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.

Cash and Co

So following the strayanyoushouldbespeakin'it debacle, Huey and I could not quite part ways without a full debriefing.

There we were smack bang on Broadway wonderin' where to go. Despite the earlier incident i really did not feel like going to a hot carpeted pub to be entertained by Mr Tipple; so where else could we go but the waterhole established and favoured by the Hillsong folk, no, not Lassiters, your obtuseness, glory get with the strength, Gloria Jean's!

Cockadoodledoo and god bless the mounties, which one of you little schnuckers will be usin' that for your next posting's label or title, there really was nothing else nearby.

It was great to enter a place that was just like Central Perk on Friends, so fabulous when reality blends into fiction. However there is no waiter/ressing service so i told Huey to bags us a table and chair, all de comfy womfy wounges and armchairs were occupied, bummer, while the mistress ordered and received - i'm in training for next week's Passiona celebrations.

I ordered two soda waters with ice and was asked whether i'd like some nice hazelnut syrup in the soda. What no malt?! I don't know what come over me but i declined. Ideas above station alert.

I collected the sodas from Al, no Arnold, um Gunther (?) and took em over to Phoebe, er Huey ah Potsie. Into every life a special guest appearance by Anson Williams must fall, singing, natch.

We sunk our soda and proceeded to rant. I must confess, non sequitur risers, that the Mistress was not making a shrrrrred of sense.

One minute i was slaggin off Mr C and barking at Potsie/Huey to sit on it - to which Huey sweetly enquired "what?", am surprised i could hear her enquiry for all the canned laughter reverberating in my ears. Following that timeless catch cry I'd flick my hair away from face, tilt my head from side to side, all jaw and chin jutting forward and utter another classic riposte " uh yehuh" only to blithely begin ranting about bigoted conductors, canned laughter switching to collective oooooooooooooh.

Was I speaking in tongues?

It was all a bit of a freak out at this coffeshop, people.

I might have been better off down at the Peach Pit rooting and tooting with Kelly, Dylan, Brandon, Steve, Jughead and Donna. I guess I'll never know.

And then the iceman arriveth (sorry about that phoney ye olde English I was a journo for RAM in 1977 and haven't quite shaken the style from my system).

Fellow was coming down big time; slamming hands on table, rockin' the table, cuttin' his tongue on someone else's pie, yellin'... then he got up and quietly joined the queue.

Oh Hillsong, you've done it again.

It was 5 p.m. on Saturday afternoon and the witching hour was upon us. Time to get off the crazy streets of central. I now knew how Penne Hackforth-Jones felt as that lady in the wild lawless goldrush days of Austraya. Only to espy PHJ from the bus four days later- strolling outside David Jones, alas sans Serge Lazareff and Gus Mercurio. Spooky or is that feeaky? NB next posting will have to focus on my sixth sense.

It was time to get home to the election coverage.

speak strayan

Yesterday was a scorcher but I still managed to have a generally delightful day. I met up with Huey and we went to the Fishmarkets for luncheon and sat at a table in front of the bay and had a most wonderful luncheon, a bottle of Jansz, two big bottles of mineral water and a good old natter for a couple of hours.

Following the delicious luncheon we strolled around the markets and ate a gelato, mango for me and coconut kaffir lime for the Meister. We then decided we should make tracks to our respective digs and walked to the light rail station to catch the tram to Central.

We determined we were on the right side of the tracks (always of the utmost importance, yours Lloyd Waddy) and sat at our stop marvelling at the sandstone, the spic’n’span station, my freckles rapidly multiplying and skin burning while we melted along with another passenger to whom Huey proffered a tissue and in unison we all sighed as we mopped our brows.

The light rail seems to be a most efficient service, runs every 12 minutes, and right on schedule the tram and its promise of glorious air conditioned comfort glided in.

