A treat and some puzzles for the Mistress

Last night I had a surprise guest who brought me a delicious Thai feast - red duck curry and green chicken curry and a bottle of wine. Despite the red and green theme the surprise guest was not Father Christmas, which was just as well as I strongly oppose Christmas in July. What a “sucky”, as Melbourne teens used to say, concept.

The guest was not only a surprise but also a mystery for she claims to only go by the name of Lady. So to paraphrase the great troubadour, John Swan, i'd like to say, Lady, what's your name, may I thank you for the treat and talk to you of things inane.

Speaking of Swanee, well, i have just learnt that one of my friends, another wannabe senior, natch, who has retired to Western NSW, has become an acquaintance of Swanee's half brother Barnsey. Not that Barnsey lives in the country any more but this 40 year old retiree (? ridiculous, I know) met Barnsey through a friend a month or so ago while visiting Sydney . I guess Barnsey needs some new pals after leaving the southern highlands for Sydney. Lots of people left that area after Maggie T and Dickie Z split. Now said retiree catches up with the B during his visits to Sydney and recently spent a lot of time hanging out with B chez B and watching the world cup soccer. Retiree thinks Barnsey is tops. I don't know what to think - when in doubt snigger and blog.

To serve them all my days

So in between travelling to the country, getting het up about hanging with wannabe Seniors, trying to make friends with a cool new set of 20 year olds, dismally failing and then having to suck up to all my old friends, they're ancient, i've been recovering from the very long trip and mirth and mayhem that was my visit to Bellingen.

A milder attack of last month's laryngitis and coldy achey thingo, flu?, returned in time for the weekend. Fortunately i was raised on so much Ealing and Dad's Army i carried on, blustered and lemsipped my way through the weekend and had a very nice time thank you very much.

Had some friends over for a cosy supper on Saturday night and I served them the Mistress's specialty - humidity drawer everything's got to go minestrone. It was tasty I must say. My guests provided some delicious wine and some very fine chocolates, the highly reputable brand, Merci, that's French for ta. In keeping with one's mad carry on we watched the 'ilarious series 3 of Stella Street and then that 64 or 65 documentary on the rolling stones tour of Ireland, Charlie is my darling. The latter quite interesting if you like Irish physiognomy, are a stones fan and enjoy analysing personalities. Otherwise i suspect it would be pretty dull, or perhaps it is just dull and that's why we spent most of the viewing time talking over it and analysing the stones. We developed some very good theories on how the different systems of secondary education experienced by each of the stones had moulded them. I don't think even David Dalton has done that, so watch out. But if Victor Bockris is still alive don't tell him, ok.

At last there is a chance for me to put to use my superficial knowledge of different education systems and ludicrously extensive ken of stonesy and other musical stars, ponder the impact of Jules Ferry on French rock, i've a hunch it was pretty bad, and puzzle over the Gymnasium failing Milli Vanilli yet nurturing Aha. I told you it was superficial and i'm already a bit bored. It could then lead to an analysis of the depiction of teachers and schools in film, from Goodbye, Mr Chips to Heartbreak Kid and how it has left teachers disappointed and unprepared. I don't recall seeing Alastair Sim marking homework in the Belles of St Trinians. Rip off or what. But then again i might leave those projects until my retirement, so busy, busy maintaining this blog and saving for the nest egg, now where did i put those pluravit multi vitamins....

slippers an' pantaloons and the great exodus

Can I just tell you something I am not about to retire and nor am I moving to the cockin' country despite everybody doing it, doing it, doing it, yes, picking their nose and chewing it, just like you, see i'm way too immature to retire.

Lately, if I have not been gallavanting to the country way up north, I’ve been down the south and interstate or heading west of the Blue Mountains visiting friends who have left Syd. and bought their retirement homes. I have so many people telling me about retiring this, retirement that that I’m starting to freak out. Sweetheart, if I can’t personalise your statement or experience it is not worth my while listening. While i commend their railing against the Costello work till you drop plan, I can't see how it's financially possible. It was a big enough step getting a mortgage last year, i was fine about turning 40 - had had 3 years of coming to terms with that, and even if I did get the retirement bug I’m mortgaged until I’m 69. So can I just adjust to being middle-aged bloomer before labelling myself Senior?

