don't you press that button

On Wednesday morning I rose at 5 in keen anticipation of an early meeting at work. I got to the building at 6.25 and initially had difficulty gaining entry, finally got in at 6.30, the building's entrance door still bears my silhouette.

Eager to get to level 7 and tie up some loose ends before the meeting, i bounded into lift number three, swiped my pass and firmly pressed the button. Hmm, no action. Swiped pass again, nothing registered. So i tutted and pressed the <> open door button to exit but was thwarted. I huffed and pressed the mother again. Still no action. Proceeded to furiously jab the button but to no effect. Ball of tension about to erupt, hope the cctv caught my calm and poise coping with being trapped in the lift. Fortunately the lift was on the ground floor or i would have been in a worse state, i was wailing and cursing as it was.

Pressed the emergency button and was half way through explaining the situation, had to holler as the reception was bad, when the emergency line cut out. Pressed emergency button again and got a different operator, who sounded as though she was suffering from a night before of larfs, lime and lager at the Coogee Bear Hotel (backpackers' special -GBH at the CBH, lovely). She was really unhelpful, brusque and was asking for my mobile phone number when we got cut off.

In my experience mobiles go out of range when you're in an elevator.

This carry on and my frustration only continued for 15 minutes, had to press the emergency button about five times as the line kept disconnecting, when mercifully a security guard on the basement sought a lift and did press the button, and my number went down. I was let out of the lift, very soothingly placated and then escorted to my office without further incident. Thank you Security Guard.

Hope it doesn't happen again because it really brought out a curious mixture of bluster, panic, and doom. Admittedly it doesn't take much. At least i was alone in the lift.

Hanyways the meeting and everything went well and that evening i went to the doctor to have the stitches, which were a souvenir from the excision of black mole friday a fortnight ago, removed from my back. Mole is benign, so you know, lovely.

I LOVE TV

as a toddler atop her daddy's shoulders yelled out to all on the Coogee Beach promenade, one spring day in the late 90's.

Oh, out of the mouths of babes.

But you know what, as there is sauce in the negligee, there lies truth in the cliche.

LOADS.

I love TV too. Especially now that Kate Fitzpatrick has returned to the plasma screen.

Oh, sweetheart where have you been? Aren't you glad that you gave Imran the nick nack paddy wack? Or was it he? Not to mention cricket commentary for that matter. Darling you're no Blowers and you were most certainly not meant for the wireless; YOU were made for PLASMA.

Self-proclaimed serial bolter, I salute you.

To think it was only January this year, while watching the pilot ep of Aunty Jack, featuring KF as Airy Fairy, on dvd at Wipplegong in Bendigo, that a little question mark popped above my noggin and i put digit to chin and pondered the whereabouts of the KATIE FITZ, infinitely superior to the Katie Fischer, who for past 18 months has been the face for Marrickville Metro. No sooner had question mark appeared did it evaporate and i retired to bed appalled by how weak Aunty Jack had become 30 years on. Nice little insight to the depth of my thought processes, what.

Thank christ for the middle-aged and booming on Neighbours is all that I can say. Gordon. All cockin' week we've had to deal with the hottties what have moved into Ramsay Street. Ho diddly hum. (and no, that is not the name of some "hooker" in Days of our lives , it's the name of Tex Perkins's backing band, you der! ) Tonight's episode of Neighbours was tops. It featured the geniuses that are Oliver, Smith, Fitzpatrick and Feeny

Hats off to Tom Oliver!!

Tom Oliver has been part of my television experience since i was three. My first memory of him was either from "Motel" or "Bellbird" which i used to watch with mother. By the time i was five he was on Play School. He was sensational on Play School and sang my favourite tune , riding along singing a cowboy's song, he also favoured Jemima over Hamble, which was very important. Hamble is a passive agressive scrag, pass it on.

Power to the Grey on Neighbs, for it is they who are keeping the show entertainin'.

Tazzle it's a beautiful red drink
Taz, it's less than two calories

sky rockets in flight

Day two of the job and i am stoked. i haven't got into any of the hard core, full-on work yet but though.

Can i just tell you what a joy it is to work in a professional, cohesively structured and friendly environment. A place where the executive staff are civilised and smilingly address you by your name, and neither booze nor Ted Danson are required.

Colleagues at my last job gave me a wonderful send off and i will keep in touch with the friends i made there . It is just great to be in a new environment that presents a lot more challenges.

