A trip to the moon on gossamer wings

Prior to the laryngitis caper, i was fortunate to attend a most wonderful and intimate dinner party to celebrate the Meister's milestone birthday.

My dears it was some soirée! B and J were the perfect hosts and prepared the most delicious banquet. i have never tasted such delicious gnocchi in all my living days. Champers, red wine and cointreau flowed until 2 am. Mrs Beeton-Bridges here was in charge of hors d'oeuvres and decorations and added her somewhat Frostig artistic decorative flair via balloons and home made placecards.

There was much mirth and carry on and some rollicking speeches. My only lament was that there was not a bowl of cheezels. One of the guests had quite the Liz Taylor cleavage on display and every time i copped an eyeful i wanted to shoot a cheezel through the hoop so to speak, i.e. flick the cheesy puff into the bosom's hollow. Needless to say i was the least sophisticated member of the soirée set, my chair was furnished with a pile of telephone books upon which i was seated in order to reach the table, so it was probably just as well that the bowl and those cheezels were not about.

From this tower of telephone books I yearned for sophistication, and cheezels, and revelled in the magnificent spectacle that was the birthday Meister - atop of the stairs surrounded by wrapping paper and gifts, gleefully rolling amongst her birthday loot . Baby Huey indeed!

In the land of counterpane

i have got laryngitis, cockin' laryngitis. It's not too painful, well admittedly the throat and glands around the neck are rather sore and swollen, resulting in a new and delectable looking turkey gobble wobbling between my neck and chin, but extemely annoying as I can barely get a sound out. However, it would be more irritating if I were of a talkative nature but as i'm silent, brooding and stoic, it doesn't affect me too much and thank baby J for his part in bestowing me with such qualities.

I guess the larynx looks like this at the moment. My first link. Gordon. kind of contrived, and highly indulgent, eh. Rather gruesome. Lewd photos too. Flag the blog now!

Am off work today, and can't get an appointment with the doctor until 3.30, so while waiting for medical guidance have been tinkering with technology, and evidently been way inspired, and learned some more blogger jargon to boot.

I've also been frantically emailing, to counteract the fact that I cannot communicate vocally, and cybersurfin' and consequently been reading more interviews with cate blanchett and kevin spacey, both of whom appear to be gobbling spinner and smug drip pills by the bucketload. They should stop doing interviews, or perhaps it might be more sensible if i stopped reading their interviews, that would be a kind of novel but too mature an action.

I suppose my time would be better spent amusing myself playing with toys in the land of counterpane or expanding my mind and reading something proper.

But no, am so twenty first century that i have to be even more self-obsessed than usual and blog all about it.

the word blog used to be a term for a boring, inert person, so in essence the meaning hasn't changed that much really and i'm doing my best to keep this cyberjournal true to that description.

Have now just returned from the doctor who was really sympathetic, as was the receptionist, they sort of giggled too , sympathetically mind, at my strangulated squeak, and really, who doesn't love a giggle and a laugh now and then. if you are feeling a little flat, feel free to give me a call to lift your morale. The squeak is too weak to be intimidatingly Brando Godfatherish, making me more Al Pacino? Have been instructed to stay at home in bed and not talk until Thursday!! I didn't think i was that unwell, i don't have a temperature, and even my cold seems to have gone, well in truth the cold has just set up home in my larynx, hope it it doesn't get too settled and plaster the area with big prints of frangipanis.

I am rather surprised by the amount of sympathy the inability to talk garners from strangers, those who know me can't believe their luck, their kindness seems undeserved, and makes me feel like the empty vessel but evidently not quite as voluble, crossed with al pacino sporting a goddamn turkey gobble. Oh bwutha, or perhaps it's more Elmer Fudd.

ideas above her station

Guess what, i'm better and you're hot, down, inner child, down, I did my walk from work to home in record time today. 45 minutes. 15 minutes off the usual. It's most surprisin'. I had an excellent run with the traffic lights. I didn't even work up a sweat, but boy did i perspire cos that is what we ladies do, never sweat, always perspire, well actually not even that. Perhaps am getting fitter.

Today i was introduced to a new joint where one can do lunch, as we all used to say, never actually manage to do , of course, in the late 80s early 90s. In the 21st century when you 'do' something you are of course having sex with it. Oh English how i do adore thee - vital, unyielding, fascinatingly feisty, vagabond temptress of a tongue.

The new club is a very cosy, quiet, and really charming establishment, does a wonderful toasted sanger and a nice house white, which led me to break my on again off again no boozin' during the working week policy.

I'd started the n.b.w.w. policy after too many nights lying awake worrying about possible liver, kidney and heart ailments. Blame sammy davis junior and his Why me or Yes I can autobiography. Sammy's vegas lifestyle of being up all night boozing, fagging, balling dames, Sammy's expression, and starting the day at 2 pm with a bourbon really took its toll on Mr Bojangles and he packed on the pounds particularly around his tum tum. Sammy went on a diet and managed to shed a few pounds but his pot belly remained. The doctor informed Sammy that it was his distended booze addled liver causing the bowling ball sized belly!!

