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I'm taking some time off blogging - well, until the start of the new year - so I'll see you all again then.
I hope everyone has a safe and happy Christmas and a super new year. I'll be on the beach Christmas Day. Sorry, I had to mention that.
When I was a kid I was sparky.
What I mean is, I was into everything (but not drugs because I don't think they'd been invented when I was a nipper), I questioned everything, I was reading books about Marx when I was 11, I had three failed relationships behind me by age 12 (when I say failed I mean they failed to go out with me) and I was going on protest marches by the age of 14 (I can't remember what I was protesting about but it was fun walking along surrounded by coppers) and I talked and talked and talked.
But what has happened to the youth of today? I'll tell you. When you go into just about any shop they're lounging around like they've just come in on the bus from Zombie Land.
The other day I rocked up at Bakers Delight and waited until the three of them behind the counter could decide - by using grunts and shrugs - which one of them would deign to serve me. Eventually the tribe chose a girl who looked like she was depressed and would soon go to school and shoot everyone - well, if she could be bothered moving to the US of course, which is doubtful.
"A wholemeal block thinly sliced, please," I said cheerily.
She looked at me as if the message was still trying to get through to her brain and then slouched off and came back with a white loaf.
"I wanted wholemeal," I said.
"It's bread, aint it?"
I looked at her. "Are you familiar with the difference between white and brown, or do all loaves look the same to you?"
"You wanna nuvver loaf, then?"
Honestly. Then I went to Woolies to do the food shopping and I'm going through the checkout, being served by a boy who clearly wanted to be back in Zombie Land slow as the bus could take him, and half-way through the checkout he held up some fruit and said, "Know what these are?"
I thought for a mad moment he was going to give me a jocular rundown on the history of the fruit, or maybe its importance in Greek mythology, but no, he just had no idea what it was.
"That, " I said, "is a plum. In fact if you raise your head and look across the aisle there you will see a whole barrow-load of them. They are the ones that look identical to this fruit and have the word plums written in those big white letters a blind man on the moon could see." Of course I didn't say this last bit because it would have been too long a sentence for him to have grasped.
But really, these are people who expect to go out into the world and do, what exactly?
I went along to Four's Christmas Concert today.
Now, he goes to this pre-school where they like to fill the little ones' heads with Christ and the bible and all manner of other religious guff (sorry if I've offended my American readers - that's you Merve. I'm told 77% of you believe God created the universe, but you have no idea where Iraq is...). It's one of the prices you have to pay for living in a country where secular education - at least at pre-school level - is pretty much impossible to find. Anyhow, they look after him well and seem to give him decent food and let him play on the slide, which is fine and dandy.
The thing is, he is already thinking that when people die they come back reincarnated. Well, you would think that, wouldn't you. I mean if it's good enough for a bloke with a beard and a donkey - why not? I think what worries me is it's only a few years before Four will be wanting the keys to the Bentley. Now, we all know young men and speed don't go well together. I just hope he's not still delusional by the time he's old enough to drive, otherwise he'll be wrapping the motor around a tree safe in the knowledge that he'll be rising from the dead. In medical circles I think they call it being bonkers.
But that's a way off yet.
Now, half way through the concert Santa made an appearance. I must admit I was puzzled - I came home afterwards and scoured the good book but could find only mention of Sodom and Gommorah, burning bushes and a stable, nothing at all about a portly man with a white beard and sack full of Chinese-made toys.
So, after the concert when the kids were stuffing themselves with sausage rolls and frankfurters I was talking to the pastor and the headmisstress and Four came up and said, "That was you."
"Sorry?" said the pastor.
"You were wearing a beard."
They both looked at him like he'd said fuck.
"No," said the pastor slowly, I think, wondering if exorcism was called for, "that was Santa."
"No, that was you. I saw the hooks on your beard and it was your voice and your shoes."
Yes, that's my boy.
They've got this tv ad on here at the moment for Officeworks.
For those of you not blessed with such a chain store I can tell you it is about office supplies.
The thing is, they're running this ad where a succession of people in Christmas party hats unwrap their presents to find a garish tie, a pair of socks and I think a set of hankies (for the younger readers, hankies are a sort of cotton version of tissues - oh yes, you wash them and use them again!). The actors look as disappointed as only people in tv ads can when receiving less than a Rolex or a brand new Mercedes-Benz as their chrissy present.
The point of the ad (well. I'm guessing it's the point...) is that you can get a whole lot more interesting presents than hankies, ties and socks down at your local Officeworks! Being a bit pressed for time I went down there and did all my Christmas shopping.