We boarded and were instantly soothed by the coolness, quiet and spaciousness. Our conductor for this voyage came and sold our tickets. The conductor was a little taciturn. I idiotically showed my bus, ferry and train travel pass thinking that it might somehow cover a privately run tram service, no wonder she was gruff with me (“This is a tram, lady”) but when Huey cheerfully commented what a relief it was to be in the air conditioning after that stinking heat, Conductor snapped that the heat was to be expected in mid-summer. Professor Peabody here bit her tongue from saying as at 21 March it was officially autumn – it had after all been 3 days since I’d flipped my mattress. Still the conductor was working on a Saturday probably without penalty rates - lightrail is private, whereas we'd just had a long luncheon and she might have mistaken our bonhomie for smugness. It was bonhomie i tell you.

We bought our tickets and basked in the tram’s coolness and revelled going down Dixon street and the absence of traffic jams. We were soon jolted from our self-satisfaction by hearing the conductor in an altercation with some French tourist seniors.

The tourists were refusing to buy a ticket as they had an all in one day pass which had been accepted by a previous conductor on another trip earlier that day. Conductor barked that they had to buy a ticket as their pass didn’t cover light rail, tourists emphatically disagreed, in French mind you. The debate continued for a bit, both sides doggedly arguing in their first tongue, with le français exasperated and shouting in English “don’t you speak French!” to which the conductor retorted , “Don’t you speak strayan? People visiting straya should know how to speak a little strayan.” Her delivery not the content was very William Brown but he'd say oughta.

At this point Huey and I looked at each other, appalled and rolled our eyes. Huey said we had to intervene, which was right but I also felt both sides were well matched- the conductor a Hansonite and the français seniors probably lePenites and never penitent. However I could not stand by after hearing the strayan comment, touche pas mon pôte and whatnot, so dutifully got off my derrière and entered the fray.

We went up and switched from speakin' strayan to français to assist and explain; neither side backing down. Fortunately the tram soon drew into Central and the conductor yelled “you all have to get off now” – she had had enough and no doubt needed to be surrounded by some normal strayan speakers but the tram was also terminating.

The français got out of paying and we hastily alighted from tram and a possible episode of Rosemary and Thyme with a glower from the conductor and a merci from the français . Was this a rrrresult? Was an outcome achieved?

Perhaps the conductor was suffering from a personal trauma but no circumstance justifies the speak strayan imperative. Or perhaps she is just a bigot and currently telling her pals about the pesky foreigners coming here not speaking the language and these do gooders interrupting and adding to the chaos.

Metro Light Rail will be advised and Tupper Mansions no doubt torched. Here's hoping little Rusty Crowe will get a gorgeous bit of Hollywood backing and film the conductor's story.

the age of the monologue

What is new? How sweet of you to ask and how novel.

Most days this mellennium you just get emails and text blurbs about the scribes without a how do you do? or a how was your weekend? let alone a how's your father! Rude articles!

In truth i do get quite a few enquiries about me, and i duly send return message, but really that dilutes my complaint and there's no point complaining unless you edit all truth.

This week i am very much the cow with the crumpled horn and in social interaction have also been doing a sterling impression of the mother with late teenaged/early adult offspring - both roles - versatill and self-indulgent, i don't know how i do it.. If you were staying at my flat you'd get a "This is not a boarding house/hotel it's a hoame" rant to boot. Lord it's been a while!

Must remember to stay at Matermisguidedmartyr over Easter. What do you mean I'm already there?

As some of those 2Bl broacasters would knowingly and cheekily intone, "good old mum, we love our mums." Oh 2Bl, i mean, 702. Oh aunty. Oh mum. Oh brother.

That hoame NOT a boarding house rant must be fairly regularly uttered these days with the "i'm worth it generation" living chez olds till their 30's. Pity the poor parents fettered by their adult offspring.

It is only fitting that the “i'm worth it” generation, so cosseted, so cocooned and such fans of JWH reign, live with their olds until their 30’s - that’s what the boob did. Old Mooother Howard must have been in a permanent state of vexation. I guess he replied to her rants with an "it's all about faaaaamily" or a "business is business, the customer is always right" while deducting her fine from his board payment due to a late and sub-standard tea.

The "I’m worth its" are masters and mistresses of the monologue, harping on about their rights and how others' actions or words make them feel (surprised they're capable of any sensitivity) so it takes some finesse to keep up with their litany of me.