Cautionary, dare i say salutary, tale or what!

Anyhoo, did manage to go without Mr Booze for four days and will have another two days off him this week, promise. Must say that the non quaff working week does wonders for my evenings and sleeping.

I've been getting the mundane domestic duties done and extra time for reading Kmart catalogues, cutting toe nails, updating my cv and other more exciting extra curricular activities like going out, on the tiles, staring at the ceiling waiting for life to begin, or watching big brother.

And I sleep like a top. However I did have a strange dream last night where I was a nanny to four children of a very famous superstar couple.

The competition for the position was very tough but i got the job because of my academic transcript! At first everyone thought i was a terrific nanny including myself. There was a montage of stills of me and the kids having lots of laughs and the olds indulgently looking on, laughing. My favourite montage featured my putting up one of those totem tennis pole games, and the kids and i having a ball. Then i was meant to be looking after the children and getting them ready for bed while their olds hosted a big whiz bang cocktail party. The next scene featured me at the party swilling golden chardonnay, with a distinctly creamy flavour, from an enormous glass, more brandy balloon than wine, that must have been the booze free four days , while mingling, cracking jokes and quoting lyrics of Bee Gees songs to other guests , remember that little trick next time you feel a bit of a poop at a party, people will lllap it up. Just as I was making another joke, i espied the wife of the superstar couple stomping down the stairs with one of the children, who had just hurt himself, in her arms . So i was in the big potage. I went to the mother's aid and was pathetically assisting her fluff up pillows and feigning concern, and about to get the sack when i woke up.

i was so rested though i didn't know what day it was or what i was meant to be doin', early stages of Korsakoff's syndrome? I eventually twigged that no, fortunately, i wasn't a nanny to some jetsetters and i did manage to get to my usual place of gainful employment.

Imagine my surprise this evening to read about Cate Blanchett not only comparing Brad Pitt to chocolate but also complaining about irresponsible nannies frolicking in the desert, with Pats and Eds?, instead of supervising their charges. And there but for the grace......Spookarama!

Webel yell with a tablespoonful of bile

As i strode from the Queen Victoria Building to the bureau, where i conduct my extremely important business , my line of vision was blurred by a sea of legs wearing goddamn jeans. Don't worry, bodies, limbs and heads were also there but the legs in denim were predominant.

Ooh it's Friday so we can wear our cockin' jeans to work. Woo hoo and rail, baby, rail, this is the day of the week when en masse the people stick it to the man by wearing their designer denim trou. I bet these same people at the end of every working week say to each other with a titter and a knowing look, "Thank God it's Friday."

Naturally i upped the ante and wore a suit, my birthday suit. Wa wa wa waaaaaaaaaah nee.

I cannot believe mufti Friday is still embraced. Bring back the Sunday Best without the worship and Spray Fresh. Oh it's all gone down the Murray.

The howard votin' horrors

Waiting for the lifts to ascend to good time central, i overhead a man in conversation with his colleague describe his son's school as "awesome".

People who frequently and genuinely titivate their nouns with "awesome" are raising children.

Like gag me with a spoon, dudes.

It sure ain't St. Swithin's

Mistress Bel advises that today's blog is about a couple of tv shows and apologises if you don't watch these programs or have no interest in television as the following posting will be even more inane than usual.

This year i have started regularly watching House. Firstly because i was intrigued to hear mater talking about it, and then discovered that another friend and her family watch it and are all solid fans. I resisted watching it for a while in a vain attempt at displaying a mind of my own and some will. However, I happened upon last season's finale because i was minding a teenager who insisted on watching it. I was keen but didn't want to display too much enthusiasm as i'd insisted on our watching the finale of Australian Princess. So anyhoo nowadays i watch Dr House a couple of times a month or have it in the background like now while i attend to more important business, and like one of the Donaher sons in Sylvania Waters don't want "the house being too quiet and resembling a bloody morgue!"

I guess the character Dr House is a cross between Hawkeye and Basil Fawlty, alas not a dash of Duncan Waring.

Apart from the obviously curious things about the Dr and his show, Hugh Laurie's enjoyably ludicrous and risible American accent, even more farcical is that he is now considered a sex symbol, the general wackiness that pervades the show, and the very good looking interns who work with dr house and deal with zany but topical, yeah only touch the surface of the issewe, storylines, something that really strikes me as bizarre is the fact that every episode i've seen, Dr House and one of his interns or just a couple of the interns invariably have to break into a patient's house to get vital information to solve the patient's illness.

Then a couple of nights ago i caught the end of All Saints, i don't know why, i guess I pressed the remote button to on and boom, the telly came to life and channel 7 was broadcasting, spooky. The promotion for the next episode advised that a couple of the all saints doctors and nurses would be breaking the law and breaking into a patient's house to get to the truth.