A true indication of my delight is that despite learning all this new stuffnthat, (HR Puffnstuff's old lady, oh god, Jack Wild is dead) and my head getting kind of dizzy and tired, when i have a breather and go to lunch or sit on a bus - stationary or moving it's my favourite form of relaxation, my mind plays the sweet and happy tune that is the theme from are you being served. I am clearly deliriously happy in the workplace.

While things are fabulous on the work front, the home entertainment front has gorne belly up.

I was just setting the veeceeahrrr for Wednesday night when i discovered that channel 9 now broadcasts the Sopranos on Monday at midnight. Fuck them. That's two episodes i've missed now. Stoopid dumb fuck of a free to air television station.

Every season i miss chunks of the Sopranos because of 9's inconsistent programming. m*&^erfucker!!

I would love to keep on cursing American mafioso style but you get enough of that from me in person.

dvd is the only way to watch a tv series.

yeah but i'm hap, hap happy at work, la la la laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.


Ground floor perfumery,stationery and leather goods,wigs and haberdasherykitchenware and food...going up

ne ne ne ne ne nerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

First floor telephones,gents ready-made suits,shirts, socks, ties, hats,underwear and shoes...going up

ne ne ne ne ne ne nerrrrrrrrrrrr

Second floor carpets,travel goods and bedding,material, soft furnishings,restaurant and teas. Going down!

It's show time, get up and go time

There are so many good things coming up at the gallery, theeater and cinema. It panics me so. Why did i let thrift trump splurge in the battle of the low credit card limit.

I just read that Burt Bacharach is playing in Sydney in February. He is going to be performing with the Sydney Symphony, his band, and guest vocalists. Who could the guest vocalists be? Dennis Walter, Marina Prior, Tony Hatch, Jacki Trent, Bindi? The possibilities are endless. I think i will have to go.

Game on, mole

Stars but the temperature is already 29. I hope that there are no major horrible bushfires and potential aussie legends killed today, not that i hope for that every other day, was just thinking more of the possible brouhouha surrounding bushfires occurring on friday the 13th, the day that bad luck struck god's own, when we all know that that happened in 1996 after the federal election.

This morning the doctor excised a mole from my back. It was tiny and black, and of course surrounded by the most beautiful creamy alabaster skin. Unfortunately i can't take the specimen to the first show and tell session at my new job on Monday, lucky old pathology gets it. Even worse i have to take baths instead of showers for a fortnight. I wonder if i could ask Brian to play Nursie and give me a hospital wash...

Anyway i shouldn't be too cavalier about bad mole really, it does affect me after all, but the chances of it being marralingant are slight. And if it is the beginning of the end that chapter of the autobio will have a sensational opening para alluding to the portentous date when it all went down the Bellinger. I might get Jeremy Irons to do the audiobook version.

wheel on fire

Astride a tumbleweed and sporting a straw cowboy hat that he thought was très Madonna but was plus Molly Meldrum, Mr Steven Ross blew into town direct from the Deniliquin ute muster.

It's a hoot and holler to have him back. Running that franchise of the Stefanie Powers wildlife park in Denni, as folk in the country like to call the town, keeps him well occupied. But like me he always manages to find time for the little people, i don't know how we do it, oh yes, two words, Lady Di.

Well she's gawne and we're living so let's press play and get on with the posting.

Last night we met up with Blonde Mischief and hit Leichhardt to see the devil wears prada and then dined at il cugino, which is my favourite eyetalian tratt - I promise to take you there some time. We had lots of fun, laughs a plenty, and a pearl hunt. I’d caught my pearl bracelet on the cuff of my coat, tearing a strand of pearls that proceeded to pour down the sleeve and spill into the cinema's aisle, give me Jaffas any day. I guess this means i'm about to lose all my teeth.

The film was entertaining and visually gorgeous but I think you can wait till deeveedee.

And today is my last day at the old job.

These past 2 weeks, or is it a month, have whirled past. It has been wonderful catching up with so many different people and knowing that the old routine is drawing to a close and a new challenge lies ahead. But the mistress is starting to panic, phantom sore throats and headcolds strike and then immediately disappear when the smoke alarm rings as she's forgotten to remove a pan from the flame.

i feel as though i'm looking into a crystal meth ball and all these laughing faces and incidents from my past are tearing by. My smug bubble continues to rapidly inflate until ridiculously enormous it finally bursts, smearing my face, my reputation, my career with the sticky, icky hot pink remains of arrogance, conceit and vanity. Then Naomi Robson knocks at my door.

hurricane

i'm a star in New York , i'm a star in L.A. tum da dum , dee, dee, dee, doo, from New York to L.A., from L.A. to New York, tum, da dum, dee, dee, oh hello, nsrs, my that's a healthy look of bemusement you're sporting. Yes, the mistress is back, she's been a busy, busy bel, interstating about and now unpacking her overnight bag, returning her witches britches to their drawer and her toothbrush to its Ipana splattered mug, after yet another whirlwind visit to Mel.

