Saturday, 16 December 2017

How much shit is in the back of your cupboards?

WE just quite simply have too much shit. It has taken me 2 weeks to pack everything we own into boxes. Well almost everything. Not the paintings and not the Everest pile of shit I have thrown out, but a huge pile of stuff. And it has been a lookie lookie look see into the depths of drawers and cupboards at stuff that never sees the light of day, and naturally there is a very good reason for that - I am not much fond of that plate or bowl or picture or whatever other bit of tat it might be, but you know, 'It's too good to throw out, someone might use it, I'll take it to Life Line' - yeh right, who ever gets to that in their normal every day living?

The whole house had become like the junk drawer in the kitchen that we all have, filled with stuff we thought might come in handy at some point, but it never did.

So as we are downsizing from the bloody enormous, Big House into a regular sized house, I am gonna try a New Year's resolution for Christmas. No more buying shit without throwing out some other shit first.

And that might be achievable now cos I am not the shopper I was in my 30s and 40s. Trawling the shops doesn't bring the joy of times gone. However I will admit that it has been replaced by the internet lottery and in some ways this is worse because I almost never send shit back so it is shoved in the back of somewhere until I get over the guilt and chuck it away.

We still have more shit than enough.


Fingers crossed that it all fits in the trucks on Monday, and that none of the shit I actually like, gets broken in transit. Maybe I should have labelled the shit boxes with, 'If you are gonna drop something, Drop this one' . 

That would have been clever. Next time!

Friday, 15 December 2017

PC Plod is branching out.

Who among us is a mechanical engineer, or a motor enthusiast, or maybe even just someone with a keen interest in things that make a noise? Well  not me that's for sure. I don't know my arse from my elbow when it comes to anything motor driven. And I admit to being part of the throw away generation. You know, if it doesn't work throw it out and get a new one. Oh sure I'll give a broken thing a bit of a slap about and maybe turn it off and on a couple of times and maybe then drop it from a small height, but if it is still not working then it hits the wheelie bin, cos well it's bloody broken.

And I am not a tinkerer. I have never pulled a motor apart and tried to shove it back together and have never saved a thing with a broken motor so I could use it for parts. I mean how would that work anyway? A broken down sewing machine is resurrected by fitting pieces from a blender? I guess it's possible I just don't know.

And my life is not the poorer for this info void. So long as the things I want to work, actually do work then I am happy, and if there is a new toy I fancy having a go at, I'll teach myself how it works, like techno theatre stuff and sometimes a bit of film editing or maybe how to operate a new sewing machine. But I put my hand up and admit that I do not curl up on the couch and dive into an encyclopedia about motors or watch You Tube videos about how to fix ANYTHING. Sure You Tube is a fun way to spend a while and I have watched 'how to' demos but only Nigella cooking easy meringues cos well she's NIGELLA after all.

Horses for courses though. I know not many people want to spend time splashing paint onto a canvas, and playing with children leaves a lot of people cold, and most people just don't get my tapping tapping away here, so I get it that people do weird shit in their spare time.

But my weird got truly weird last night.

There are not many among us who would figure driving their wee car into position as 'Stop Right There Thank You Very Much' - are you singing? would be a good way to spend the evening. Let me paint a picture for you. My car is a wee Mazda 2. I love it cos it's small and easy to park, front in, back in, it's easy peasey. It's short and low to the ground like me and not the least bit intimidating. Suffice to say that road rage wars would never be won by a Mazda 2 driver, unless they had left it at home and were out and about in their truck. So it's not the sort of thing generally first thought of as a weapon.

But last night me and my trusty Mazda put ourselves in harms way in a protest about the fucking noise.

As if the usual noise - I can't believe I am calling it USUAL, cos let's face it there's fuck all USUAL about 100 DB puncturing the evening calm, wasn't enough, last night they thought it a good idea to rev the shit out of 3 industrial machines right outside our house.

Now if this was those fools on Top Gear or whatever it's called now BBC have stopped funding it, were lining up for a race in these machines then some revving would be in order, maybe even a few minutes of it so that the film crews could get enough footage from enough angles, but then the race would begin and the chaos would ensue and probably  one or more of the machines would end up, up-side-down in a ditch, cos it's the doing not the idling that most impresses the TV punters. And people in general I find. People prefer to see some outcome rather than just hear the noise, unless you are sitting behind the enormous amps in the cheap seats at a heavy metal concert, then the noise is all you've got.