This breaking and entering by medicos on tv at home and abroad is a veritable medical breakthrough.

Medicos are now cops and robbers. Those days of wacky, zany medicos birdin' and boozin' it up at Bunnys, the watering hole for those Young Doctors, and wherever the Drs Waring, Stuart-Clark and Collier quaffed, it's not hard to picture them with Robin Tripp and Larry at the Fluffy Duck, are long gone.

Sigh and whistle the doctor at large series' theme tune to yourselves. Even better, i see that Doctor in Distress is being screened on the abc in the wee hours of Monday morning.

Two days of solitoode

What a top time i had the weekend just passed, even Sunday, contrary to what was earlier blogged, it's happy, happy talk bel posting at the moment, so laugh, relax, settle back now, lots of lazing about, reading , almost finished down there on a visit that fjg had lent ages ago, i do love it and can't wait to read Christopher and his kind, watched several dvds, did lots of laundry, cooking and other domestic dooties (soorry i guess that double o is tiresome but i can't resist, it amuses me so) oh and did mix with the outside world at the shops.

Actually I tell another lie, intake of breath, i did have a few phone calls and text messages. One of the calls i had was a search for information which took about 30 mins to resolve and caused me much mirth so i will elaborate.

A rang in need of name of some allegedly well known aussie actor who lived in her neck of the woods and who had been at social gathering attended by X, causing X much puzzlement trying to work out who acting legend was during the course of event, picturing x's puzzlement for entire event makes me chuckle in itself.

Clues: B Grade version of Steve Bisley, he appeared in some fillum with Nick Cave and actor's first name was later revealed.

How annoying and futile to be on the phone to me about this.

First, all i could picture was steve bisley, john jarrett and mel gibson and that other guy in the water tank scene in Summer City, completely irrelevant, my specialty!

Then the mystery actor's grading had to be workshopped along the lines of his being a C grade actor as Bizzles is B grade, could it be Chris Hayward but then wouldn't he be classed as A over Steve's B, A and X had already dismissed Chris Hayward, so i was really no use at all but still carried on in know all fashion, nice of them to persist with me, and as if I I I I I , sorry one of the dvds watched on the weekend was Angels in America, would ever, let alone admit, watch a fillum in which Nick the Prick appeared. I wide berth it would give. I think phoney Germanic syntax in English could be the new cool lingo.

Finally when actor's first name, David, was remembered, it brought no epiphany.

In essence I was no use to A and X, memory is shot and I had to resort to google.

After resorting to lame fillers about recent sightings of actors from sons and daughters while frantically googling, we established who the actor was. A and I were disappointed that he wasn’t the actor who played Sonny in E street. Actor is nowhere near as significant.

So there you go. I’m losing my touch. Just as some can no longer shin a coconut tree with their former finesse, others can no longer utter balderdash with unswerving conviction. Hey, ‘it happens as coconut shinner would no doubt philosophise.

Still it makes me laugh to a) think of someone reading this and taking in the clues and saying oh it’s….. you der, and the auteur and film are....... and b) that I’ve duped you all for years.

No, but seriously my mind still is that of steel trap, don't you worry about that, or is it. Can you ever be sure. Nyah ha haaaaaaaaah.

Oh my the cabin fever has taken its toll. Not to mention the pathetic conceit. Must….go … out and ……socialise. Oh do I have to?

So now to my first ever picture posting which I will call:

My weekend - an interior

The sunshine on the floor symbolises blogger's guilt tinged glee for hanging about the house on such a gloriously sunny day. It is in this very room where I read the book and viewed the dvds on the tele. I got to watch a couple of episodes of Arrested Development. I haven’t laughed out loud so much since that last nick cave film, i mean Stella Street and Strangers with Candy, so yeah not since the late 90’s.

Got to dash have a hankering for some peanut brittle. Hope the 24711 stocks it. Thank you for humouring the NSR weekend omnibus edition.

If

Yesterday after spending a pleasant half hour at the green grocer i purchased the ingredients for ratatouille and said goodbye to the person at the checkout, who, after a couple of seconds of quizzically appraising me from head to toe, evidently couldn't get my number, mystery has always been my middle name, replied, "have a lovely day if you are a mother".

Well I guess i can be but not of the breeding variety, I duly had a shitty day.

they would love their children too, if they had any

Have you remarked upon the curious breed of charity spruikers on the CBD streets these days? I have to you several times no doubt but would like to make it official and blog it.

I guess they are generally backpackers but that isn’t what is curious about them it’s their technique.

It is the wacky, crazy, zany and “nozin’ about”/countdown revolution/vjay methodology employed to get your attention and give em money. Who’d want to give money, no matter how worthy the cause, don't talk to me about the bigger picture, sonny jim, to some cretin who yells huwo and cutely waves his/her hand in your face, obstructs your path and comments on your appearance, yes , they were Bozo the clown’s shoes, like big deal, ok, and even 40 year olds get the odd pimple, ok, you reply as you elbow spruiker in belly and petulantly punch collection bucket, bruising your knuckles as you flounce past in the most dignified of fashions.