Auntie May has got a rather nice stapler. It is plastic and contains staples.
Uncle Fred will be receiving a set of biros. It's a multipack, so there's green, blue and red pens. They have tops too. Which you can pull off.
I got the best leatherette notebook for cousin Terry. No cows died to make this incomparable gift but I'm told it took fourteen barrels of Brent Crude to fashion it - money well spent if you ask me. It cost $2.99 in the store.
My best friend Rachel will surely swoon with delight (let's hope her party hat doesn't fall over her eyes as she quivers with excitement!) when she opens her pack of multi-coloured paper clips. Some veritably glow in the dark you know.
I was a bit stuck when it came to nephews Oliver and Cornelius but the quandry was soon solved when I discovered the perfect gift. A ream of paper - recycled for Oliver. I decided on one ream each, which frankly was a bit over the budget but, well, it is only once a year.
So, all solved, and not a pair of socks in sight! Cheers, Officeworks - you've really delivered!
The newly elected Labor government here has decided to send a navy ship to shadow the Japanese whalers in our southern oceans to see what they're up to. Frankly I think we all know what they're up to.
But the big argument is whether the Aussie ship should have its guns removed before it sails. Now, I don't think we should do that. I mean, after all, the Japanese ships have those big guns on the front which they use to kill whales so I'm not too sure why we would want to take our guns off before we go out to play.
I mean, if by any chance a Japanese whaler were to accidentally get shot we could say we did it for, "scientific research". Rest assured, if that does happen, we won't send his carcass to a Sydney restaurant. We do have some standards, you know.
I had to go to the library yesterday to take back the nippers’ books. Unfortunately a video they’d also been watching about dinosaurs had become extinct – it got stuck in the video player whose only apparent function now is to show me what the time is.
As I walked in I noticed there were only two other customers (I’m nothing if not observant...), an old couple called Gerald and Daphne. I know this because they both appeared not to have heard of the ‘quiet it’s a library’ convention and were shouting at each other from one end of the room to the other.
“Daph, you reckon I’ll get charged for these late books?”
“What Gerald?”
“The books, do you think I’ll be charged for them being late?”
“Hand the fuckers over and perhaps you’ll find out,” I didn’t say as I stood there waiting.
The woman who works in the library is one of a small army of fat women. I don’t know why that should be. You’d expect all that stacking of books and climbing library ladders, stamping the date in the tomes, and all the other things that go on in a library would keep the weight off, but it seems not. Anyway, she is about 58, (that’s her age, not her weight) and likes to be jolly.
So, Gerald didn’t get charged a late fee. “Daph, look, no charge!”
“What’s that Gerald?”
“He said it’s time to go, Daph,” I said as I handed my books over.
Gerald looked at me over his glasses.
“What did you say, Gerald?” asked Daph.
I handed the books over and explained about the stuck video.
“Are you sure you can’t get it out?” asked the fat librarian.
“Well, I’ve tried just about everything,” I said.
“Ah, but have you tried to ease it out with the aid of some melted butter?” said the librarian.
Gerald’s brow furrowed as he looked over those glasses again.
“Same thing happened to me once,” continued the fat librarian, and then lowering her voice so that only the three of us could hear, added, “it was a bit embarrasing.”
“Really?” said Gerald.
“Yes,” she said, “it was a porno.”
“Sorry?, I said, “Did you just say –“
“Yes,” said Gerald, “she did. Now, how did you get it out?”
“I didn’t,” said the librarian, “I had to go back to the video shop and tell them it was stuck.”
“Did they suggest butter?” I asked.
They both looked at me.
“Time to go, Gerald,” said Daph, wafting by on her way to the door.
I must admit I was in a bit of a daze as I walked off up the road, but clearly not so much as Gerald who reversed his Lexus at high speed into one of the library’s short, stubby entrance posts, mounting it so his driving wheels were off the ground and smacking, amongst other things, his exhaust pipe which would have become unattached from the engine. “Damn!” I heard him shout as he revved the engine, “now we’re really stuck, Daph.”
Yes, it did occur to me but I don’t think butter would do it.
George and his wife have a new child. This is their second, a boy.
George's wife is a woman who likes to do things easy. Actually she rather likes George to do them, which is a lot easier all round for her. But it seems that when she looked into it she discovered Georgie couldn't have the baby for her. In fairness she'd worked this out the first time round.
