Real Tarthttp://realtart.blog.co.uk/en-EUhourly82000-01-01T12:00+00:00Real Tarthttp://realtart.blog.co.uk/http://data5.blog.de/design/preview/60/48dde054b30a6f3ee2dfbe972a7791_160x200.jpgRattle, rattle, sizzle...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/11/21/rattle-rattle-sizzle-7423847/2009-11-21T03:47:59+01:00 <p><span><span>Yesterday – Friday afternoon – the temperature went over 40C and then there was a big storm, the thunder shaking everything in the house, making the windows and crockery rattle, the roof timbers creak and groan. There were only a few drops of rain but Four and I watched the stabs of lightning and could smell the burnt air. <br>It’s rare to have normal sheet lightning here, it’s usually the forked stuff and boy does it spear down to the ground. Four said, “the sky is cracking open,” which is as good a way of putting it as any.<br>Of course, this started several fires in the nearby bush and the fire people have been out all night and today trying to contain them around here. <br>One of the fires, which is apparently out of control at the moment, is four miles from our house, up the mountainside. They’ve closed the Blue Mountains National Park, which is a bit worrying, as we live in it. Fire trucks have been meandering up and down the road outside our house all morning but I can’t smell much smoke and it’s not windy at the moment, so we’ll see.<br>Apart from that it’s a normal Saturday so far – I took the nippers swimming this morning – Six has a lesson – and that was fine, though as we were getting back in the car there was an announcement over the tannoy saying, please evacuate the pool immediately. It was probably just some kid evacuating his bowels in the shallow end, I’d imagine. <br>Rest of the day we’re staying in, keeping out of the heat. Tonight <em>The Bill</em> is on and I try and watch it. In fact, on Friday night on the ABC it's all UK police shows. <em>Midsomer Murders</em> is on from 8.30 to 9.30, then it's <em>Taggart</em> until 10.30,  then <em>Silent Witness</em> until midnight. You could almost be in Chipping Sodbury.<br>Thing is, since they changed <em>The Bill</em> and put incidental music in it’s just not the same. Someone once said <em>The Bill</em> was half an hour about someone losing a watch, which is later found. <br>If only life were still that simple...<br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/11/21/rattle-rattle-sizzle-7423847/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>Yesterday – Friday afternoon – the temperature went over 40C and then there was a big storm, the thunder shaking everything in the house, making the windows and crockery rattle, the roof timbers creak and groan. There were only a few drops of rain but Four and I watched the stabs of lightning and could smell the burnt air.
It’s rare to have normal sheet lightning here, it’s usually the forked stuff and boy does it spear down to the ground. Four said, “the sky is cracking open,” which is as good a way of putting it as any.
Of course, this started several fires in the nearby bush and the fire people have been out all night and today trying to contain them around here.
One of the fires, which is apparently out of control at the moment, is four miles from our house, up the mountainside. They’ve closed the Blue Mountains National Park, which is a bit worrying, as we live in it. Fire trucks have been meandering up and down the road outside our house all morning but I can’t smell much smoke and it’s not windy at the moment, so we’ll see.
Apart from that it’s a normal Saturday so far – I took the nippers swimming this morning – Six has a lesson – and that was fine, though as we were getting back in the car there was an announcement over the tannoy saying, please evacuate the pool immediately. It was probably just some kid evacuating his bowels in the shallow end, I’d imagine.
Rest of the day we’re staying in, keeping out of the heat. Tonight The Bill is on and I try and watch it. In fact, on Friday night on the ABC it's all UK police shows. Midsomer Murders is on from 8.30 to 9.30, then it's Taggart until 10.30,  then Silent Witness until midnight. You could almost be in Chipping Sodbury.
Thing is, since they changed The Bill and put incidental music in it’s just not the same. Someone once said The Bill was half an hour about someone losing a watch, which is later found.
If only life were still that simple...

Comments

]]>Code Red...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/11/20/code-red-7417241/2009-11-20T01:06:23+01:00 <p><span><span>God, it’s hot. At 6am this morning it was 24C and today the fire service has issued their Catastrophic – or Code Red, as they’re calling it – warning for this area, with the temp here expected to peak at 42C. The advice in the paper and on TV is to leave our home this morning and go somewhere else. They’re suggesting a shopping centre, or a friend’s house – presumably somewhere in Europe. <br>Anyway, as I’m English I’ll simply carry on as usual and not panic and try to keep cool. <br>Four told me what to do in the event of an emergency, him and his pres-school friends having had a visit from the firemen and women from the local station (most of whom have kids at pre-school – Four told me, “Chantail’s mummy drove the fire truck.” or Fruck, as he calls it).<br>He got down on the floor with his hand over his mouth and crawled along like a soldier creeping towards enemy positions. <br>“You keep down,” he said, “then the smoke is on top of you.”<br>I said, what happens if the whole street is on fire, and he said, “Daaaad, you just keep crawling until you get far, far away.”<br>We’ll see.<br>In fact, Four’s pre-school is closing end of this year, which is a right pain because he loves going there and also it’s only a 10 minute drive away. They’re closing because the Federal government is insisting each centre has at least one university trained person and more ‘teachers’ per head of child then before. You can see the good intentions behind this but as there is no free pre-school here it means those centres that stay open will charge more (currently it’s around $57 a day which in pound terms is about four pence, errm, I think that’s right, the dollar acting like Popeye while the quid is more like Olive Oil, or whatever the skinny one’s name was.), and others will close down completely, so costing us all more and more to get our kids in a centre that is not nearby. <br>So, from January I have to move him about 30 minutes away which is going to really bugger up my mornings. Of course, I could take him out altogether but he has only another year and then he’ll be at Six’s school, and most of the other pre-school children will go there too, so it will be good for him. <br>Okay, I’m just going to hose myself down. <br>With water, madam.<br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/11/20/code-red-7417241/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>God, it’s hot. At 6am this morning it was 24C and today the fire service has issued their Catastrophic – or Code Red, as they’re calling it – warning for this area, with the temp here expected to peak at 42C. The advice in the paper and on TV is to leave our home this morning and go somewhere else. They’re suggesting a shopping centre, or a friend’s house – presumably somewhere in Europe.
Anyway, as I’m English I’ll simply carry on as usual and not panic and try to keep cool.
Four told me what to do in the event of an emergency, him and his pres-school friends having had a visit from the firemen and women from the local station (most of whom have kids at pre-school – Four told me, “Chantail’s mummy drove the fire truck.” or Fruck, as he calls it).
He got down on the floor with his hand over his mouth and crawled along like a soldier creeping towards enemy positions.
“You keep down,” he said, “then the smoke is on top of you.”
I said, what happens if the whole street is on fire, and he said, “Daaaad, you just keep crawling until you get far, far away.”
We’ll see.
In fact, Four’s pre-school is closing end of this year, which is a right pain because he loves going there and also it’s only a 10 minute drive away. They’re closing because the Federal government is insisting each centre has at least one university trained person and more ‘teachers’ per head of child then before. You can see the good intentions behind this but as there is no free pre-school here it means those centres that stay open will charge more (currently it’s around $57 a day which in pound terms is about four pence, errm, I think that’s right, the dollar acting like Popeye while the quid is more like Olive Oil, or whatever the skinny one’s name was.), and others will close down completely, so costing us all more and more to get our kids in a centre that is not nearby.
So, from January I have to move him about 30 minutes away which is going to really bugger up my mornings. Of course, I could take him out altogether but he has only another year and then he’ll be at Six’s school, and most of the other pre-school children will go there too, so it will be good for him.
Okay, I’m just going to hose myself down.
With water, madam.