Thank J.C. and Passiona for cyberspace and the BLOG which places me at the forebore of the monologue front.........vdelish

It's goodnight from Brian, and a what about me from the Mistress. Goodnight.

*This posting has the modest tally of 8 x I and 2 x me referring to the Mistress who after all did live through the 1983 recession, 1987 Black Monday and that recession we had to have.

Pollie, Pollie, Pollie, Pollie talk

Talk about things you know nothing abouuuuuuuuut.

State election is on this Saturday and while the actual election is not that exciting - it's a given the ALP'll return to government and Admiral Denham will be going down with the SS Libs ( just as well he always sports those sluggos and swims at Bondi every day) it's the Cabinet reshuffle that will get us goin'.

Well that's what I was telling my brand new personal bus stop bestie as he pushed in the bus queue. That is cool, he is important and there are like so many electorates and things to think about but still i think i might lend him Brian's High Maintenance t-shirt.

So like i was so painstakingly explaining to Ant this morning, while he foraged through his rucksack for his blessed red travel ten, what will be really interesting is the Cabinet reshuffle. Will Tripodi, Costa and Sartor go? Will Linda Burney ascend to Cabinet?. And who will the new Opposition leader be? Pru Goward or Barry O'Farrell?

Hanyways Federal election is going to be a lot more exciting and full of so much promise and i can't wait to write a posting called

"Now we've got a P.M. called Kevin." And as he appears to be a bit of a godbotherer, i'm pretty confident the next line can be "he's sure to go to heaven. "

Torpor calls

I have been doing battle with a tiresome low grade virus and consequently been having quite vivid dreams and waking up in odd positions. Last night i felt so exhausted I retired to bed around 8 only to wake at 11.15 feeling very dizzy yet lying straight and flat on my back with my hands above my chest, my fingers' tips tapping together as though i were pronouncing judgement.

Still rather tame behaviour compared to the capers that ensue after knocking back a capsule or ten of Stilnox.

On Monday night someone must have slipped some Stilnox into my bedtime banana smoothie for the next thing I knew I was seated in the dress circle at the Enmore Theeater watching

Weird Al Yankovic

What a night. Oh what a long and loud night. Live performance spliced with videos from ALtv featuring wackily edited interviews between Al and pop stars.

Birthday boys and teen enjoyed the show and while it was a joy to witness their delight, and the reason for which I was there, the show left me with the same feeling experienced after viewing Carry on camping – disquiet and despair.

The psephologist

Oh Antony Green

Star of the television screen

on election nights

2007 will be a busy year for you

But in downtime what is it that you do?

I see you at the bus stop watching bicyclists zip past

while you wait ...

Would you like a bike for Christmas?

When bus arrives you jump the queue

Naughty, impatient Antony Green

At night on the bus people chat to you

You laugh, feign interest, then bolt

Leaving chatters lookin’ out window - dejected;

poor puds are no match for

Elusive, athletic Antony Green

Striding purposefully down the main road

A pack of frozen four ‘n twenty pies in your hand

Peckish, carnivorous Antony Green

Star of psephology

Mackerras successor

When will you introduce the Greendulum,

Antony Green?

Christ on a bike

Just saw a poster promoting the INXS and Simple Minds tour, a sufficiently vile concept in itself but said poster also features a photo of INXS.

What an eyeful i copped. They look like they've been cast to star in the very Hairbear Bunch reunion movie. Admittedly the lead role would go to Doug Parkinson. Hey, perhaps they should replace singer J.D. with Doug . I'm sure they would all love to crank out a heartfelt version of Dear Prudence as an encore.

Oh the grotesquerie.

Now this is happenin'. and please don't mess with stumblef.

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.

Past five days have been like this;

Sugar titty

The weekend weather was relentlessly humid and the sun blazed baldly, one was constantly bathed in sweat, somewhat cantankerous, and a little hung.

Relief finally came last night in the form of a most magnificent electrical storm. As the southerly approached around 10.21ish i positioned myself in front of the wide open bedroom windows and did a sterling impression of Mrs Danvers, standing bolt rigid, nightgown billowing in the breeze, tits flung out the window, staring like some nocturnal beast at the rapid flashes of lightning attacking the district as the thunder did a ferocious number. Eventually i got a bit wet and the lightning gave me the jim-jams so i closed the windows, ouch, and scuttled under the bed.