So, in an effort to make the actual birth as painless and as quick as possible she booked herself in (actually George did the booking...) for a caesarean. Not for her all the business of huffing and pushing.
They had to get a surgeon to perform the op because George wasn't that confident he knew his way around the inner workings of his wife's body ("mate, women are a mystery to me," he told me in the pub one night) and also they have copious amounts of medical insurance which has to be used for something or other.
On the alloted day they turned up at the private hospital and entered their own private suite. Later the operation was performed and the boy delivered into their waiting arms (actually, George's waiting arms; his wife was having a bit of a lie down).
They were having problems with choosing a name so I had a think about it for them. As a bit of a joke I said, "you know, Caesar would be rather appropriate." George's face lit up like he'd just discovered gold in the back garden. "Yeah," he said, "that'd be perfect, us being Italian and all. But what about a middle name?"
"Well," I said, "considering the manner of arrival, what about Caesar Deliveranti?"
"Mate, that is perfect," he beamed. "You are a scholar and a gentleman. I can't wait until we christen him and I stand up there at the altar and hold him above my head, my first son, and shout to the crowd, 'my son, behold, Caesar Deliveranti'."
"Yes," I said, "it will be a moment to remember."
Someone was asking me what the difference is between the English and Australians. Well, Aussies have the sort of zeal for sport that previously was only ever seen in ancient Greece, or East Germany. This means the only good programmes on tv are sports programmes, well at least from the broadcast quality point of view.
Aussies will take eons to get things done, but lest you think they are dodging the issue, no, they will always get it done, in the end. No worries, mate.
They are the world's worst drivers - as evidenced by a per capita level of accidents far in excess of anything in Europe - and remember there are only about two people living in Western Australia. The main problem is they don't ever look ahead and plan for any possible looming accident. That's because they're doing something else. Regular readers may recall one morning when I was driving to work I followed a woman who was talking on the phone, doing her hair, patting the dog on her lap, and steering with her knees.
But the real difference was explained to me by an English girl who lives here. She said if someone starts a new job and they happen to be a bit on the porky side, when they're being shown around the Aussie office everyone will be polite and just introduce themselves. In the English office, as the portly one is introduced, there will always be someone who says, "Nice to meet you. So, who ate all the pies then?"
They worry me.
Americans.
I won't go into all the statistics that embarrass (after all, I haven't got enough years left in my life) but you know, the ones like 72 per cent of them believe miracles really happen or the three people in the US who don't believe in God live somewhere in Boston.
But really. You know they have a new White House Press person who stands up there before the media every day and answers questions? Her name is Dana Perino and she is as blonde as they come, in all respects. This is the story in the Sydney Morning Herald today. Dear oh dear.
"Washington is abuzz after White House press secretary Dana Perino - who took over the job in September - laughingly retold a story about herself on an American radio station quiz show.
According to the 35-year-old communications graduate, during her tenure as acting White House press secretary, a reporter referred to the Cuban Missile Crisis ... and she had no idea what it was.
"I was panicked a bit because I really don't know about . . . the Cuban Missile Crisis," she admitted. "It had to do with Cuba and missiles, I'm pretty sure."
So, according to the Washington Post, she consulted her best source.
"I came home and I asked my husband," she recalled. "I said, 'wasn't that like the Bay of Pigs thing?' And he said, 'oh, Dana'."
The admission capped off a poor week for Perino, who took over from former press secretary Tony Snow after he resigned.
Only a few days before she had chastened veteran reporter Helen Thomas for "absurd and very offensive" questioning about the war in Iraq.
She reportedly impressed some reporters, however, by knowing where Iraq was."
Since I last wrote about books I've read, well, I've read a few more, so here we are.
First off, The Broken Shore, by Peter Temple. This has won a couple of awards (no really, I can't be bothered to get up and find it and tell you what they are - but awards it has won) and quite rightly so. It's the best Australian crime novel I've ever read. The plot is good, the characters are really well developed and the dialogue is simply the best. I have to be honest and say I find Aussie crime writing patchy - some of it is so clunky it's hard to read. Oh, did I mention, Peter Temple is a South African...
New England White by Stephen L Carter I've just finished. Now, his first novel, The Emperor of Ocean Park, was a wonderful piece of writing and for his trouble his publishers paid him $4.5million US upfront, which must have made life a bit easier. Now, this second book, four years later, has been roundly panned by the critics. But what do they know, I ask rhetorically. This is such a good book, again with well developed characters and a great story running through it. I hope they paid him a motza for this one too.
