Slake that thirst

A more mellow and positive vibe has permeated my aura since the silly season was officially declared over.

I only realised this new state while in the queue at Coles on Monday when i espied a new guarana energy drink displayed en masse in stands at the end of every aisle and by the checkouts. The drink must have been launched that day. Well it was the first time that i had encountered it and i do pride myself on being on the qui vive for new products.

The new energy drink has the most impressive packaging and name.


Talk about laugh out loud (that means LOL, kids) which is indeed what i did. It really tickled me no end. I was almost tempted to point it out to my fellow queuer, a stern looking young man, but I am not quite that mellow so just collected a can as a memento.

At first glance the drink can appears to be targeting the metaler market but on closer scrutiny the mother referred to is of the nature not the other variety. Shame.

Beverage has a most unpleasant taste, rather bitter and medicinal, a cross between floradix and chinotto.

Name, please

It first happened when I purchased a beverage at one of those coffee house chains. Apart from giving my order and relinquishing my moolah I also had to provide my name. I was taken aback but obedient, and waited in the queue for Ms Ann Thropy to be called out.

This trend for forced and false familiarity has now become customary when purchasing fare and beverages at most outlets in the ceebeedee.

And I do NOT like it.

No I do NOT.

NOT one little bit.

In keeping with my philosophy to carp and demean, and wail while I rail, the last couple of instances have been, hmmm, how should I describe it, somewhat fraught, a teeny bit mental, utterly self-involved and mildly undignified. Just another day of laughs and high kicks with the Mistress.

At a Mexican joint while placing an order, my name was requested. I asked why, and this unctuous buffoon expounded the forced and false familiarity manifesto. I suspect he had had anger and self-esteem issewes and had undergone all types of therapies to resolve them but to no avail, and consequently had only recently emerged from some vile week of Vipassna meditation in the Blue Mountains and landed this plum new job. So I gave the chump a chance and acquiesced. 10 minutes later I jumped out of my skin and yelped when he called out my name and I collected my burrito. My cheeks were burning as I stomped, no longer anonymously, past the neighbourhood centre and along Enmore Road.

The final straw was Monday at the healthy juicey extend your life loveyourliverbar. It was 7.15 am and a work day. So pets and lambs, cats and dudes, can we please just stick to the basics, no time for making new fwends . Please note that when i say basics i mean that when I place an order I always wait my turn, smile, look people in the eye, say hello and please, and pay.

IS THAT NOT ENOUGH?!

Everybody wants a piece of me. Well no more, you hear, no more. There are some things I just want to keep to myself and be left unsaid. If I wanted that kind of familiarity in my life I would have changed my name to Candy .

"What’s your name?", enquired the young woman. I replied that I didn’t want to give my name. Serveuse was a bit taken aback and raising her sulkiness to my petulance, instructed me to just make one up. I suggested that she just call out the name of the drink and I’d collect it. She explained that they liked to use names as it gets busy. I said, "well there’s only you and me, and that other customer I am sure we won’t get confused. " She grunted, processed my order, no doubt instructing juicer guy to piss in my drink, then went and served the next person.. Once the fruit juice was ready she slammed it on the counter without any announcement. I placed digit to bottom lip, popped my eyes, placed right hand on chest's centre and exclaimed "ooh is that mine" and jauntily collected the drink from the counter.

Oh I know; they’re only trying to make a living and I’m only trying to make it that little bit harder.

Old friends' night* #2017

Following a tip from Nickers i've been trawling youtube all evening watching old Dragon film clips. Oh don't get me wrong, sugar, i wasn't copying off him, i was into you tube way before he! I had just previously spent my time on the youtube channel trawling other important business - checking out Dragon had never crossed my mind.

Hey, do yourself a favour and have a look, at the clips not my mind, there's nothing to the latter.

Frankly Marc Hunter seems distinctly wilder than he did when i was 11. MH was one louche, dissolute, rangy cat. I just find it odd that in the same year, 1976, that i saw this time I just sniggered and enjoyed the bop and the carry on of the lads in the El Alamein Fountain whereas i was silenced and intrigued upon seeing Mickey J prancing about to hot stuff, must have been the scarf and that alcan foil on his arse, crotch and jacket. Grrrr tiger. Both singers were patently off their scones and i was sober, possibly razzed on some GI or red cordigal and playing with swap cards. I guess it's a question of über, that term is just not used enough these days, star quality.

