Blast off

On Friday night Joanna treated the mistress to a night of hilarity, nostalgia and entertainment of the highest quality.

Not Dirty Dicks but Countdown Spectacular 2!!! I'll reserve the lech and wench themed carry-on for one's 43rd anniversary, bags your seats now!

The show was a four hour spectacular with a punctual 7.30 kick off and 20 minute interval. We got there early to have our bubbles and the delicious rolls that J had kindly prepared for our tea. I particularly savoured the camembert and sundried tomato variety.

The bell rang and a firm but fair sounding bird instructed us to get to our seats, we did. Once seated i surveyed the punters who consisted of some baby boomers, many generation jones (1954-1965 don't ye know. Well i only do because Nickers keeps me apprised of such matters - he gets to listen to Life Matters and I rarely have the opportunity), and a smattering of generations X, Whine and Z. I had a couple of gels from generation Z beside me who leapt up and hollered when Katrina and the Waves opened the show. I don't know what i found more curious their age or reaction to K and the W. Oh settle, bel , that is not the spirit for countdown spectacular.

Where does one begin with such a show. Do you know what, almost all of the performers were great, admittedly the majority only had one song to perfect, occasionally two or three.

Gavin Wood got us settled, Joanna found him too cas, but i rather liked his toode, not to mention his look. It was strangely soothing and womblesque.

Highlights for the mistress:

Supernaut - BIG NATCH. Only did i like it both ways but. Would have loved to have heard too hot to touch, and even i don't want to be unemployed for a bit of comic relief. The look of Gary Twinn (lead singer) has like completely changed (extraordinary after 30 years!) He looks like some kind of US daytime soap star/contestant for INXS singer comp. Perhaps I'm a little bit Kath Day-Knight but i preferred the perm with its peroxided streaks and the long scarves on bare chest image. The gels that I went with thought he was gorrrrrrrrgeous but. So there you go and his new look was worth sighting just to hear them sincerely saying "oh he is gorrrrrrrrrgeous." But the highlight was when they waved a banner which said "Gary u spunk".

The Radiators. Coming home. Tops.

Plastic Bertrand. He looks incredibly young, plastic by name...., so slim for such a middle aged mec and so energetic. Ca Plane Pour Moi was the first 45 I bought. So now that i have seen the stars of the first 45 and 33 i purchased play live i feel truly fulfilled. I didn't purchase a 78 but the first one i encountered was under the house and belonged to my grandfather. It was by Eartha Kitt. I haven't seen her perform live though. Oh so many memories triggered that night.

Bloke from Pilot. Magic. January. When he began singing "magic" he had to give up the ghost for fits of giggles - the audience's singing along was drowning him out.

Ignatius Jones. They won't let my girlfriend talk to me. I'm not like everybody else

Dave Mason. Quasimodo's dream.

Martha Motello. Total control. L out of lover. and another one. There was also some marriage proposal pantomime performance between her and Molly which then led to Molly talking about giving up the booze but not being able to give up the fags. The next day I watched Carry-on cruising on the television and was struck by its sophistication.

Squit from Racey. The two hits.

Wa wa nee. Most contemporary. Sugar free and stimulation. Paul Gray is the spectacular's musical director, which is rather a YTT Greg Millsish destiny. The back up band was pretty good and those backup singers, the Wolfgramm Sisters were sensational.

Rick Springfield. Jesse's girl. Don't talk to strangers. Speak to the sky.

Angels No Secrets. Long line. Ever see your face again - audience did that no way, get fucked, rack off reply - rack off always manages to sound ruder than f.o. The way Bobby from Home and Away uttered rack off made her sound like Summer Bay's answer to Frank from Blue Velvet. Positively xxxx rated delivery, my dears and goldLogieworthy.

Lots more but i need a breather.

Poor little Graham Bonnett was an utter dud but at least he appeared almost oblivious as he hectored "it's all over now, baby blue". Perhaps he should have gone with "warm ride", slightly less challenging. I had an awful vision of him at the end of the evening backstage going up to people saying '' great show, eh", and people smiling weakly at him then turning away. He'd swig back some booze and proceed to the next person, fishing for a complimentary comment about his performance, finally crumpling in a heap, seeking confirmation from the walls that he'd done a good show. Rocknroll can be a tough game, well, so i 've read.

If only cocking Katie Cebs would be struck by a bit of self-doubt. Landsakes what a totally smug article she can be. Sang trust me which was fine but then as she introduced the next song Love don't live here anymore, she had the gall to say that at the time i'm talking released its version someone else did a cover overseas (Madonna?) and scientology talking's was the best. Both seemed to be very closely modelled on the original by Rose Royce. And really such skiting was not in keeping with the event - anyone would have thought she'd made the top ten in Rhodesia.

Later in the show Les McKeown, Smanfa Fox, Sharon O'Neill, LRB, Molly, Squeak but now Chartbusters...