The Sydney exodus has been affecting me for the past ten or so years, hey, even I left Sydney, to go and live in a smug, provincial town in another country only to return 18 months later to more of the same with the election of villainous forked tongued John.

Since then I have become increasingly alarmed and saddened by the steady migration of friends to the coast, the country and to the bluestone flatlands of Mel, openly voiced it, but eventually come to understand the appeal of the new destinations, even toyed with the idea of movin' to Mel, but i couldn't possible do that until I retire.

Captain Castlereagh

As I blithely skipped down Castlereagh Street returning from Take a Break coffee lounge, armed with a bacon and egg sanger, a cup of coffee and not a whiff of ambition, a man stopped directly in front of me, really close in a rather menacing fashion, and demanded "give me all your money and your hugs and kisses too."

And no he wasn't about 60, rotund and long bearded but i must say that while I felt a bit nervy and taken aback I was kind of taken with the ZZ Top tribute within the demand. I explained I didn't have any moolah on me, had just spent it on the sanger, stepped aside for the personal space was kind of cramped, and advised that I only had the sandwich and coffee to give and was then called a "f***%$ d%g". A rollercoaster of an exchange, charming but nevertheless a rollercoaster.

I walked as fast as my pins could take me, yes, i do have legs and I know how to use them, spilling the coffee down my front.

You make a smug posting the day before and look what happens. Oh bad Carmen you've done it again.

sink or swim

As that builder said to little brian jones as he splashed about in the pool. And on that compassionate note and 37 years later to the day, the mistress says hello and extends her apologies for being in absentia from cyberspace this past week. She'd also like to thank her readers for their interest.

She's been gadding about like there's no tomorrow and according to Brian the autodidact, rather full of herself to boot, to which the mistress sez, lay off the vinegar, Vera. Mistress sez t shirts will be on sale Monday week.

Anyway, Bri Bri, i say let bygones be bygones and may the new financial year be bile free.

That certainly was the sentiment at the shoot of 1980's house in Bellingen - all involved had a top time.

The 11 year olds claimed to have "ravenous adventures", the teens watched the soccer in the wee hours or rocked on, amps blaring and dominating in true share accom house style while the olds quaffed their light beers or rough Williamson red, found each other hilarious when not making diary entries moaning about their hms (housesmates, you der) and ailments, and really did have quite the middle age rampage.

After filming was completed, i snuck off to Nana Glen and spent a couple of days with Russ, Danielle and child. Brian really envies how at ease i am with the celeb set, but what else can you do when you are as centred and smug as the Mistress. I stayed in the chapel which had been especially constructed for Russ and Danniii's nuptials. Super. Really lovely down to earth types. In the evening we got mellow, chewed the fat and belted out some great new songs that Russ's been working on. I'm not one to gossip but let's just say that the ears of Baz, Hugh J and Jack Marx must have been burning big time. His Ballad for NicnKeith brought a tear to my eye.

Caught the train back to Sydney. Rather good voyage, lunched on a tasty beef braise with rice while listening to German stoners singing along to Dire Straits, Led Zeppelin and the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, my three favourite bands. We shared a spliff and chilled out. Will be hooking up with them at the CBH (Coogee Bay Hotel, like double der!!) for the Saturday session and then join the British beef backpackers sizzling on the sand. Then i really will have to meet up with Hetty and Brian and get to work on that ruddy musical. I'm in the mega soup as i've not given my all but you know what, we all need a bit of time out from the hustle and bustle and tedium. I say good on me - i deserved to spoil myself. The mistress is so worth it.

Share accom. project

The weekend after next I'm participating in a reality television project. There'll be a live webcast and i'll give you further details as they become available.

Here's a summary.

