SISTERS!!!!!

If I hear one more woman qualify a statement with:

“NOT as a Feminist" or "I'm not a Feminist" (oooh heaven forbid)

I’ll, I’ll do my goddamn BLOCK.

Vagabond tongue - dicky word twist alert

Must work until Idol for I have been too idle at work.

Always ahead of the pack

With the demise of several 'legendary' 'good time' 'rocknroll' venues, Sydney's leading 'quality' broadsheet has replaced its Where's our summer gorne lament with Where's Sydney's live music scene? Even rockin' mamma here knows it's been dead for at least a decade. Clunkarama.

Did you know

Darrell Lea celebrates Choctober.

Marcia Hines has published a book of her platitudes to help one get through life; i think it might be called Go with what you know.

The dream team panel on the Insiders is Annabel Crabb, David Marr and Andrew Bolt. Yesterday's Insiders WAS magnificent and somewhat riotous. 2 minutes into the the introductory discussion Nanny Marr was fanging A. Bolt big time. When A. Bolt began his climate change scepticism rant, D. Marr turned away from AB, crossed his legs and proceeded to lounge while reading a newspaper, announcing " I'm reading the Sunday Telegraph!" Occasionally mid-fang D.M would pause, remove his glasses, suck on the ends of spectacles' arms then launch another attack. It seems that Annabel and David may have been chastised for being out of order during the screening of another segment as when discussion resumed they were less uproarious, less teasing and more patient with A. Bolt - shame. Perhaps Mother Bolt rang in and complained. Andrew Bolt was furious and gave Annabel Crabb dagger looks. It was an entertaining riot of a show.

You should always keep active. Well that's what an 87 year old woman with clear, light blue eyes and straight back advised me as i admired the kiddies' garden in the Albury Botanic Gardens. No, i was not swinging in a hammock and sipping a cocktail from a glass garnished with a minature parasol and slice of lemon, nor was i supine. I was my spritely, erect and approachable (oh me and Joe Hockey!) self. I've said it before and I'll say it again: kiddies and seniors are my most popular demographics. Am an utter right off with the ados and peers.

The Wine Room in Albury is the place to be of a Thursdee evening.

My great-aunt turns 100 this All Hallows' Eve and I will attend a party dressed as a ham (insert one liner about Ugly Dave Gray/Jimmy Saville/Joe Hockey/Wove here).

No need for a title

Fonzie found it difficult to admit that he was w-w-w-wrong; even to Mrs C and shortcake. My companion refused to accompany me into the joint so I , of course, told him to 'sit on it'.

montagna glory

High Society

Last night I was taken to the most divine (say it like Christopher Pahne would) bistro to celebrate my birthday.

My birthday actually falls in August and there is/was nothing august about it. Turning 40 was a breeze but the years that ensue, while a blessing are also a goddamn downer; just too confronting and really who wants a nervy b for her/is b’day. A veritable cherry atop yer middle-age spread.

Nevertheless I was very happy to celebrate my birthday in October because I have always been more comfortable with fiction than fact - some of my dearest friends and memories are phoney.

So the restron was gorgeous, absolutely delicious fare, and not too posh despite its location. Well for the true dwellers of the meretricious east this joint is casuale and akin to dining at your local Thai or Turkish (but not quite Aussie Chinese at the local rissole).

Towards the end of our meal a group of mid 30’s professional types were seated at the table behind us. I was probably digging my spoon into my dessert of white chocolate pannacotta, raspberries and a soupcon of superiority, when some friends of those derriere arrived to dine at another table. Amidst the welcoming cries and merging of tables , I heard the big lug of a rugger player type behind me boom to the female arriviste,

“Oh it's Piggy! Piggy, how are you? Oh you’re not so piggy now. Piggy’s now slim. Slender piggy.”
My delight was to intensify. 20 minutes later, having left the beeestro, we strolled down one of Woollahra’s avenues and as we passed another restaurant I gazed in the window at the diners and locked eyes with Diana 'Bubbles' Fisher.