What is a bel to do , so POPular. Me and darren hayes, but I won't be coming out for a while, well Alan Jones said he wouldn't out me till 2010, and that still leaves me plenty of time to pip Tom to the outpost. Tommy and I have a lot in common: obnoxious, sensational teeth, smug, deluded and neither of us have scaled cold mountain. Pour the milk and hit that cymbal as Eric Burdon sang but I preferred the Freaked Out Flower Children's version. Who was sexier, Gumpy or Sophie Lee?

Anyway that's enough libel for one posting, let's take a step back into paradise and talk about me.

So yeah it's been wild, crazy and cuckoo whirly whirly. You may recall i was moaning about my work. Well, i got a new job, starts on Monday, they'll have me working night and day, punching in, punching out but at 41 that's what life is about. ooh. I am excited really, it's only taken 3 years.

The past three days have been fun. Gosh 3 is this week's important number, last couple of weeks 56 has been highly signifcant. Celebrating birthdays in Sydney and Mel. At all celebrations i was the epitome of decorum and charm. It was marvellous to see so many dear friends and i'm sure the pleasure was all theirs too. I ate lots of fries, the best were at acmi cafe, had a quite a few snifters, best champers was at the Pavillion on the Park, saw a few minor identities, scattered about yearning for paparrazi, and all they get are baffled looks from members of the general public as general public member scratches his/head, smiles absently and wonders if he/she knows celebrity minor. The worst must have been Julie McCrossin.

Incidentally, i'm being stalked by Julie McCrossin. I have seen the dame about five times this year. NO wonder she couldn't hack the early rising at 2BL, she's constantly trawling the streets, art galleries , airports, and docks, standing in a demi squat, pen pointed at the pad ready to busily scribble notes or banging on the mobe - waiting for me, yeah, me.

Julie, baby, sweetheart, you should have just fixed yourself a poopy milk drink, retired to sleepy bo bos by 8.30 p.m. and you would have started work fresh as a daisy at 4 a.m., and remained gainfully employed.

Next time i spring her i'll tell her so and perhaps i could become her life coach. And let's not even begin with all the other identity minors prostrating themselves along the path, creating an hazardous obstacle course, to my increasingly important career, that includes you, Peter Garrett and Anthony Green.

Just step off, fellas. This girl is keeping herself real and if that means hanging out with sweet simpletons, so be it.

I love them so.

tawdry and lame

is the only way i can describe this year's idol and that opening performance for the AFL on Saturday.

I was lying on my beautiful couch, it is a goddamn work of art, and no, it is not a Salvador Dali lips sofa, it's a set of Stonesy lips, natch, because i am a rocking chick, thoroughly enjoying gone with the wind on channel 9, marvelling at Vivien Leigh's beauty, doing a beauty ranking exercise - Viv 'versing' Liz Taylor, in between itemising the contents of my Glomesh bag, when i received an sms from fjg alerting me to the top ten Idol contestants performing on Channel 10's broadcast of the AFL.

Gordon was i appalled to see that talentless top ten wailing waltzing matilda. When they weren't wailing they were doing those awful phoney soulful shrieks, like Dannii and Kylie did when performing sisters are doin' it for themselves on YTT. I hastily returned to gone with the wind but after several more utterances of "fiddledee" and visions of Scarlett heaving her bosom and languishing over the super poop that is Ashley Wilkes, i had to flick the remote for a further taste of tawdry. And nobody does that better than channel ten.

This time i was delighted to cast an eye upon the Young Divas hollering out some tune that i cannot recall. Oh kate deAraugo! How could i have voted for her last year, well i blame Marcia Hines's campaign for Emily. Kate deAraugo really is the female Johnny Farnham in vocal delivery, movement and appearance. Some trifecta.

Still which was more appalling the performance by the young and idol or the oldsters from countdown revival. It was kind of entertaining to hear Sean Kelly performing I hear motion. the last time i saw him he was playing toadfish rebecchi's father on neighbours. Oh and the time before that, well I was competing in Elwood Idol and he was adjudicating. Between you and me , he's no Evie Hayes.