Comments

]]>Catastrophic...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/11/19/catastrophic-7411357/2009-11-19T06:12:25+01:00 <p><span><span>Everywhere outside the cities in Australia there are bushfire roadside warning signs, usually with a pointer on them that tells you on any particular day the warning level - low, medium or high. <br>Now they’ve changed that, after those 150 or so people lost their lives in one weekend last year in the fires in Victoria. The top level is now tagged Catastrophic. <br>Today is over 40C here and we’re on the big C, and it’s not even summer yet. All this week it’s been in the high 30s. Even at night it’s barely dropping below 25. <br>I went with Four to swimming lesson this morning and the outdoor pool looked like it was sizzling. We were in the indoor pool so it wasn’t so bad, what with the air conditioning and all that. <br>Yesterday I was waiting for Six to come out of class. You go and sit on benches outside the class rooms, under a large canopy, and have a gossip with the mothers. As we were sitting there a Lace Monitor came strolling by. These things are about three feet long and look like dragons. I’d only seen one before and I tell you, first time it scares just about everything out of you. In fact they’re not that dangerous unless you corner them. Some of the little kids started baiting it and eventually one of the mothers, a large farmer’s wife with strong arms, picked it up by the tail and led it thrashing its head, trying to get her hand, and heaved it onto the garden where it scurried off with a rustle and crash through the undergrowth. Some of the women didn’t even stop the gossiping. <br>One thing I’ve discovered since I’ve been here is that Six doesn’t get invited for play at many people’s houses. One of the women told me it’s because the women’s husbands would mind. That’s the thing out here, they are very conservative, actually I’d call it stupid, but there you go. I feel sorry for Six because most of his friends get to play with their mates after school. But there’s not much I can do about it, other than suggest we meet at the park where they can all see what I’m doing with my hands, but even that is hard because, to be honest, it’s too bloody hot to be out and nobody ever goes to the park – they prefer to shut themselves in air conditioned cocoons. <br>It worries me because I don’t want the boys to miss out on the early friendship bonding sessions, but it’s hard to work out what to do.<br>That aside, I’ve been doing well with Mr Wolf this week. I also decided to start selling all the vintage watches I’d accrued via Ebay. I eventually worked out that I wanted to concetrate on watches made in England which somewhat limits the choice, so that’s no bad thing. Someone at school told me the problem with selling anything through Ebay is that you spend most of your life at the Post Office sending off boxes, which is true. <br>Still, I’ve sold most of them for more than I bought them for, so that’s good. With some of the proceeds I bought a Smiths W10 which is a black dialled watch issued to the UK armed forces back between the 1940s and 1970s (when Smiths went bust because Margaret Thatcher thought it best to supply John De Lorean with money for cocaine, er sorry, money to build sportscars in Northern Ireland). Anyway, it is a really fine watch, in this case made in 1968, and if you know anything about English watch making you’ll know the Swiss learnt most of their skills from the English – no, it’s true. The W10 is very similar in movement design to Swiss Jaeger LeCoultre watches, which start today at 10,000 pounds. I’ve got a Jaeger I bought back 10 years ago and I have to say I prefer the Smiths. Here's a link which shows you what it looks like: <a href="http://www.mwrforum.net/forums/showthread.php?t=28875"><a href="http://www.mwrforum.net/forums/showthread.php?t=28875">http://www.mwrforum.net/forums/showthread.php?t=28875</a></a><br>Right then, I’m off to take a cold shower.</span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/11/19/catastrophic-7411357/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>Everywhere outside the cities in Australia there are bushfire roadside warning signs, usually with a pointer on them that tells you on any particular day the warning level - low, medium or high.
Now they’ve changed that, after those 150 or so people lost their lives in one weekend last year in the fires in Victoria. The top level is now tagged Catastrophic.
Today is over 40C here and we’re on the big C, and it’s not even summer yet. All this week it’s been in the high 30s. Even at night it’s barely dropping below 25.
I went with Four to swimming lesson this morning and the outdoor pool looked like it was sizzling. We were in the indoor pool so it wasn’t so bad, what with the air conditioning and all that.
Yesterday I was waiting for Six to come out of class. You go and sit on benches outside the class rooms, under a large canopy, and have a gossip with the mothers. As we were sitting there a Lace Monitor came strolling by. These things are about three feet long and look like dragons. I’d only seen one before and I tell you, first time it scares just about everything out of you. In fact they’re not that dangerous unless you corner them. Some of the little kids started baiting it and eventually one of the mothers, a large farmer’s wife with strong arms, picked it up by the tail and led it thrashing its head, trying to get her hand, and heaved it onto the garden where it scurried off with a rustle and crash through the undergrowth. Some of the women didn’t even stop the gossiping.
One thing I’ve discovered since I’ve been here is that Six doesn’t get invited for play at many people’s houses. One of the women told me it’s because the women’s husbands would mind. That’s the thing out here, they are very conservative, actually I’d call it stupid, but there you go. I feel sorry for Six because most of his friends get to play with their mates after school. But there’s not much I can do about it, other than suggest we meet at the park where they can all see what I’m doing with my hands, but even that is hard because, to be honest, it’s too bloody hot to be out and nobody ever goes to the park – they prefer to shut themselves in air conditioned cocoons.
It worries me because I don’t want the boys to miss out on the early friendship bonding sessions, but it’s hard to work out what to do.
That aside, I’ve been doing well with Mr Wolf this week. I also decided to start selling all the vintage watches I’d accrued via Ebay. I eventually worked out that I wanted to concetrate on watches made in England which somewhat limits the choice, so that’s no bad thing. Someone at school told me the problem with selling anything through Ebay is that you spend most of your life at the Post Office sending off boxes, which is true.
Still, I’ve sold most of them for more than I bought them for, so that’s good. With some of the proceeds I bought a Smiths W10 which is a black dialled watch issued to the UK armed forces back between the 1940s and 1970s (when Smiths went bust because Margaret Thatcher thought it best to supply John De Lorean with money for cocaine, er sorry, money to build sportscars in Northern Ireland). Anyway, it is a really fine watch, in this case made in 1968, and if you know anything about English watch making you’ll know the Swiss learnt most of their skills from the English – no, it’s true. The W10 is very similar in movement design to Swiss Jaeger LeCoultre watches, which start today at 10,000 pounds. I’ve got a Jaeger I bought back 10 years ago and I have to say I prefer the Smiths. Here's a link which shows you what it looks like: http://www.mwrforum.net/forums/showthread.php?t=28875
Right then, I’m off to take a cold shower.

Comments

]]>Mr Wolf, and the bitch...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/11/10/mr-wolf-and-the-bitch-7341396/2009-11-10T04:33:11+01:00 <p><span><span>I’m chuntering on with <em>Mr Wolf</em>. I have to get it finished, that’s completely finished, by December 18 because the nippers break up from school then for their summer holidays and really I’ll get no work done for two months. So the clock is ticking, which funnily enough is the way I like it. <br>I would have had it finished by now except for the end of term holiday a few weeks ago, and generally Six and Four are much more time-consuming. Of course, they know everything by now so endless hours are spent in arguments about how many trees there are in the whole wide world and if God can’t be bothered to show himself should we really be spending so much time talking about him. Sometimes I have no answers – or at least not good ones – for their questions. Now I understand why when faced with questions like, why did they build the Great Wall of China, some parents stumble about and then say, to keep the rabbits out. <br>Anyway, at school there are some right bitches. Most of the mothers are fine but there are a couple who seem to think they are descended from Royalty. They have those lemon-sucking faces and walk around in a haughty manner, though it doesn’t quite work in the Australian National Costume of thongs (flip-flops to you and me), sawed off shorts with floppy arses, tops which were once tent material, and hair-dos which haven’t been near a hairdresser – at least not one who can still see – for, oh I don’t know, maybe 16 years. <br>There’s a stick-insect blonde one who doesn’t talk to anyone unless they are what she considers true-blue Aussie. This counts me out, clearly, as I have no criminal record. <br>She’ll walk past me without so much as a nod. With great fanfare she went off to Perth with her husband and kids thanks to hubby's new job. He works in tarmacaddam, apparently, and is an expert in laying reverse cambers on the approach to roundabouts. <br>But soon she returned, minus the husband. I imagine he couldn’t put up with her either. Anyway, she’s got herself a little fluffy dog, presumably in place of the husband, and parades around with it like Marie-Antoinette. <br>Jerome’s wife, who speaks like Penelope Cruz, with twice the fire, sat down next to me the other day while we were waiting for the kids to come out of school and moved her shoulders about and said, “oh, you see, the fancy woman has got herself a fancy dog.”<br>“Oh yes,” I said, “and another thing-“<br>“No, no! Let me finish, for I have more to say.” She narrowed her eyes at me and whispered, “they are two bitches together.”<br>I had to laugh. <br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/11/10/mr-wolf-and-the-bitch-7341396/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>I’m chuntering on with Mr Wolf. I have to get it finished, that’s completely finished, by December 18 because the nippers break up from school then for their summer holidays and really I’ll get no work done for two months. So the clock is ticking, which funnily enough is the way I like it.
I would have had it finished by now except for the end of term holiday a few weeks ago, and generally Six and Four are much more time-consuming. Of course, they know everything by now so endless hours are spent in arguments about how many trees there are in the whole wide world and if God can’t be bothered to show himself should we really be spending so much time talking about him. Sometimes I have no answers – or at least not good ones – for their questions. Now I understand why when faced with questions like, why did they build the Great Wall of China, some parents stumble about and then say, to keep the rabbits out.
Anyway, at school there are some right bitches. Most of the mothers are fine but there are a couple who seem to think they are descended from Royalty. They have those lemon-sucking faces and walk around in a haughty manner, though it doesn’t quite work in the Australian National Costume of thongs (flip-flops to you and me), sawed off shorts with floppy arses, tops which were once tent material, and hair-dos which haven’t been near a hairdresser – at least not one who can still see – for, oh I don’t know, maybe 16 years.
There’s a stick-insect blonde one who doesn’t talk to anyone unless they are what she considers true-blue Aussie. This counts me out, clearly, as I have no criminal record.
She’ll walk past me without so much as a nod. With great fanfare she went off to Perth with her husband and kids thanks to hubby's new job. He works in tarmacaddam, apparently, and is an expert in laying reverse cambers on the approach to roundabouts.
But soon she returned, minus the husband. I imagine he couldn’t put up with her either. Anyway, she’s got herself a little fluffy dog, presumably in place of the husband, and parades around with it like Marie-Antoinette.
Jerome’s wife, who speaks like Penelope Cruz, with twice the fire, sat down next to me the other day while we were waiting for the kids to come out of school and moved her shoulders about and said, “oh, you see, the fancy woman has got herself a fancy dog.”
“Oh yes,” I said, “and another thing-“
“No, no! Let me finish, for I have more to say.” She narrowed her eyes at me and whispered, “they are two bitches together.”
I had to laugh.