1980’s house - a pilot

A group of middle aged former housemates, neighbours, friends and drunks reunite in Bellingen to celebrate yet another 21st birthday of a French woman who burst into their lives over 20 years ago. Join the friends and their offspring for a weekend house party of laughs, lachrymation and liquor. It’s guaranteed to be one weekend that you and they would rather forget.

Working for the weekend

You’d better watch out if you’ve got ringletted strawberry blonde hair

Tonight catching C.R.A.Z.Y. at the fillum festival.

Tomorrow 7 am catching the dentist for a check up.

Then Target for goods for the following weekend's reality tv show.

1 p.m. check tent and other fixtures and fittings at NnK's secret wedding location.

4 p.m. Pledge the shelves and floors.

8.30 p.m. Hot Ploddy, Hot Ploddy

Sunday Fillum festival – attending lecture and viewing film by the great Australian auteur, G.H.A.

Sunday 5 p.m. Pamela Rabe IS Mother Courage.

Sunday 9.00 p.m. NicnKeith's wedding reception.

Sunday 9.05 p.m. thrown out of said wedding reception.
You think that joke's old, wait till you clap your eyes on me, fella.

aah, aah, aah, aah
Vulture, vulture, Culcha VulCHAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Hot Rod

Drawn to a halt at the Stanmore Rd and Liberty St traffic lights was a zippy white 2-door sedan with the number plate

WOTEVR

This sexy sporty package is for sale, $4000 ono. Not sure whether cool daddy the driver is included but an air of hot nonchalance is guaranteed.

I’ve noted the mobile number if you wish to realise your dream or just fang it with cool daddy.

Fruitless

Was my search for dried figs at Woolworths this lunch time. Not one to be found and I could not be bothered walking to the David Jones’ food hall for the joy of finding fig and shelling out an outrageous sum, no matter how efficient the ticketing system has become.

The search for dried figs was necessitated by a change in my palate, it's become positively puerile and I’ve developed a sweet tooth. Fear not NSRs I’m not gonna start simpering about cravings for chocky wocky, just sugar in general. I must confess greedy old bel could quite easily devour a cream bun, a honey jumble or even scotch finger, well actually all three if they were offered right now.

While am renowned for many things, 65% of which are probably quite unfavourable, a sweet tooth has never been one of them. Don't get me wrong, I do love a bun, a biscuit and relish a self-saucing pud, but generally not every day. That is until I stopped having my daily snifter of medium sweet dry sherrrrry while cooking dins followed by a a glass or two of wine with dins.

A friend once merrily observed, while sucking on a tube, how kiddies went so beserk about sweets and cakes and that us adults didn't as we got all the sugar we needed from our alcohol.

But without the daily tipple I don't, and at this rate I’ll have to start worrying about my interesting factor levels an’all. I guess I could do Toastmasters, oh, but that would require a tipple and muck up my important health project which bans imbibing at home during the working week. Perhaps i should just go out every night.

Oh what a to do. And the sugar buzz from biscuits and kyke, while fuelling an enjoyable frenzy, the sight and sound of a group of 5 or more people proceeding down the street has been known to thrill one beyond reason, Mistress Bel Petersen, is unfortunately followed 30 minutes later with a rather nasty thud and feeling of exhaustion. And frankly a daily intake of kyke and buns would probably give me diabetes and counteract the entire point of this new health project.
So I’ve opted for the dried figs - ever since Cyclone Tracy bananas have become soooo expensive. Figs are sweet. Figs are crammed not to mention jam packed with fibre and nature’s goodness. Figs extend your life by 50 years and are economical.

And to think I’d been lamenting how dull Neighbours had become.

Sydney by night

In between bagsing seats and pitching tents and portaloos at the two possible locations for NicnKeith’s wedding, I’ve been getting on with my life, it’s odd to have one, and gadding about.