I haven’t seen a Koala suited Wilderness Society one for a long time. The last time I did, I witnessed a former star of the Sullivans shoving Koala away and telling it to “get stuffed”. Uncle Harry had become Dirty Harry . Hey, I’m not one to ttattle, judge, never, but let’s just say the reaction had no doubt been heightened by the shock of Aunty Rose’s death 50 years earlier.

These modern day fund raising methods while being rather irritating and annoying are somewhat counterproductive.

So let's just press pause for a moment. There has to be a more successful technique to procure funds. Let's put on our de Bonos and think outside of the square, people.

Perhaps charity spruikers should dress up as the little Matchgirl, Oliver Twist or a sad mute clown. Or how about being dressed up as an enormous RIBBON, any colour.

The spruiker dressed as ribbon would have instant and enormous appeal and not require any extravagant behaviour to attract attention, people see a ribbon and immediately shell out the moolah.

It is well worth brainstorming at the next charity think tank sesh.

A problem blogged is a problem solved. At this rate i'll get the old Cointreau ball back up and running. Ciao Ciao dahlings.

"a hypocrite waiting to happen"

Not a comment from the Prime Minister's first school report but a remark uttered by Skye Bishop-Mangel about herself in last night's Neighbours, poor Skye is in the love soup. So nothing to do with me. Fancy that and there you go.

With a hey nonny nonny and a hot cha cha

Well hello dollies! My i am feeling strangely chipper, i attribute it to walking home from work each day and the daily smattering of goey on the morning's porridge.

In the week since i last blogged I have had a rather good time. I caught some chanteuse Française who was not my cup of tea but i knew she would not be and only attended to catch up with some friends in the bar pre-show and just go out and see what the kids were up to and keep myself real.

The performance was your standard moue moue bah oui français affair with the audience swooning at her French accented English when she spoke to them. I think the evening ended with her saying you've been a pack of *#$!$ goodnight. and how they loved and adored. Gallic charm. Well that ending would have been preferable to the real one, the playing of learn to speak English records and singer reciting along with it. Oh the beguilement. Gordon. Nothing more bewildering than an adult behaving cute. Still I did enjoy the carry on, myself and my company, oh and that of my friends too. The outing was a fun mid-week diversion.

Today was splendid. I had to get some x-rays done at a joint in Macquarie Street. The x-ray place was located in an extraordinary art deco building, The British Medical Association of NSW just opposite the Botanic Gardens. Construction began in 1928, foundation stone was laid in 1929, on the same date as Marc Hunter's birth, and was completed in 1930.

Perhaps you've been there though and know all about it. Someone once told me that I was a tourist in my own town and perhaps he was right or perhaps it was due to my wearing a tartan playsuit, Burberry baseball cap and bumbag. So I'll continue, shall I, the building is made of granite and it's entrance's exterior has some really ferocious gargoyles. Inside, the floor is made of alternating emerald and sand coloured terrazzo tile squares and once you have mounted the steps and entered the building proper your feet cross a magnificent mosaic of the staff of Asclepius which is also made from emerald and sand coloured terrazzo.
This emblem is situated directly in the centre of an octagon, around which there are oak doors. ooh which entrance do you chose and where will it lead, very French new wave/Avengers. Unfortunately my appointment was on the lower ground floor. Then you look up and see this dome.

It is amazing and I found the whole expedition a surprise and a thrill. After i'd had the xrays, i even enjoyed that!, i explored the building and went up to the gallery above the octagon. On the wall there was a memorial plaque to doctors who had died during wwi. Among the doctors names listed:

a Dr Flashman and a Dr Jekyll.

My thrill intensified.

I am looking forward to returning to the building on Friday.

Soft and sweet, wise and wonderful.......

I am on my lunch break, would just like to qualify that, and I just read that Kim Richards who played Prudence in Nanny and the Professor is Paris Hilton’s aunt.

For some reason I consider this blogworthy. Well actually I had planned to email you about it but thought, hey, I may as well blog. Got to keep up the May quota, don’t ye know or blogger dot com will rescind the contract.

Thinking of Nanny and the Professor your mind cannot help but turn to Juliet Mills, then you pass onto Hayley and you're fixated with the Mills sisters. The Hilton sisters of my day, probably not, was there an equivalent? Jaimie and Derek Redfern, no, the Nolan sisters? The Daddos? the Brothers Reyne? Elle and Mimi, Danni and Kylie? The last two sets are probably the closest.

And Juliet and Hayley are like no other.

Why it’s the first time I’ve pondered about them since hmm March 2006 actually, when I thought I saw Hayley down at Circular Quay. My companions didn’t agree though, changed the subject and put me in a taxi home.