In the promo film clip for this time Marc Hunter is a total caution, completely wild and full of cheek. Oh glory here's a link from grandma and then compare and contrast and of course, discuss amongst yourselves, this.

While marvelling at the high jinks of that MH in this time i can't help but worry about the future adulthood of my more rambunctious nevews.

Looking at the film clip for hot stuff now i find the appeal of the old Micksmaster somewhat comical. Any 11 yo worth her/his salt really would have been struck by how cool that Charlie was. How about Keith and his stripey trou, he'd been wearing that pair since the goddamn rocknroll circus. Special Scag or what. Not to mention the ensembles in this time - Todd and his super silver space boots. Anyway thanks for humouring the mistress and her little plastic inevitabel multimedia extravaganza. Oh technology where would we be without it. Oh and yes, i do remember the sex pistols on the goddamnmikewillessee a current affair but can we just focus on Marc H and Mickey J. You want to rekindle those kind of memories go to youtube -the Mistress, while a trailblazer, is not renowned for street credibilité.

Hanyways i could blog and bore you like this for hours, and let's face it have done, will do and did to most of you last weekend in the flesh, youtubethatnow.

Yes, so you know i spent the weekend par-taying in Mel and it was like being 19 all over again, oh good times and i guess if it were like i was 19 again the correct term to use would be raging.

The wedding celebrations seemed to generally go very well and the Bride and Groom enjoyed themselves as did the majority of the guests. I had a great time and was really happy to socialise, contrary to my big funk before attending which i attribute to pre-wedding jitters. I've said it before and i'll say it again - sweetheart, if i cannot personalise your experience it is not worth my while. Thank you to the Bride and Groom for their generous hospitality, the post-wedding hosts and crew, and of course to Lorraine.

I had a really wonderful weekend and am missing you all already, even those i possibly offended, but that's the ways it's got to be, little darlings.


*term copyright gha.

Sets by Mr Bob interior decorator

The new year in Neighbours has brought some incongruous fittings and fixtures to some of the sets, not to mention swearing and that new look and wardrobe for Karl Kennedy and his pursuit of self-sustainable living. Karl is looking quite dishevelled, almost grunge (hey, i cannot take credit for coining the word grunge, but gee imagine if you could, imagine making up a term, oh my brain hurts just thinking of the creativity required). A spin off sitcom about Karl and Susan and their self-sustainable living is imminent, if only their surname were Good and not Kennedy. Perhaps the show could be called glad i'm not a Kennedy .

Back to the sets.

In tonight's episode of Neighbours i was struck by the curious decor at Erinsborough hospital.
While Stef was telling Mad Max that they could not reunite, in the hospital's family break-up room, she was standing beside a wall shelf that held an array of coloured cocktail glasses , none of which, unfortunately for Max, had a splash of Mr Booze. The hospital corridor now features this amazing fish tank like decoration on its wall. It is lit by an aqua fluorescent light and appears to contain some kind of marine plant.

One mobile phone was persistently ringing in the background during most scenes at the hospital. It's very hectic there.

Off to Melburn tomorrow and i really must take the opportunity to further examine those sets.

Big treat and major gush

Jo and Craig treated me to Lou Reed's Berlin at the State Theatre last night.

It was A-mazing.

The Australian Youth Choir was just brilliant, i wonder if any of them or their parents had heard of loubear before this tour. Quite a night for some of those tots, as it was for all, really.

horn and string sections were incredible as was the rock'n'roll band.

Lou's voice, alternating between staccato and drawl, was magnificent, rich and resonant. The performance really came into its own from Men of good fortune onwards.

Spellbinding.

multimedia event, natch.

audience stoked, lou choked and gracious.

There was an encore after the performance of Berlin.

It began with Lou singing Sweet Jane with Sharon Jones who led after the first chorus and was sensational. Antony Hegarty sang an utterly sublime version of Candy says.

Then LR.

Then it ended.