Tonka Is Missing, by Mygoodself. Well, what can I do, it is by popular demand! Regular readers will remember that a cat called Tonka went missing in my neighbourhood and the upshot was Four (or Three as I think he was then) wanted a story, so I wrote one. Now Two likes it, so that's their story of choice before lights out. In the real world I don't know if Tonka was ever found but of course the book has a happy ending.
Next one out of the bookshelf is Up In Honey's Room by Elmore Leonard. Now there's a bloke who can write.
In other news, I was out last night at a Christmas party held by a big printer. These folks are one of the biggest in the southern hemisphere. They told us last night that every week they get through enough paper to fill pallets which would completely fill Federation Square in Melbourne. Wow, I thought, that is a lot of trees, and wouldn't it be nice if they were all growing in Fed Square so you could walk amongst them in the cooling shade, but then I was jolted out of my reverie, remembering that we'd all rather have offers of double-crust, thick mozarella with extra cheese pizza flyers thrust through our letter boxes every day of the week, so they really do need the trees.
Of course the printer's business is a multi-million dollar affair so they can afford to go a bit wild on the canapes. Sadly they didn't splash out on the 'entertainer' who was from Western Australia and wild-looking, as if he'd just run all the way. At one stage he referred to us all as movers and shakers but I think he just had that perception because of the large gulps of bourbon he took between the Neil Diamond and Slim Dusty numbers, than any knowledge about the ability present down on the dining floor.
It was funny to be out without Two and Four. I had no-one to shout at all evening.
What is it with milk? What I mean is, why is it everywhere I go there's low fat milk on offer? Even at pre-school the kids get given this watery bollocks.
Yes I know, you all think 'full-fat' milk is full of, well, fat.
Well at the risk of sounding like someone employed by the Full-Fat Milk Marketing Conglomerate, so called full-fat milk is not swimming in fat. Yes, it has a fair dollop of it, but come on!
The fact is, ordinary milk is as nature intended. It is like that because it does us good. As it happens, it contains everything we need to survive. If we only had milk to drink we would live to a ripe old age. Yes, of course we'd be bored by the time we reached 85, but then I suppose we could always eat the cows too.
Now, if you happen to believe in God, I'd just like to add, you'd better not be drinking low-fat or fat-reduced milk or soy milk because this is not something God made. It is blasphemous to drink low-fat milk. He gave us the cow ("He broughteth forth a horned-beast with udders laden with the fatted milk", I think is the correct passage.) What God did not give us is low-fat milk (or the plastic milk bottle either, but then that's another story).
And it drives me bonkers when I see all these adverts for milk alternatives, like soy milk. Soy is not milk. It's a liquid produced from the soy bean. Calling it soy milk, is like me taking a bunch of dandelions, crushing them, getting the juice and calling it dandelion milk. Come on!
Have you noticed too that when they advertise soy milk on TV they unwisely show a close-up of the watery bollocks coming out of the container? Honestly, the grey water from my washing machine looks more appetising (and probably does you more good too).
So come on, go and buy some real milk. Live off the fat of the land.
I've been on StumbleUpon which is a very good website. Some of you will no doubt be familiar with it (of course, I may be the last to know, as usual; but bear with me...).
The idea is you tick all the things you're interested in and then you can start to trawl through sites that fit those interests. You can choose to save sites or discard them, or just ignore them. It brings up some really good stuff, some tosh and some really obscure sites. One offered to me was How To Fold A T-Shirt. I don't know, I mean, I wash them, hang them out to dry and then put them on. Because I'm English the only thing I religiously fold and then iron are my boxers, with extra starch to keep the creases throughout the day, but I can see how this site would be most excellent for someone who hopes for a career in their local Gap store folding Ts all day.
I came across a really amusing one for atheists. It looks really schmick but there's just one question
Q: Does God exist?
A: No.
Yes, well, I suppose that's all they need to say.
Anyway, by clicking on the link you can have a look at my favourites so far, which are in no particular order.
One of my reservations about StumbleUpon is that as usual you need to put in a fair bit of personal detail, which I never like and sometime down the track when the site is sold to Google for 400 gadzillion trillion dollars they'll use all that info to send me emails about things like atheists who fold t-shirts, and telling me where to buy one.
The other thing is, I don't think the interests section drills down deep enough. For example, you could choose collectibles but you can't then add watches, which for me would be good. So, there's still some trawling to be done but at least you have a starting place, and really you come upon some amazingly interesting sites.