Comments

]]>Jerome and the jets...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/11/09/jerome-and-the-jets-7335068/2009-11-09T04:30:54+01:00 <p><span><span>Every morning the silence is disturbed by the roar of jet engines as what the locals call ‘the post run’ comes over the mountain and heads for the RAAF base in the valley. From our house you can look down on the plane and its giant bat-like shape as its afterburners flare orange in the blue pre-dawn. <br>The plane is massive, a four-engined Lockheed of some sort in matt green. If you drive down to the base and stop around the perimeter fence (this is Australia, madam,) you can see it, heat still shimmering above its jets. On the rear fin it says, US Marine Corps. No one knows, or no-one will tell you, where it comes from every morning, and why. <br>As it happens, Jerome, ex-US Special Forces, was sent away for two weeks back to the Land of the Free by the company he now works for to be taught about new mass spectrometers. <br>These things can be explained to you eighteen times and you will still never understand what they are for or what they do. <br>Anyhow, Jerome was back this weekend and his daughter – who is in Six’s class – just had her birthday, so they held a party at the local leisure centre pool where I take the nippers for swimming lessons. <br>It was a good afternoon. Jerome, me, and the father who owns the 10 acre spread, got in the water and performed around 85 rescues of small children falling, giggling and screaming off the massive floating castle that stretched the whole length of the pool. A good time was had by all.<br>I noticed many of the mothers staring at my near naked body. I really must lose a few kilos, er, I mean, many kilos. <br>In the changing rooms afterwards I was chatting to Jerome and said, “you must be quite a good swimmer.”<br>“Oh yeah,” he drawled. “You know, they taught me to swim with my arms and legs tied.”<br>“Useful,” I muttered politely, wondering what could be the use of that.<br>When he came with the family to Australia, Jerome wanted to bring his gun collection – he was handed his first gun when he was three years old. Seriously, if I’d given Six a gun at three you wouldn’t be reading this now. <br>Apparently Jerome has 62 weapons, including his personal sniper rifle and another gun that can also launch a grenade from its snout. It seems when he left the Special Forces he just had to sign for them. And they wonder why America’s in trouble. <br>Before he stepped onto our sun-drenched shores he called the Aussie Customs people and explained the situation and the Customs bloke said, “Okay, tell me what you’d like to bring in.”<br>“I got as far as number five,” Jerome told me, “and then he said, whoa there fella.”<br>Three weeks ago I passed Jerome driving the other way. I turned around and followed him. I know, but sometimes I just do things like that. It’s exciting.<br>I followed him down to the town and out onto the road to Sydney. Just outside the town he turned left. <br>The Lockheed’s engines were roaring on the tarmac. <br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/11/09/jerome-and-the-jets-7335068/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>Every morning the silence is disturbed by the roar of jet engines as what the locals call ‘the post run’ comes over the mountain and heads for the RAAF base in the valley. From our house you can look down on the plane and its giant bat-like shape as its afterburners flare orange in the blue pre-dawn.
The plane is massive, a four-engined Lockheed of some sort in matt green. If you drive down to the base and stop around the perimeter fence (this is Australia, madam,) you can see it, heat still shimmering above its jets. On the rear fin it says, US Marine Corps. No one knows, or no-one will tell you, where it comes from every morning, and why.
As it happens, Jerome, ex-US Special Forces, was sent away for two weeks back to the Land of the Free by the company he now works for to be taught about new mass spectrometers.
These things can be explained to you eighteen times and you will still never understand what they are for or what they do.
Anyhow, Jerome was back this weekend and his daughter – who is in Six’s class – just had her birthday, so they held a party at the local leisure centre pool where I take the nippers for swimming lessons.
It was a good afternoon. Jerome, me, and the father who owns the 10 acre spread, got in the water and performed around 85 rescues of small children falling, giggling and screaming off the massive floating castle that stretched the whole length of the pool. A good time was had by all.
I noticed many of the mothers staring at my near naked body. I really must lose a few kilos, er, I mean, many kilos.
In the changing rooms afterwards I was chatting to Jerome and said, “you must be quite a good swimmer.”
“Oh yeah,” he drawled. “You know, they taught me to swim with my arms and legs tied.”
“Useful,” I muttered politely, wondering what could be the use of that.
When he came with the family to Australia, Jerome wanted to bring his gun collection – he was handed his first gun when he was three years old. Seriously, if I’d given Six a gun at three you wouldn’t be reading this now.
Apparently Jerome has 62 weapons, including his personal sniper rifle and another gun that can also launch a grenade from its snout. It seems when he left the Special Forces he just had to sign for them. And they wonder why America’s in trouble.
Before he stepped onto our sun-drenched shores he called the Aussie Customs people and explained the situation and the Customs bloke said, “Okay, tell me what you’d like to bring in.”
“I got as far as number five,” Jerome told me, “and then he said, whoa there fella.”
Three weeks ago I passed Jerome driving the other way. I turned around and followed him. I know, but sometimes I just do things like that. It’s exciting.
I followed him down to the town and out onto the road to Sydney. Just outside the town he turned left.
The Lockheed’s engines were roaring on the tarmac.

Comments

]]>We're upside down...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/11/06/we-re-upside-down-7316442/2009-11-06T03:55:01+01:00 <p><span><span>In Australia there are only three driving speeds – Go, Stop, and On Your Roof.<br>Honestly, more people get injured in car accidents per capita here than anywhere else in the world, well except for Afghanistan, but that’s mostly down to roadside bombs, and blokes blowing themselves and their Toyota up in crowded markets on their way to see 40 virgins (the after-life is probably the only place these days you’d find 40 virgins...).<br>We had a bit of rain last week and there were three big car accidents in two days between our house and the end of the road. Admiteddly it’s a winding road and it’s all downhill but it’s in good nick and wide. <br>The first day it was a mother from school who'd spun off the road in her Toyota Landcruiser and knocked over one gigantic wooden power pole. "I didn't want to put the brakes on," she told me the following day, "in case the car tipped over...". The cops were there and I had to stop to let the ambulance get out of the verge. An old cop who looked like Clint Eastwood ambled over to explain what was happening and said, "Makes you wonder how they do it, sometimes."<br>Crasher has got a new vehicle already, the Toyota being a write-off, what with its engine being in the back seat. The new car – which may mean little to you European folks – is a bright red Holden Clubsport R8. It looks like a fighter plane, has a 6.8-litre V8 engine and will reach a power pole in about four seconds. Good choice, madam. <br>The following day someone had come down the hill and on a wide sweeping bend had spun their car, hit the bank, gone through an electrified fence (bet that gave them a shock) and tipped the vehicle on its roof in the middle of the field. The same copper was there. I had to stop to let the fire engine reverse out of the field. The copper nodded to me and came and leaned in the window and said drily, "Hello again. Now, today we have a very impressive one indeed. Notice the upside down position."<br>"Yes, I see what you mean. But what happened to the goats?"<br>"My colleagues are trying to round them up.” He looked off in the distance to the smoky hills and said quietly. “Some have made it to town." He looked at me and smiled bleakly, “It seems one of them has run out in front of a bus, which hit a car.”<br> </span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/11/06/we-re-upside-down-7316442/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>In Australia there are only three driving speeds – Go, Stop, and On Your Roof.
Honestly, more people get injured in car accidents per capita here than anywhere else in the world, well except for Afghanistan, but that’s mostly down to roadside bombs, and blokes blowing themselves and their Toyota up in crowded markets on their way to see 40 virgins (the after-life is probably the only place these days you’d find 40 virgins...).
We had a bit of rain last week and there were three big car accidents in two days between our house and the end of the road. Admiteddly it’s a winding road and it’s all downhill but it’s in good nick and wide.
The first day it was a mother from school who'd spun off the road in her Toyota Landcruiser and knocked over one gigantic wooden power pole. "I didn't want to put the brakes on," she told me the following day, "in case the car tipped over...". The cops were there and I had to stop to let the ambulance get out of the verge. An old cop who looked like Clint Eastwood ambled over to explain what was happening and said, "Makes you wonder how they do it, sometimes."
Crasher has got a new vehicle already, the Toyota being a write-off, what with its engine being in the back seat. The new car – which may mean little to you European folks – is a bright red Holden Clubsport R8. It looks like a fighter plane, has a 6.8-litre V8 engine and will reach a power pole in about four seconds. Good choice, madam.
The following day someone had come down the hill and on a wide sweeping bend had spun their car, hit the bank, gone through an electrified fence (bet that gave them a shock) and tipped the vehicle on its roof in the middle of the field. The same copper was there. I had to stop to let the fire engine reverse out of the field. The copper nodded to me and came and leaned in the window and said drily, "Hello again. Now, today we have a very impressive one indeed. Notice the upside down position."
"Yes, I see what you mean. But what happened to the goats?"
"My colleagues are trying to round them up.” He looked off in the distance to the smoky hills and said quietly. “Some have made it to town." He looked at me and smiled bleakly, “It seems one of them has run out in front of a bus, which hit a car.”