The other artistes from the Countdown Revile were lame as, still at least they were being true to themselves as Marcia Hines would say. Marcia Hines is a pillar of sincerity, truth and wisdom. And man, i mean, girlfriend, when will i master the jive bunny talk?! has she got soul.

Little Brian Mannix used the occasion to rock out big time. What a sensation he was - bounding abooot the stage in his black lycra tights and midrif shirt emblazoned with Beatles, another great band. Unfortunately the Cardinal's grandson didn't treat us to 50 years or how do you get your kicks. Bummer.

John Paul Young, that's Squeak to you and Molly, belted out "yesterday's hewo". A curious choice. If you were about to play in a grand final how would you feel hearing that: inspired or defeated.

It was godawful and utterly cringemaking but somewhat compelling.

Which of course brings me to Idol 2006.

Who will win this year's idol? Jessica? Idol had seemed rather promising earlier on but now it's rather bad. The choice and performance of songs are even worse than last year.

But hey, i am being kind of negative, and therefore untrue to myself. So please remember to love the skin you're in because if you take the L out of lover it's over. Right on, Marcia.

How low can you go?

Age and time were no barrier to enjoyment at last night's Brownlows.

My man and me had a top night out. Dinner and a show cannot be beaten, let's face it.

It was a very classy evening.

I was glad to have an occasion to sport an old red Osti frock that a friend, oh alright, yes it was Brian, we have called a truce, had very kindly revamped for me.

It was quite simple really. Don't want Brian to get ideas above his station.

The dress had been blessed with a plunging v neckline but Bri just cut that a bit lower, tore some holes out on the back at chest level, and used the K-Tel Bedazzler and sequins for a bit of razzle dazzle or bling as we call it nowadays.

I wore the dress back to front and hey, presto i was very Cop Shop Danni/Paula Duncan saying buona sera to Kelly Le Brock on a sultry spring evening circa 2006. A salute to some old style Hollywood/Cinecitta glamour with a contemporary slapper, if you willl.

The outfit and I were a hott surefire hit - prompted some dagger looks and scrag fights in the dunnies. Mission accomplished.

Lovely night and some very heart felt speeches were made, on stage and in the lavs, oh, just joshing.

Speaking of Paula Duncan as Danni in Cop Shop I think Paula/Danni's shoulderbag holding style, which i've adopted, is the cause for the abysmal tennis elbow that i've been suffering from for well over two months. I've been constantly clutching the bag's shoulder strap and keeping the arm bent at a right angle. So if you have a hand or man bag hanging from your shoulder, do not, i repeat, NOT, constantly clutch the strap keeping your arm bent at a right angle. Ladies, metros, keep that arm straight and stiff . And to keep your bag secure and avoid flaccid fish hand, gently cup the bottom of your bag with your palm. So you'll be nimble, secure AND stylish.

OMG

Today at work i was looking at the year 1956 . Yes, I write the in this year column for the office weekly bulletin, which is electronically circulated cob Tuesdays, so i was totally stressed out.

And do you know what, there were quite a few political events that year, let me tell you, revolutions, struggles for independence, deportations of bishops from islands , Kruschev criticising Stalin and his " cult of personality" leadership (and I thought Richard Lewis coined the phrase, must check with Kel Richards) , oh and tv and the Olympics arrived in Australia. Have i just plaigarised a top little verse from a Billy Joel tune?

Oooh yeah some very heavy shit went down , man, political upheaval, turmoil and that so i couldn't help but get distracted and start looking at birthdays.

I discovered that


Marcia Brady/Maureen McCormack recently turned

50.

An August Leo

now matooer

or is that old?

I wonder if she can still have

hair of gold?

(naturally)

And Tiger,

how old is Tiger?

in dog years?

Goodbye, Tiger.

My first concrete pome. I have always had the creative flair, well that's what Mrs Melvaine said in 3rd class.

She, Marsha not Mrs Melvaine, who must be like ancient, is the same age as Johnny Rotten and Kerry Chikarovski. I was surprised by the latter as i thought she'd be well into the 50's by now, but hey, give a Chick a Chance , and that sensational election campaign must have been in the 90's.

But really my lament is not about age but that goddamn sand and the hourglass.

Oh time suspend your flight.

Still if Marcia can do it so can we.

Email me if you want that badge.

Oh, blt, you'll be interested to know that Ann B. Davis , Alice the housekeeper, is alive and well and acting up a storm. Currently in Bali filmin a mini series about the Bali Nine for Channel Ten. She is playing Renae Lawrence. Oh and Bobby, no sorry, Oliver is playing Wa-Wa for the joint channel 9 and 7 documentary rescue. Real wa-wa has already lost his cute factor.