Now, in other news (and of course in my usual extremely modest way I leave this to last), my book will be coming out towards the end of January. Hooray! You will of course be able to purchase the tome, but be warned, reading it may well change your life! I think that's enough marketing for now. Anyway, more about the impending launch as the day draws nearer...
...to the zoo.
I took the nippers this morning and discovered that Four is no longer interested in the animals, he just wants to travel all day on the cable car. Two, on the other hand, seems to have inherited some of my genes and does not like to be off the ground at all - even stepping aboard the pushchair seems to fill him with the same sort of fear I feel stepping through the doors of the Boeing. We'll see but I hope for his sake it's just a passing phase.
I don't much like zoos and while Sydney's Taronga may claim the animals have the best view in the world - what with the harbour and Opera House in the background - I'm not sure many wildebeests have a love of Madam Butterfly or the Pirates of Penzance, especially as last time they looked they were in Africa staring at the vast expanse of the veldt.
But, the best one for my money is Hungry Jacks' sponsorship of the Gorilla Rainforest enclosure. It used to be McDonalds paying for the privilege of having their moniker on the wall but I can only imagine someone at head office eventually saw the deep irony of sponsoring a refuge for animals who have been displaced because their homes have been razed to make way for beef farmers, who, er yes, supply McDonalds.
Mind you, it's not all bad; the burgers they serve in the cafe are a cut above Maccas, or Hungry Jacks for that matter. Personally I'd rather go to Taronga for the food than watch animals who really should be somewhere else, pacing around their 'natural environments' looking day after day for a way out. I mean, even the laughing hyenas can't see the fun of being locked up, no matter what the view's like.
So I spent the morning at pre-school. Not content with fleecing parents on the fees, they ask you to 'volunteer' for various unpaid duties like gardening, cleaning the latrines, directing traffic on the busy main road, being part of a snake of people that goes to see things like fire engines (or if you're the nannies - the firemen) and morning tea.
You'd think that making morning tea for 20 kids would be easy enough, but is it hell. First off you have to clean all the tables and chairs outside after the wombats, possums and Tasmanian tigers have played around on them during the night in a who-can-defecate-the-most competition. Once you've done that it's pouring milk into plastic cups (except for the special kids who have things like low-fat latte or soy with cranberries (freshly squeezed, please!). Ah yes, you also have to make tea for the teachers. All but one have green tea so that's easy enough - let the water see the tea bag and then fish it out. The odd one out has Ovaltine with three sugars and full fat milk - good one.
By midday you're finished and I mean finished. It is a tiring business. I forgot to mention that while you're there you also become every children's father. The upside is they make stuff for you and gently hand it over as if you're a visiting King. The downside is, you have no idea what it all is.
Two came along too which is good because he is now sleeping and will continue to do so for some time, hence my appearance here today amongst you all.
The other thing I have to do is stop using ebay. The thing has got its claws in me deep. I've never been a gambler but I can see why people spend all their life savings buying stuff on ebay - it's almost enjoyable handing over your electronic money. I'm going to go on one last time and see if they have a course on offer for people for whom ebay has become an addiction. If I find one I'll only bid up to $20, or maybe $30 at a push. Then again, if it looks worth it I'll spin out to $50. If that doesn't get me it, I'll have a think. And see if it makes sense to go further.
Well, I took the kids back to Playgroup on Friday. Yes, it's gripping stuff, but in fact it was an interesting visit. I changed Playgroup day from Friday to Wednesday a while ago (for somewhat boring reasons which I won't go into here) and it was good to get back to Fridays because I know most of the mothers there. One of my friends told me I was a sad case looking forward to going back there, but you take your fun wherever you can when you have small kids.
When I arrived it was like the second coming (I mean, Jesus, madam) with them all rushing out to embrace me (some rather too fondly, I fancied. For example, the small brunette with the - oh never mind) but the trouble was the person who had the key for the room with the toys hadn't arrived. Apparently she'd had a serious incident with a bowl of porridge, a one year old and a jar of jam with the lid off.
One of the women asked me jokingly if I could play the piano - they have an upright beast there which I reckon was last played when they held the town dance to celebrate Federation - and of course I wasted no time flexing the fingers and giving them a rendition - and lusty vocals too of course - of such standards as Mine's a Pint With A Cherry on Top, and She's A Barmaid With Big Things Ahead of Her. Oh sorry, I mean pub standards. When I looked around again several of the women had their mouths wide open and two kids were crying, but overall I think I can say they were entertained until the keys arrived.