Like a heartbeat ... drives you mad

Since Brian banished me from my own musical (see Street of dreams post July 2006 - i prefer brackets to footnotes) I had no recourse but to put the precious fuck on ice. I made no contact, didn't return her majesty's calls, mildly dissed him in one subsequent posting and crossed the road upon any possible sighting. Unfortunately last week at the pedestrian crossing I was smiling my thanks at the driver for stopping to let me cross when my eyes looked directly into those of Brian who was smack bang behind the steering wheel. I hastily turned the other way, ricking my neck in the process.

But you know what, NSRs, Brian is one tenacious so and so. No sooner do you attempt to freeze him does he insouciantly return, bouncing back up at you like one of those inflatable Romper Room clowns when pushed to the ground. In all honesty how can i cull someone i've known since my mystic days as a tween, besides the mistress cannot afford to lose any more pals.

So that night when the phone rang i didn't screen the call but answered. Sure enough it was Briannon on the blower. My frostiness and reserve didn't even register with him, he just steamrolled on and arranged me to meet him at the cafe down the road from Rockdale library.

As I entered the coffee lounge the next day for luncheon, I was rather intrigued to see seated beside Brian a dude with silver hair what was all new waved up and stoodio lined, sporting a Dennis the Menace red and black stripey long sleeved t. I then recalled that Bri's phone messages had featured a lot of "we" "us" and "our" (also a hilarious film starring Lucille Ball and Hank Fonda) which i had attributed to further evidence of high and mighty Bri.

With great flourish and smugness Bri presented Sylvain, introducing him as his "life partner". Sylvain is a Belgian francophone performance artiste. He seems to be about 50 and his biggest claim to fame is making parties with Plastic B and the lads from Telephone in the 80's. He talked of nothing else during our meal. Brian had a diet coke and a nice air sandwich, and Sylvain imbibed from a 2 litre bottle of orange juice that i suspect was mixed with voddie. The mistress wolfed an open melt with grilled tomato and a side serve of chips, beetroot, grated carrot, onion rings and limp lettuce washed down with a malted milkshake. The only things the mistress relished that lunch hour let me tell you. Oh and the 'ello 'ello accents. Yes, Brian has developed a curious accent, distinctly francophony. Precious and affected - how does he do it!

After we cordially said goodbye, I walked aimlessly down the Princes Highway in search of a bus or train station, tetchily mimicking the previous hour's Brinanities, and realised that Brian and i had yet again called a truce of sorts. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em as Robert le Clair-le Beau used to frequently pronounce to the puzzlement of the patrons at Doug's Place.

"Foot not dissimilar from bottom" corner

The expression done and dusted has probably been around 4eva (ohwuh everyone wants her!!) but it’s only recently registered with me.

I seem to hear done and dusted every day (“once we’ve gone into lockdown, embedded this and rolled out that we’ll be done and dusted before APEC was a boy”; whole lotta cheerful and successful completion of tasks happening in Sydney).

I must confess that I have even tried saying dnd a few times but have got confused and muttered dusted down or it’s all gorne dusty. This morning my tongue even twisted out dusted gold lady (must stop reading mojo – as if! It’s the perfect music magazine for the mistress – it’s crammed with the type of info and opinion I find fascinatin’ even though it's not spouted from me - fancy!)

I think my problem with saying done and dusted is that it does not ring true. I mean you would only be done after the dusting wouldn’t you. I rather like Pledged and Proper because that is how the mistress runs Tupper Mansions. I absolutely love those Pledge grab-it dust cloths and dusters. They are sensational, handy, not to mention wasteful. They remove dust, dustballs and hairs from all surfaces in a trice. Frankly I don't feel completely satisfied with dwelling’s cleanliness until the floors and furniture tops have been Pledged.

Then i can settle on the couch with a soothing cuppa and Scotch finger to watch a nice dvd and feel like all is right. And we all like a bit of alright now don't we.

You're all i've got tonight

It's extraordinary that it's August; I still feel like it's July - it won't truly feel like August until the Virgo's reign commences.

Let's face it we all feel so settled and happy, not to mention superior, when Virgo's time comes.

Virgo is Madge to Dame Edna; Fanny to Linda; Ronnie Corbett to Ronnie Barker but never Ronnie to Keef - sweetheart, there are some levels to which even a Virg will not plummet. It's not all bad* - Virgos make great teachers, accountants, librarians and public servants. Anything a Virgo cannot do? Have fun? Oh downer desist with your negative meddling, and that goes for you too Lllexie!! Wooh, alright Mistress (sorry, am just imagining if this were blogged live in front of a stoodio audience .)

So from end of August until lateish September we can all feel rather good about ourselves, unless of course mid-superiority stride you realise that you are a Virgo. And it's at that point the expression "nervy b" is coined.

Yeah so the Leo part of August has been hotttt, which is all you can expect from a Llleeo, natch.

Good times but also kinda mellow. Had my first beginners yoga class on Wednesday. After initial irritation by ultra mellow guru's sonorous timbre, bel got with the strength and asanaed about. It was fun to do exercises i recalled from childhood and it's reassuring to know i'm as unco now as i was then. However, with sheer determination i will again surmount the unco, temporarily, but i don't think i'll ever come third place again in high jump.