Comments

]]>Hot stuff...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/11/02/hot-stuff-7295284/2009-11-02T22:44:07+01:00 <p><span><br>Just a quick one before I take Six to school. <br>They reckon it’s going to hit 40C today so it’s going to be a hot one.<br>The Melbourne Cup is on this afternoon. Melbournites have a day’s holiday so the women can dress up in silly hats and stumble around in tart-trotter shoes and watch some horses run around a track while sipping Chardonnay – that’s the women drinking, not the horses, you understand. <br>We went to the local park for the Teddy Bears’ Picnic on Saturday, which was a nice day out sitting on picnic rugs and eating party food. The park is on top of the mountain so there’s almost always a breeze, and there’s a 360 degree view over the lowlands. You can see Sydney’s towers 60km away poking out of the haze and on a day like today you’ll look and be glad you’re not there. The park’s about four acres of grassland and stretches of trees, including some massive English oaks which were planted when the original English settlers struggled up here, so they are massive and you can sit under them and try and keep cool. Funny to think those acorns came up the mountain in someone’s pocket, all the way from Chorlton-Cum-Hardly, or somewhere similar. <br>The park was where the residents of this small enclave gathered every morning during the last Emergency, as they call the bushfires, about eight years ago, to hear from the fire people shouting above the clatter of the water bombing helicopters that kept dumping thousands of tons of water on people’s houses. One woman told me she went out one morning and suddenly got swept half way up the street in a rush of water. This Sunday the Rural Fire Brigade held Fire Wise which is a gathering of residents who sit in white chairs under the oaks and listen quietly to experts tell us what to do in the event of another Emergency this year.<br>The chief fire officer reckoned he was a bit of a joker, only there was tension in the air and no-one laughed at his silly jokes as he told us that detection of sudden bushfires is better than it's ever been, they get there quicker ("but if you hear the sirens, then it's already too late for you to get out") and they have more equipment than ever before. The kickers is, conditions have never been this worrying before so we had better get ready. It didn’t help that on a giant screen they had a dramatic music-backed film loop of last year’s Victorian fires and the people panicking as the inferno raged and roared across valleys in seconds and engulfed houses as if they’d been doused in petrol. <br>The fire officer said, “if you think it’s safe to just leave and go to the next village, well, think again. You will die there too.” Nice. </p> <p></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/11/02/hot-stuff-7295284/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>
Just a quick one before I take Six to school.
They reckon it’s going to hit 40C today so it’s going to be a hot one.
The Melbourne Cup is on this afternoon. Melbournites have a day’s holiday so the women can dress up in silly hats and stumble around in tart-trotter shoes and watch some horses run around a track while sipping Chardonnay – that’s the women drinking, not the horses, you understand.
We went to the local park for the Teddy Bears’ Picnic on Saturday, which was a nice day out sitting on picnic rugs and eating party food. The park is on top of the mountain so there’s almost always a breeze, and there’s a 360 degree view over the lowlands. You can see Sydney’s towers 60km away poking out of the haze and on a day like today you’ll look and be glad you’re not there. The park’s about four acres of grassland and stretches of trees, including some massive English oaks which were planted when the original English settlers struggled up here, so they are massive and you can sit under them and try and keep cool. Funny to think those acorns came up the mountain in someone’s pocket, all the way from Chorlton-Cum-Hardly, or somewhere similar.
The park was where the residents of this small enclave gathered every morning during the last Emergency, as they call the bushfires, about eight years ago, to hear from the fire people shouting above the clatter of the water bombing helicopters that kept dumping thousands of tons of water on people’s houses. One woman told me she went out one morning and suddenly got swept half way up the street in a rush of water. This Sunday the Rural Fire Brigade held Fire Wise which is a gathering of residents who sit in white chairs under the oaks and listen quietly to experts tell us what to do in the event of another Emergency this year.
The chief fire officer reckoned he was a bit of a joker, only there was tension in the air and no-one laughed at his silly jokes as he told us that detection of sudden bushfires is better than it's ever been, they get there quicker ("but if you hear the sirens, then it's already too late for you to get out") and they have more equipment than ever before. The kickers is, conditions have never been this worrying before so we had better get ready. It didn’t help that on a giant screen they had a dramatic music-backed film loop of last year’s Victorian fires and the people panicking as the inferno raged and roared across valleys in seconds and engulfed houses as if they’d been doused in petrol.
The fire officer said, “if you think it’s safe to just leave and go to the next village, well, think again. You will die there too.” Nice.

Comments

]]>Wish you were beer...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/10/27/wish-you-were-beer-7250788/2009-10-27T03:01:50+01:00 <p><span><span>Back a few years ago Don and I got together and came up with a book idea called <em>Wish You Were Beer.</em> <br>The concept was we’d travel around the world reporting on the world’s foaming ales. This lavishly produced tome would contain startling facts and figures, stuff you never knew about the amber nectar (I know, I’m going to run out of beer phrases pretty soon...), health facts about beer, the history of the brews, the beer drinking donkey of Tijuna – you know, a homage to the hops. At the bottom of each page there would be a timeline running the length of the book - Cleopatra bathes in pale ale, 44BC - Adolf Hitler can't get a decent wheat beer, decides to invade Poland, 1938 - yes, of course it was meant to be fun too!<br>For the presentation to publishers we decided against anything electronic as most of them still appeared to use quill pens and delivered rejection notes with all the speed of a tortoise with a zimmer frame. <br>So, Don designed the look and feel of the book – our theory being that this would save the publisher four and tuppence, which in publisher land is thought to still be the price of a quail and pigeon pie down at the Horse and Bridle. I penned the words and between us we finished up with a very nice presentation pack. <br>To be frank, as I’d had dealings with publishers before, I expected to see Jesus Christ walking towards me on the High Street saying, Hello, could you spare a moment to talk about the Lord, before we got anywhere with it. Don, on the other hand, was busy cruising Double Bay, where all the millionaires live, looking at houses. One day when we got together to plan our campaign he said, “You know, I’d like to donate some of my earnings from the book to setting up a charitable philanthropic organisation to help those who are blind help to see again.” Yes, I thought, I too would love it if a publisher could spot a good thing when they see it, but really. <br>We sent the pack off and heard...well nothing, for a very long time. In fact, if I’d had children back then I could have watched them grow up, go to school, borrow my car and crash it several times, and even be dating, before a reply came back. <br>But one day, a message made of the finest parchment was delivered. The man they sent – bedecked in a red and white ermine fringed costume and wearing a tricolour hat with gold braid unrolled it and read aloud – as his horse snuffled behind him, pawing the ground impatiently – and said, “Don’t you mean, Wish You Were Here?”<br>He handed me the message, and sped off on his steed. I placed it in the FW file, not having the energy to write Fuckwits out fully. <br>But the day did come when a publisher from one of the big companies invited us to come in and discuss it. Well, even I was beginning to think there could be a drink or two in this. <br>When we arrived we were ushered into the board room and left there to ponder the stacks of presumably unsold books against one wall. Eventually the publisher – a flinty eyed woman with grey hair and the haughty demeanour of Margaret Thatcher came in with a girl whose job appeared to be to pass the biscuits around. <br>Now, the funny thing was, Margaret would not look at me at all. She would only look at Don. It was utterly bizarre. Soon, Don was casting sideways glances at me – I was glad someone was – because even when I answered one or other of her questions, she would look at Don. I have never experienced anything like it. I mean she was too old for me to have shagged in a previous life, or even her daughter for that matter.<br>The thing was, she said she really liked the idea, but followed that up with, “And how would you propose to fund this book?” <br>Don looked at me and I looked at him. We sort of thought the idea was they would give us some money and we’d write the book. I mean, we didn't expect them to fund a lavish drinking trip round the world - though clearly that would have been nice - but we did expect enough to buy a pack or two of salted peanuts. But no, we had to deliver the book and then if they liked it they might give us a sovereign – each, mind you! – and then they might publish it, but only if Saturn was rising against Jupiter on the seventh equinox in the east - and then they would lavish the usual publisher sums on worldwide advertising (er, a poster on the back of a dirty bus on the Sydney to Canberra run, once a month). <br>We had to laugh.<br>On the way out, the publisher shook Don’s hand. Then she shook mine, but looked at Don. <br>Outside Don said, “What was all that business of never looking at you?”<br>“I have no idea. It was most bizarre.”<br>“Maybe she fancied you.”<br>“Oh yeah, but if you fancied someone wouldn’t you want to look at them?”<br>“Oh yeah, you’re right.”<br>We never have figured it out and sometimes we still have a laugh about it.<br>A few years later I had an idea for another book (yes, I am an idiot, but a hopeful one, mind you!) so I sent it off to the-publisher-who-wouldn’t-look-me-in-the-eye and she sent a lovely long letter back (they were upmarket, they used a racing pigeon), saying it was a good idea and if the non-fiction publisher saw eye-to-eye with her on it it was a goer. <br>I laughed to myself and went to look for the FW file. <br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/10/27/wish-you-were-beer-7250788/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>Back a few years ago Don and I got together and came up with a book idea called Wish You Were Beer.
The concept was we’d travel around the world reporting on the world’s foaming ales. This lavishly produced tome would contain startling facts and figures, stuff you never knew about the amber nectar (I know, I’m going to run out of beer phrases pretty soon...), health facts about beer, the history of the brews, the beer drinking donkey of Tijuna – you know, a homage to the hops. At the bottom of each page there would be a timeline running the length of the book - Cleopatra bathes in pale ale, 44BC - Adolf Hitler can't get a decent wheat beer, decides to invade Poland, 1938 - yes, of course it was meant to be fun too!
For the presentation to publishers we decided against anything electronic as most of them still appeared to use quill pens and delivered rejection notes with all the speed of a tortoise with a zimmer frame.
So, Don designed the look and feel of the book – our theory being that this would save the publisher four and tuppence, which in publisher land is thought to still be the price of a quail and pigeon pie down at the Horse and Bridle. I penned the words and between us we finished up with a very nice presentation pack.
To be frank, as I’d had dealings with publishers before, I expected to see Jesus Christ walking towards me on the High Street saying, Hello, could you spare a moment to talk about the Lord, before we got anywhere with it. Don, on the other hand, was busy cruising Double Bay, where all the millionaires live, looking at houses. One day when we got together to plan our campaign he said, “You know, I’d like to donate some of my earnings from the book to setting up a charitable philanthropic organisation to help those who are blind help to see again.” Yes, I thought, I too would love it if a publisher could spot a good thing when they see it, but really.
We sent the pack off and heard...well nothing, for a very long time. In fact, if I’d had children back then I could have watched them grow up, go to school, borrow my car and crash it several times, and even be dating, before a reply came back.
But one day, a message made of the finest parchment was delivered. The man they sent – bedecked in a red and white ermine fringed costume and wearing a tricolour hat with gold braid unrolled it and read aloud – as his horse snuffled behind him, pawing the ground impatiently – and said, “Don’t you mean, Wish You Were Here?”
He handed me the message, and sped off on his steed. I placed it in the FW file, not having the energy to write Fuckwits out fully.
But the day did come when a publisher from one of the big companies invited us to come in and discuss it. Well, even I was beginning to think there could be a drink or two in this.
When we arrived we were ushered into the board room and left there to ponder the stacks of presumably unsold books against one wall. Eventually the publisher – a flinty eyed woman with grey hair and the haughty demeanour of Margaret Thatcher came in with a girl whose job appeared to be to pass the biscuits around.
Now, the funny thing was, Margaret would not look at me at all. She would only look at Don. It was utterly bizarre. Soon, Don was casting sideways glances at me – I was glad someone was – because even when I answered one or other of her questions, she would look at Don. I have never experienced anything like it. I mean she was too old for me to have shagged in a previous life, or even her daughter for that matter.
The thing was, she said she really liked the idea, but followed that up with, “And how would you propose to fund this book?”
Don looked at me and I looked at him. We sort of thought the idea was they would give us some money and we’d write the book. I mean, we didn't expect them to fund a lavish drinking trip round the world - though clearly that would have been nice - but we did expect enough to buy a pack or two of salted peanuts. But no, we had to deliver the book and then if they liked it they might give us a sovereign – each, mind you! – and then they might publish it, but only if Saturn was rising against Jupiter on the seventh equinox in the east - and then they would lavish the usual publisher sums on worldwide advertising (er, a poster on the back of a dirty bus on the Sydney to Canberra run, once a month).
We had to laugh.
On the way out, the publisher shook Don’s hand. Then she shook mine, but looked at Don.
Outside Don said, “What was all that business of never looking at you?”
“I have no idea. It was most bizarre.”
“Maybe she fancied you.”
“Oh yeah, but if you fancied someone wouldn’t you want to look at them?”
“Oh yeah, you’re right.”
We never have figured it out and sometimes we still have a laugh about it.
A few years later I had an idea for another book (yes, I am an idiot, but a hopeful one, mind you!) so I sent it off to the-publisher-who-wouldn’t-look-me-in-the-eye and she sent a lovely long letter back (they were upmarket, they used a racing pigeon), saying it was a good idea and if the non-fiction publisher saw eye-to-eye with her on it it was a goer.
I laughed to myself and went to look for the FW file.