Later, when the toys were out I got talking to some of the mothers, one of whom works for Esso. They let her do two days a week which frankly is probably good enough as she is an engineer and presumably as long as the pumps are working she's not got too much to do. We got talking about my book (yes, I know, I'll drop a hint whenever I can) because it's a thriller set in the motor industry and then we got onto Jeremy Clarkson and Top Gear. I mentioned that back in the day, as they say, Clarkson was a struggling motoring journalist (he might say he wasn't, but take it from me...) when I got a call from the Sun newspaper (daily circulation 6.5 million, I believe) asking if I could do a column for them every week. At the time I was too busy running eight magazines or something equally ridiculous so I told the bloke I knew this journalist who'd probably be able to do it, what with his writing being lively and amusing, and so I told Mr C and he got the gig. I guess it was one of the stepping stones for him, gave him a high profile and eventually led to an interview at the BBC who had a new program planned, called Top Gear .
The Esso woman laughed and said, "So he's on Top Gear and you're here at Playgroup!"
"Yes," I said with a grimace, "but what good would he do for you here? I mean, I happen to know Clarkson can't play the piano."
Happy Bear is back.
But first I should explain. Happy Bear was a gift to Four when he was One, if you follow. He came all the way from England (that's the bear, not One) and he is one of the cuddliest bears you'll ever see.
Nowadays Four is more interested in Transformers, Spider Man, The Ginger Turtles - as he calls them - and fighting with Two, so Happy Bear had been passed down the line to Two who loved him like a brother. Well, actually he seemed to love him rather more than his brother, but that's boys for you.
Anyway, one day Happy Bear disappeared. This is not an unusual occurrence. Toys get lost everyday in our house. There must be some kind of black hole into which they are sucked, never to be seen again. I tried the usual places - the car, under the sofa, in the garden, in a bed, under a bed, stuffed down the toilet, and in the fridge or cooker. But Happy Bear was nowhere to be seen. Until this week.
A friend of mine who is familiar with the heartbreak caused by the bear's disappearance happened to be in a branch of charity shop Vinnies this last weekend. This being the suburb I live in, it's apparently full of Armani, Hugo Boss, Jimmy Choo and Versace cast-offs. There are bargains to be had, so I'm told, but what that means in a place where the average house price is $3.2million I'm not sure.
However, sitting in the box of bears was Happy Bear, so she told me. Now, there can't be too many Happy Bears out there and certainly not on the route I travel every week as I take Four to pre-school while Two rides in the pushchair. So, I figured Two must have dropped HB out of the pushchair, someone picked him up and next thing he's nudging shoulders with a bejewelled Barbie, naked Ken and a clown called Mr Bobo.
So, I go in there and the three old women look at me. Sadly while they appear to be able to see, they cannot hear.
"A friend of mine saw Happy Bear in here on the weekend," I say.
The younger one (she's about 94) says, "I don't work here on the weekends. Whist drive."
"Sorry to hear that, hope it gets better soon," I say. "Now, can I take Happy Bear off your hands? He is a bear from England who will be feeling rather sad because he should be at home with us," To which Two joined in with, "Appy Bear! Appy Bear!"
"He's your bear is he?" asked another woman who appeared to be on the verge of toppling over.
"He is indeed."
The third woman, who wore a dress with more flowers than you'll find in the entire botanical gardens of Australia in summer, squinted at me. "You look a little old for a teddy bear."
I squinted back at her. "I hope you're not going to give me any trouble ladies. The bear is coming with me."
"How much will you pay?" asked Miss Ninety-Four with a rasping voice (I think it was just her age, nothing sinister...)
"Oh," I said, "my mistake, I thought this was Vinnies, not the Gambino sisters."
"Oh, let him take the bear," said the toppling one, "the bear doesn't belong here. It is a Pommy bear."
"Appy Bear," said Two as he clutched the bear to his chest.
Outside the shop he threw him out of the pushchair and into the path of an eight wheel truck.
"Appy Bear," said Two.
"No, he's not," I said, as I watched the truck go up the road with the revolving bear stuck between two fat rear wheels.
...I've been absent again for a while. I blame the Germans and ebay. I've been busy entertaining both of them, one lot with food, the other with my wallet. I managed to buy eight watches this week, but before you implode with exasperation at my dissolute ways I'd like to point out that some of them cost me $5.99. Yes, there are bargains to be had, my friends.