Chuckles central

I was given the series 1 deeveedee of the Good Life for my birthday. Rather puzzling thing to have bestowed upon me but have rather enjoyed watching it, after my initial slump at being a year older than Tom Good and being in as dead end job as he. Oh my have i appreciated the fact that Richard Briers, who plays Tom Good, was trained as a Shakespearan actor and revelled in his amusing Shakespearan actor send ups in several episodes. ho ho ho. Sheer genius. But it's Felicity Kendal who is the stand out and feather in this eye.

I recall watching the Good Life on the telly when i was in primary school but it had no impact on me really, just enough to twig that Barbara Good as played by Felicity Kendal was a dick and i was later kind of amused by the mocking of Flick in the Young Ones. I have to confess that recently i got rather hooked on that terribly clunky Rosemary and Thyme, in which Flick plays an horticulturalist come detective sailing to Lesbos. Sensational. But it is only now that i've had occasion to really marvel at and be maddened by her.

I have really honed my impression of Felicity Kendal's excruciating voice, mannerisms and style, am sportin' oversized pair of spectacles and some overalls as i type.

The Mistress has thus acquired a particularly fetching air and is very well equipped to deal with any folly that comes her way this week.

By the way it's Felicity's 60th birthday on the 25th of this month, next Monday, so i think we should all sport overalls, oversized spectacles and speak like her to honour her special day. You don't need to go overboard with expenditure, after all I'll just be wearing the khaki overalls i wore to honour Crockie a few Fridays ago.

outpouring of grief

Haven’t really felt like blogging since my return from Hobart to work. Yeah I’ve been reflecting big time about Brockie and Crockie dying how they lived.

So if i die mid barb, high kicking and gargling champers youse can all comfort yourselves and wisely intone 'oh the mistress she died how she lived.' Please note that the playing of you can't always get what you want and video eulogies from Russell Crowe are prohibited, otherwise i might just have to rise up and bite yas. Also no black sunnies and exposed bazookas in Collette Dinnigan frocks to be displayed at the function. But you can wear as many ribbons and crosses as your sweet hearts desire.

From high kicks to high indulgence. Forgive me, NSRs.

Actually the return to work has been a major downer and i’ve been feeling like a cross between Jim Dixon and George Costanza with a dash of Tom Good thrown in. Yeah, sjuuper. Oh perhaps women are meant to identify with Bridget Jones, sorry i cannot.

Being asked to collect a superior's medicine one day and lunch the next sticks in my craw, no matter how nice and busy the superior can be. What next the drycleaning? You'd think I worked for McMahon and Tate or Justice Sir Guthrie Featherstone MP.

I get irritated too quickly to be capable of saying "when you ask me to buy your lunch, i feel exploited by such an inappropriate wequest." "Cock off and get your own chico roll/codeine" is a lot more direct and satisfying anyway.

My vexation with the calibre of requests was sufficiently soundlessly exhibited for last abzzurd request to be retracted. A mutinous pursing of lips followed by the scattering of papers and hurling of a computer on the floor work wonders.

Anyhoo shit happens and then you die as Billy Thorpe no doubt hollered after his final song at Sunbury. Thank christ for the good times.

And at least i've got fictitious characters to relate to when pondering my flagging career.

You've got to be optimistic and smile with the 9-5 hump, after all there are much worse things, at least i don't have to sit an English language skills test without any tutelage or sign my name to some document about mateship, a fair go and god's own values. Pardon me but enforcing an English test without previously providing adequate access or funding to language education programs for immigrants hardly epitomises a "fair go". The antics of bad government, and that lameo opposition, oh splodge Beazley you are lamentable, particularly the citizenship caper have equally contributed to the frustation. Time to write letters to and protest against those pollies. And won't it be grand to have a federal election based around values.

I’ve done a few job appos and stepped up the socialising to keep the vinegar at bay, mmm well just outpouring the bile to sympathetic, perhaps selectively deaf friends. No really, vinegar bay can be a very satisfying drop every now and again, and abundantly available at NSR.

things that matter #97: Where's our spwing gone

Warm spell preceding cold snap is a fairly standard cycle in Sydney, and probably most places, as mooother nature makes her gradual transition from winter to spring, well it has been most of my life here in this increasingly annoying but so visually appealing city.