I get it that sometimes machines need to warmed up. I get it. But how warmed up do you reckon a machine would be after 90 minutes? If footballers warmed up at top speed for 90 minutes there'd be no game. If I warmed my Mazda up for 90 minutes before taking to the road, I'd very soon run out of petrol, and if I warmed myself up for 90 minutes before going hard at something like the packing of boxes, then every single thing we own would still be in the cupboards, cos I'd be fucked and no packing at all would be done.

A 90 minute warm up? No amount of suspension of disbelief is helping me here.

But do you know what's heartening? PC PLOD, the TMR paid body guard with a gun, well when he arrived with his possie of machine drivers, who were not as you might have thought overseeing the revving of their steers,  he did so with the full weight of all his years of extra- curricular attention to the mechanations of large rolling machines. Isn't it good to know that not only are the TMR Body guards in the QPS uniforms, willing and able to issue meaningless 'Move On Orders' and organise towing of cars and threaten the arrest of law abiding people, but they also know ALL ABOUT INDUSTRIAL MACHINES. Yep Plod knew that machines had to be warmed up, and that 90 minutes was the accepted norm. Yep he knew this because he was an expert, or else some other dick on the road further away told him to say that, and he, being the gormless fuck that he is, just parroted it off.

Now if an expert wants to let me know that in fact 90 minutes is the standard time it takes for these machines to reach peak performance then  I will apologise to Plod. But it all seems unlikely especially if you consider the ambient temperature last night must have been in the high 20s - no snow possible for, oh maybe a century.

These 3 machines were all idling away, spewing out fumes and noise for an hour and half - not in an industrial zone, but in a quiet residential street. And they are all lined up again for tonight!

And if just once in more than a fucking YEAR someone from the work zone actually admitted that it was pretty extreme and unnecessary and fucking apologise, it would go a long way to soothing the irrits.

'They have work to do'
'They will be finished soon'
'There is no other way'

One more night, and as TMR pays someone to keep track of my posts I can only imagine that they will really ramp up the noise tonight as a final farewell to 'That bitch from number 11'. I truly hope that Karma bites 'em all on the arse and that at the very least they suffer permanent deafness and that no-one will ever have sex with 'em again cos they stink of diesel and the sweat produced from counting all the ill gotten cash from the public purse.

And did I mention that they opened the road yesterday? Not fucking finished by a long way, but by all means do open it. An 8 month job overruns by 5 months, and it's still not finished. Only on a government job! They must all be so fucking proud!

Thursday, 14 December 2017

Christmas with a difference.

This is the full chrissie deco plan for this year.

Yep all the lovely bits that I carefully pack up each January and shove in 3 big boxes are taped up and ready for moving so about a week ago my girl presented me with these two drunken Santa salt and pepper shakers so there'd be some christmas cheer, where ever we land, even if it is wee. And on our way to coffee one morning this week or maybe last week, seriously time has been passing in a blurr, like a many many double voddies blurr, we saw these other lovely fellas at the florist and Stevie just plopped 'em on the table as a cool surprise and everyone who walked by commented on the resemblances. I am hoping that I am meant to be the red headed one although the greying beardy one is possibly the way I am feeling.

Christmas is just percolating away in the back of my head cos the front part is filled with cartons and chucking shit out. Stevie said yesterday he was gonna start calling me his little Portia. Well I heard Portia but he meant Porche and he then explained the link - Porche Boxster cos I always seem to have my head wedged in a carton. Anyway, I am hoping that by some sort of osmosis that unfortunately I do not believe in, by the 25th, I will have somehow managed to pull together a grand feast and at least some silly bits and pieces to wrap and then go the big rip. The obscene pile of brightly wrapped stuff will not be under the nonexistent tree this year. I reckon some IOUs might find their way into the custody of the gnomes and the drunken jolly Santas.