Dusty, orange Sydney

This morning I woke from a wonderful dream, featuring some galpals and moi and our new super bestie Stevie Nicks, to enter a world where the natural light peeping through my window's venetian blinds was a glaring reddish orange.

I thought that there had been a very bad bushfire or a nuclear attack. It was/is very On the Beach meets the Midwich Cuckoos but like in real life. Eerie.

I then went to the world wide web and cosy old smh, which featured a report, Where's our blue sky gone (or summat), that explained the thick orange haze was caused by a dust storm.

The flat's hardwood floors now have a filmier layer of dust, it feels like talcum powder and my soles are oh so soft but orange. Llladies of Sydney put away your Thin Lizzy/Glo bronzer NOW.

The change of light is extraordinary. The green traffic lights are now a shade of turquoise, it is a turquoise man who indicates when you may cross the road. Most of the car lights are a lovely iceberg blue as are the Tupper streetlights; not quite the heartbreaking beauty that is the rosey hue of the lamps in Venice but still quite lovely.

I caught the bus into work, and all the passengers were very quiet; as hushed as on the Monday after lady di died (must get a burnt orange ribbonini at lunchtime to commemorate today's dust storm.) When the bus got further into the cbd the dust blanket increased.

Despite the wind still being rather forceful I saw shopkeeper on George Street attempting to remove the dust by beating his broom across the shop's entrance, and sending the dust to the next shop entrance. He really needed something practical like a leafblower.

Some people are wearing masks or scarves over their mouths and noses.

Over and out.

Two more for the Canon

The past fortnight or so I have had a hankering for some Dickens and Eliot, so Satdee afternoon I went to my favourite branch of the City of Sydney library. Alas the books I wanted were not there. Waaah.

Fortunately I stumbled upon a series of books based on the magnificent television show Rosemary & Thyme by Eastman. I borrowed two. So engrossing and so Blytonesque but i guess there is more talk of plants than food. Nevertheless they do have some nice cream teas, lots of crime, and glasses of wine when tucked up in their twin beds and googling suspects on Rosemary's laptop.

The Vernal Equinox

Has done in my sinuses. Pass it on.

Perches and twigs

Glory the ‘famous’ are falling like it’s the end of their life cycle.

The news bulletin concerning the death of Mary Travers featured comment from Athol Guy. Athol found Mary such a ‘warm and nice lady’ he yearned to hug her. I did not need to hear that while preparing my dinner.

The day before Mary’s death, Henry Gibson died. Apparently Mary Travers’s band inspired the feuding trio of minstrels in Nashville and Henry Gibson was of course in Nashville; utterly magnificent as Haven Hamilton. Oh these tenuous links are totally freaking me out. In truth Henry Gibson was pretty much a triumph in everything he did, comic genius!

Mal Leyland, Keith Floyd and Jim Carroll are also ‘famous-ish’ people who have recently died.

On Wednesday night the bus in which I sat stopped outside some building with a big television that was screening a repeat of that show with Elvis Costello and Lou Reed. First thought was that Lou had also died, then the bus stalled and i continued to watch Lou on the screen. And a second thought popped into my noggin which was that Lou had become almost alluring as senior. Now that is certainly something you do not need to read while surfing cyberspace.

Juicy days are here again

Well I am not sure if they are. In fact I am not sure what they are. However this morning when I read that announcement on a young woman's t-shirt apart from musing over its potentially lewd significance, I felt a wave of optimism.

The vernal equinox is only a few days away. Wisteria, poppies and cherry blossom are in bloom and the majority of trees have sprouted leaves the shade of peridot; all in anticipation of Spring and her grand tour for 2009.

Soon Rocktober will be upon us and I will be on hols - gadding about the countryside. Vale Mal Leyland.

G O R N E

Kyle Sandilands, the social contract, and now the Annette Kellerman swimming pool at Enmore Park. All GORNE.

I was walking through the park when I saw that the AK swimming pool had been completely demolished. Yes, not a skerrick of the complex remains, not even the scent of hot chips fried in ancient batter.