Since Friday the weather has been rather warm verging on hot over the weekend. Inevitably it didn't last, as it was unseasonal goddammit, and there was a wild southerly buster come Wednesday. So today's Sydney Morning Herald runs an article about winter's return, or where's our spring gone, get the where's our summer gone generally two weeks after the summer solstice and there's been a couple weeks of rain! This year old Fairfax has jumped the gun in moaning about spring. Spring actually hasn't sprung officially and won't until 22nd September.

This "news story" happens most seasons and each time i get worked up and rrrabid. However, now that i've blogged this gripe i promise to suffer in silence each season instead of making your ears bleed with my impression of a sibilant, warped 78 on a grandmaphone.

the mistress and the kindness of strangers

Well last week I was like in Tamsinia right and on Tuesday after my escape from the clutches of that dastardly driver, I was kind of rushed, insane and had to catch a bus to New Town but without sufficient moolah. So in a mad and dizzy flap I went to the atm and withdrew moolah, collected the card, squatted down to tie up my shoe lace and then forgot to collect the cash. Yes I know, I did this a couple of months ago, I am a fan of Lou Carpenter* but this is ridiculous. Fortunately the sum I failed to collect was only a ‘lobster, cobber’ and I had enough to get me to New Town. Only costs $1.70 to gad about the town in Hobart which of course makes the Hobart Metro the Hollywood Seven of public transport, 1 buck 70 for a ride or a tour guide takes your life.

Imagine my surprise when I checked my bank statement the other day, in between checking the information being spewed forth from my ticker tape machine while I tangoed with Gomez Adams, to see that the Hobart branch of my bank had deposited $20 into my account. Someone had gone to that machine after me, found my moolah and receipt and the darling lamb had then entered the bank, no doubt queued on my behalf, I’m sobbing as I type, thanking god all along the way, finally proceeding to the living breathing teller and giving the moolah to her/him to deposit into the mistress's important business account.

Thank you kind lady, thank you kind sir. You are a lamb of the highest order.


*Neighbours character currently suffering from early onset of Alzheimers but of course everyone remembers Hollywood Seven by Jon English and if you don't i'm sorry to advise that you have Alzheimers, bucko.

At home she's a tourist

Warning Non Sequitur Risers, the Mistress is still banging on about her recent travels in Tasmania.

This trip I was so keen on seeing parts of 'Tassie' which i'd missed on previous visits that I organised a day trip with a touring company to Tahune Forest. A guided tour was my only option as i do not know how to drive, there is no standard bus service to desired destination, and curiously my sister busies herself with other activities apart from shepherding me about and indulging my every whim.

I was strangely excited about this excursion. Pictured myself on a poopy and luggzuriously appointed coach with at least 20 other tourists, mainly seniors but a few backpackers too, a chubby and cheerful male driver in hat and uniform, and a perky blonde guide a la Julie McCoy from the Love Boat, dressed 70's stewardess style, i.e. sporting powder blue or tomato sauce red coloured scarf around her neck and knotted on the right, if it's knotted on the left it means you're an homosexualiste or 'hot' for Gopher, sorry can't remember which so don't ask me about earrings and their significance, who would be talking on a microphone informing us of our whereabouts and history and that. Once at our destination we'd be left to our own devices and then regroup at a certain time to return to Hobart.

During dinner the night before the guided tour, Lucy, Mark and I discussed the tour and then the conversation passed to foolish risks we had taken in our youth hitch hiking around the time of Milat, in true non sequitur style my recounts occurred out of Australia but imagine if they hadn't... , - not the most settling of discussions for nervy b drawers. I comforted myself by musing on the coach's size, its fixtures and fittings and general aesthetics, never the destination merely the means. Mark suggested that it might only be me and the driver and i'd be in for a personal tour in a hatchback; we chuckled , i somewhat nervously feeling a tad freaked out imagining the awkwardness of such a tour, not to mention downright scariness. I consoled myself that it could not happen as there'd have to be a sizeable number of passengers for a tour to take place.

The new day dawned sunny and blue skied and at 8.45 Lucy deposited me in Elizabeth Street and i skipped towards the bus terminal happily observing a neat and sleek looking coach parked outside the travel bureau. I was about to board it as i saw other passengers seated but thought i'd better first register so entered the office instead.

I checked in and as i turned to leave stating that i would go and board the bus was advised that it was destined elsewhere and i would be travelling in the stationwagon that was parked behind the bus.

wa wa wa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

My face must have fallen, once you pass 40 the elasticity just plum disappears, doesn't it girls- yours Maggie T, which is rather surprising as my face generally serves as an impenetrable mask to my emotions, for the woman at the cunter assured me that the trip in the stationwagon with two other passengers and a driver would be a wonderful way to tour.