And that's OK. Cos what I am most excited about is that the kids 'll be able to pop over in the afternoon, without the stress of a drive which my girl does not enjoy, AT ALL. We can hit the pool and eat stuff and be silly and then they can trundle off home again. And everyone can sleep in their own bed and then if the kids want to pop back the next day and the next day, it's only a few minute's drive and if I want to drop something off to them or take dog for a visit to play with my Darling Boy, then it's not a whole day out and 'have I got enough petrol?' and 'I hope there is no smash on the M1 today!' 

Yeh I am getting very excited about 'going home'.

It's been 17 years since I lived in Brisvegas  and that's quite a long time, and I have been very happy laying my hat in different places for all these years, cos at heart I reckon I am truly a gypsy.

I was gonna say I love moving, but that's just bullshit. NOONE loves moving, it's a royal pain in the arse, but I do love exploring new houses and places and seeking out the best coffee and the freshest veg and the friendliest restaurants with the tastiest food, and the galleries and the theatres and, well stuff.

And all this exploring will still be necessary, even though I am going home, cos the place has sure changed. It's daunting and maybe a little tiring thinking about it all, but mostly it's exciting.

Roll on next week when the packing is finished and the boxes are delivered and our backs are to the fucking road works and we are tripping down a new street looking for a place that makes good coffee and of course is happy for Dog to sit at our feet. Yep Roll on indeed.

Wednesday, 13 December 2017

Moving - where's Betwitched when you need her?

Well shit, it's been more than 2 weeks of silence on here but not in my head, and of course no ceasing of the government abuse out on the fucking road - nah that's really ramped up since the government has decreed an opening grand reveal date and of course the union turds want their chrissie bonus.

The house sale went unconditional and the last 2 weeks seem to have trundled along in slow motion. Travel along the M1 to Brisvegas to view houses has been patience testing, but not as galling as being vetted by children in charge of some very dodgy houses to rent. We did get desperate after the stinky dirty one and the houseos one and the one with literally 100 steps straight up to the front door, Whew, I nearly gave that one a miss half way up. Landlords lied and changed their little minds and agents big noted themselves but we found a place, not quite where we want to be but needs must and all that.  Of course it is not without it's problems because the owners really want to sell it, not rent it, so it turned out that there is no power and no gas and not water meter and no wiring for TV or internet, and they wanted little codicils cos of dog which we just sucked up and signed. It has been a fight, and we are not in there yet, so fingers are firmly crossed.

It's difficult to find a house to rent when you have no references and no job and no interest in providing bank statements, or signing your life away and agreeing to remodel the whole house just because we have a dog, even though the mess left by the family with 3 children just simply beggared my belief.

And then there are the hours - not an exaggeration, I will never get back trying to get quotes from removalists. 

The first guy, with a long pole firmly wedged up his arse, told me that it was the most expensive time to move and we'd be lucky to have him. He was here for 2 hours and twice he launched into insurance sales speak, even though I bluntly - yeh it was as blunt as you might imagine it, told him not to bother. His quote came back and was more than 14 thousand dollars not including insurance! FUCK!

Next bloke was much more friendly and pragmatic and when he sent his quote it was about 5 grand plus a goodly sum to pack shit up.

And finally a fella I have known for a very long time quoted over the phone and I agreed and then later he popped out and had a look and we are all happily on the same page.

So I have been packing and chucking shit out. I am a good and ruthless purger. And I am a quick packer, perhaps because it is not a job I enjoy and so just want to get it over and done with as fast as I can.

I have 4 more days to shove anything we want to keep into a box and even though by far and away most of it is done, it's my experience that it's the last bits that are the most troublesome, so wish me luck.

Of course so close to chrissie means that something has had to give and sadly that is parcels and christmas foodie cheer.

I am truly hoping that the big smoke comes with 24 hour a day shopping so I might pop out at 2 am and perhaps avoid the crowds, cos that's just not something I fancy.

My eyes are drooping down lower than my boobs and my mind is so utterly frazzled that now would be an excellent time to try and sell me a bridge or a comfy looking place to sleep for about a year.

Yep that's what I fancy for chrissie, a full night of uninterrupted sleep. Ahhhh Bliss. Come on Santa do your best huh?

Tuesday, 28 November 2017

Mish mash

Oh my poor old head is doing somersaults. So much going on.