Between you and me, nsrs, i used to love doing the aqua aerobics at the AK pool. It was quite the workout (as we used to say in the 80's) and required intense concentration. Generally i'd focus on a cracked tile or some peeling paint when peforming some particularly grunty bumps and grinds while straddling that ridiculous and rather lewd noodle.

However, one day, when attempting a difficult twist while treading water, my focus fell on a person outside the pool. This human on the periphery puzzled me until I realised that it was actually a right on singer from an early 80' indie band. Unfortunately she was in my direct line of focus, and I couldn't retract my gaze. Worse she noticed me; i blame my bathing cap festooned with flowers. And double worse, back in the day things had been kind of, um, silly fractious between us. Hard to imagine, i know dot dot dot

In truth it was due to my youthful exuberance, well, general loudmouthery and mimicry of her buzz words and gestures - I told you that the social contract had gorne! Anyhoo I couldn't stop looking and then one by one more people came to her side, her friends, and they were all looking at me and talking as I continued to stare at her. I couldn't avert my eyes until the exercise finished. Eventually the class ended and I had to leave the centre. It was dark and I was rather worried that her posse would pounce on me. They didn't for they had GORNE.

Enough of my Busby Berkeley meets film noir aqua follies....

The old AK pool is making way for big new super deluxe aquatic centre. In the mean time one can bathe and do aqua aerobics at the Fanny Durack pool (she was apparently distantly related to Mary so it's not completely mindless of me to think Kings in Grass Castles, Kings in Grass Castles did i ever finish reading, Kings in Grass Castles? each time i think of that pool, so there!).

However, I won't go there for I prefer the Victoria Park swimming pool, open and long in lovely surrounds . I do worry about contracting aviance, er, avian flu - a lot of birdie business about there. But oh well if you don't take any risks in life you reap nothing. Well ,that's the quote on the foot of my desk calendar for today's date; it's attributed to Leanne Edelsten, who is these days best known as Jennifer Hawkins's mum.

Baby I'm bored

Speaking of precious cargo and parents... A month ago, I finished my working day and found myself at a seminar.
M E N T A L. What on earth will I do next? Well probably not further study at this point in my mind.

Oh brother, sitting in that seminar discussing literature with the dense, the conceited and the intense was worse than any of my many HSC/varsity nightmares.

Following some excruciatingly stupid, predictably petty observations about a particular writer, this person who had already demonstrated that she was the class's empty vessel asked/announced, in ponderous, moronic tones:

“ But HOW do you continue to find the energy, the ability to tap into your creativity, restock your stores, when you are a MOTHER and you give and give and G I V E?"

I’ll give you something, fecund, proud and procreation should not have been allowed. How about multi-tasking. Isn’t that what you 702/774 mums are renowned for? You're a mother and you're an insufferably annoying article; 10/10 so far, mumsy. I squirmed and submerged the lower half of my face under the polo neck of my powder blue jumper.

It takes a nanosecond to make a child and a lifetime of monopolizing any conversation to validate that choice. Put that thought on the foot of your desk calendar page, mater!

Baby on board

There’s a new kind of stroller for the parent pedestrian, as Tom Springfield once wrote.

As you know, NSRs, that practical small foldaway stroller was long ago superceded by those ridiculous, ginormous and cumbersome four wheel drives of push chairs. Well, the latter model has now , like most things, you know, mothers, wives, friends and lovers, run its course and been replaced and upgraded/babooshkaed/carlabrunied by a new, super, deluxe, i mean, luxe and ridiculous form of transport for life’s most precious cargo.

This new contraption is such a curious form, and I’m being polite. It looks like a lazy Susan table come palette fixed atop a tallish three wheeled stand. I guess it’s kind of Jetsons Space Age (but no jet pack required, shame).

Parent, generally proud poppa, pushes the object while jogging but the byebee does not look like it’s secured by a belt on the palette. Baby just sort of lolls about, which causes concern for Constable Care. Well, until the next possible imminent disaster pops into my head as I stride around Darling Harbour, hands behind back, surveying her port and quays. What’s that unusual ripple on the water’s surface..? Why do those boats bob so?
Quick! Where is some higher terrain....?
Tsunami everyone! T S U N A M I
Higher ground people, (I myself personally am perpetually takin’ the high ground), I bark then squeal.