Audience was quite a mix featuring: the lord mayor - sporting a particularly glittering ruby red dog collar, state alp pollies, rocking cats from dayze gone by with names like si the pie, jase the face and little jimmy scannerz, double and triple J and M deejays and abc newsreaders of yore (yes both James Dibble and Bruce Menzies were there!!), 1980's Surry Hills types, young indie wearing horizontal stripes, old new wavers looking like bumble bees in their horizontal stripes, old rocking daddies sporting Miami vice fashion, interesting looking women, Sydney eastern suburb blondes - tanned, toned and tucked, and people like us. Unfortunately no Tina Bursill, Ita Buttrose nor Joe Hasham, who would have definitely raised the tone. Perhaps they'll be going tonight. Must have been some crush in that Green Room post-performance - and some fly is still trying to make sense of it all.

Pink wasabi premonition

Don't worry not a single by a number three idol but the statement on a pale green t-shirt worn by a passenger sitting opposite me on the bus.

Oh wasabi it means nothing to me.

People appear to get a little irritated when you squint at their chest trying to decipher what is written or illustrated on the shirt covering their treasure but really they should just get a grip. You're making a statement, duds, be prepared to be read.

The only words worth writing and wearing on a t-shirt are

big fat mothertrucker

Oh, and in this our Federal election year,

Llady, love your Krudd.

cannot get enough of these goddamn carriage returns.... ooh and those dots, hoo ha

Neither of those t's will i be a sportin' this weekend when i make a special guest cameo at the wedding of the 21st century.

The wedding is in Melbourne, and i'm flying ass'n'stuff herself - the Qant. No more verjus bleurgh for me (see 6 March 2006 posting).

Back to the nuptials.

They are to be held in the suburb that Dame Edna once called hoame. One day, not in your lifetime, but probably mine, that Dame will be the patron saint of the Ponds. My monster prediction for 2033. Mind you, canonization could be a bit too much of an RC concept for the Dame who is probably CofE. However, towards her later years she will convert as all the best brains do. Well, actually the best brains are atheist.

It will be a marvellous celebration - the wedding, I mean, admittedly it pales in comparison to the celebrations that will ensue with Our Lady's future canonization.

Victoria being in the grips of a firestorm, I fear that the weather will be insupportable, hotter than Hades - 40 degrees, and that is one hot mothery cockadoodledoo, is forecast for Saturday 20107 ( man i hope i stil have this blog on the 9th february in 2010, but will shannon doherty still be alive? will luke perry still be dating renny zellwelleger?And Brian Austin Green still obscene?)

We will be jolly but sweaty puddles with fallen fascinators and skewiff ties, having celebrated the nuptials with great verve and joy, and once the newlyweds have bade farewell, we will re-group in a circle, it will be too hot for a group cuddle, as we flatly sing, not throw your arms around me but it's so hot today, a dirge like ditty popular in daycare centres nationwide in the early 90's.

it's so hot today
40 degrees in the shade
pour me some lemonade
it's so hot today

(refrain x 10)

Carry on matron is on Channel 2 at 4.30 Friday morning. I am a glass is half full person after all.

Back with a Wimpie burger

Happy newie and a happy new year too.

Well it's been some hiatus.

I guess it was caused by the lack of frivolity, self-deprecation, general fun and celebration of the superficial in cyberspace and their supplantation by the pretentious, self-congratulatory and misguidedly self-important, see postings November, October and all of September worldwebwide.

I could no longer be part of that kind of blogosphere. I yearned for some laughs, just one more ride on the merry-go-round for the sake of a good time, a pause from the bottom's not dissimilar from foot know-it-all and his good friend right-on Roger Bore. I had also recently read Debra Byrne's life story and had slumped to a new low. If only Gerald Samper had ghostwritten her horror story of a bio.

My blogjo had gone and i felt rather glum. What was i to do now that i'd given up public navel gazing and lame but carefree jokes. Inertia had consumed my very core, gone was the pitter patter banter of my tiny mind. I felt sluggish, washed up and cast aside, not to mention juiced up and sloppy.

It then dawned on me that it was time to engage physically with people, and i don't mean hooking up with strangers at swingers' fleshpots as advertised on the telegraph poles that are strewn open slather along City Road, let's leave something for 2008.

So socialise i did.