Harry and Meghan are engaged. Bloody pleasant news. Not surprising but smile making all the same. I hope that the wedding is a wonderful mix of royal and Hollywood. Reckon I might watch this one and hope for some shenanigans.

Don stinking roger Burke has been shamed AGAIN. I remember when this story broke the first time. Yeh it was a quiet little complaint from women and girls with not enough clout or kudos to do any harm, in an era when men were excused for being turds and bastards and power hunger shitfaces, because, oh you know they are just fellas. It is no wonder that women just sucked it up cos they weren't listened to then and are only just listened to now. I saw a saying on social media this week that went something like, 'I think people who say they don't understand why women didn't / don't come forward when these things happen, are lucky.' Yeh lucky and stupid. Bastard! 70 year old abusive turd.

The state election has been and gone and the result is still unknown, but it seems the Reds 'll get back in. Shit. That means no-one will monitor the lies and power of the Transport and Main Roads (TMR) fuckheads and they will be able to continue to spend public money in any inefficient manner they choose and continue to completely disregard the health and well being of the folk paying their wages.

It's interesting how personal politics can be. We had a bloke doing some work here on Saturday. He's been here lots of times. Oh OK I'll admit it, he comes and cleans my oven cos I am just too fucking lazy to do it myself. Hate me - don't hate - doesn't matter, cos my oven is returned to showroom quality and no amount of my elbow grease is ever gonna achieve that. Anyway while he worked, we chattered away about the election. He is a swinger. He voted for the Reds this time. Mostly cos of the connection he saw between the blues and the development on the Spit. He didn't care about the development so much as the idea that the council was gonna give away public land. He reckoned he would be much more OK with the development if the land was SOLD and then the public could benefit by way of a new police helicopter or the like, and he had a point. Giving away public land is just not on. So his vote was personal, although after he heard about the TMR shit fight outside our house he did say that had he not pre voted he would have voted for the Blues, based on my story. Who knows?

A mate of mine was hoping to be pre selected for the Reds and make his run but all that turned to shit too, party politics got in the way, and so now he will wait his turn I guess, and that's a shame, cos even though he's a Red and I am a Blue, I'd vote for him in a heart beat cos he would honestly represent me regardless of colour, and surely that's how it's meant to be. And my girl voted Blue possibly for the first time in her life cos she is so pissed about what's going on outside here. The fucker responsible for the mess here got re-elected. Bugger.

And we might have sold the house without it even being on the market. There has been a daily last minute request for an extension on the date to 'go unconditional' It was supposed to be last Friday, and then it was meant to be yesterday and now maybe today. It's all a bit nerve racking cos we will need to find somewhere else to live and then pack up and move and the end game is before chrissie, so there's not much time. I think today might see an end to our patience. Watch this space.

And the painters are done and dusted. The outside looks bloody marvellous and the inside looks like everyone else's place, and we are tripping over paintings and furniture and shit, and not putting anything back in case the house really is sold, so it's a bit like living in toppsy-turvy world.

And I am off today to have a look at a couple of houses to rent in Brisvegas. I am being unusually optimistic.

Off I go. Fingers crossed.

And now my computer is shitting itself and won't let me pop in a photos. Ho Hum.

Saturday, 25 November 2017

Dog Killer

Dibley Dog is fine, but my friend's dog is no longer with us because it seems someone doesn't like the mating noises of crows.

A friend of mine has or rather had a gorgeous girlie dog. She was the joy of the family, spoiled and smiled at and with. She, the dog is /was such an integral part of the family, 3 generations of humans who all loved and cuddled and walked and fed and looked out for and after her. Yep she is/was a ridiculously well loved pet.

Until last week that is.

Last week, her dad took her out into the park and she had a bit of a chomp on something as dogs do, and very soon after they got home Dog became unwell and then was sick and taken to the vet but there was so much damage to her internal organs, poisoned, that there was no hope and so Dog died and her human family are heartbroken.

Her mum is a crying mess and her dad is scouting the neighbourhood looking for clues. He has put up fliers around the park warning other folk to be careful with their dogs. Now he's gathering details, and what is dribbling in from people on all sides of the park is disturbing and angry making and Mum who is a calm easy-going woman is now ready to smack someone with a shovel.

So here's a run down on the info gathered to date.