So a seniors couple, the driver, sans hat sans Julie McCoy sans practically everyone, and I explored the Huon Valley and the Tahune Forest from 9 until 3. It was somewhat intimate. One's mind was rather feverishly imaginative at times, particularly when we were completely isolated or the driver advised that we'd take a detour from the scheduled itinery, loopily working out escape strategies for me and the seniors from a crazed and murderous chauffeur. I kept hearing the doors automatically locking. I had read in the Mercury that morning about a Northern Tasmanian tour operator, who was suspected of murdering an Italian tourist, being found murdered the day before. Rollercoaster of fear, my dears.

At 3 p.m. returned to Hobart safe and sound with suspicions and paranoia well intact, driver's reputation in tatters, the seniors and i bade each other a friendly farewell, and I was very glad that i was alive and able to hop on a metro bus to New Town to meet up with sister and nevews at the nevews' swimming lessons. As nephew major's swimming lesson drew to an end, nephew minor entertained himself by mucking around the swimming centre's blackboard upon which he wrote a most original maxim :

Friday is not available to pull your pants down

which is rather sound advice for anyone really, wish i'd sought his counsel about other matters.


Look, as Malcom Fraser, speaking of fallen trou, used to begin most justifications to the Press, I will definitely get my licence before my L's expire, madly saving for the lessons as I type.

birthday

My 41st birthday on Sunday was celebrated in great style on Bruny Island, from where Truganini came. We drove south to Kettering and caught a car ferry to the island. Very exciting. Naturally i had barely had any sleep the night before and was the first to rise the morning of the Mistress's special day.

Bruny Island is amazing; its geography is the stuff of adventure stories and really varied -you should go there. We went to Adventure Bay in the North, then continued to the South Island. I particularly loved the south island and the old lighthouse which was decommissioned in 1996. Wonderful views of course out to sea, very rugged scenery, and wild winds, snow on the distant mountains, bunnies running around, daffs, snowdrops and jonquils in bloom everywhere. We had a grand picnic on a beach and toasted my health with some delicious ninth island champagne, tinned tongue and macaroons. On the way bay back to the ferry terminal we stopped at the fairy penguin look out and a memorial to Truganini.

My nephew asked me if I preferred Bruny Island to Tasmania, and then Tasmania to Australia. Talk about "a tough call".

It was a great day.

During my entire sojourn in Tasmania I was blessed with glorious blue skies, sunshine and a nip in the air.

On Monday back in Tasmania my sister and I climbed the Truganini track to Mount Nelson and its signal station and a memorial to Truganini.

The ascent was rather arduous, steep and rocky, took about 60 minutes, I had to sit down a few times. Wonderful views of the Derwent and all of Hobart and her surrounds, and wild flowers scattered everywhere.

That signal station had the most complicated semaphore system. Highly decorative and colourful flags for each letter of the alphabet. The letters would have been easily confused. It did my head in, why on earth didn’t they just sms?

Then we visited an ‘istoric ‘ouse, sorry channelling Parker, in New Town called Runnymede and even got a personal guided tour like. That was fun. I love being a tourist.

However not all guided tours can be as carefree.....

Fire sculptures and sweeping statements

My flight to Tasmania had transported me to Erinsborough. Everyone is out and about and chatting to you in Hobart. People are unnervingly friendly. I always thought i was quite a friendly cove but really the amount of eye contact, hand shaking and general interest would make my father feel ill at ease.

Tasmanians have social skills that are almost obsolete in sin city, shaking hands and introducing themselves to every tom, dick and Sydney.

Saturday morning was spent fleetingly at the Salamanca markets tipping my hat, fair amount of chit chat and then more of the same while watching my nephews’ soccer matches.

I went to three ovals that day and each one was in the most amazing location - a fair bit south of Hobart, up high above the channel with the most spectacular surrounding views of the river Derwent and the mountain range. That morning alone i had seen 36 views of Mount Wellington.

While Lucy and Mark went to the primary school to assemble the business for the school’s fire sculpture night, a biennial event, the boys and I went up to the oval behind their house to watch another soccer match, play with their friends and I played catch with their dog and a gaggle of five year olds– for two and a half hours.

The afternoon’s bonding with the animal kingdom, introducing myself to the community and ogling the mountain and water views necessitated several gluhweins at the fire sculpture night – I was exhausted.