The storm lasted two hours.

Since that storm I have been feeling rather skewiff, it has caused havoc with my senses, i've now got about 7. My antennae have been all over the shop and picking up the wrong vibe and misinterpreting text, email and speech. Am sure a night of the long knives is imminent but am not sure when, where, who or .....

And the winner is..............BOTOX

I watched most of last night’s Oscars. Why? Either me own personal hits of botox are seeping from the forehead into the brain or I gorged on too much British Beef in 1996 and am suffering from the onset of mad cow’s disease - it’s either staring into space or at the telly for me most work nights.

At times the show’s host Ellen de Generes was almost as wet as SJP. Who would have thought that could be possible.

And how about the freak show that is our Nicknkeith Kidman-Urban. Nicknkeith looked like they were sporting rubber masks of their faces. Still, once the contract is spent and the talent non-existent there's not much else to do but hit the botox or board the booze/toot/rehab merry-go-round.

Hey, at least there's a choice.

A friend once compared Nickers’ appearance to that of a well preserved old lady. And boy was she on the money. Nickers is doing a fine impression of Nancy Reagan welcoming Cruella de Ville to her visage and corps. It’s strange our Nic is not yet 40 but her whole demeanor has become that of Norma Desmond and despite lack of age difference Keith is doing a sterling support as Joe Gillis.

What a relief to get that off my chest.

Oh it is a therapeutic joy to have, not necessarily read, a blog as trivial as mine.

Pretty polly oh my

As the sun rises and the aircraft curfew lifts, the soundtrack for Tupper mansions these airless and densely humid summer dawns has been a cacophony of shrill and penetrating bird calls. No delightfully hearty mocking cackle from the kookaburra or the beautiful song of the magpie for this inner city aviary, no siree, it's haven to the cooing vibrato of those dirty pigeons and the irritating chatter of the Indian mynah.

One morning as i lay twitching and sticky under my crumpled and twisted bedclothes, forlornly determining whose call was whose, my ears cocked upon hearing a new call that was intriguing in its dissatisfaction, half-heartedness and complete flatness, was it a bird or just Pauline Fowler risen and doing a spot of ghost hectoring.

I could not fathom what it could be. All i could picture was a Sid and Marty Kroft creation of a bird with a great long bugle for a beak or perhaps it was a Boogaloo, they are in the air and everywhere after all. I then thought of Sigmund and the Seamonsters and the actor who was in that and who had earlier played Jody in Family Affair, murmured "oh, Mr French" and rolled over to fall into slumber and dream of Uncle Brian Keith astride a dinosaur, with a beautiful array of kaleidoscopic reflections rotating in the dream's opening credits.

Back to the call of the wild.

The bird's call had me puzzled for a couple of weeks and i finally discovered its owner while I was walking along the street, ears at attention. On hearing the sound, for which i had developed a strange affection, I reacted as though some regressed memory had been triggered and my left shoulder had a spasm attack. I looked up into the bright blue sky and saw that the screech came from a sulphur-crested cockatoo flying above me.

I was surprised. This handsome specimen has really lost out big time in the quality of its call. I had assumed its call would be the same as the black cockatoo which you generally only see in the country. The black cockato is a magnificently handsome creature with a corresponding cry - foreboding, gutteral and powerful. The black cockatoo uttering this cry while swooping over the trees with its enormous black wings spread wide is an audiovisual spectacular.

Closest you'll get to seeing a winged monkey and the closest NSR will venture into reflections on the animal kingdom.

Wednesday night bookclub

What have you been reading lytely? I myself personally have not been able to get enough of the bio or the autobio genre. Super read, learn a lot and get to make lots of harsh but informed judgements (two e's make that noun look so much softer and prettier).

Following a recommendation from fjg I began the Latham diaries, borrowed from the work library, but half way through it got too much even for bileous drawers here. Still he was shafted badly so who can blame him.