The park has many trees - not unusual for a park here.
In the trees live a murder of crows which may or may not be going hard at it cos it's the mating season.
One of the houses that front the park is owned by a person who rents out a room on AIR B&B.
Most of the reviews for this room are favourable except for 2 which whinged about the crows noise early in the morning. BUGGER!
Neighbours have seen the house owner feeding the crows, even though other neighbours have been party to whinge sessions with her about the crows.
Crows have been dropping dead all over the park.
There are photos of the house owner scooping up dead crows and shoving 'em in HER OWN RUBBISH BIN, on rubbish day, even though there are plenty of bins in the park.
A neighbour has scooped up a dead crow and has taken it for testing which is firstly expensive and secondly pretty slow.
The police have been informed and given all this info.

All this is circumstantial of course.

A second dog has died.

I wonder if there would be some action from the police if a kid had picked up the poison bates or the dead birds.

I know the police have plenty to do, especially in Schoolie madness, so what's the solution here?

A bit of vigilante  justice doesn't seem out of place to me.

What do you reckon?

Wednesday, 22 November 2017

Marriage Secrets

So Queen Bessie and ol' Phillip have been hitched for 70 years. Longer than I have been alive. And that is amazing to me!

I reckon the secret might be that they live in a 100 room palace and that limits the amount of time they have to be looking at each other's face and presumably they have their own bathroom so there is no time spent smelling the other's shit - yeh I reckon even royalty shit is a bit on the nose. But they do seem to happily rock along together. They seem to share private jokes and there is a certain whiff of leaning into each other that implies to me at least that they are happy and that's important.

I reckon that there are belly laughs a plenty after Bess has gently roused on 'Ol Phil for yet another of his famous UN PC gaffs. Yeh I reckon Bess is a belly laugher. She looks like she might, not often but certainly sometimes laugh til she wees herself ever so slightly.

And I reckon that they'd have their own private signals to let each other know when they are bored out of their gourd, or a sign to say, 'For fuck sake don't put that ridiculous dead skunk hat on' and another to ask for a walloping sherry top up. Yeh after 70 years, I rather doubt they need to actually speak out loud too much to make themselves understood.

I met a fella this week who over coffee regaled Stevie and me with the woes of his marriage. And they weren't even woes really, he was just matter of fact telling us stuff. Maybe he was just filling in the silences? I don't know what prompted his sharing.

'The Wife' sleeps somewhere else. She's a Born Again Christian. They never eat dinner together. He only ever watches sport on the tellie and she watches 'all the reality TV shit', - not on the same tellie obviously. Occasionally they go for lunch together, if there is someone else eating too.

Well this doesn't sound blissful to me. If I spent my days trying to avoid being in the same room as Stevie, then I reckon it would be time to piss off or at least pitch a tent and learn how to cook over an open fire and  shit in a bucket in the front yard. I don't reckon my belly could stand the stress of turning a corner and running into the person you are doing your level best to avoid.

And I suppose it's possible that he and she have played this avoid each other game long enough to be very good at it, but that's not a skill I want to cultivate.

Can you imagine the early days of this arrangement, when irritations are major and raw and hurting and I imagine shouting is reverberating around the rooms. One person heads for a shower and the other, knowing the cleansing habits of their lifetime partner, knows just when to 'accidentally' use the hot water in the kitchen so that cold water shrinks bollocks or maybe for variation, the cold water is stolen so that third degree burns means a trip to the hospital. I mean it all seems like that movie, 'War of the Roses' and I reckon it could get brutal. The mind games alone would be exhausting.

But perhaps these 2 people have played it all to the end game and have popped out the other side with a tacit understanding of how best to rub along without killing each other and maybe even providing for the possibility of occasional joy, even it is with other people.

That's not for me, but horses and course and all that I guess.

But compared to this, Bessie and 'Ol Phil have got it all sorted huh?

I have long thought 'Ol Phil was a bit nuts, but maybe he has just become so worn in to the royal life, like an old pair of cords, with the saggy smooth fabriced bum and stretched out knees and the holes in the pockets, that he can now get away with anything at all.

And the photos of 'em both this week are rather lovely. Good on 'em.

Oh and if you thought this was gonna be one of those advice posts, well think again. I sure as shit am not an expert.