It was a very good stretch session i must say - my neck feels pretty marvellous and my mind not as tetchy as it has been, which admittedly is not saying much.

Still when i saw four people pick their noses today, two on the bus ( a senior mother and her middle-aged son - oh i blame the mother), one on the street and one at work, I did not get het up. I embraced their public quest, made four new friends, and scooped the oyster. So my perspective on life has really improved.

Now NSRs this is the part of the posting where the Mistress has to make a confession.

She has become a fan of a contemporary rocknroll band!!

How do you like them toffee apples?!!

*seems such a quaint expression in the age of it's all good

I who have NOTHING to say*

In the 70's and 80's when midday movies and less racy soap operas wanted to indicate that a heterosexual couple had just had sex, the woman wore the man's shirt in the next scene; generally a big blue number because everyone looks good in blue. It's true. Blondie sang so.

Well that post-coital indicator has well and truly vanished from the screen, only fitting in this the PLASMA age. It's spent, i tell you, spent! As is the sheet-wrap-around-the-torso effect. Now everyone wears white fluffy robes and you know that they have done it. They were probably wearing white fluffy robes to convey consummation in Love American Style or the Love Boat but the trend only hit Australia due to the great love story that was Maggie T and Dickie Z . Dickie actually also inspired all the pollies to wear chambray and chinos when hitting natural disaster zones. And as for Maggie, well hasn't she inspired each and everyone of us in some way. Neighbs has only recently cottoned onto the fluffy robe as root indicator in the past two years. Poor Neighbs no wonder it needed a revamp; so slow on the uptake.

It is a phenomenon that has extended to real life. Last Saturday while doing a spot of shopping in Kmart, I was perusing ladies' undergarments when this man raced up to me from another aisle wearing a white fluffy robe and gleefully cried "you'll never guess what i've been doing!!" Astonishing and true. Poor public doesn't yet realise that you don't need to announce it as sportage of w.f. robe says it all.

Everyone in Neighbours, apart from wearing fluffy white robes - at it like rabbits they are, is moving to goddamn Queensland, Cairns in particular. But not one character pronounces Cairns with care, they pronounce it as cans and that, nsrs, absolutely gets my goat. Do you remember that singer Kim Carnes who sang bette davis eyes. Well, Gavin Wood on Countdown used to pronounce her surname as Cairns should be pronounced!! Topsy turvy am gonna have a nervy.

In other news I have had a hangover for 6 days - attended a great party for a great lady. Unfortunately my capacity to hold booze is not that great.

Post-good times for an old lady requires desperate guzzling of chamomile tea to abate the pounding head and impending nervy b. However, since sinking some light beer, I feel fine. How'd you be.

After next Wednesday the mistress is going to be a really calm and centred person. She is starting Hatha Yoga. And once got a few asanas down pat will venture towards the bank and motoring school.....The mistress is a woman of simple ambitions.

*Sounds like a Bee Gees' song title circa 67, eh? But tisn't. Would have been a great song but.

My dilemma is your dilemma

But is certainly not one for Premier Iemma who I happened upon at the Commonwealth flexiteller the other afternoon. There was a bodyguard stood in the gutter on Castlereagh Street observing the Premier extract some moolah from the hole in the wall. I wonder if the flexicard belongs to the security guard.

Do you know, nsrs, I am probably the first person you knew who had a handycard. Yes, that's right handycard. I was with the Bank of Wales, it could have become Westpac in 1984 though, and their automatic teller machines were then known as handybanks. I loved this term. It reminded me of one of my paternal aunts, who, apart from giving my sisters and me sponge bags every year for xmas, loved the adjective handy. Fishpaste was handy, ratsak was handy, even cocking Dolly magazine was handy - it kept her daughter from nagging her for 15 minutes or looking for food and then dipping her finger in the trail of ratsak that Nan had scattered on the shelves. But that is another story. My pin number for the handycard was 8613. It's ok i have new one now it's... Oh, you can't trick me like that.

So yeah my dilemma. Oh it is nothing as bad as picking at something to eat and discovering that it's poisonous or a flicked boo, no it's more of an olfactory dilemma.

I bought some tissues. A lovely big box that claims its contents are not only soft but large. Don't like them piddly little tissewes, inadequate for my schnoz, inflammed sinuses and watery eyes. The box also has lovely illustrations of yella flowers and the words chamomile and aloe vera are written in modern cursive (a style i could never quite master).

Very soothing, a veritable mater's hand stroking a hot and swollen forehead. Maamah.

Upon return to work i busily and importantly retrieved the box from my shopping bag and firmly placed the tissues on my desk. The box's bottom even has a tissewe "elevator" to facilitate the last few tissues' exit from the box. Classy and handy. So i pushed in the arrows to activate this elevator (for some reason all i can now picture is Jim Keays), opened the box, sighing with great satisfaction as i plucked a tissue and proceeded to do the bugle call. What a horrible scent i snuffed. It was overpowering like the old scent of Sunsilk poured over cat's piss. God awful. Worse the scent wafts from the box to my seat and over the partition to colleagues.