Last night a friend generously treated me to an excursion to the film festival. I caught the bus into Market Street. It’s been a while since I’ve taken a bus on a Saturday night and it was entertaining to see the bus’ corridor being used by the younger passengers as a catwalk which they strutted down, sucking in their cheeks, looking kind of sour but beautiful, of course, and displaying their Saturday best before swinging around and taking a seat. My mind’s soundtrack alternated between Girls on film and Vogue. Being easily amused has been such a passport to happiness in this life.

The State Theatre was its usual glamorously gaudy and magnificent self. We had champers upstairs and our conversation about BB 2006, work, pollies, kiddies, and mutual friends, was often interrupted, I mean enhanced, by a very toey not to mention chatty 20 year old barman who leapt over the bar to come and talk.

The barman told us that he found his job very boring and that this year’s festival was very quiet. In between talking in this fashion he would turn and do a pirouette and then yammer about something else and twirl again. He was rather light on his feet I must say. Private dancers must be a Saturday night special at the State. His shift was about to end and he told us he was off to Newtown. He was disappointed that the Bank Hotel, home to the salubrious Sleepers and exorbitantly priced Thai restaurant, was still being renovated. We were kind of nonplussed. He then twirled off back to the bar and then Newters, I suspect, as he did not return to our table. So we analysed him a bit and then took our seats in the theatre.

No real celebs spotted at the festival apart from a very minor one, and it’s pathetic that I recognised him, hey, that’s what I do, to be so talented is a veritable curse. He is an Aussie actor who played a love interest to one of the gay guys in Secret life of us but his biggest claim to fame was playing Stanford’s rival for Carrie Bradshaw’s friendship in Sex and City. He came and stood by the empty seat next to me and jumped up and down and waved as though he was trying to get someone’s attention, perhaps he’s become an expert in semaphores or works at the airport, I hear there’s a dearth of acting opportunities at the mo, or just recognised me from my time on 90's morning tv shows, Ernie and Ding Dong a particular high point. No doubt the latter, and I was happy to lend him a bit of my limelight. I feel for the Norman Desmonds and am happy to give 'em a break every now and again. Of course, I'm equally sympathetic to those celebs at their peak, and that is why I always make an effort not to disturb them. Fame and notoriety is such a bitch. And let’s not talk about those pesky paparazzi, tsk, tsk indeed. Such a hard life those celebs lead.

Anyway the dude left without asking for my autograph and I’m really touched and grateful for his respect. Nice to have it reciprocated.

Now why was I out on Saturday night? Oh, yes for the film festival. We saw two films, neither of which were much chop. A short Welsh one and a long, turgid French one starring France’s Judy Davis, Isabelle Huppert. A drama set in the 19th century about a very grim and unhappy marriage that made Madame Bovary seem like I love Lucy. We couldn't wait until it ended, too bored and sleepy. It was 10.30 after all.

Workaholics anonymous

The buzz of excitement is positively electric in Sydney at the moment. Forget your world cup; Sydneysiders have been barely able to sleep for feverishly thinking about the upcoming wedding of NicnKeith.

Meanwhile little Renny Zellwellegger is casting quite the pall over proceedings, the satisfaction of trumping Nic out of an Oscar for Nic’s biopic, Cold Mountain, has evidently worn off.

Renny has warned Cold Mountain that the writing is on the wall for lasting happiness with Keith. Gasp. Renny claims that Keith, like Renny’s former husband of four months, also a country singing sensation, Kenny C, is a “workaholic”. Oh my. And Nic’s last husband was also a “workaholic”. When will the Mountain ever learn?

Oh Renny, hush your mouth. How could you dispute the everlasting love of NicnKeith’s coupling, it’s like Caesar and Cleopatra, DicknLiz, Charles and Diana cos they won't part and it won't turn bitter. Nothing like the Curry Kenny nor Renny Kenny fiascos of Woman's Days gone by.

Now the wedding guest list is of course going to be silver, um, star studded, and probably liberally sprinkled with happily married models, actors and musos, some of whom could well be "workaholics". Guests will include the Bronte Carlo set, the Murdoch-Heirs, the Wattsanames, the Hugh Jackmans, the Baz Luhrmanns and the Crowing-Spencer-Crowes.