I swoop onto that palette-on-wheels of a pushchair, scoop up baby, transfer its bonnet to my noggin, and demand that poppa get a move on and push us up that nice, hilly street.

Nozin' about

No I’m not pitching a program to aunty in which I hang out with teens and ascertain how their minds and hormones tick. I do that 24/7 – no bean bags required just a ‘puter and the world wide web. They call me June Dolly Watkins, cos grooming is my specialty. Woops that is not me either, more like another plodding plot for the filth at Sun ‘ill. Both sensational ideas but.

Now where was I ? Focus, focus, focus. Yes that’s it now I remember how it goes....

What I really want to share with you is a very curious sight I witnessed from the bus window last night.

Frank Sartor and Michael Costa in mufti on King Street Newtown chewing the fat and wildly gesticulating. Michael Costa’s mufti was crazy, crazier than his gesticulation! Army camouflage baseball cap and a smart but casual cotton knit with stripes, and chinos. Frank’s garb was kinda of drab, daggy leather jacket and jeans. Were they determinating Rees’ successor? Does anyone care? I don’t think even Quentin and the Stateline team can be bothered covering the state alp leadership tussle. It’s lame-O.

Snatch pant

Snatch pant, Snatch pant, l-l-l-ladies get your snatch pant.

As the Best & Less and K-Mart jingles and spruikers used to cry in the 80's and 90's. And very effective they were. Llladies of all shapes and sizes were sporting black leggings. Generally with large, long shirts but more often just with normal length tops and displaying their great smiling V to all and sundry. (oh don't choke on your pickle, prudence, i've got to give voice to this right here, right now! )

While I am a proponent of Lady love your cunt (why i think it was me on that celebrated Oz cover, wasn't it?) I consider the outline of the labia majora in the legging or high rise gabardine pant, or any outfit, as what Maggie T would call a major boo boo.

In the noughties the leggings have returned but are now known as the footloose or footless tight. Generally sported under dresses by stylish, chic, neat types (don't blow your pfff pfff valve*, yet, sweetness - worse is still to come!).

In the past few weeks as i've roamed around Sydney, from the haughty north to the I'm not a raShirelist South, from the battlers' west to the meretricious East, i have observed many things (about which i'm still to blog) but the most remarkable has been the return of the legging as trou - this time in faux denim stretch!!!

Granted the faux denim legging can look OK under certain shifts but when it is au naturel, l-l-ladies just put that smiling V away!


*a K.Elliottism i do declare.

Round and round she goes #19809

Some hae meat and canna eat, and some wad eat that want it;But we hae meat, and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit

Hello NSRs, I truly do not know what’s going on with the old brain but for the past three mornings I’ve woken up with that piece of Little Robbie Burns prose on my mind. It’s nice though ain’t it and always looks so attractive on tea towels… It was emblazoned on one used for drying dishes at one’s childhood family seat, and whipped agin one’s seat amidst the oh get and rack off tetches of evening washing up sessions (faaamily good times, thank god they've rolled on by) which reminds me of this other favourite ditty from my enfance:

When I was a little boy
I washed my mammy's dishes,
I put my finger in my eye
And pulled out golden fishes.

Delightful. 'cept I was a girl then and I am really not quite sure what I have become.

Perhaps these pomes from one's childhood are coming to mind because of an sms text message received on the mobile telephone last Satdee morn. It advised that Tim Rogers and a superpoop were doing a recital of my favourite collection of prose from the time whence I crossed the threshold from enfance to adolescence, and where I have, in all likelihood, remained.

Can you imagine my derision 'pon learning that that r-r-r-rasping ineffectual r-r-r-runt* was doing a tribute to Get Yer Ya Ya’s Out!! It has evidently stirred my inner Colonel Blimp, doesn’t take much, admittedly, and my nice kind friends say it’s more Mainwaring than Blimp but let’s face it, it’s Blimp (still it’s nice to have a bit of Pressburger Powell gloss atop your Perry and Croft - and no, foot not dissimilar from bottom, that is NOT an allusion to a fricking Marty Rhone song - god give me strength!).