Comments

]]>Gentlemen, please start your engines...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/10/11/gentlemen-please-start-your-engines-7140634/2009-10-11T00:04:16+02:00 <p><span><span>This weekend just outside a town called Bathurst about three hours drive north west of Sydney they are holding the annual Bathurst 1000, a 1000-kilometre (620 miles) touring car race held annually at Mount Panorama Circuit and featuring the biggest, most fuel-greedy V8 engined cars the planet has ever seen growl around a track. <br>It’s a venue for rev-heads from all over who spend the weekend extolling the virtues of Fords, Holdens, and beer. <br>This year the organisers put out a press release (which contained not a hint of humour) which said that this time around the visitors would be, and I quote, “strictly rationed” when it came to how much alcohol they could take to the meet. <br>Everyone is limited to 24 bottles of beer or two bottles of wine. <br>That’s person, per day. <br>I imagine the punters must be grumbling louder than the V8s. <br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/10/11/gentlemen-please-start-your-engines-7140634/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>This weekend just outside a town called Bathurst about three hours drive north west of Sydney they are holding the annual Bathurst 1000, a 1000-kilometre (620 miles) touring car race held annually at Mount Panorama Circuit and featuring the biggest, most fuel-greedy V8 engined cars the planet has ever seen growl around a track.
It’s a venue for rev-heads from all over who spend the weekend extolling the virtues of Fords, Holdens, and beer.
This year the organisers put out a press release (which contained not a hint of humour) which said that this time around the visitors would be, and I quote, “strictly rationed” when it came to how much alcohol they could take to the meet.
Everyone is limited to 24 bottles of beer or two bottles of wine.
That’s person, per day.
I imagine the punters must be grumbling louder than the V8s.

Comments

]]>Chew on that...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/10/10/chew-on-that-7137313/2009-10-10T14:10:20+02:00 <p><span><span><br>Five miles, down the mountainside in the fetid sink of a trapped valley where it gets hot as sin and no breeze stirs, there is a town.<br>If you were to travel through a time warp, perhaps be sucked through a blackhole, you’d believe you’d arrived in 1964.<br>Shops lean one on the another, heat sizzles on the wide, uneven pavements. In the oval a wooden stadium casts a shadow over two black cannons from the Great War. The whack of leather on willow echoes under a sky where blue never ends. <br>A 24-hour McDonalds oversees it all. It arrived in 1998, in a truck, and was assembled inside 36 hours. Apparently that’s a record. <br>It doesn’t matter what time you drive by, it’s packed with corpulent SUVs, sound systems doof-doofing, waiting in line in the Drive-Through lane, V8s throbbing like a heart.<br>Any early morning you drive from our house, down the mountain, the fresh cool breeze sifting through your open window, enlivening you with scent of jasmin, eucalyptus, fangipania, you’ll see McDonald wrappers strewn about; boxes, empty drinks cartons rolling from the verge, sometimes the wind sending them skittering like silly animals, under your tyres where they pop.<br>The other day, I saw a field of cows the colour of butter scotch, standing knee deep in a field of the greenest grass. <br>One of them had its nose in a MacDonalds box.<br>He chewed.<br>The silk breeze made the grass flow like the sea.<br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/10/10/chew-on-that-7137313/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>
Five miles, down the mountainside in the fetid sink of a trapped valley where it gets hot as sin and no breeze stirs, there is a town.
If you were to travel through a time warp, perhaps be sucked through a blackhole, you’d believe you’d arrived in 1964.
Shops lean one on the another, heat sizzles on the wide, uneven pavements. In the oval a wooden stadium casts a shadow over two black cannons from the Great War. The whack of leather on willow echoes under a sky where blue never ends.
A 24-hour McDonalds oversees it all. It arrived in 1998, in a truck, and was assembled inside 36 hours. Apparently that’s a record.
It doesn’t matter what time you drive by, it’s packed with corpulent SUVs, sound systems doof-doofing, waiting in line in the Drive-Through lane, V8s throbbing like a heart.
Any early morning you drive from our house, down the mountain, the fresh cool breeze sifting through your open window, enlivening you with scent of jasmin, eucalyptus, fangipania, you’ll see McDonald wrappers strewn about; boxes, empty drinks cartons rolling from the verge, sometimes the wind sending them skittering like silly animals, under your tyres where they pop.
The other day, I saw a field of cows the colour of butter scotch, standing knee deep in a field of the greenest grass.
One of them had its nose in a MacDonalds box.
He chewed.
The silk breeze made the grass flow like the sea.

Comments

]]>You just can't trust them...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/09/28/you-just-can-t-trust-them-7052631/2009-09-28T05:42:22+02:00 <p><span><span><strong>Monday</strong>: AFL training for Six. Sit on benches in the late afternoon sun with the mothers as children run around screaming for an hour. Mothers talk amongst themselves, asking why they are all so fat when all they do is eat normally, well sometimes there is a snack involved and one woman said, “we only have Maccas two or three times a week, KFC on Fridays and Sunday.” I watch the sun go down behind the baobab trees, their elephant trunks casting a shadow across the playing fields almost as wide as Mrs Maccas.</p> <p><strong>Tuesday</strong>: Football (soccer, as it was known) in-door five a side for Six. He’d never played football before, unless you count kicking me in the testicles every now and again. Gets on court and scores a goal within two minutes. Father of Six’s team-mate who looks like a biker and has more tatoos than a painted lady shouts across the court, “Yer a fuckin’ demon.”</p> <p><strong>Wednesday</strong>: Day at home for me – both nippers in school and pre-school. Have been asked to write journalism course for a college. Also, back on marking papers. I’ve had 90 this week...</p> <p><strong>Thursday</strong>: Four (yes, birthday last week, read on...) goes to swimming lessons. I tell woman behind the counter I’ll go for a swim too. She looks at me as if I’m mad. Leisure centre is packed with mums – sitting at the café. Australia’s best pies, says the sign. I look in vain for Mrs Maccas then realise she is probably still climbing the steps outside.</p> <p><strong>Friday</strong>: Go and help at school, which consists of helping Six’s classmates with their reading. All the girls can read, all the boys play. One of the teachers is going steady with herself. She is blonde (this week...) and wears figure hugging one-piece outfits that squeal when she walks. She is rumoured to be a top tango dancer in her spare time, offering lessons to anyone who's willing to get close to her. I imagine the queue is longer than the one at KFC.</p> <p><strong>Saturday</strong>: Six goes for swimming lessons. I say I’ll go for a swim. The woman at the desk looks at me, wondering why I don’t like pies. </p> <p><strong>Sunday</strong>: Four’s birthday. People have realised I don’t do 2-4pm at a play centre, so big crowd gathers. I cook jaloff rice, chick pea salad, potato salad, bbq lamb chops, sausages, t-bone steak, fish marinara. I do jelly shots with vodka (purple for the adults, blue for the kids, or is it the other way around...I forget). Kids organise their own games. The girls organise the boys, sending them off to go play hide and seek. I hear two Four year old girls discussing the game plan. One says to the other, “The thing is, you just can’t trust them.”<br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/09/28/you-just-can-t-trust-them-7052631/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>Monday: AFL training for Six. Sit on benches in the late afternoon sun with the mothers as children run around screaming for an hour. Mothers talk amongst themselves, asking why they are all so fat when all they do is eat normally, well sometimes there is a snack involved and one woman said, “we only have Maccas two or three times a week, KFC on Fridays and Sunday.” I watch the sun go down behind the baobab trees, their elephant trunks casting a shadow across the playing fields almost as wide as Mrs Maccas.