The mistress does have highly developed olfactory sensitivity but is not averse to perfume; signature scent is Chanel's Coco Mademoiselle eau de parfum and she does love Harpic's lavender in the latrine but this tissue fragrance is the ZaSu Pitts.

What is a bel to do, 193 tissues remain. I cannot throw them out, that would be too wasteful. If only I'd bought that big butch black and red box of Kleenex mansize tissues.

Flapping ears, flapping gums

Yes so hullo and whatnot. Since the new financial year I have spent my time in transit, on island holidays and then a spell in the sanatorium recovering from bronchitis. Let me tell you, nsrs, during this time I have kept myself entertained, even joining a few societies online - my this apron is stylish and just wait till you cop a handshake from the Mistress. Eh feel most powerful and important.

When I was at the airport awaiting the flight to antarctic paradise, I sat diagonally opposite some young pup of 21 who told this Macleans kind of a girl that he was a Fed pollie’s “advisor”. Before I go any further may I just add that I am so glad that when I was a teen and 20 something one didn’t greet one’s friends with kisses, just a bit of gob and a knee to groin, natch. Hard times. All the young'uns kiss cheek these days and it strikes me as very tiresome, I only kiss someone as a greeting if I have not seen that person for a minimwhah of 30 days or have got the moondog blues. Sure mwah mwah seems continental but are we not all on continent?

Back to the young advisor, my ears must have been visibly flapping and my facial expression rather curious for poor young thing kept darting nervous looks at me as he parleyed. He didn’t utter any interestin’ titbits though and I managed to smooth my grimace when I realised it was probably he who was responsible for his Minister donning the shrek ears and playing the role on the Kerri-Anne K show.

I had a loverly long weekend away and enjoyed great hospitality and had lots of fun. Unfortunately the chilly chilly climes encouraged my cold to extend its stay and I became quite poorly, still it was grand to have additional time off work.

Upon my return to Sydney and prior to my realising I’d caught my Merle Oberon, I took a ferry to a beautiful cove, opposed to all them rum ones what you happened upon in the 20's and 30's, and promenaded around one of the many glorious reserves that bless Sydney’s harbour foreshore. As I marvelled at its beauty I overheard a trio of seniors talking about a friend who had breast-fed her youngest daughter until she was seven. The most senior of the trio then added that said long lactiferous lady " has just got a grandson, hasn’t she?" Meaning…..?!

Perhaps there should be a 7 up version of teat veterans. Michael Parkinson could narrate, for he admitted to the bittie skit in Little Britain being his favourite. Docomaker send your commish to the mistress.

So when i was not flapping my ears or coughing in a consumptive fashion i was hitting cyberspace, watching and loving the Sweeney ("shut it !", "I should cocoa", oh and lots of bish to actress quips - heaven really), and listening to the wireless. Consequently, I have gleaned two important pieces of information, not bad for a week lying around, evidently spent too much time working on Jack Regan impressions - but let's face it, if i were a character on the Sweeney with my capacity to flap ears and gums (always with integrity, mind) i'd have to be a snivelling toe-rag of a snout and not a flash Harry villain, let alone a hard-bitten, heavy drinkin' Flying Squad detective. That's Sanyo, that's life.

Did you know:

Last week Enid Blyton’s first daughter died – she was aged in her mid-70’s.

and

The USS Kitty Hawk has docked in Sydney. Vessel’s wing commander goes by the name of Mike Hunt.

You feed off my mind like a jackal

On Saturday night my three companions and I (yes, was with Thommo and those still rather lissome and very blonde sisters Bimbo and Bambi; i fagged for the gels when they were in the Upper Fifth and i was in the Lower First) must have been the few Sydneysiders to see Keating! for the first time. Still it's pretty nice for Thommo to have a first at his ripe old age; even that son of a gun can't be a trailblazer all the time.

Keating! was absolutely brilliant. It was sheer comic genius and a superb melange of musical genres. The Bob Fosse inspired entrance of Keating, the soulful duelling duets, the wappy rap and Dr J (Hewson), and the lugubrious Gareth who was very Caiphus-like (as interpreted by Lloyd Webber & Rice) . I couldn't even begin to elaborate on the spectacular that was I want to do you slowly or the gyratin', galootin' Lexie Downer hot gossip floorshow - grrrrrrrr tiger.

My dears, the utter captivation and thrill of such a show. Sheer heaven and mirth.

It was so spot on and really rather flawless. The only time i could not laugh was when jwh became centre stage, that was too, too sad and chilling, positively sick-making.

I tell you what, nsrs, how grand was it to remember Keating as that dashing, sharp tongued, clever progressive rather than the bileous Panto Dame he has become in recent years. A source of the Mistress reveals that PJK has been to see the performance several times, i guess in between watching Joe Hockey playing Shrek on the Kerrie Anne Kennerley show.

Only pollie there on our night was Peter Garrett. But you know, when don't you happen upon that dude. He is like very tall and bald. Presented quite the contrast to a lot of those diminutive, luxuriantly snowy haired alp types.