I recently finished the Helen Reddy autobio on loan from biblio lorraine. It was a great memoir and worth reading. Helen is a top dame - forthright, intelligent and interested. Holland named a tulip after her. Frank Sinatra sent her yella roses. Her family history and general tales about Australian showbiz were very interesting as were her reincarnation theories particularly the one about the houses of Windsor and York.

H.R believes that Wallis Simpson was the reincarnation of Richard III and that Elizabeth II and Princess Ma'am Darling were the reincarnations of the little princes, Edward V and Richard, Duke of York - Richard the III's nevews who he allegedly murdered up in that tower.

Apparently it was natural justice or the karma chameleon that led Edward VIII, who in a past life had been a devoted servant to Richard III, to be drawn to Wallis and rectify the 500 year old wrong by abdicating and letting a York ascend the throne.

A-ma-zing.

I think Admiral Peter Debnam is the reincarnation of Edward VIII but I don't think Wallis has returned yet.

Each to her/his own in the search for meaning, and a spiritual belief must be comforting, but the prospect of reincarnation and the after-life in general strikes me as utterly exhausting. Just when you think you can give up the ghost you're back on. Talk about a neverending story.

Speaking of exhausting and neverending stories i am about to hit the couch to read Jonestown, which I also borrowed from the work library. Fortunately the librarian has covered the book in brown paper so i don't have to see the Parrot's face.

Oh and for those of you who were wondering why i don't frequent my local municipal library - three words:

Brian the autodidact.

You remember him, my librarian come community theatre pal who I performed with in that salute to Hollywood stars in the Illawarra, and who later sabotaged my musical bio, Before the bubble burst - see 2006 postings, well, the stupid twerp in a frenzied panic to read the entire library's contents in alphabetical order by 2010 has broken his own rules and borrowed all of L, M and R. Nevertheless I do admire his setting such a goal. It's important to realise your dreams, well not the type i've been having lately but that's another posting..........

SUPER JAZZED TOOSDAY

Call me Jimmy Tickles, oh google the reference for jc's sake, i cannot be arsed doing a link today, but the past three days i have been feeling super jazzed by work, it has been tops, and play, weekend was fun and had some amusingly silly moments with some ridiculously extravagant and funny personalities. And i mean that in the nicest possible way A. M-C. Caffarel. Don't worry about her privacy, she'll only happen on this blog a couple of years after googling her name , the question is : will you do it before her? When was the last time you googled your name?

Speaking of Jimmy Tickles, i did watch the strangers with candy movie a month ago. It was not brilliant nor was it a right off and i hate to be all oh their first lp was their best but there is truth in the cliche and you are better off buying the dvds of the tv series. I cannot lend mine out anymore as i love them so but you are welcome to come over for a screening. Nevertheless i was entertained by the movie, not having watched my favourite episodes for a couple of months, and delighted to hear goddammit uttered with such invective, and tittered at the stock inversions of platitudes. Everyone looked a lot older, well apart from Jerri - i guess everyone else had caught up, a lot of physical ageing happens in 8 years, so don't say you haven't been warned.

I also watched that film about Boring Jones called, oh gordon , Stoned. Again, it wasn't as bad as i thought it would be - is it any cockin' wonder that I start today's posting announcing my superjazzedness when a month ago i was hiring films that from the outset i thought would be terrible!?!

In sum the dvd was entertaining and acceptable weekend fodder - yours Wilfred Hyde-White.

The relationship between Bri and the alleged murderin' builder was very Turner and Chas from Performance. Have never been a fan of the Bri Bri so never had any interest in reading any of the murder consipiracy books on which the film was apparently based but having savoured all those david dalton books on rs as a 13 year old, the memories flooded back like those of somebody else. Rampant blond androgyny and misogyny, Bri's capacity to pick up any instrument or bird and play, Tangiers, Pipes of Pan's People, your best mate running off with your best old lady in the back of a limo, getting expelled from the band - beautiful re-enactment that - McKeithncharlie went round to Pooh corner, where Keith told Boring "you're out of the band, cock." Hey who hasn't heard those words and run to their bleedin' recorder or flute, taken a dip, or phoned the fanzine press beggin' for an interview.

