspective was utterly JUSTIFIED. Even if it transpired that the translation was mucked up and the 'journo' meant President Obama. Really...? Big whoop. She was right to set ‘em straight, which is all she did. It was a stupid question and warranted short shrift. As for the way Fran Kelly and Virginia Trioli have been going on about it. Get out of the pool!! Why don’t they just call HRC a ‘shrew’. Perhaps the media could focus on the actual significance of the Secretary of State's visit to Africa.
Pepped up and opinionated.
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
Busy, busy, oh so busy but while I’ve got you here may I ask whether you eat pineapple?
Pineapple is delicious at the mo. I’m talking about the fresh variety not the canned stuff - leave that for those delicious toasted cheese and ham sangers of a Sunday would you.
When I think of pineapple several things come to mind : perfect digestion, the big P at Nambour and its darling choo choo train, the Aug/Sept school hols of cheese, ham and pineapple toasties past, and of course Blue Hawaii starring Angela Lansbury and Elvis Aaron P (for Presley not Pineapple).
It is somewhat unnerving that within those memories lie connections to the Prime Minister and the leader of the Opposition.
Such a small world, almost as small as Tony Abbott's mind.
Avocados are also at their most delicious NOW. Pineapple and Avocado are in their prime like Miss Jean Brodie once was and me, I guess...gumps. (and yes, i am aware that one really cannot talk about fruit being in its prime, foot not dissimilar from bottom type, but this is my blog and i'm having a goddamn Windmills of my mind moment alright? Well, it's fine by me, sugar. Lovely. Now where was I? )
Oh yes... Are you still in your prime, boys and girls? More’s the point can one possibly still be when one nudges the mid forties? I thought one could but I think that J Brodie was possibly in her early to mid 30’s.
D E S P A I R
What is one to do? Run off with the Fascists? Too tiresome, not to mention taxing on the plantar fasciitis and well, which ones? (Right on).
Oh cock to political engagement! I’ll just run off to the Rod Stewart Academy for young ladies and get myself a nice young l-l-l eggy blonde. Granted that's more the domain of the has-been cockstar and not entirely suitable for aspiring pink lemonade drinking Baronesses; Why it could lead to one chartering a yacht to that notorious isle of sapphic love! (Don't tell T. Abbott, Krudd or that shit 'appens Albanese.)
A veritable gels' own adventure.
What curious new dawn beckons Bel. And where on earth is my local chandlery?
Posted by Mistress Bel at 2:34 pm