In other news, not much to report. Have been working night and day, flat out. So much so that my dreams no longer feature pop stars, celebs or jaunty little trips to Ravello on a motorcycle with Gore Vidal in adjoining sidecar but entail my chasing paper, negotiating minefields with spinners, trying to beat the clock (not sure whether it's in a 39 steps or Sparx fashion - hey it's always your choice on NSR) and hearing people talk at me - so i'm living and dreaming the nervy B. Jim Dandy is so not 'ere. Perhaps he'll return in the spring?

Oh, you might be interested to know that "shit happens nude dude" from across the eastern way of Tupper Mansions has plum sold his digs and demenaged! I only realised this yesterday (see i've been like way too busy to peep) when I noticed that his impressive stash of long neck empties no longer lined his kitchen window sill. And then i saw lots of young men in overalls painting the walls.

I've got a hacking cough and have been wondering whether it's the old superpooperwhooping cough. Surely not but I do double up and almost vomit mid-splutter, haven't had a booster shot since 1985. So i've treated myself to a bottle of single malt whisky which i'm imbibing while i type making me feel very Gordon Jackson but i don't think he knew how to type, or coughed with such a lack of decorum for that matter.

Andy's banana

Factory girls.

The look of lust

It's official - RodnRonnie read NSR.

How do i know? Sitemeter of course.

NSR has had some hits from the UK - geezers googling "leggy tarts".

In India there is a googler doing searches for "rising cock pants" and ends up landing on the old NSR, after dark edition, natch.

And hello to the sweetheart in Korea who does a weekly search under "I love tv". I do and you do but, pet, it's just not meant to be.

Oh woh ohhh Juno

June Allyson

June Carter-Cash

June Dally-Watkins

June Lockhart

Junie Morosi

Jeune Pritchard (she pronounces it as dju:n though; is it better to be called young or June?)

June Salty-Melon

I have an opinion on 6 of the 7 Junes above but big whoop.

Have you ever had a friend called June?

Have you ever been mellow?

Are new born gels named June anymore?

Have you alighted from a train at Junee station?

Oh my love is like a red, red rose that is newly sprung in June.

June also happened to be a book what was adapted to film featuring the outstanding thespian who goes by the name of Sting.

NicwedkeithinJune.

The June Brides were from Coventry (as were the Specials but there's nothing special about NnK nor the JB's to this mind...)

I am currently in Coventry; it's a nice familiar location - i think i'll invest there one day, get myself a nice pied à terre, lovely.

June heralds the middle of the year and it's almost winter

You'd better wrap that coat around ya

You can lick my mixmaster's bowl

In keeping with last week’s theme of food, the mistress will continue with the culinary caper, perhaps not as wacky as those Kids from c.a.p.e.r. (the theme tune for which my mind was playing as I stirred from my slumber this morning) but a divertin’ motif nevertheless.

Yes so the mistress has got back her baking mojo and been cooking up a storm. I’ve been delving into the Margaret Fulton cookbook and whipping up afternoon teacakes, lemon meringue pies, strawberry soufflés and chocolate mousse. And it has dawned on me that no matter what you bake, nsrs, if you are using eggs, it always pays to separate the yolk from the white, whipping those whites till stiff, and folding in the beaten yolk with the sugar aforehand works wonders. The lightness of that teacake was absolutely extraordinary. Margaret Fulton’s instructions, like that can of oil spray she used to promote, are pure and simple. Images of orangey red gingham are now flashing before my eyes.

I do wonder why my mind is so fixed in the past when I post. Is the now that bleak, bel? is it, bel, is it?

Well I tell you who found the now pretty bleak today, Princess Derrrek in charge of the counter at the local bookshop that is who. Gordonia de Benatar did he have a right royal attack of the snippety snoos this a.m. when the Mistress was purchasing some lovely birthday presents. Admittedly the mistress was in a bit of a courtesy counts flap, checking that she hadn’t jumped the queue and faffing about, dropping coins, bumping into displays, when ruddy old Derrrrek got most terse and heavy with the imperatives and the mistress, who did what she was told, ever obedient - only to stew about it several hours later, natch. Scold her and watch her slow burn for hours on end as though upon some whizbang K-tel rotisserie gadget.

While it is good to lay off the vinegar when you are serving customers, the mistress as cook finds it indispensable and sloshes it about when boiling water and cooking eggs, yes i know who doesn't. While every cook under the sun from Mrs Beeton to Elizabeth David, oh and lest we forget King, prescribed the use of vinegar, I think it was FCB who introduced mid 20' s mistress to its wonders when poaching eggs. FCB poaches a very mean egg.

It really is joy to flip through Elizabeth David recipe books; the delightful anecdotes and illustrations - the recipes aren’t bad either. Her pâte brisée recipe is indispensable for making pastry for all open tarts. It is so faultlessly simple to follow and absolutely delicious. South wind through the kitchen , which mmc gave me one christmas many baby J's ago, is an excellent compilation of E. David's Mediterranean recipes and a most soothing read to boot, i turned to it this afternoon. I cannot recall whether Gerald Samper is a fan...but are we not all Gerry Samper as the pop group once sang.