I never quite got over seeing Hayley grown up and appearing in an episode of the Love Boat in which she was being lusted after by Gopher, better than doc or Captain Stooobing ?, am sure she hasn’t either and would have preferred to be playing Pollyanna and admiring Mrs Snow’s prisms or befriending some loner under the mistaken belief that he was Jesus.

Naturally when you think of Hayley you can’t help but think of Hywel Bennett, it’s like cheese and gherkin really. That film the twisted nerve. Hywel, Hayley and Billie Whitelaw how’d you be. Stella cast and kind of gripping film, well I haven’t seen it since I was aged 11, it could have lost its edge I suppose. Haven't we all?

What’s happened to Hywel I hear you shriek. Fear not he is currently gainfully employed playing a villain, a paedophile and murderer natch, on the tawdry, sordid show that has become the Bill . That show really should be called Hot Ploddy. All the staff at that nick seem to do while strife is strewn on the streets of Sun’ill is either go and find an interview room what is free and fornicate, fall victim to a villain on the streets of sun 'ill, embark on another fling with another colleague, or firebomb the work building and then find a cosy spot on another building rooftop where one confesses to a colleague and has a good old fashioned laugh about the curious turn of events. Glory. Yet I still can’t help but tune in and watch it.

Back to Hywel. The older version of Hywel is completely unrecognisable to Hywel circa 1968. I only discovered that it was Hywel via the credits rolling at the end of the Bill.

Oh simmer down, would you. Yes, yes, the mistress is aware that considerable time has passed since 1968 and that we all age, even smugdrawers here, I know, but generally some younger semblance of your physical self remains but not in Hywel's case. Go and google his images and compare the difference. The same happened to David Hemmings and rather quickly.

Last example I’d like to go on about is Ian Lavender. Skinny tall thing who played Pike, mummy's boy come Mainwaring's "stupid boy", in Dad’s Army. He currently plays the love interest of Pauline Fowler (Wendy Richards/Miss Brahms) in Eastenders. Lordamumsamercy me. Completely unrecognisable. Still that'd be living with Pauline Fowler. However you can still recognise Wendy Richards. You might say "jesus, is that Miss Brahms?" But the point is you can still see a bit of young Wendy.

When I last saw Juliet Mills in Passions she still pretty much looked like an older version of Phoebe Figalilly.

Conclusion:

I have watched too much television. Today's cars well may be mum’s taxi, and if i'm in the car with you , please do leave that baby on board sign up, makes me feel so safe, but in my day tv was mum’s babysitter. I am filled to the gills with crapola and trivia and must redeem myself in the next twenty years or I will have led a completely feckless life.

Oh like whatever and take a chill pill, grandma, what’s the point in having a blog if one cannot indulge in these rambles and inner dialogues.

Good afternoon.

Tomorrow David and Keith Carradine.

Cooked goose

Have just returned from luncheon. I had a hot dinner today on account of my feeling a teency bit seedy from yesterday’s party. Well actually the seediness seems to be getting worse as the day progresses, so I’m feeling a bit mcjitter/nervy b-ish now.

It was a tasty meal and I was genuinely comforted by the woman behind the counter addressing me as darling every 2 seconds. I needed that kind of comfort today. When I unfurled the napkin containing the cutlery, I discovered that while I’d been given a stainless steel fork, my knife was made from plastic. I guess that is some kind of anti-terrorist measure.

I’ll never know. I just kind of humphed to myself, which while less pleasant did make a change from my chuckling aloud remembering amusing things people had said to me at the party, and thought "I’ll be blogging this", you can’t say that I’m not a woman of my word, a bore I cannot refute.

So I had my back to the "food court", where I reigned as Queen and faced the wall and ate my grilled salmon, salad and chips. To my left was another diner, the Food Court's King, who looked a lot like Jim Bacon from Bellbird/Bob Hatfield from Country Practice (same actor? now deceased), ie very “heavy”, some euphemism for fat, eh?, middle aged fella with a shock of white hair and porcine pink complexion. Each time I delicately shoved a chip in my mouth, my gaze would bounce from chip to Jim Bacon back to my chest and I’d worry about a heart attack. Eventually I gave up the ghost and devoured the entire meal, save the parsley garnish.

Fortunately I have returned to work without any major incident apart from the wind blowing my dress open and my fumbling to hold the dress down and bumping into a colleague at the exact moment that the wind blew up my skirts.

Venus and Mars and all their stars.

Must go and do some work. Well I’d like to but cannot for the harsh sound of mocking laughter reverberating throughout the office as my colleagues titter about the mistress’s latest shameful public display. As I peer over the partition I see that the colleagues’ faces have been supplanted with those of Joe, Mick, Topper and Georges, I mean, Paul. Still beats Marco, Merrick, Terry Lee, Garry Tibbs and yours twuly.

Now where did I put that plastic knife.

Table this - the things that matter

Spent the afternoon at a 40th birthday party barbeque. It was fun and rather interesting.