Hanyways you'd all know whose life story i'd rather see on the silver screen, no, not mine, that's already been adapted for stage musical. The synopsis for that future bio epic will be left for another posting or until subjects die. Respectful, eh.

Yeah so another review in which i say it was ok , what i'd rather have seen or heard, and then proceed to talk about a past that is not even mine.

I'm so super jazzed right now.

Who's that knocking on my door?

I hope you now have another classic tale from the Rod Stewart songbook on your gullible brain.

I do and it's magnificent.

Nothing better than a tale or one hundred about a rocker birdin' it up with a schoolgirl, let's face it. When you've got a topic like that in a song, no need to worry about riff or rhyme - it's content what counts.

This evening i have thought a lot about Rod but don't worry it wasn't in a portentous or Bel from St Trinian's sense.

It was a lot more profound.

Thoughts of Rod had been triggered by the current storyline on Neighbours - fanaticism for model trains.

Just don't choo it.

Oh those Ramsay Street residents are not bonding around the train set in the sweet manner of Gomez and Pugsley. No, all they do is sport Casey Jones caps, saucily talk about stoking Col?!, who the fuck is that lucky bastard?, and watch the trains just proceeding smoothly on and around the tracks ( admittedly a thrill for a Victorian but earth to Reg Grundy, we are not all Victorian -Copernican Revolution time or what .)

Cockadoodledoo.

Which is precisely what my close personal bestie Rachel Hunter thinks about model choo choos, Hornby train sets in particular.

When New Zealand's first supermodel, I don't think Veruschka was from NZ, was married to Smiler, I recall their marriage all started to go belly up when Raech moaned to me about Rod and his "cockin' train sets up in the attic!"

"Oh Language" I exclaimed to Raech. "That type of talk does not befit a liedie. Imagine if Rod heard you. May mystery always be your middle name, Princesse." I counselled. "Just be grateful you've got an A1 rocknroller as your man!"

Oh but you do think that kept Mollene quiet?

As if! The whinging rag just kept bleatin' in my delicate ear.

Apparently Rod kept inviting his mates, well just Ronnie Wood, everybody needs a friend like Woody, someone who is always willing to sink some jds and coke, jump on your bed, copy your hairstyle and paint your portrait no matter how often you diddle 'em out of birds and writing credits, over to his estate, Selkirk United, where they'd play in the attic with Smiler's model train set. Train with me, train with me, in the attic you must train with me.

Both Rachel and that lovely Jo Woods, Ronnie's old lady, had had enough, despite their promising all kinds of fun with those smuts on their noses and them darling Casey Jones caps on their long blonde hairs.

Teasin' ingrates I called 'em.

Raech and Jo hosted an intervention. Sharon, that's Elton John to you and me, was invited, as were Becks the first and little Ian McLagan. Mickey J stormed over on his own accord, in a total funk about Woody mucking up the ph level of the soil underneath his hydrangeas in Richmond.

Nevertheless the lads refused to give up their passion(s).

I cautioned Raech, i put her on my knee and said "Darlin', a woman must know her place with the rocker, you must never get between yer man and his Hornby." (what with all the dropped g's peppering this posting i've come over all Edwardian, don't ye know. My great-grandmother had advised Lily Langtry.)

Still the silly girl bleated to the press, well just Woman's Day really, about it all.

So uncool.

What had happened to the unswerving loyalty and gratitude for being with a man, let alone a man in a band! Luckee. You must never talk in the presence of a man, girls. All you can do is look up through your lashes, blush and nod, and occasionally reveal a bit of nip. And never ever crack a joke. If you want a rockin' daddy never ever opine or mock just spread your wings and let him come inside, angel.

Just as well Rachel left Rod, with Liam, Raquel and Smiler Jnr in tow, because if she hadn't, lawks, with all her bleatin' and whingin and whinin' she'd have come a cropper like that Pauline Fowler - murdered and dyin' on Arfur's memorial bench on Christmas day no less.

How'd you be?

Dead, stone cold dead, girl, laid out flat on a dead philanderin' villain's bench in Albert Square.

That is not the deal.