Honestly, ebay is one of the most splendid ways to make money, er, for the ebay owners, I mean.
One evening I found myself sitting intently in front of the computer at midnight waiting on tenterhooks for an end to the bidding on a Timex Marlin. Now, Timex maybe doesn't conjure pictures of diamond encrusted timepieces on the wrists of arab oil sheiks, and a good thing too I say. The Marlin is a range of watches from the 1960s-early 70s with really great dials and bullet-proof reliability. One came up on ebay (or the bay, as we regulars like to call it...) complete with its original box and warranty card (though this being the 1960s the card is sparse in its cover; it basically says you've got four minutes to tell them if something is wrong. Presumably if the watch is broken you have to count the four minutes out by yourself).
Anyway, I started bidding and like the novice I am I thought, I've got this baby in the bag. But seven seconds before the final virtual gavel came down some geezer in Brooklyn put in an offer a dollar above mine. I feverishly made another bid but alas the American trumped me. I fumed a lot, let me tell you.
Meanwhile, the Germans leave today. They have left their room tidier than when they arrived and my computer now works 48 times faster and is linked to the Pentagon. If you need to know anything, just ask me.
In other news, as some of you may know, I mark journalism correspondence course papers and they've just asked me if I'll mark all the New Zealand papers because they've bought a Kiwi correspondence college. They sent me the first batch this last week so I've been busy with those too. The parchment is lovely and some of them handle a quill pen very well indeed. I hope next time they can send them by airmail though, and I don't mean that pigeon again. The Kiwi students have Dickensian names like Franklin Smudge, Betty Ann Arbuthnott and Seamus Feague - wonderful. I shall give them each a commendation and seal it with wax - that'll make them feel at home.
This week I'll concentrate on writing book two a little more. The book I've finished writing is still with a couple of publishers. One is interested and has asked me if I would consider making some small changes, so we shall see how that goes.
That's about all for now, though I should just add that I'm rather disappointed I haven't had election contendees Kevin Rudd or John Howard come and shake my hand yet. Mind you, they are both busy kissing babies. It made me laugh - yesterday they both kissed the same baby in some shopping centre. Talk about me-too politics.
Yes indeed, they should be here by 5pm.
This couple have been friends of mine for years and the girl's parents stayed with me when they visited Oz a few years ago. They couldn't speak any English and my German is limited to WWII German, but only from films starring Anthony Quinn, Dirk Bogarde and Gregory Peck, so aside from telling them in German to put their hands in the air and surrender or to warn them that any untoward movements could result in the bomb exploding, I was a bit stuck. At the time I lived in a rather palatial apartment which had three bathrooms (you know, just in case you felt the urge to do a number two in a different room one day).
I let the Germans have one of the bathrooms for their exclusive use. When I mentioned it to Tom on the phone there was a brief silence and then he said, "Back in '38 we let them have Poland, and then look what happened." That's the thing with the English - they never forget the war.
Anyway, the girl and her boyfriend will arrive today for a few days. They speak excellent English - in fact their syntax is often better than mine. The bloke (bloken, in German) is what they call a wunderkind which in his particular case means he knows more about computers, and apparently NATO's early warning missile system, than any other person alive. I have still not worked out if it's MI5, the CIA or some shadowy German secret service outfit he works for and I'm not going to ask again - last time I broached the subject he said to me calmly with a slight German smile on his bespeckled face, "I could tell you, but of course I would then have to kill you. Very quickly." I feel he's a good person to have around in the event of a war breaking out, which let's face it could happen any time. Well so he tells me.
The girl is also something of a whizzkid who dresses in jeans and a t-shirt but who wears the smallest, most expensive diamond ear studs and a beautiful but subtle watch I happen to know is worth rather more than the GDP of Botswana. She is said to know Bill Gates rather well and Nelson Mandela and is sometimes absent for many months doing whatever she does around the world.
I'm not sure why they are in Australia, though my apple strudel is known to make men and women swoon, so maybe it's that.
I'm looking forward to it because we always have super conversations (but never taped, of course) and I will cook them something typically German - I'm thinking sausages, pigs trotters and sauerkraut.
How did we meet? Well, I can't tell you that. If I did, well you know the rest.
Oh, I so wish ebay had never been invented.
It may strike many of you as bizarre but I've never frequented its halls before and to be honest had little idea how it all worked. But I went on there the other day because of a sequence of events, which I won't bore you about here, but, you know, sometimes one thing leads to another...Actually, just to digress a moment, I do think you should follow your gut feelings, your instincts, and one thing I've learned in my life is that my intuition is strong - I ignore it at my peril.