During the course of the partay the dj played a couple of songs by The Clash.

The Clash is a band that has generally stuck in my craw. Penned a few good choruses perhaps but i generally found the band kind of phoney, pretentious, laboured - curiously 3 qualities which i pride in myself and other bands.

In keeping with the sophisticated nature of this entry I would like to conclude with

the clash sucks.

tooods dooods

The death of Arthur

Following my pleasant luncheon, in between work, mental tirades and whatnot, I had quite a nice and productive time this arvo.

While having a breather from that I read about Patch Keating and his father-in-law's alleged antics, sounds like a good way to bond with the old lady's olds. The newspaper article concluded by stating that Patch and his wife, Amber or Amba, recently had a baby daughter who they dubbed Avalon "after the Roxy music song”. Named after a lady who danced the bossa nova.

And there I was thinkin’ byebee must have been named after the Sydney northern beaches suburb and gracious home to the King Arthur Knight Club and theatre restaurant . Top night out if you’re keen on ladies in wimples and conical hats, men in chain mail, stoner surfies brandishing swords, and loads of laughs. See you there this Saturday, or Sat'e'dee as they used to say in the olden days.

inanity made me do it

Had a fabulous lunch and bang on today with JQ. We had two glasses of house white and all, oh and a tasty feed too. A hoot to boot.

So I returned after a lunch hour of fun and fine fare feeling kind of chipper and no longer feeling the bolt jolt panic, the mistress is a fickle and stupid variety of beast, after all.

Upon my return I was greeted by someone with “have you been shopping at the sales?”

A perfectly friendly, conversational query but at that moment i thought hmmm, sales, I really didn’t know they were on and actually couldn't care.

Still it hardly left me feeling perplexed which is how I feel when I tell people I’m going/have been to Melbourne and they sigh, "oh lots of great shopping there." Is there? Why? Aren’t most shops throughout Australia the same these days?!

hold on to your hats as I launch into a "what’s with " whinge routine

I find those standard responses and "addictions" somewhat tedious. It’s like that cliché that women just love, love, love and live for goddamn shoes. god how that bores me. I'm happy to admire or purchase a stylish pair but someone shruggin’ cutely and confidin' to you about her love or worse, a "weakness" is so hackneyed. A friend told me, when i was griping about this phenomenon, about someone confidin' to her about having a “weakness for shoes", while placing her (meaning contrived crazy shoe lover) pinkie finger to her mouth in an attempt at conveying girlish vulnerability, but probably resembling Dr Evil.

Furthermore what is with people who when they find out that a male acquaintance is gay, generally a particularly handsome man, say " shame" or" typical , it’s always the way. " I find that so annoying and insulting to our ‘omosexualiste bretheren. Are these dames implying that straight females should get all the redskins and homosexualistes just the clinkers?!? I don't know what they are trying to say but their mindlessness gets my goat.

Another favourite is the morning/afternoon tea/dessert "oh I shouldn't, titter, titter, followed by greedy scoff, scoff" reply when object, objectionable interlocuteur, more like, is profferred a lamington, piece of cake, or Arnott's cream assorted biscuit, (let's face it with the latter no one bloody should, and imagine offering that for dessert?!), it's along the lines of wicked magnum made me do it.

Finally, love and generosity will prevail shortly, promise, is the confession about "loving chocolate", well whoopie zing and a hot mothery cockadoodledoo, who doesn't, um oh my niece that's right, good to see the contrarian streak, um, vinegar, is still coursing through the family veins.

WE must rise against this boring chit chat and create our own mindless prattle . I can't do it all alone, godammit!!

Next time someone confides to you of her/his love of chocolate, worse refers to her/himself as a goddamn chocoholic, please do nod your head in agreement and say "yeah, and i sure like a good movement first thing of a morning, don't you?" or perhaps that is too crude, sorry, but i'm really riled and going off big time, so throw in something equally non sequitur such as "Yeah, and chuckle, shame about Lady Di. Still we did get to hear another great Elton John song but. "and then start humming New Rose, Planet Earth, or Careless Whisper.

It's been great whinging to you, thank you and good night.

BOLT JOLT PANIC phhtt

No, that title is not a line from a duet sung by Serge Gainsbourg and BB. It's a wild, crazed plea from me to you.

Oh such a yearning, such a desire for change, some excitement, a thrill, all i want to do is up and bolt.

Do you ever want to bolt? Do you? Do you ever want to up and run? Do you? impassioned plea Errol Brown style , please.

Skye Mangel and me, who'd've thought. I really must stop watching Neighbours it's filling my head with such crazed fanciful notions. Why, the old neighbs has got positively subversive these days.

Oh to be tied to the tedium of work and bound by the bank until the end, not to mention the ennui and malaise, it's a positive drag and a like fully scary prospect.