I went to the work Christmas party and caroused until the wee hours, I went out to luncheons and dinners with some new acquaintances who i'd met at group therapy, i met up with old friends and family to celebrate the birth of the J baby, Jesus the man lingers at Waverton Station, danced till dawn at the Lord Mayor's NYE part-ay with Tina Bursill, Ita Buttrose and a handful of other personalities, not to mention their tiny bodies and big heads, from the 70's and the 80's - a night of nights.

In essence and ultimatively i took a reality check. A hard pill to swallow indeed but i did, loved what didn't choke me, and am as proud as Shane Warne, but possibly not as proud as Simoane (that's French for dumb, former model - French is a very succinct tongue) and I eagerly anticipate and embrace the end of 2007.

For love, adventure and cash to spend, like Goldmark, or rehab, are just around the corner.

Warnie

Did you watch the Ashes?

Did you see Warnie's chin? He had this 3 cm long 2cm wide horizontal line along his double chin.

Was it a cut or a form of facial hair topiary only to be sported by those with double chins.

"it's not rocket science"

I don't want to hear it anymore.

Mr Squiggle mastered it and i doubt he slogged at it 24/7 so it's not really that difficult, and why not just say that?

Has the expression only been in use this century? I don't recall hearing it until i returned to office work in April 2000. I was very slow on the uptake as the girl friday and everyone kept chiding me for stocking the tea trolley with sachets of Coffee Mate instead of miniature motel portions of soy milk. Steep learning curve or what.

One phrase that i was really expecting to take off was "sex up". The English press frequently and magnificently used it - Blair "sexing up" intelligence and the dossier on weapons in Iraq. I was really getting irritated and loving it at the same time, such a fine line between pleasure and pain, contriving all kinds of conversations to use it, keenly anticipating Kath and Kim using the expression in the next series but it all fizzled out.

Kind of like this posting.

hot, hottt and hotties are now passé. Have derived so much pleasure from hot and its variations since I first heard it used that way by the common person and not rock stars or jocks in 1998 but goodness knows how long it had been used before that. In 2007 there'll be a new term so bye, bye hot.

and goodbye 'like' which is very over. Very is back and rack off "so".

24/7 is 4ever. Before you die you will have uttered it sincerely. Scary but true.

As for swear words well they are all passé and the once potent have been usurped by suck, flute and the classic, Schweppes. I'm never swearing again. Swearing has lost its oomph, as have i, and is pretty much like it's not rocket science or shit happens.

Haven't heard anything new recently, well apart from whoosher, but that struck me as rather contrived, and skill but that's big in Tasmania, and i really long to hear something of world-class proportions, so I cannot wait, along with Kel Richards and Ruth Wajnryb, for 2007. It is going to be a bumper year full of change, promise and many milestones.

Hesba Brinsmead

Neck is still ricked but gradually getting better.

Quelle semaine as they say in Year 7 French classes at academies for young English speakin' ladies.

Samedi soir found the mistress afloat in champagne at a festive and merry dinner party only to discover mid jape and neck freeze that two of the guests were villains from the underworld. I realised summat was afoot when there were rum mutterings of kneecapping, dodgy coppers and being slum landlords mixed amongst their general parlay about moolah. I felt like innocent joelene public at a fundraiser run by the Sopranos. Thank you fiction for helping me understand the real in my quotidian.

I awoke the next morning feeling a little freaked out. A nefarious foray indeed.

Neck ached. Spent the free time over the weekend groaning, reading William in trouble and watching the entire series 5 of six feet under. Far out am still haunted by that series.

Busy-busy week of sms, farewell Splodge and bienvenue Mac and Myer - Opposition for hire. Work was rather busy an'all and delightfully broken by accommodating a visitor.

OH and pollies to the left of me and pollies to the right. Couldn't escape them, they are everywhere campaigning for the March election. I was walking down the city streets at lunch hour when my path was blocked by papparazzi, so what, yeah, nothing unusual for the the mistress. I snatched a camera and after a frustrating 10 minutes of trying to rip out the film i realised that the camera was digital and hurled it to the pavement as a car drew to a halt. A prominent leader of the Parlous State emerged to enter a restaurant called Machiavelli. Our eyes met and i couldn't help but audibly groan "oh no" and turn around, bright eyes, and walk off. Boy that would have hurt him big time.

Love the non-ratings telly: Will and Grace, God's own Princess, that 70's show - what more could you want.