Renny really should stop worrying about the “workaholic” factor, it’s rife in Hollywood and wherever showbiz happens, theatrical one day, married "workaholic" the next.

More contentious could be the frostiness between Baz, Russ and Hugh, given that Baz replaced Russ with Hugh when casting his latest film. Russ no doubt dismissed them as a pair of "workaholics" and I can’t wait to hear his song about the betrayal, diddled by two workos and now i'm feeling blue.

It’s just so exciting to have such a delicious piece of that Hollywood pie right here, almost now. A decade of Howard Jones, I mean John Howard, and now this, Australia is indeed a nation blessed.

Dignity takes a tumble

There was a big, exciting sounding demonstration proceeding down Castlereagh Street at midday. The clamour was so loud my colleagues and I could hear it despite our office building's thick glass windows and lofty heights.

It provoked much interest. We all got up to have a look out the window. I suspect the past two weeks of isolation heightened my excitement, well that is my excuse, for I climbed onto my desk, to kneel and crane my neck to get a better view as did another colleague, we were still ten feet away from the window.

The general tone of professionalism and decorum was topped by the bellowing of our names by another staff member, an Aussie cop show D.I. manqué, as he emerged from his office yelling at us to get down and scolding us for breaching occupational health and safety rules!

Oh my godfather.

I still don’t know what the demo was about, against officious safety wardens and rampant inner children in the workplace perhaps. Needless to say lunchtime was spent on detention and this evening I am on emu parade.

On the street tonight

Ooh nanna hiya and good evening non sequitur risers.

One’s health has been fully restored and today was my first full day out after two weeks of being sick, the last week felt more like quarantine, and my is it grand to be out and about.

It was great to do the walk home from work today. I’d been feeling fairly poopy and sorry for myself, somewhat isolated from society, which is hell on earth when you're a proactive , dynamic, teamplaying people person, so it was good to get the limbs moving for an hour and that feel good vibe happenin’, as a character from the past, let’s just call him simple si the rockin' guy, would say, while digging and checking out my fellow pedestrians. Lord, am still channellin’ simple rockin' guy. Oh 80’s good times, long may they continue to roll, straight by.

Back to the present and this evening’s stroll. Not that much has changed in a fortnight, still loads of people, young and old, wearing Ramones t-shirts, how many have you seen today, despite the chill. To compensate for the cold they sometimes wear open leather jackets but always sport black or pastel coloured beanies, thus transforming themselves into Ramone t-shirt wearing googie eggs. Wack but strangely hot and almost Big Brother 2006 southern hemisphere style.

Speaking of popular t-shirts, I frequently see people wearing one that features a portrait of a man, kind of Jesus like without the crown of thorns. For ages I thought said t-shirt was promoting a revival for Godspell but it turned out it was for Powderfinger. The band on everybody's lips. Even the octogenarian at the Cat Protection Society Op Shop has asked me about Powderfinger.

Tonight I saw quite a few billposters for that Countdown revival live show. Hmm. While i have a a lot of affection for that show, and still do enjoy seeing the occasional episode of Countdown, particularly the one I watched last January featuring Cheetah doing a very steamy mime to their recording of one of vanda and young's raunchier ditties, it must be said, no, look, really, um seriously, i draw the line here, all must be revealed, that as an adolescent watching Countdown I generally felt dissatisfied after the majority of shows, the Nauts had disbanded after all, you hadn’t seen enough of what you wanted, and how many times could you see daryl and JPY getting annoyed with Molly or get excited about Squeak going fishing or being "in the top ten in Rhodesia". Curiously you continued watching every week, even the repeat on the Saturday as you’d forgotten how disappointing it was. Still i guess that was part of its charm, disappointment in unison, a collective ohwuh from the nation's teens and young adults, as the credits rolled and the olds came in to watch the news. However as a child it tickled me no end. Fancy being dissatisfied as an adolescent.