And all I can do is carp and demean, I know, so tedious for you.

i've recently learnt that many, many, positively loads, right, jobs in my neck of the woods will be scrapped so no doubt i'll be longing for the job ball and chain soon. bet your bottom dollar you'll be reading about that too. Still it could create the much needed jolt of adrenalin, which is a strange phenomenon for me as i generally feel as though i've been more of a driver than a passenger on life's great highway. Curious given my lack of driver's licence, have achieved so much, you see.

Wonder whether you're a passenger or a driver, well you won't have to wonder too long, a quiz regarding your modus operandi in life will be blogged shortly. Still if you're waiting for it by Friday, you pretty much fall in the passenger category.

Anyhoo enough of this moaning.

I know what i need to do, I need to write a book.

Nothing big mind, no airport blockbuster or Oprah book club just yet, and i should leave the Pulitzer for the genius that is G. Brooks.

Actually i might write a book about England from wwii until 1963, touching on the cold war, villainous foreigners, gypsies, smugglers, ingots and life with four children, high on ginger pop, macaroons and tinned tongue, and a confounded dog who cannot help but fall into adventures. It will be called Quent and written from the perspective of the brilliant scientist "Uncle Quentin" Barnard of Kirrin Cottage.

Hurrah!

Hodder and Stoughton or Little Golden Books here i come.

Doppleganger goddamn

Today i am looking the worse for wear.

My sinuses are wildly inflamed, i've got bags under the eyes, and well, i seem to have grown jowls over night. In fact my face is all puffy and pudgy and I look like goddamn Lexie Downer, well not completely my lips aren't exactly cupid bow shaped and i'm sportin' jim jams and bedsocks not fishnets and stilettos.

Hey, i hear you all sucking in your breath with disgust, and i'm furiously exhaling back at youse an'all. Total bringdown. I'd rather resemble Dorian Gray's portrait, but let's face it old Rupert Everett has pipped me to that post.

The cause for this alteration in my once serene and beautiful visage is not a life time of gross incompetency and mendacity nor a dissipated life of booze and pills and pacts with pirates. No, I attribute the general nasal inflammation and overall swollen face to imbibing some rough David Williamson red and sitting out in an hotel beer garden on a rather chilly evening.

We were at the Courthouse Hotel to welcome FJG back to Sydders and have dinner. Landsakes has that hotel become the place to be "of" a Friday night. It was chockers. Among the throng I espied a very boring MOR pop balladeer , and later Joanna and I bumped into Elizabeth Jagger outside the ladies. It was so busy, the restaurant not the dunnies, well apart from toot and G hour, natch, that we didn't get our meal until 2 hours post order!!! Still they did give us two bottles of wine on the house, resulting in today's disastrous doppleganger effect.

Overall i think members of our party of 8 enjoyed themselves despite my general grouchiness. Yes, that funk is ever present and cannot be shifted. Furthermore, it has only intensified since i learnt that now Mick Jagger is getting his own sitcom on the television.

He'll only appear in it a few times as himself. General synopsis is four blue collar workers, no, not bill, charlie, keef, and ronnie, plan to rob MJ at Sidcup station.

Heelllairrious!

Mick and comedy it's not that far fetched really, comedy is the new rock and roll after all, and when you consider his cinematic performances over the years, Ned Kelly, Elysian Fields or that video movie for his solo lp are just a few highlights, he's a comic genius, his timing is pure and utter magic.

Then again perhaps i should not be so miffed. He could be interested in making a few appearances in a cooking show, this could be the way of getting my dream up and running. Oh the funk fog is lifting must give Reg a bell...........

D is for deluded

Hippity hoppity non sequitur risers. Well, that’s it for Peter Cottontail, H.C. buns, the cross and the rock, sounds like a good blockbuster, eh, and chocolate eggs for 2006.

So did you have a good time, yeah? Orright!! hit high hat cymbal. Ahem, sorry some residual inanity from last Tuesday. Now where was I? Ah yes, me, natch, will adopt more sober and usual decorous tone.

True to plan my Easter was a relatively quiet break, well that is when I wasn’t stilettoed, spaghetti strapped and feathered and stompin' to the Gees Gees at Royal Randwick Raceourse to frolic and stumble with the other Easter Carnival hippodrome “Princesses”, swill Bacardi breezers and be blown about in the wind; rubbing shoulders with those who want to be, sexy but intellectual crowd, arent they, the Sydney social set, at Sydney’s hot night spots such as Ruby Rabbit, in keeping with the Easter theme; or catching troubadour about town, Russell Crowe at the Royal Easter Show(e).

Yes, so apart from mixing with the fashioniste and the wannabes, and hurling myself at the feet of the papparazzi and Russ, a relatively quiet time was had. Finished one book, ditched the second, characters and story just too odious and stomach churning, and recommenced the third.

Still when you live in a "sexed up " metropolis such as Sydney, transformed from bustling country town to world class international city in 15 years, you can never completely rest now can you.