Well a better goddamn dramatisation of the life and times of Princess Royale Margaret de Mustique for starters. Ma'am darling/Queenie's sister was a travesty. Which was worse the courting rituals of hons and rebels where they'd make the sounds of barnyard animals to find their soul mate or weedy old roddy llewellyn in his hippy humpy in Buckinghamshire. Neither actually, both were trumped by a no-necked monster portrayal of Ma'am darling come Ma'am chanteuse boozily mumbling Eartha Kitty ditties in a club then munching hash cookies with 60's popstar type in Cheyne Walk.

Risible.

Krudd looks nothing like Harry Potter

While Kevin Rudd's supercilious, pedantic and smug manner reminds me very much of Professor Peabody, physically he is the dead spit of Cousin Oliver, who was of course John Denver's son. Kevin is Phil Rudd's brother.

No more on this topic, I promise, so 7.30 report. Instead I'll ponder incorrect spelling and grammar on shop signs, which generally prove to be almost as drole.

Political insight #5

Ooh that paragon of erudition and best practice in the public sector, godbotherer Kevin Rudd, is gearing up to contest Splodge's leadership crown.

Would have preferred Julia Gilliard myself.

Each time i think of or hear about Kevin Rudd I can't help but picture Professor Peabody.

I guess Julia Gillard as deputy would be Sherman.

Here's hoping Peabody and Sherman will be able to end John Howard's wayback machine of a reign.

kant, kanter, kaaant

Yeah how d'you like them apples for a title. I do love a good declension but at the moment it's all in my neck.

Did i land you in the soup with your work supervisor? Oh you are the team leader, well you'll be in the Heinz chunky veg/creamy pea and ham variety now and just about to flow down Robert Morley's throat an' all, cupcake.

So sOrry.

The mistress is up to her armpits in anguish and ignominy so it's only fair that you gain a little bit of her pain.

During my innocent knees up last Wednesday, i was blaring the nashville soundtrack, blogging away and sinking a gin and tonic or two, revelling in my company, when the neighbour from upstairs came and complained.

It was 7 p.m.

Get outta the pool.

If it had been in the wee hours or the people downstairs i would have sympathised, heaped on the Uriah and self-flagellated for a week.

The block of flats where i live is situated on a main road, under a flight path and in the city. These neighbours pick axe on amp, and generally between the hours of 10.30 and midnight stomp, move furniture, slam doors, and have explosive rows, so really should have kept sschtuum about my merrymaking. That's what McPoop here, who generally retires to sleepy bos by 10 each night, does, keep sschtuum not make merry. I just put in the ear plugs, roll over, and carry on - other people's living noise is one of the jöy's' of apartment living. Anyway i managed to express this several hours later after the complaint.

In true Costanza style i'd been simmering, stewing and huffing for quite a while and finally went up to the house of wowser and enumerated the reasons why i felt the complaint was rich. In essence i made a complaint but they started it. read the last clause with even more petulant and indignant tone.

This irritation added to the tension that had been lying in my neck and shoulder from the stress of a new job, not enough rest, three months of tennis elbow, and being mental. Friday morning my neck snapped and my head has been steeply inclined to the right ever since, this is jwh australia after all . For three days excruciating spasms from pinched nerves would stop me in my tracks every 10 minutes. On Sunday i was collected and chauffered to my sister's for a faaaaaaamily do. I had some booze and a marvellous pain killer, good times.

Chiropractor has stoppped the spasms but the left side of my neck and the shoulder are still very sore, immobile and twisted. Fortunately booze and pills make such a handsome pair, "and so say all of us "- Miz Liz 1962 to the present

And no interventions please, i need a hobby for 2007 - high lilly, high lilly, hi low.

Keep a-goin'

Well it is as hot as Hades in Syd. as it probably is everywhere else in this world-class, it don't worry me, T3 besotted nation.

No point complainin' about the heat. I've been countering it with a couple of very long Gordons and tonic, closed the windows and lowered the blinds.

It's a very dry heat which i must say i don't mind in moderation. I just imagine i'm in a Tennessee Williams play, but the heat in the south would be humid surely, adopt a southern accent and amuse myself greatly while flapping my pea green chinoise fan and alternate between cooing, sighing and laughing hysterically as i gaze upon my aged reflection in the looking glass.