On tonight's walk I also learnt, and i know you'll be surprised, that i've plum lost my street smarts . When I went to withdraw moolah from the atm/handybank/cashpoint, like whichever , handybank has always been my own personal preferred fave, I took the receipt and the card but forgot to take the money, had a lot on my mind couldn’t decide whether to go straight home or to Leichhardt, it’s high time I hired that fricking Life Coach, and didn’t realise my error until 20 minutes later when I went to purchase something, no, not a ticket to Leichhardt, gasped aloud and informed the shop assistant of my folly. Fortunately he didn’t say “whatever” or "shit happens" so phones remained on counters, doors on hinges and Jack Marx in that stylish hat and on retainer. Needless to say when i returned to that atm the sizeable sum was not waiting patiently to be collected.

Hey, that's big city talk and it's great to be back, if not quite with it.

Napoleon Polo

Still convalescing and wish you were here to entertain me as I recline on the divan taking a sunbath in the afternoon’s western rays.

Evidently the virus has knocked me for six and while convalescing, apart from feeling like Roger Moore with a dash of Robert Vaughan due to the sportage of polo neck jumpers to keep the chill off the neck and larynx, slightly more stylish than those brightly coloured knits that family fun TV show hosts used to favour, my time has been spent coughing, sleeping, reading, and watching DVDs. Pretty good really but enough is enough.

The bout of sickness has given me the opportunity to get acquainted with six feet under. When it started being broadcast I decided against getting into it as I was watching the Sopranos and had to restrict myself to one show?!, boundaries are so essential in the hustle and bustle that is is the new millennium. So I’m currently watching series 2 of six feet under which indicates that I’m enjoying the show. I am, particularly the characters Nate, David and Ruth, but I think I’m going to have a break as the continual utterance of “whatever” and “fuck you”, sometimes coupled, is getting kind of tedious, and as for the Juliette Lewis Syndrome suffered by Lauren Ambrose and Rachel Griffiths in their mannered portrayals of sad, mixed up, shook up, wisecracking, vulnwable, alternative girls, well, that is positively grating and provoking horrid flashbacks to that terrible film clip by the Cars for their equally terrible song Drive, the 80's losing my religion perhaps?

Curiously I can never get enough of “fuck you” in the Sopranos, singer not the song I guess. Still perhaps I should get to series 3 of six feet under as it would be good to see if Lauren Ambrose’s range can extend beyond eye popping, clenching and jutting of jaw and fish popping mouth, fortunately not as much finger biting and hair twisting as practised by Juliette. It’s funny to see that the Juliette Lewis technique is still being employed. I hadn’t seen it so masterfully implemented since Janeane Garofalo’s performances in the Ben Stiller Show, and they were parodies.

Clearly I haven’t been mixing in the real world which for someone who loves to keep herself real is rather hard. Can’t wait to get out and attend the film festival.

Have a good Queenie’s long weekend.

A word from the sanatorium

There has been an overwhelming outpouring of concern, nay, grief, regarding my health.

I cannot thank you enough but please desist from laying those delightful floral tributes outside the apartment building's entrance and adorning my letter box with those darling crosses and miniature ribbons. While the mistress is indeed unwell she is not quite yet on her way to hell.

So, ahem, why, the clearing of the throat is such an effort, the voice still has not returned and the coughing continues, consequently Doctor Foster confined me to bed all week.

I have really been enjoying this impromptu mid year break. To be told officially to stay in bed, rug up and rest, and awarded a certificate saying so, is my greatest achievement to date.

Next week I trust that I’ll be sent away to the mountains or the sea to get fresh air and convalesce in the style of a Somerset Maugham character.

A trip to the moon on gossamer wings

Prior to the laryngitis caper, i was fortunate to attend a most wonderful and intimate dinner party to celebrate the Meister's milestone birthday.