Tuesday: Football (soccer, as it was known) in-door five a side for Six. He’d never played football before, unless you count kicking me in the testicles every now and again. Gets on court and scores a goal within two minutes. Father of Six’s team-mate who looks like a biker and has more tatoos than a painted lady shouts across the court, “Yer a fuckin’ demon.”

Wednesday: Day at home for me – both nippers in school and pre-school. Have been asked to write journalism course for a college. Also, back on marking papers. I’ve had 90 this week...

Thursday: Four (yes, birthday last week, read on...) goes to swimming lessons. I tell woman behind the counter I’ll go for a swim too. She looks at me as if I’m mad. Leisure centre is packed with mums – sitting at the café. Australia’s best pies, says the sign. I look in vain for Mrs Maccas then realise she is probably still climbing the steps outside.

Friday: Go and help at school, which consists of helping Six’s classmates with their reading. All the girls can read, all the boys play. One of the teachers is going steady with herself. She is blonde (this week...) and wears figure hugging one-piece outfits that squeal when she walks. She is rumoured to be a top tango dancer in her spare time, offering lessons to anyone who's willing to get close to her. I imagine the queue is longer than the one at KFC.

Saturday: Six goes for swimming lessons. I say I’ll go for a swim. The woman at the desk looks at me, wondering why I don’t like pies.

Sunday: Four’s birthday. People have realised I don’t do 2-4pm at a play centre, so big crowd gathers. I cook jaloff rice, chick pea salad, potato salad, bbq lamb chops, sausages, t-bone steak, fish marinara. I do jelly shots with vodka (purple for the adults, blue for the kids, or is it the other way around...I forget). Kids organise their own games. The girls organise the boys, sending them off to go play hide and seek. I hear two Four year old girls discussing the game plan. One says to the other, “The thing is, you just can’t trust them.”

Comments

]]>Lord above...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/08/28/lord-above-6838269/2009-08-28T04:52:44+02:00 <p><span><span>I don’t know if you’ve seen it yet but a bunch of enterprising aetheists in the US (where else...?) have launched a pet rescue service for Evangelical christians. <br>The idea is when the end of the world comes along (I really hope it’s not before next Monday because I need to know what happens in the BBC's <em>Ashes to Ashes</em>) and the Evangelicals are whisked away to sit by the side of God, someone has to look after their pets. <br>It seems that the Bible doesn’t mention being able to take your four legged friend with you on this one-off trip of a lifetime, though in fairness there are lots of things the Bible doesn’t mention, such as dinosaurs, the woolly mammoth, pyramids, and China. <br>Anyhow, it seems quite a few people have signed up to have their pets looked after. <br>Personally I see this as a golden opportunity to get a few more things off the Evangelicals, I mean, as they’re going anyway. <br>I am on the lookout for a late model Bentley Azure so if any of you God-fearing folks have one of those – preferably in Midnight Blue – do let me know. I'm willing to travel for the right mileage. <br>I would also like an original set of The Beatles LPs, in vinyl, so give me a shout, I mean, there'll only be Gospel where you're headed. <br>I’m partial to French Impressionists, so any Gauguin, Renoir or Monets going begging – I’m your man. <br>And finally, as there will be a lot of empty churches, I’d love one with a view. <br>Thank-you, and have a good trip.  <br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/08/28/lord-above-6838269/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>I don’t know if you’ve seen it yet but a bunch of enterprising aetheists in the US (where else...?) have launched a pet rescue service for Evangelical christians.
The idea is when the end of the world comes along (I really hope it’s not before next Monday because I need to know what happens in the BBC's Ashes to Ashes) and the Evangelicals are whisked away to sit by the side of God, someone has to look after their pets.
It seems that the Bible doesn’t mention being able to take your four legged friend with you on this one-off trip of a lifetime, though in fairness there are lots of things the Bible doesn’t mention, such as dinosaurs, the woolly mammoth, pyramids, and China.
Anyhow, it seems quite a few people have signed up to have their pets looked after.
Personally I see this as a golden opportunity to get a few more things off the Evangelicals, I mean, as they’re going anyway.
I am on the lookout for a late model Bentley Azure so if any of you God-fearing folks have one of those – preferably in Midnight Blue – do let me know. I'm willing to travel for the right mileage.
I would also like an original set of The Beatles LPs, in vinyl, so give me a shout, I mean, there'll only be Gospel where you're headed.
I’m partial to French Impressionists, so any Gauguin, Renoir or Monets going begging – I’m your man.
And finally, as there will be a lot of empty churches, I’d love one with a view.
Thank-you, and have a good trip. 

Comments

]]>I was being sarcastic...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/08/21/i-was-being-sarcastic-6770854/2009-08-21T06:46:09+02:00 <p><span><span>I can hardly believe it but it’s almost a year since we moved here to the mountains. <br>At first the nippers didn’t like it much – there was too much grass, trees and fresh air and not enough hustle and bustle and they missed the old house, I guess because they’d never lived anywhere else. <br>But on the way home from school today Six said, “Dad, I really like living here.”<br>“Good,” I said, “It is nice living in the country.”<br>“Yes”, said Six, “there is always fresh air and lots of room and many, many trees.”<br>“And the people are mostly nice.”<br>“Yes Dad, and there are never any roadworks.”<br>I frowned. “But there are roadworks everywhere. Every morning there’s a bloke leaning on a revolving stop sign somewhere or other, and sometimes there are several of them.”<br>“Daaaad,” said Six, “I was being sarcastic!”</span><br></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/08/21/i-was-being-sarcastic-6770854/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>I can hardly believe it but it’s almost a year since we moved here to the mountains.
At first the nippers didn’t like it much – there was too much grass, trees and fresh air and not enough hustle and bustle and they missed the old house, I guess because they’d never lived anywhere else.
But on the way home from school today Six said, “Dad, I really like living here.”
“Good,” I said, “It is nice living in the country.”
“Yes”, said Six, “there is always fresh air and lots of room and many, many trees.”
“And the people are mostly nice.”
“Yes Dad, and there are never any roadworks.”
I frowned. “But there are roadworks everywhere. Every morning there’s a bloke leaning on a revolving stop sign somewhere or other, and sometimes there are several of them.”
“Daaaad,” said Six, “I was being sarcastic!”