Good news!

i have mastered an absolutely flawless impression of Liz Taylor's voice. I didn't have an opportunity to try it out at work but give me a call and you'll be so entertainted.

Am still loving the new job, despite lack of showing off opps, and more importantly am still being amply adored there.

Curiously i've managed to keep up the quietly competent front but for how long? I feel as though i'm walkin' a tightrope of double indemnity proportions; super efficient bel versus shit happens you got a problem with that bel. it's her and me straight down the line. or was that the premise for the patti duke show?

I do declare this heat is frahing what remains of mah brain. flutter of fan, twitch of eye, high pitched flirtatious giggle, gulp of gin upon glimpse of reflection. NB not example of Liz Taylor voice impression.

Been busy busy on the social front and all but like i said greatest achievements to date are my sensational impression of Liz Taylor's voice accompanied by the carriage of B. Dubois, and my new work place relations.

Spin out sister

Sad news about Robert Altman*. But frankly listening to Fran Kelly attempt to analyse his work with David Thomson on Radio National made me even sadder.

Nashville really is one of the most brilliant and entertaining movies. If it weren't for House and trippin over being broadcast tonight i'd watch it on deeveedee....

Thanks for some excellent movies and appreciating the Carradines, fella.

One of the Carradines should have been made President.


*When i heard the announcement of Robert Altman's death i was in a room away from the radio and misheard Bob's name for that of Dennis Waterman. I stopped in my tracks and then got dressed.

"comfy undies"

Call me uptight but every time i see that poster of Pat Cash, er, Rafter, oh how long have i been traipsing this earth, promoting Chesty Bond's underpants with the testimony that they are comfy, i get irritated. Imagine a world-class sweetheart such as i feeling such an emotion. Well it has happened and the concept of comfy undies has done it, sweet nsrs, all three of you, and yes, i do mind that i do not have global appeal.

I find the associated slogan displeasing not because i want my brothers and sisters, mums and daddies, to suffer discomfort and sport full briefs with loose elastic or knickers that have a tendency to seek domicile in the crack but because each time i read or hear that comfy undies' slogan i feel that Pat is sportin' underpants that have a distinct fart-like quality.

And woah, just stop there, you budding shrinkaramas and pop psychologists, I am not projecting. I most certainly do not a equate a pair of comfortable fitting underpants with fartpants. My beef with the slogan principally lies with the combination of an abbreviated adjective and an abbreviated noun. It's too smug , cute, self-congratulatory, gotta love our lingo, and is as coy as that catchcry promoting the eating of lamb, mum's cooking a lamb roast tonight. cosy. ugh.

Permission to spin out further.

What is with all those b grade starlets and lingerie lines. When will it stop? Only the other day, while having my hairs tinted at Rodney's hair salon, i read that jade jezebel scarlett jagger, mmm what message were mick n bianca trying to convey, had launched a line. This actually makes her a c grade starlet really, although she'd claim to be rockstocracy but you know, same diff, as most b's have their own line of perfume these days , and a's endorse skin care products, direct theatre companies and smile beatifically on red carpets, in playgrounds while festooned with kiddies or in foreign lands on kiddie adopting sprees.

tripping over is on tonight and that will soothe me no end.

Love you, and i'm talking to you, Huey, Dewey and Louie .

and furthermore

This morning while sitting on the bus I happened to observe a poster promoting Jamie Oliver's new cookery book. The poster features one photo of Jamie smashing up a microwave and another of him standing looking all puffed up and cocky with his arms crossed against his chest.

Jamie Oliver has never bothered nor thrilled me but as I appraised the advertisement distaste imbued my palate and it dawned on me that Jamie had become the Bono Vox of the cookery world.

Speaking of Bono, last week I was commenting to a friend how Sting had become practically harmless only to learn two days later that Sting had released a new lp on which he plays lute while squawking Elizabethan ditties or recitin' some excerpts from John Dowland's letters. I was lucky enough to hear an example of both on the radio.

English teacher, noo waver, poet laureate of pop, tantric lover, turtle lover, Russophile, peace troubadour - is there anything that Sting cannot do, well, apart from act.

A true Renonsence man.

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.