My dears it was some soirée! B and J were the perfect hosts and prepared the most delicious banquet. i have never tasted such delicious gnocchi in all my living days. Champers, red wine and cointreau flowed until 2 am. Mrs Beeton-Bridges here was in charge of hors d'oeuvres and decorations and added her somewhat Frostig artistic decorative flair via balloons and home made placecards.

There was much mirth and carry on and some rollicking speeches. My only lament was that there was not a bowl of cheezels. One of the guests had quite the Liz Taylor cleavage on display and every time i copped an eyeful i wanted to shoot a cheezel through the hoop so to speak, i.e. flick the cheesy puff into the bosom's hollow. Needless to say i was the least sophisticated member of the soirée set, my chair was furnished with a pile of telephone books upon which i was seated in order to reach the table, so it was probably just as well that the bowl and those cheezels were not about.

From this tower of telephone books I yearned for sophistication, and cheezels, and revelled in the magnificent spectacle that was the birthday Meister - atop of the stairs surrounded by wrapping paper and gifts, gleefully rolling amongst her birthday loot . Baby Huey indeed!

In the land of counterpane

i have got laryngitis, cockin' laryngitis. It's not too painful, well admittedly the throat and glands around the neck are rather sore and swollen, resulting in a new and delectable looking turkey gobble wobbling between my neck and chin, but extemely annoying as I can barely get a sound out. However, it would be more irritating if I were of a talkative nature but as i'm silent, brooding and stoic, it doesn't affect me too much and thank baby J for his part in bestowing me with such qualities.

I guess the larynx looks like this at the moment. My first link. Gordon. kind of contrived, and highly indulgent, eh. Rather gruesome. Lewd photos too. Flag the blog now!

Am off work today, and can't get an appointment with the doctor until 3.30, so while waiting for medical guidance have been tinkering with technology, and evidently been way inspired, and learned some more blogger jargon to boot.

I've also been frantically emailing, to counteract the fact that I cannot communicate vocally, and cybersurfin' and consequently been reading more interviews with cate blanchett and kevin spacey, both of whom appear to be gobbling spinner and smug drip pills by the bucketload. They should stop doing interviews, or perhaps it might be more sensible if i stopped reading their interviews, that would be a kind of novel but too mature an action.

I suppose my time would be better spent amusing myself playing with toys in the land of counterpane or expanding my mind and reading something proper.

But no, am so twenty first century that i have to be even more self-obsessed than usual and blog all about it.

the word blog used to be a term for a boring, inert person, so in essence the meaning hasn't changed that much really and i'm doing my best to keep this cyberjournal true to that description.

Have now just returned from the doctor who was really sympathetic, as was the receptionist, they sort of giggled too , sympathetically mind, at my strangulated squeak, and really, who doesn't love a giggle and a laugh now and then. if you are feeling a little flat, feel free to give me a call to lift your morale. The squeak is too weak to be intimidatingly Brando Godfatherish, making me more Al Pacino? Have been instructed to stay at home in bed and not talk until Thursday!! I didn't think i was that unwell, i don't have a temperature, and even my cold seems to have gone, well in truth the cold has just set up home in my larynx, hope it it doesn't get too settled and plaster the area with big prints of frangipanis.

I am rather surprised by the amount of sympathy the inability to talk garners from strangers, those who know me can't believe their luck, their kindness seems undeserved, and makes me feel like the empty vessel but evidently not quite as voluble, crossed with al pacino sporting a goddamn turkey gobble. Oh bwutha, or perhaps it's more Elmer Fudd.

ideas above her station

Guess what, i'm better and you're hot, down, inner child, down, I did my walk from work to home in record time today. 45 minutes. 15 minutes off the usual. It's most surprisin'. I had an excellent run with the traffic lights. I didn't even work up a sweat, but boy did i perspire cos that is what we ladies do, never sweat, always perspire, well actually not even that. Perhaps am getting fitter.

