Kinda young, Kinda now, Kinda free, kinda wow
The past five days or so the Mistress has been leading the giddy life of Charlie girl. She's been gadding about like leggy Shelley Hack promoting a perfume for Revlon. The things I do to fill this chasm of a soul yet plenitude, or a contract with l’Oreal, persists in eluding me.
The whirling dervish of Charlie bel began once her senses had settled after that electrical storm, several days post-tempest on International Women's Day when she was fortunate to partake in the festival of the lambs, celebrations for the 12th birthday of the lamb twins at the local family friendly hotel beestro beer garden.
A jolly night was had by all. I was seated at the kiddies' end of the table and was regaled with tales of school, its assembly hall's seats came from the Hub Cinema; favourite movies such as Borat, Jackass and some scene from the latest James Bond where his balls were whipped (?!!) - surprise was expressed by my not having seen any of these films, and general mirth and mayhem with the spillage of hot chips and chook on the lap (not mine). Then the rain bucketed down and we had to race inside where I bumped into a couple of indie from dayze gone by and promptly went home.
I only had a couple of glasses of red wine with dinner but still felt rather seedy the next morning when I rose at sparrows to be at work by 7 am. Had quite a productive day,completed a report and met some former colleagues for a pleasant lunch then left work at 3.30 to get home and have what I'm sure Dannii and Kylie would call a 'disco nap'. It did the trick and I fixed myself a pot of ambition and prepared myself for a nice night's entertainment at the theeatre.
Met up with Blonde Mischief at 7.15 outside the Toaster and we ambled our way along the quay to the Opera House's drama theatre. Had a glass of bubbles and enjoyed the gloriously glittering working port, let's keep it that way please, pollies, and had a good old pre-play natter about pants man pollies, disgraced hosties and raffish fiends.
We saw the Sydney Theatre Company's production of The Season at Sarsaparilla. It was excellent. Peter Carroll as Girlie Pogson and Pamela Rabe as Mrs Boyle were particularly outstanding. Play also featured a really clever set and use of technology. Catch it if you can. It was brilliant, highly moving and rather haunting. Blonde Mischief claimed to have read a review that compared it to Big Brother and Number 96....mmmh hot off her mind and straight to pixie press?
We were rather abruptly roused from our meditation and suburban passage when we hit the Rocks/Wynyard end of George Street. What a buzz. What a damn awful buzz. What was the reason for this buzz? It was 11.30 on a Friday night and it was crazy, so many people, so many really young people, natch, joyfully roaming the streets like packs of cockroaches on Christmas night. Far-out.. There was no way i was going to catch a bus it would have just prolonged the agony of waiting to hit the hay. We eventually managed to hail a taxi, that in itself seemed to be a cut throat affair. I'd busted my 10 pm curfew and boy, was i paying for it.
Finally got home where the mistress downed a couple of 'dols and water, unstitched the Charlie bel shadow, and put herself to bed for a good night’s rest in preparation for a few more days of striding around in a tailored pant suit, smiling maniacally while playfully spraying perfume into the mouths of sailors, Harpo ('mooooovie star ' not Marx) look-alikes and silver foxes sportin’ cravates.
The whirling dervish of Charlie bel began once her senses had settled after that electrical storm, several days post-tempest on International Women's Day when she was fortunate to partake in the festival of the lambs, celebrations for the 12th birthday of the lamb twins at the local family friendly hotel beestro beer garden.
A jolly night was had by all. I was seated at the kiddies' end of the table and was regaled with tales of school, its assembly hall's seats came from the Hub Cinema; favourite movies such as Borat, Jackass and some scene from the latest James Bond where his balls were whipped (?!!) - surprise was expressed by my not having seen any of these films, and general mirth and mayhem with the spillage of hot chips and chook on the lap (not mine). Then the rain bucketed down and we had to race inside where I bumped into a couple of indie from dayze gone by and promptly went home.
I only had a couple of glasses of red wine with dinner but still felt rather seedy the next morning when I rose at sparrows to be at work by 7 am. Had quite a productive day,completed a report and met some former colleagues for a pleasant lunch then left work at 3.30 to get home and have what I'm sure Dannii and Kylie would call a 'disco nap'. It did the trick and I fixed myself a pot of ambition and prepared myself for a nice night's entertainment at the theeatre.
Met up with Blonde Mischief at 7.15 outside the Toaster and we ambled our way along the quay to the Opera House's drama theatre. Had a glass of bubbles and enjoyed the gloriously glittering working port, let's keep it that way please, pollies, and had a good old pre-play natter about pants man pollies, disgraced hosties and raffish fiends.
We saw the Sydney Theatre Company's production of The Season at Sarsaparilla. It was excellent. Peter Carroll as Girlie Pogson and Pamela Rabe as Mrs Boyle were particularly outstanding. Play also featured a really clever set and use of technology. Catch it if you can. It was brilliant, highly moving and rather haunting. Blonde Mischief claimed to have read a review that compared it to Big Brother and Number 96....mmmh hot off her mind and straight to pixie press?
We were rather abruptly roused from our meditation and suburban passage when we hit the Rocks/Wynyard end of George Street. What a buzz. What a damn awful buzz. What was the reason for this buzz? It was 11.30 on a Friday night and it was crazy, so many people, so many really young people, natch, joyfully roaming the streets like packs of cockroaches on Christmas night. Far-out.. There was no way i was going to catch a bus it would have just prolonged the agony of waiting to hit the hay. We eventually managed to hail a taxi, that in itself seemed to be a cut throat affair. I'd busted my 10 pm curfew and boy, was i paying for it.
Finally got home where the mistress downed a couple of 'dols and water, unstitched the Charlie bel shadow, and put herself to bed for a good night’s rest in preparation for a few more days of striding around in a tailored pant suit, smiling maniacally while playfully spraying perfume into the mouths of sailors, Harpo ('mooooovie star ' not Marx) look-alikes and silver foxes sportin’ cravates.
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