Comments

]]>Don't kick my ball...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/08/18/don-t-kick-my-ball-6748609/2009-08-18T03:45:22+02:00 <p><span><span>At Six’s school they’re always trying to entice the kids to get involved in sports stuff and this last week they started running an AFL training session after school. <br>Aussie Rules, as AFL is colloquially known, is a bizarre game which is a mix of Gaelic football, rugby, football, and running around as fast as you can while bouncing a rugby-shaped ball in front of you and hoping it will come back to your hands and not spin off sideways into the pie-cart on the sidelines (there is no bigger faux-pas in  AFL than hitting the pie-cart...). <br>Anyhow, Six was keen to do it because for $33 you get six weeks of running around trying to catch that bouncing ball, plus a holdall, ball, cap, drinks bottle, CD, photo-frame, stationary set, football pump and a tenner from the bank with a money box. By anyone’s standards it’s worth just going along just for that (which I’m sure is why Six wantsto have a go...).<br>Sadly, on week one, the boy is sick with a bad stomach bug – as is his younger brother – so I’ve put a large black cross on the door and I ring a handbell at opportune moments as I mooch around the house, just to warn passers-by we have the plauge. <br>The thing with AFL is, you can watch it as much as you like – and I have been for 15 years now – and you will never understand the game.<br>Two teams of blokes wearing unfashionably tight shorts and tops with no sleeves run around this oval shaped pitch like madmen, passing the misshapen ball back and forth, bouncing it as they run and then kicking it through some rugby-type posts. <br>Two blokes dressed in white, wearing porkpie hats, who look like they have just come from the local butchers after giving a piece of brisket a good seeing-to, stand either side of the posts and if the ball goes through they each stick out an arm and a hand with a flourish only Italian traffic police can rival, and the crowd goes wild. <br>I have no idea how the scoring works because each time someone scores, a box comes up at the bottom of the TV screen with 58 assorted rows of numbers in it. I’ve tried everything to work it out, including a slide rule, set of compasses and a weather-vane but it’s still all gibberish to me.<br>Anyway, if you get a chance, it’s worth watching. I just can’t think of another game where the teams get to run around so much for so long, or where $33 buys you stuff to keep your nippers quiet for, oh I don't know, 20 minutes. Honestly, I'd pay three grand for such moments of peace.</span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/08/18/don-t-kick-my-ball-6748609/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>At Six’s school they’re always trying to entice the kids to get involved in sports stuff and this last week they started running an AFL training session after school.
Aussie Rules, as AFL is colloquially known, is a bizarre game which is a mix of Gaelic football, rugby, football, and running around as fast as you can while bouncing a rugby-shaped ball in front of you and hoping it will come back to your hands and not spin off sideways into the pie-cart on the sidelines (there is no bigger faux-pas in  AFL than hitting the pie-cart...).
Anyhow, Six was keen to do it because for $33 you get six weeks of running around trying to catch that bouncing ball, plus a holdall, ball, cap, drinks bottle, CD, photo-frame, stationary set, football pump and a tenner from the bank with a money box. By anyone’s standards it’s worth just going along just for that (which I’m sure is why Six wantsto have a go...).
Sadly, on week one, the boy is sick with a bad stomach bug – as is his younger brother – so I’ve put a large black cross on the door and I ring a handbell at opportune moments as I mooch around the house, just to warn passers-by we have the plauge.
The thing with AFL is, you can watch it as much as you like – and I have been for 15 years now – and you will never understand the game.
Two teams of blokes wearing unfashionably tight shorts and tops with no sleeves run around this oval shaped pitch like madmen, passing the misshapen ball back and forth, bouncing it as they run and then kicking it through some rugby-type posts.
Two blokes dressed in white, wearing porkpie hats, who look like they have just come from the local butchers after giving a piece of brisket a good seeing-to, stand either side of the posts and if the ball goes through they each stick out an arm and a hand with a flourish only Italian traffic police can rival, and the crowd goes wild.
I have no idea how the scoring works because each time someone scores, a box comes up at the bottom of the TV screen with 58 assorted rows of numbers in it. I’ve tried everything to work it out, including a slide rule, set of compasses and a weather-vane but it’s still all gibberish to me.
Anyway, if you get a chance, it’s worth watching. I just can’t think of another game where the teams get to run around so much for so long, or where $33 buys you stuff to keep your nippers quiet for, oh I don't know, 20 minutes. Honestly, I'd pay three grand for such moments of peace.

Comments

]]>Party, party...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/08/17/party-party-6740915/2009-08-17T05:09:14+02:00 <p><span><span>Sunday was 29C, can you believe, and we’ve still got two weeks before winter ends and spring begins. Truly the weather is bonkers, but in Sydney at least, beautiful.<br>Anyway, it was a super day to go to a party, so I did. Yes, yes, of course it was a kids’ party – you don’t seriously think I have time to go to an adult one, do you? <br>The thing is, pretty much every weekend either Three or Six is going to a birthday party. I tell you, they go to more events than Paris Hilton.<br>This one was for one of the girls at Six’s school. Her parents own this house on a high plateau looking out in all directions to the horizon. It sits on 10 acres and it is blissful<br>For the party they’d hired a couple of those bouncy castle things which cost about the GDP of Botswana for an afternoon but let me tell you it’s well worth it because you can sit in an easy chair on the lawn with the mothers and look across Australia in the sunlight with a soft breeze in your face while the kids laugh and scream. <br>The father of the girl took me on a tour of the estate and pointed out a big wooden white house over yonder. It seems that when the blocks of land were sold, deer were still running around all over the place. The bloke’s wife liked them and started feeding them but if you know anything about deer you’ll know they will eat all your plants, and trample the ones they don’t find tasty. The upshot was that Mr White House got some deer hunters in to do a cull, you know, as you do. <br>Thing was, the birthday girl’s father – who is a top bloke who built his own house – knew nothing about this until high velocity bullets started whizzing across the valley and in one case embedded themselves in his chicken coop (no eggs that week, apparently). <br>Of course, thinking a madman was on the loose he called the cops who sent a swat squad around, or whatever they’re called these days. Seems the bloke in the White House who'd ordered the hit on the deer was a lawyer from Sydney (two things that just don’t play well in this neck of the woods, let me tell you) and threatened all kinds of legal reprisals, because the boys in blue had been called. <br>“There’s no doubt, he’s a very clever bloke,” said birthday girl’s father as we looked across the valley at his gleaming house. “But also very stupid,” I said.<br>He clapped me on the back and said, “You’re not wrong. Now, how are you on the barby?” <br>Apparently, though he can build a house, no problem, the barby is something of a challenge to him. I’ve never met an Aussie bloke who doesn’t claim to be a whizz with the tongs and a hot flame, but his wife told me he’d never successfully cooked anything without either poisoning people or half burning the house down. <br>So, I ended up cooking sausages, steak, chicken, lamb and a rack of ribs for all the starving children and parents.<br>Yes, of course it was well done, I don’t do medium and I definitely don’t do rare. <br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/08/17/party-party-6740915/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>Sunday was 29C, can you believe, and we’ve still got two weeks before winter ends and spring begins. Truly the weather is bonkers, but in Sydney at least, beautiful.
Anyway, it was a super day to go to a party, so I did. Yes, yes, of course it was a kids’ party – you don’t seriously think I have time to go to an adult one, do you?
The thing is, pretty much every weekend either Three or Six is going to a birthday party. I tell you, they go to more events than Paris Hilton.
This one was for one of the girls at Six’s school. Her parents own this house on a high plateau looking out in all directions to the horizon. It sits on 10 acres and it is blissful
For the party they’d hired a couple of those bouncy castle things which cost about the GDP of Botswana for an afternoon but let me tell you it’s well worth it because you can sit in an easy chair on the lawn with the mothers and look across Australia in the sunlight with a soft breeze in your face while the kids laugh and scream.
The father of the girl took me on a tour of the estate and pointed out a big wooden white house over yonder. It seems that when the blocks of land were sold, deer were still running around all over the place. The bloke’s wife liked them and started feeding them but if you know anything about deer you’ll know they will eat all your plants, and trample the ones they don’t find tasty. The upshot was that Mr White House got some deer hunters in to do a cull, you know, as you do.
Thing was, the birthday girl’s father – who is a top bloke who built his own house – knew nothing about this until high velocity bullets started whizzing across the valley and in one case embedded themselves in his chicken coop (no eggs that week, apparently).
Of course, thinking a madman was on the loose he called the cops who sent a swat squad around, or whatever they’re called these days. Seems the bloke in the White House who'd ordered the hit on the deer was a lawyer from Sydney (two things that just don’t play well in this neck of the woods, let me tell you) and threatened all kinds of legal reprisals, because the boys in blue had been called.
“There’s no doubt, he’s a very clever bloke,” said birthday girl’s father as we looked across the valley at his gleaming house. “But also very stupid,” I said.
He clapped me on the back and said, “You’re not wrong. Now, how are you on the barby?”
Apparently, though he can build a house, no problem, the barby is something of a challenge to him. I’ve never met an Aussie bloke who doesn’t claim to be a whizz with the tongs and a hot flame, but his wife told me he’d never successfully cooked anything without either poisoning people or half burning the house down.
So, I ended up cooking sausages, steak, chicken, lamb and a rack of ribs for all the starving children and parents.
Yes, of course it was well done, I don’t do medium and I definitely don’t do rare.

Comments

]]>Is that the end...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/08/11/is-that-the-end-6696062/2009-08-11T04:50:54+02:00 <p><span><span>Most evenings I let the nippers watch <em>The Simpsons</em> at six. I love that program because as we know it plays on different levels, and the youngsters just like the slapstick of it (and they keep quiet when it's on, which is worth, oh I don't know, about a squillion dollars...).<br>After that <em>Neighbours</em> comes on. Now, I don’t follow it because it’s effing awful and the kids usually watch for two or three seconds and then go off and fight with each other upstairs or, if I’m lucky, they sit quietly and do a bit of colouring in, and if I’m exceptionally lucky the colouring in takes place in a book and not on the walls...<br>Anyway, in <em>Neighbours</em> it seems there has been a whole succession of calamaties over the past few weeks. <br>I think it began with a car crash, er actually no, it would have to have been a multiple vehicle pile-up, this being <em>Neighbours</em>, and then as a typoon swept ashore lightning stuck the town and then a light plane crashed, into a bigger plane, carrying the heads of state of all the nations on earth, and they came down in the bit of the town left after the tsunami caused by the earthquake just offshore swept the houses away, only one house was left and most of the <em>Neighbours</em> cast were inside it looking at each other with serious looks, as the house hung over a chasm to the centre of the earth that the tectonic plates, which are under the Neighbours town (and apparently Los Angeles too) opened up when the local nuclear power plant overloaded because the bloke who was supposed to be looking after it ran out in front of the car which caused the multiple-pile up, and he left the red lever down. <br>Sorry if you haven’t seen this episode yet. <br>Anyhow, I was emptying the dishwasher (yes, eventually it’s fixed, but that’s another story...) and I groaned and said, “I wish they would stop being so depressing on this program. Wy can’t we have some smiles!”<br>And Six turned from the TV and said, “Dad, I think things can’t always be the way you would like them to be.”<br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/08/11/is-that-the-end-6696062/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>Most evenings I let the nippers watch The Simpsons at six. I love that program because as we know it plays on different levels, and the youngsters just like the slapstick of it (and they keep quiet when it's on, which is worth, oh I don't know, about a squillion dollars...).
After that Neighbours comes on. Now, I don’t follow it because it’s effing awful and the kids usually watch for two or three seconds and then go off and fight with each other upstairs or, if I’m lucky, they sit quietly and do a bit of colouring in, and if I’m exceptionally lucky the colouring in takes place in a book and not on the walls...
Anyway, in Neighbours it seems there has been a whole succession of calamaties over the past few weeks.
I think it began with a car crash, er actually no, it would have to have been a multiple vehicle pile-up, this being Neighbours, and then as a typoon swept ashore lightning stuck the town and then a light plane crashed, into a bigger plane, carrying the heads of state of all the nations on earth, and they came down in the bit of the town left after the tsunami caused by the earthquake just offshore swept the houses away, only one house was left and most of the Neighbours cast were inside it looking at each other with serious looks, as the house hung over a chasm to the centre of the earth that the tectonic plates, which are under the Neighbours town (and apparently Los Angeles too) opened up when the local nuclear power plant overloaded because the bloke who was supposed to be looking after it ran out in front of the car which caused the multiple-pile up, and he left the red lever down.
Sorry if you haven’t seen this episode yet.
Anyhow, I was emptying the dishwasher (yes, eventually it’s fixed, but that’s another story...) and I groaned and said, “I wish they would stop being so depressing on this program. Wy can’t we have some smiles!”
And Six turned from the TV and said, “Dad, I think things can’t always be the way you would like them to be.”