Today i was introduced to a new joint where one can do lunch, as we all used to say, never actually manage to do , of course, in the late 80s early 90s. In the 21st century when you 'do' something you are of course having sex with it. Oh English how i do adore thee - vital, unyielding, fascinatingly feisty, vagabond temptress of a tongue.

The new club is a very cosy, quiet, and really charming establishment, does a wonderful toasted sanger and a nice house white, which led me to break my on again off again no boozin' during the working week policy.

I'd started the n.b.w.w. policy after too many nights lying awake worrying about possible liver, kidney and heart ailments. Blame sammy davis junior and his Why me or Yes I can autobiography. Sammy's vegas lifestyle of being up all night boozing, fagging, balling dames, Sammy's expression, and starting the day at 2 pm with a bourbon really took its toll on Mr Bojangles and he packed on the pounds particularly around his tum tum. Sammy went on a diet and managed to shed a few pounds but his pot belly remained. The doctor informed Sammy that it was his distended booze addled liver causing the bowling ball sized belly!!

Cautionary, dare i say salutary, tale or what!

Anyhoo, did manage to go without Mr Booze for four days and will have another two days off him this week, promise. Must say that the non quaff working week does wonders for my evenings and sleeping.

I've been getting the mundane domestic duties done and extra time for reading Kmart catalogues, cutting toe nails, updating my cv and other more exciting extra curricular activities like going out, on the tiles, staring at the ceiling waiting for life to begin, or watching big brother.

And I sleep like a top. However I did have a strange dream last night where I was a nanny to four children of a very famous superstar couple.

The competition for the position was very tough but i got the job because of my academic transcript! At first everyone thought i was a terrific nanny including myself. There was a montage of stills of me and the kids having lots of laughs and the olds indulgently looking on, laughing. My favourite montage featured my putting up one of those totem tennis pole games, and the kids and i having a ball. Then i was meant to be looking after the children and getting them ready for bed while their olds hosted a big whiz bang cocktail party. The next scene featured me at the party swilling golden chardonnay, with a distinctly creamy flavour, from an enormous glass, more brandy balloon than wine, that must have been the booze free four days , while mingling, cracking jokes and quoting lyrics of Bee Gees songs to other guests , remember that little trick next time you feel a bit of a poop at a party, people will lllap it up. Just as I was making another joke, i espied the wife of the superstar couple stomping down the stairs with one of the children, who had just hurt himself, in her arms . So i was in the big potage. I went to the mother's aid and was pathetically assisting her fluff up pillows and feigning concern, and about to get the sack when i woke up.

i was so rested though i didn't know what day it was or what i was meant to be doin', early stages of Korsakoff's syndrome? I eventually twigged that no, fortunately, i wasn't a nanny to some jetsetters and i did manage to get to my usual place of gainful employment.

Imagine my surprise this evening to read about Cate Blanchett not only comparing Brad Pitt to chocolate but also complaining about irresponsible nannies frolicking in the desert, with Pats and Eds?, instead of supervising their charges. And there but for the grace......Spookarama!

Webel yell with a tablespoonful of bile

As i strode from the Queen Victoria Building to the bureau, where i conduct my extremely important business , my line of vision was blurred by a sea of legs wearing goddamn jeans. Don't worry, bodies, limbs and heads were also there but the legs in denim were predominant.

Ooh it's Friday so we can wear our cockin' jeans to work. Woo hoo and rail, baby, rail, this is the day of the week when en masse the people stick it to the man by wearing their designer denim trou. I bet these same people at the end of every working week say to each other with a titter and a knowing look, "Thank God it's Friday."

Naturally i upped the ante and wore a suit, my birthday suit. Wa wa wa waaaaaaaaaah nee.

I cannot believe mufti Friday is still embraced. Bring back the Sunday Best without the worship and Spray Fresh. Oh it's all gone down the Murray.

The howard votin' horrors

Waiting for the lifts to ascend to good time central, i overhead a man in conversation with his colleague describe his son's school as "awesome".

People who frequently and genuinely titivate their nouns with "awesome" are raising children.

Like gag me with a spoon, dudes.