Of Orange Slice neglected

Orange Slice

Least loved biscuit

in the Arnotts Assorted Cream family

You are always the last to remain

in that biscuit packet’s row of cellophane

When placed in the tin or Tupperware

Your pungent scent permeates the flavour of your fancy siblings:

Delta cream, Monte Carlo – even resolute Kingston

Causing eater to wince and utter “ugh”

Orange slice you are the middle child

Destined to be played by Eve Plumb

In a very assorted cream biscuit hour special

Orange slice you are not universally desired but you are needed

You are the trigger and scourge of childhood memories Australian.

Best legs in Australia but what about Frahnce

During the course of my day I had three people tell me that they were going to get their legs waxed.

No, I didn’t greet them with a "hey, hot legs" or a "what’ve you got in your basket?", I defer to the master, R. Stewart, for that kind of banter. I had just uttered a cordial greeting and they let loose so I duly responded with a “shame” or a “nice” depending on the manner of their delivery. Still at least they weren’t getting Brazilians or I guess they would have been telling me about the joy of waxed snatch to which one could only reply with a “yowzer “ or "let your minge keep her fringe."

Speaking of which this week I have been privy to the comings and goings of the city's fashion week courtesy of my post-work evening stroll to the bus stop at the quay, via Kent Street, the Windmill steps, Hickson Road, the laundry on the hill and the overseas passenger terminal- the latter is where fashion week is taking place. The attendees at fashion week just seem to be wearing super fly 70’s sunglasses, pieces of material around the torso and a belt or just black ensembles – sucked in cheeks and sullen expressions accessorise all outfits. I did see one woman in a beautiful cherry red woollen dress which was adorned with a matching patent leather belt but she was in her mid-40’s, so would understand the difference between style and fashion. Her only flaw was that she was on the mobe banging on about Fraaaaaaahnce.

Oh the recurring themes that plague. If i'm not being haunted by the sight of the bus to Castlecrag threes times per day, or having people waxing to me about depilatory methods and activities, i'm constantly hearing or being reminded about Fraaaaaahnce.

Oh ruddy Marianne!

I have several different groups of friends, people at work and now fellow pedestrians talking about going to Frahnce or wanting to go to Frahnce. Am I watching the final season of a US tv show or living in the south of England ? Are my friends metamorphosing into Peter Mayle, letting their inner Bonnie Tyler roam free (been there, done that) or is it just the perfect destination for the middle age rampage. Time for a nice Contiki tour of South-East Asia with the kids for me.

The veneration of France by Anglophones is akin to the esteem in which the Beatles are held, which of course means that if France were a pop group she would be the Beatles.

Ombrageuse Amazone

This afternoon at the local hardware I shared an aisle with soaky runt the librarian from Fisher and Leo Sayer; it was a leggy moment.

Enmore monologue

Well the Mistress has been the veritable mamma with the gaily coloured plastic bag for she has been grooving it the whole night long with an abandon you could not possibly credit.

Lay it on me, brother, indeed!!

Catching shows by international pop stars and morose intense minstrels, showing the sights of her city of Sydney to guests from interstate, and droning on to very nice people about primary school days, the importance of the subjunctive and Wordsworth. Gordonia de Benatar. My apologies to the nice people.

Last Thursday M and I had the pleasure of seeing Glenn Tilbrook. It was a really wonderful performance and the audience was pretty marvellous too. Dicko's stunt double was at the bar and we were in the land of 1001 Grant and Phil Mitchells, i.e middle-aged stocky Englishmen with balding shaved heads who were sporting brightly coloured or patterned shirts that their mothers had no doubt posted to them for Christmas. It was a rollicking night, possibly not dissimilar to the Deptford Comprehensive Class of 75 Reunion, and wonderful hearing and singing along to all those top Squeeze songs and hearing GT’s newer compositions. GT was very entertaining, funny and involved his audience in a spectacular way. He is a top banana and I did not imagine that I would have two and a half hours crammed with such joy and engagement. Thank you GT.

The minstrels I encountered the following night – Dickie B and Edie, were quite a stark contrast. Fortunately I did have the delightful company of S and O who had come to town. We had a dinner and a show deal - the dinner was delicious, the venue tops, the show somewhat duddish. Troubadours specialised in tediously intense and monotonous tales of woe without an ounce of humour or showbiz zing. I guess i still equate dinner and a show with a night in Vegas and the Rat Pack - highballs, hi jinx and hilarity. Dear Edie read some Doris Lessing, girl. i know Doris Lessing mentioned in the same breath as the Rat Pack - crazy NSR. But really she could have just done a folksy version of Kim Hart's looking for love at first sight - her lyrics were that liberated! OH and Dickie B, Lou Reed could give you some tips on chatter and charm. The audience featured television and radio broadcasters, daughters of former radio broadcasters, indie of today and yesteryear, Pat the Rat, no she's returned to Erinsborough, and a bemused middle-aged dame knocking back Cointreau and ice, yes, I was in my element. The venue had very, very nice waiting and bar staff.