At the fire sculpture night apart from partaking in a few restorative snifters I caught up with all the cast and crew I’d met earlier at the local football match. The kiddies were racing about having a ball.

The fire sculptures were excellent, they were constructed from rope and hessian and shaped into the forms of monkeys, volcanoes, leaves, toucans, elephants. They were tied to the wire fence of the basketball court and doused in kero and then lit. they looked spectacular ablaze against the night sky. There were lantern parades and choral performances by the school children. It was lots of fun but I was exhausted and had to retire to bed at 8.30 while my sister, mark and their friends made merry and kicked on with some sambuca, no doubt set alight, so much arson about in Tasmania.

So you like Tassie now?

boomed my 7 y.o. nephew, over my shoulder after i'd been exclaiming about the gorgeous white blossom in full bloom along the Channel Highway which we were driving down en route to Fish Frenzy restaurant to celebrate the older nephew's tenth birthday.

I had flown into Hobart that morning. It was a great flight and I was very chipper and excited about my five day holiday in Tasmania. Sister l met me at the Hobart International airport took me to Taroona via Battery Point where we spent the day with Mark before collecting the boys from primary school.

Fish Frenzy is a great fish and chip shop restaurant on Constitution Dock. As we drove over the dock's bridge we espied a a handful of police and a group of 5 people, who were standing on a driveway that leads to some luggzurious apartments, chanting against the workplace laws. Fortunately it wasn’t against Fish Frenzy as I was hankering for some delicious crumbed scallops and chips. Perhaps Kevin Andrews was in town. Didn't want to enquire and lose my appetite, entered the restaurant to bags a table.

When we left the restaurant the protesters had departed but the four police officers remained. In Tasmania police still wear those hats with the flat, white, round top that resembles a frozen Sergeant’s pie, much nicer than those baseball caps that coppers seem to wear in NSW and Erinsborough. The coppers were just idling about chatting and informed my sister and her mother- in-law that the PM was in town staying at those flats. And it was from there that the cowardly boob announced the Government’s sale of its remaining shares in Telstra.

round and round she goes

Went to the opening of the Giacometti exhibition on Thursday night. It was lots of fun; can't tell you what the actual collection is like for in true shallow Sydney style was too busy swilling champers with Lillian Frank, Bubbles Fisher and Susan Sanger.

Yes, it was 1980, my favourite social period, and I think the current director of the glorious institution that is the art gallery of NSW was even directing the joint way back then.

Have listened to a few talks by said director over the years and he generally struck me as rather Nilesish from the Nanny in appearance and personality - his talks had been rather vinegary of tone, but on Thursday night for some reason I found him rather charmin' and witty, practically alluring. Perhaps it was the lighting, it was very dim, but he resembled a really dapper and urbane version of Iggy Pop or was that a louche version of Roger Moore?Who knows? Who cares? A curious turn of events and really of no interest to anyone but myself, well Susan and Lillian found it vaguely divertin', - am evidently well and truly off my rocker. But it's high time that Sydney had another Sexy Ed. Oh Sydney it's been too long.

A few other fun social events includng dinner chez sister G on Saturday which was very merry, a bit too much mirth really for the mistress was incapacitated come Sunday, pounding headache. All she could do was lie in bed with the eye mask on, occasionally removing it to read Nick Tosches's Dino, muttering to herself that she had a nasty migraine but I think in true Auntie Mame style the Mistress was just very hung.

With the mirth and mayhem the mistress does like to throw the occasional bit of community spirit into the mix and has spent two days facilitating at community consultations. They were good. Wonderful consultees and I think their concerns and suggestions were very thoroughly recorded.

And now the Mistress is on holiday!

Off to Hobart Friday morning, my nephew's 10th birthday, to visit sister L and her family. Yes if I’m not doing Auntie Mame impressions I’m channelling Monte Woolley in the man who came to dinner. I hasten to add that I am rarely Uncle Monty.

I love Hobes. Will keep you posted of any adventures, of which I’m sure there will be many.

Pleased as punch and waiting for the fall, which could be imminent, am flying jetstar, oh my !

BLOG ON

Good afternoon my special fwends.

The blog is a powerful medium.

A couple of postings ago the mistress lamented the dearth of red hot chillies, more prized than truffles and keith floyd at the mo, and lo and behold what should arrive in this evening's post but a parcel of fine fresh chillies direct from Bendigo. Lawks I hope that didn't contravene border control.

A lovely parcel and a lot more welcome than a rat a tat tat on the door and a newspaper parcel of poo ablaze on the doorstep.