Anyway, to ebay. I have this weakness. It is for watches. They say (no madam, I have no idea who they are) that the only piece of jewellery a man should wear is a watch. Of course, I have seen plenty of men festooned with many glittering jewels but that's a story for another day.
The thing is, I've always wanted to start a watch collection. At the moment I have only an everyday Raymond Weil which is 20 years old and a Jaeger le Coulture which in itself is probably enough to get my house burgled, but don't even think about it; I have arms and I'm extremely dangerous. Only the other day I knocked over a glass, which shattered. So, beware.
Now, the other thing is, I like 1970s watches. Yes, I know, the 70s was a dreadful era, so you all will say. But I don't think so. I remember the summer of 1976 fondly. I lay next to a girl in the sun almost all summer. Of course we were sunburnt (and I seem to recall an ambulance was called at one stage) but oh my, it was a summer to remember. I had flares, I had bell bottoms, I had Ben Sherman shirts with the big collars, and when platform shoes came in I thought that at long last I'd be taller than the other boys. Only I forgot they'd wear them too.
The thing about 70s watches - and maybe I shouldn't tell you this, otherwise they'll be a rush on them and they'll shoot up in price - is that they are very affordable. The other thing is, there are quite a few of what the watch trade calls, new old stock. These are watches from 30-odd years ago that have never been sold, so they are like new.
Now, I won't bore you with all the details but in the 70s many interesting watch technologies came out. As an example - the electric watch. This is not a quartz watch with its plastic gears but rather a watch which used a battery to flick a wheel which then set the whole metal mechanical movement humming. Yes, these watches have a satisfying hum to them. Someone told me it's a little like strapping a vibrator on, but frankly that's not something I know about. No really.
So, that's why I've been absent for a while. I am endeavouring not to live at ebay because I can see it could become as addictive as gambling or Coopers Pale Ale and frankly the Coopers alone is costing me dearly (but it is so worth it).
Okay, I'm off now to do some work so I can earn some moolah. Hope you all have a fine day.
...well, that's about all you're likely to be if the Aussie government (whichever exciting one it ends up being...) takes on board the latest recommendations on safe alcohol drinking limits.
Now, for those of you who have been in the pub the last week, the news is a bloke should only be drinking a maximum of two standard alcoholic drinks a day and a woman one a day. If you're not sure which applies to you then I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place.
Thing is, if you take Coopers Pale Ale as a yardstick - and I believe you always should - then you're looking at one and a half bottles and you're already over the limit. Now frankly you'll burn off half the calories you'll accumulate by drinking said Coopers by twisting the cap off, another quarter by tipping the bottle to your throat, and then the swallowing action should take care of the rest.
I know it's not all about getting fat but really it seems to me there's not much point going to the bottle shop and fishing out the credit card if this is all they reckon you can drink.
Funny thing is, I'll bet a case of Coopers PA that it never becomes enshrined officially. Why? Well, have you seen how much money the drinks companies squirt Labor's way? And how much the Coalition are swallowing? I tell you, it's a whole lot more than two a day.
I had a look at DeathClock, which is always a sobering thing to do. It seems that given all the parameters I've only got a year to live. Well, that's if I choose to be pessimistic. If I'm 'normal' in my outlook on life then I've got about another 20 years ahead of me.
If I try to be optimistic it seems another 44 years awaits me, which is better than nothing (though actually I am endeavouring to live for ever).
However, if I choose to be sadistic which, as regular readers will know, I often appear to be, it seems I passed away in June last year.
So, eventually I can get around to telling you about the sister and her hasty exit from the country.
As regular readers will know, she descended on us with her three kids and set to looking for a job, without, it must be said, very much planning or research.
However, on the sixth week she got offered a job which she accepted and then had to get the visa sorted out. I imagined this would not be easy because unless your employer does it, it can be really hard. Her new employer only had six people working for him and usually these small companies - ironically, often the ones who are crying out for skilled people - don't have enough time or resources or expertise to wade through all the paperwork to get set-up as a sponsor, so they don't.
But, there is a somewhat dodgy way around this, which I confess I didn't know about; there are companies out there who specialise in getting sponsor visas. Basically you get a job offer and as long as your qualifications match the job shortages out there then they get you a visa. For their trouble they take 12.5% of your pay for ever and a day (these are four year visas with an automatic renew option), thou