Response? What would my response be?

Get Yer Ya Ya's Out tribute night? Step off and into a grave! Will someone be hired to call "paint it black, paint it black , you devils?" If so can they please ensure that rent-a-fan brings a needle and thread lest that Tim claims to have busted a button on his trousers, for nobody would want his trousers to fall down now would they? Thank you kindly indeed! (It’s a shame that Mickey J had not read any Dorothy L Sayers Lord Peter Wimsey by the time of that 69 tour because I’m sure he would have embraced Lord P’s “thankee” and perhaps referred to Charlie as the good padre.)

Lament-A-ble. I mean to say, just go and put the original piece of hot wax on mr twirley whirley or try and compose some new music. Dude-dah!!


*r-r-r signifies the rolling of r's, you know how to roll your r's now, donchoo?

Her adjudication still brings me to my knees

I have been watching this year’s Idol and despite the excruciating auditions and all that honky soul hollering (howuh, howuh, howuh, ho – imagine Kylie and Dannii on YTT and their rendition of sisters are doin’ it for themselves (which was of course penned by Tony Newley and originally performed by Joanie and Jackie Collins)), I am absolutely fascinated by Marcia Hines.

Marcia is one riveting dame. Gone is the platitooodinal evasive adjudication such as “love the skin you’re in”, “you know who you are, you are what you are” and general proferring props all over the shop. Ladies and gentleman, make away for Marcia as pop psychologist, counsellor and heavy! During 2009 auditions she’s been workshopping potential stars’ scars, practically hosting rebirthing sessions and advising the young and upcoming that if anyone messes with ‘em, let her know and she’ll deal with ‘em! You go girlfriend!

Perhaps she sees the idol ‘gig’ as on its last legs and is laying down some foundations for a splendid new career as daytime variety talk show host/chanteuse combining Kerry Anne (granted MH has much better voice and crazier dance moves) with the sagacity of Dr Phil and the clout of Oprah. It would be rather marvellous and I would tape it, which is my totally giving Marcia props.

Conk City

Perhaps it's due to the unseasonally, oh sorry, unseasonably, warm weather, a premature primavera, if you like, but I have to say that the conks are out and at it in full force and it's wa wa wa waaah central.

Most nights around three am, if i'm not awoken by a feeling of doom i am stirred from my slumber by a rabble of conks buzzing the intercom of the building entrance. They are young, they run green, buzz my bell, make me scream. It's not like it's once and they run away. After all I recall that appeal, as a 9 year old.

No, this goes on for about 20 minutes and because the building's insulaton is pretty lame i can hear the other flats' buzzers going off too. It happened again on Friday. As the buzzing goes on I wonder whether it's some boozed out friend on the wrong route for good time centrale.I duly roll over only to twitch then turn back to lie rod straight on dootiful daughter alert.

Could it be a family emergency or just pater needing assistance yet again for his cockin' computer. Surely not at 3 a.m? However, octogenarians do keep curious hours. Oh woteva pops. Don't derange this fille rangee. I jam the earplugs deeper into my ear canal and slide further under the bedcovers to eventually sleep fitfully and later rise more Eds Monsoon than Doris Day.

The icehouse down the road had been doing a roaring trade until its great galoot of a kitchen wiz left some chips unattended in a vat of fat on the stove causing a fire and blowing out the power grid (?) across several suburbs for about five hours. It also brought the fuzz and the firies and caused quite the commotion.

I've now got a shocking bout of rsi (or is it carpal tunnel syndrome?) from twitching the lace curtains.

I thought that this explosion marked the icehouse's end but its owner seemed to just give the joint a lick of paint and a new lord has been installed. He is very garrulous, very flash harry and somewhat careless. I 've watched sufficient eps of season 1 of the Wire to have an inkling what will happen next, let me tell you.

And you know you can set your watch by this conk even if it happened in the northern hemisphere but oh, well, just sit on it, Mr/Ms C (and that ain't short for Cunningham) for this is NSR.