Still the turgidness of the Dickie B and Edie show was a mere blottini in four days of entertaining company, excursions, dinners and barbecues that were full of laughs and liquor. I am glad that tomorrow is a public holiday so I can rest on my new, marvellous mattress, bed and special pillow for pains in the neck. My new bed is so high I that I feel like that terrible Melissa from thirtysomething; if you don’t know who that is just picture a fully grown woman acting like a wittle girl but fear not the mistress won’t start posting or speaking in bubblegum talk. Not this week anyway. L♥v u:)

the lady vanishes

Cool it everybody, just cool it, don't worry am not about to release a mass of dead white moths, quote Pete Shelley or dedicate the posting to Brian (as if - not for that treacherous toad) ; let alone lamely attempt to call into line some blood thirsty racist bikers . Brothers and sisters everythink is alright, it's cool, not Kris Kristofferson cool, but A-OK cool, the mistress is back, safe, sound and smugly ensconced in the mansions after allegedly going AWOL for four days.

Wooh. Glad i got that out.

Apparently my absence from functions, cyberspace and text has been the talk of towns from Bellingen to Bendigo, a disappearance of Lord Lucan proportions. But i have returned - moustache intact.

Hey, i love being the talk of the town and can only imagine the type of chatter that would have ensued had others tapped into my answering machine and heard the message left on Thursday:

Hi Bel, it's me I got out of lock up last week and I'm on parole. The lady told me to give you a call and check in. Call ___ ____ on beeeeeeeeeeep.

The telephone call was not returned...Hell, i know the mistress is occasionally worthy of the moniker, Vinegar Tits, but she draws the line at the Freak - she ain't no screw, more Governor, natch, oh, alright, i'll concede to Bea with a dash of Lizzie. Nevertheless, not one of us was going to ring him. I'd never met the man, confound it.

Yeah, so when i wasn't on the lam or visiting those doing stir, i spent a marvellous Easter in the montagna, Rydal, Cox's river and Lithgow. On the way back was driven down the Bell's Line of Road. My it was pretty. Very green and lush. Bellbirds chimed on Bellbird Hill and Richmond looked beautiful. The town's sign claims that Richmond is historic and a Macquarie town.

Is there anything that bank doesn't own?

My mind then wandered to Richmond's famous resident, Mike Walsh, and pictured MW at home hosting an Easter Monday banquet with Midday luminaries such as Shirley Williams, Hollywood Howson, Jeannie Little, Dr James Wright, Jade Hurley, and leggy Jackie Love at his table, perhaps later performing Jesus Christ Superstar at the town's Regent Theatre, which MW restored. A bel can dream can't she?

I got back by midday, actually, and gave Tupper Mansions a wonderful spring clean. Then donned dark glasses, a baseball cap and proceeded to walk on my knees as i accompanied nicnkeith on their surprise walk with the plebs keeping it real visit to the Royal Easter Show.

Oh the media manipulation by the celebrity - surely it is time for a tanty in the Temple about that. Name your price i've got everything indeed.

Cold Mountain you are a caution! One minute you’re complaining about the invasion of the press and conducting drag races against the papparazzi on the south coast, the next alerting all media outlets of your queuing amongst the people to buy a show bag.

Live by the sword die by the sword or i'll be seeing you in the laundry just near that ironing press......

Oh telepathic line

For those of you who have had the privilege of my acquaintance, my affectation and occasional fits of tetch (hard to imagine I know) over the past score or so, the following will come as no surprise but for my newer legion of fans i really feel that before things go any further there is something you should know. Not only do i have a gift for the inane but i have THE gift, i.e. I have a sixth sense.

A gift but at times also a burden.

I was first made aware of this psychic ability in the early 70's.

It was a glorious summer's day and my immediate family had an outing with my father's side of the family to Bilgola beach; curiously my father wasn’t there; no doubt beetling about doing important business - booze bargains to be bought across town.

Bilgola was a beautiful beach, no surf, water was crystal clear and sand rather pristine. It was also sheltered from the wind. My siblings and I had just been having a discussion about marine life and were smothering sniggers caused by an adult's comment about octopuses having such long testicles when my mother, tired of my er, exuberance, sent me to the sea to wash the sand from my hands before eating lunch. I didn't want to go to the water for fear of being stung by a bluebottle. My protests were ignored so I went down to the shore and stood in the sea limply dunking the hands, occasionally turning around to scowl, when I felt a very nasty sting and beastie wrap around my seven year old ankle; not an octopus' testicle but a bluebottle's tentacle.

While the sting didn’t result in my donning a blue catsuit and cape, saving lives and fighting villains or other duties required of a Portuguese-speaking hermaphrodite superhero, it did inspire me to visit the local stationer's the following week.

From Mr Mussett I purchased a thick Pentel black pen and a very big white sheet of cardboard.

With these tools I created a Ouija board and after snavelling a sherrrry glass and crystal ball paperweight from my great-aunt’s sideboard I had all the fixtures and fittings to peddle my psychic talents.