Why even stepping out to the 24/711 for a litre of milk and a newspaper is fraught with anxiety for a gel about town like me. You just never know when the Street Style photographer for the Sunday papers' social pages will suddenly appear and take a random photo of your goodself, forcing you to pose uncomfortably on the steps of the shops or in the street's gutter, capturing the awkward "photo look" suffusing your face, as you vainly suck in your cheeks and frantically itemise the origin of every article of clothing that you are sporting.

So like i said departing from one's digs for the triflest of errands can be a nervewracking experience as one fusses with one's ensemble in paranoiac anticipation of encounter with Street Photographer. So today i'm sporting feathers from Paddy's "flea" markets, a frock from Supre, Bonds control pant, shoes by Clarks and these earrings, why i picked them up in Paris, yeah from a gutter in the 20th arrondissement. Chic boho eclectica or what.

Ankles away

I am so looking forward to the four day Easter Break. Big thanks to J.C. for smiling down on me, oh and the rest of yas. Smiling back up at you and missing you already, J.C.

It’s going to be very nice and quiet. I am not socialising at all and will just seclude myself in the flat, begin the viewing of the British Film Institute top 100 project, and finish three books each of which I’m half way through, why, at that rate, I might even manage to start a new one.

None of the books are about rock n roll, they’re proper and fictitional like. As much as I enjoy the rock book, I generally don’t retain as much of the information as I once did.

These days the majority of rocknroll books that I read I access via David. The last rnr book I read was when I stayed Monte Woolley style at David and Mia’s in January. The room where I stayed is lined with bookcases and has a great selection of books with very interesting and titillating titles and subjects, I generally focus on the rock n roll bios though.

What I love about the rock book genre, apart from the generally, non challenging and entertaining read, is the index, particularly the indexes for 60’s/70’s rock n roll popular culture books. You know the type, you look up delusional, and you get several page numbers for tales about Marianne Faithfull, look up sex dwarf god you get Dudley Moore, and refer to smack, television defenestration, blood, and mounties and you get all the entries you could possibly want on K. Richards. a google prototype perhaps?

I read the Ian McLagan autobio during the January 2006 siege of david n mia's digs.

Generally the book was magnificently light and a fairly amusing read, usual topics covered: mickey j money grubbing and doing people out of song writing credits; rod stewart birdin’ and boozin’ it up; M.Faithfull being called classy and cultured, reading poetry to the small faces in her nightie, out of which her breasts kept tumbling; freebasing crap while spending days on end mixing in the stude; living your life through the bottom of a booze bottle; and making moolah and buying houses for your olds then losing all the moolah and having to live with your olds, etc. Good times, bad times, and not dissimilar to any of our lives, of course.

I can’t remember the title of “mac’s” memoirs, off our faces?, and my main memory about the book involves an anecdote about ankles and Orstralia.

David alerted me to this story, which I hadn’t yet reached for I was still savouring tales about Rod birdin’ and boozin’ it up and treating the other Faces like a backing band. So the beauty and potential of the rock book index was fully realised and “ankles” was duly looked up.

During “Macs” 2nd visit to Australia, some time in the early 80’s perhaps, long time after the “scandalous” who and small faces tour of the 60’s, apart from catching up with Renee Geyer in Sydney, he spent time in Perth, where he had a top time and all and did a lot of ankle spotting. While “mac” thought Orstralian birds were luvverly and utter ravers and that, he and his band mate, can’t remember who, or which band, sorry, i guess you can always google it if you need to know, couldn’t help but notice how the majority of Australian women had thick ankles. Anyway it went on like that for a bit and their road manager concurred with the geezers’ observation and told them how he’d been reading some memoir by Percy Grainger who’d also come to a similar conclusion about Orstralian sheilas’ ankles and couldn’t wait to return to Blighty where the ladies ankles were so fine and puhtty.

What a pack of ankle biters.

I do think a lot about ankles but it's more worrying about sprains, twists and breaks, future arthritic problems, and inevitable ankle replacement operations. Consequently, I have never thought of ankles as giving you an erotic charge.

Since January most evenings waiting for the bus at the stop outside David Jones have been spent furtively checking out ankles, on the ladies and the fellas, and even my own in the reflection of the dj’s vitrine, what a smashing, er smashed, set i've got.

The ankle fetish, I don’t understand at all really, some do seem bonier, couldn't say if that makes 'em bonnier, ask Percy and Mac, than others but I just find it a rather curious and quaint, almost strangely innocent?, thing to check out. I guess these days you’re more struck by an over exposed set of titty boom booms, a saucy tatt on the arse or midriff, or just some random codpiece floating down the street.

Rest assured I’m just a bit perplexed and am not being a prude, after all my memoir musical features a segment on the thrill gained on the sight of a male in a semi untucked shirt, tucked in at the front, left out over trou from behind, be it Midford school, Woah Maggie, or civilian shirt, thus making me of course a shirt lifter.