Miss Bel was a most enterprising young gel. While other kiddies would spend recess and lunch debriefing about Fester Fumble and Miser Meany or playing elastics, Miss Bel would loiter outside christian schools giving demonstrations of her talents; she had learnt that the clientele at secular schools were tougher nuts to crack. Soon Miss Bel and her Ouija board were doing a roaring trade. You might recall those kiddies’ parties that featured face painting, jumping castles and blousy dames and kiddies sporting fairy wings and tutus being the rage in the 90’s; well Miss Bel, her ouija board and sherry glass, empty or full, were the 70’s equivalent - unreal orange peel was how the kids described them.

It was at one of these parties that I met Brian the autodidact who became quite the devotee and eventually my assistant.

By the early 80’s, adolescent ennui an’that had well and truly submerged one’s psyche so the séances and general sense of enterprise petered out while i fell in with a rum set and went from junior miss to mistress.

However, the gift still lurked. My mere mentioning of stars' names could lead to their deaths, their walking down the neighbourhood street or their tv shows coming a cropper the very next day. Election results were predicted, spoons bent, clocks and watches stopped, traffic lights went from amber to red, telephones rang. I was later to make cameo appearances and provide some storylines for the television.

So like most gifted and talented I plodded on, aware of my endowments, making sure everybody else was, and occasionally using them. However, the other day I happened on that former assistant's blog where he denounced my power describing it as fraudulent and at its best coincidence.

A cowinkydink not a power?

Surely not. Or perhaps it was another example of the delusion and malaise that have beset the mistress in later years and her quest for elan, oh and bling. One minute feebly attempting to be different: adopting the Edwardian 'g' drop, baskin' in the reflected glory of some faded pollie or star of the plasma screen, and now skiting of powers; only to spend the next validating it and her existence by documenting it all in cyberspace.

Really where on earth is Brian when you start spiralling downward and out.

Dissing you in cyberspace that's where.

Gather your wits Mistress don't let that Hector projector undermine you. Breathe in, breathe out. Didn't you mention Donny Osmond in your last posting? Affirmative. Didn't you just read that the poor pet had his show cancelled? Affirmative. Well there you go, gel, you've still got it and the gift.

Ohhhh, of course i dooooo! (uttered Julie Andrews' style )

Now i know what tall poppies, won't mention any by name..., battle against every day and i've triumphed. I've gone from poop to poppy.

Steady with your scythe, Bri, this poppy will not be felled, she's blooming upward and sidewards, gift, girth and gall.

Friday's child - loving and giving

So what kind of personality type are you? Teflon or Velcro?

I know a few Teflons and their company is really rather marvellous and liberating for a Velcro. I think most people are probably Tefcro, you know: a little bit country, a little bit rock n roll. Actually I saw Donny Osmond on the television the other day I can’t remember which show but stars he still looked youthful - naturally not in a botoxed, recut and sewn fashion nor an utterly disturbin' Cliff Richard fashion. Donny is probably a Teflon personality type.

Today I am off work as I have a flexi. I have a feather haircut too. I am on a flexi and I have a feather haircut. It is the 1970’s! Good times. Now where did i put that brushed cotton blue denim jacket and will muhummm let me eat the last of the dried apricots.

I was in dire need of a flexi as it had been bedlam at work this week and one day i mucked something up, nothing major but at the time i did not think so and i was velcroed out. On the way home I had to stop at the local coles liquorland and buy a wee bottle of shiraz, it contained 2 standard drinks, so i bought another teeny tiny tipple, had takeaway for dinner, and my mind reviewed the muck up at least 1000 times, a couple of gamboling lambs gatecrashed, before I fell into a fitful night's sleep.

Fortunately, for my tense neck and shoulders, the next evening i had an osteopathic treatment, probably should have scheduled some cbt for neglected old brain, and while waiting i read the 2005 Vanity Fair best dressed list. Charlie Watts was nominated. Not surprising for he is a dapper cove. I also learnt that Charlie doesn't drive but i wonder if he can, and his favourite books are anything by PG Wodehouse. Didn't say whether he was Velcro or Teflon but i have my theories.

Today I’m going to catch up on the past 3 nights of Neighbs, do the housework, this feather haircut causes the hairs to shed more easily , buy a couple of birthday presents and do the shopping which all really sounds like too much hard work and could necessitate a trip to town. I think i'll just loll on the couch for a bit and read old filth and then go to the cinema. I want to see the adaptation of running with scissors.

The weather is glorious today; sunny with a cool breeze. Hippity Hoppity really is on its way. My favourite time of year. While you're out and about check out the Haigh's chocolate shop. Its display and packaging of Easter eggs are works of art. Particularly the Easter eggs covered in pale gold and lilac metallic paper ruched in the centre. It's like a 30's film star's gown. Hump's gone from leggings to gown, from Hump to Harlow. I love a good makeover and Easter celebrates the greatest makeover of all. Nice one J.C.

Sixth sense

Yep, i'm pretty sure I've got one.