Comments

]]>Did I shock you...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/08/10/did-i-shock-you-6688688/2009-08-10T03:37:43+02:00 <p><span><span>You know that Chinese bloke on Inspector Clouseau? I think his name’s Cato. He’s got this arrangement with Clouseau that he surprises him at inopportune moments and launches into some martial arts mularky, the theory being that Clouseau sharpens his fighting skills, but of course he just ends up wrecking his gaffe.  <br>Well, Three is my Cato. <br>It started a few weeks ago when I was sitting working on the computer writing <em>Mr Wolf </em>(which you will be glad to hear is not far off being finished...). Suddenly I noticed something out of the corner of my eye and turned around and got the shock of my life – Three was just standing there silently at my side. <br>I told him, hamming it up for his benefit, “Oh! You shocked me! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” to which he falls about laughing. <br>The problem is, because he gets a laugh out of it, he’s stalking me all the time, creeping up on me, and sooner or later – as I’ve tried to impress upon him – he will give me a heart attack for real. <br>The last time it happened was two days ago when I was having a shave. As I was looking in the mirror and thinking how young I looked (I didn’t have my glasses on) I felt a tickle up my bare leg. Jesus! I nearly had a heart attack! Three thought it was hilarious but really he’s getting like one of those demonic children that used to appear in novels in the 1980s (how come there are no more demonic kids, I mean what’s the fictional world coming to...?).<br>The other day I heard Six and Three talking as they worked out if I’d be the Evil Wizard or an Elf in their upcoming war games and Three said, “Six, Daddy is going to have a heart attack. I keep shocking him.”<br>Six sighed with boredom having to explain to Three, “Look, Daddy is very, very old, but if he dies he will go to heaven. Then God will bring him back to life. That’s what happens, Three.”<br>“Oh,” said Three, “that’s good.”<br>“I know,” said Six, “God works miracles every day.”<br>Honestly, I have to get him out of that weekly school scripture lesson. Before I die. </p> <p>In other news, I popped around to George’s the other day as I hadn’t seen him for ages, him being in the city and me now out on the edge of the universe (well, it takes three days to get anyone out here to fix anything, so it’s slower than getting a space shuttle up to the space station with spares). <br>He had his Merc broken into outside his house and unwisely had left his wallet and mobile phone in there, can you believe. I bought him the Burberry wallet years ago and it pains me to think some light-fingered git in the western suburbs is all flash with it now. Clearly crime pays... <br>Anyhow, George likes the idea of the Merc but not the bills that come with it so he had the smashed side window replaced by someone dodgy and now it squeals like a baby pig being slaughtered. <br>Maria – George’ wife, who is 27 years old – has just gone on a course of tablets which are making her shed pounds. Honestly I didn’t know such a thing existed and I had no idea doctors would prescribe it to young girls who can’t keep a rein on how many McD’s they eat. Really, I was as shocked as if Three had materialised beside me. <br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/08/10/did-i-shock-you-6688688/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>You know that Chinese bloke on Inspector Clouseau? I think his name’s Cato. He’s got this arrangement with Clouseau that he surprises him at inopportune moments and launches into some martial arts mularky, the theory being that Clouseau sharpens his fighting skills, but of course he just ends up wrecking his gaffe. 
Well, Three is my Cato.
It started a few weeks ago when I was sitting working on the computer writing Mr Wolf (which you will be glad to hear is not far off being finished...). Suddenly I noticed something out of the corner of my eye and turned around and got the shock of my life – Three was just standing there silently at my side.
I told him, hamming it up for his benefit, “Oh! You shocked me! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” to which he falls about laughing.
The problem is, because he gets a laugh out of it, he’s stalking me all the time, creeping up on me, and sooner or later – as I’ve tried to impress upon him – he will give me a heart attack for real.
The last time it happened was two days ago when I was having a shave. As I was looking in the mirror and thinking how young I looked (I didn’t have my glasses on) I felt a tickle up my bare leg. Jesus! I nearly had a heart attack! Three thought it was hilarious but really he’s getting like one of those demonic children that used to appear in novels in the 1980s (how come there are no more demonic kids, I mean what’s the fictional world coming to...?).
The other day I heard Six and Three talking as they worked out if I’d be the Evil Wizard or an Elf in their upcoming war games and Three said, “Six, Daddy is going to have a heart attack. I keep shocking him.”
Six sighed with boredom having to explain to Three, “Look, Daddy is very, very old, but if he dies he will go to heaven. Then God will bring him back to life. That’s what happens, Three.”
“Oh,” said Three, “that’s good.”
“I know,” said Six, “God works miracles every day.”
Honestly, I have to get him out of that weekly school scripture lesson. Before I die.

In other news, I popped around to George’s the other day as I hadn’t seen him for ages, him being in the city and me now out on the edge of the universe (well, it takes three days to get anyone out here to fix anything, so it’s slower than getting a space shuttle up to the space station with spares).
He had his Merc broken into outside his house and unwisely had left his wallet and mobile phone in there, can you believe. I bought him the Burberry wallet years ago and it pains me to think some light-fingered git in the western suburbs is all flash with it now. Clearly crime pays...
Anyhow, George likes the idea of the Merc but not the bills that come with it so he had the smashed side window replaced by someone dodgy and now it squeals like a baby pig being slaughtered.
Maria – George’ wife, who is 27 years old – has just gone on a course of tablets which are making her shed pounds. Honestly I didn’t know such a thing existed and I had no idea doctors would prescribe it to young girls who can’t keep a rein on how many McD’s they eat. Really, I was as shocked as if Three had materialised beside me.

Comments

]]>I waved five times...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/07/22/i-waved-five-times-6563840/2009-07-22T03:19:00+02:00 <p><span><span>I’ve been a bit quiet lately because it’s been a bit noisy. <br>I’ve been trying to stop Six and Three from inflicting grevious wounds on each other while playing with toy fire engines, sticks, swords, or even soft pillows. Yes, the nippers are on their two week winter holidays. <br>For me it’s a full-time gig aside from when they’re asleep at night though even that often turns nasty with one or other of them variously falling out of bed, coming down telling me they’ve had a nightmare involving a dinosaur, a chicken, some honey and a badly rising souffle (they’ve been watching <em>Masterchef</em>), or they simply want to stay up and watch <em>So You Think You Can Dance</em>. <br>They argue all the time about the most inane things. <br>The other day Six had a friend over for a play morning, The mother decided I could have him all day – well thanks for that madam – and basically I spent all day separating the three of them. Boys. <br>When we took the friend home his younger brother Nate was there at the window. On the way home in the Bentley Three said, “I waved to Nate.” Six said, “But I waved to him first.”<br>Three: No you didn’t.<br>Six: I did. You just didn’t see me.<br>Three: I saw you fine.<br>Six: You didn’t. You were too busy waving.<br>Three: I waved more times than you.<br>Six: I waved eight times.<br>Three: I waved even double the times you waved.<br>Six: No, I was wrong. I waved sixty billion times and I saw him first. <br>Three: Did not!<br>Six: Did!<br>Three: Stop looking out of my window.<br>About then I’m gritting my teeth and holding the steering wheel so tight if it were a living thing it’d be dead, and I stop the Bentley quickly, usually sliding it off the road into the verge (and once into a ditch, but that’s another story) and give them a good talking to.<br>Of course it does no good and soon another subject is being argued about as though it’s an Olympic sport. <br>Roll on next week, I say. <br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/07/22/i-waved-five-times-6563840/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>I’ve been a bit quiet lately because it’s been a bit noisy.
I’ve been trying to stop Six and Three from inflicting grevious wounds on each other while playing with toy fire engines, sticks, swords, or even soft pillows. Yes, the nippers are on their two week winter holidays.
For me it’s a full-time gig aside from when they’re asleep at night though even that often turns nasty with one or other of them variously falling out of bed, coming down telling me they’ve had a nightmare involving a dinosaur, a chicken, some honey and a badly rising souffle (they’ve been watching Masterchef), or they simply want to stay up and watch So You Think You Can Dance.
They argue all the time about the most inane things.
The other day Six had a friend over for a play morning, The mother decided I could have him all day – well thanks for that madam – and basically I spent all day separating the three of them. Boys.
When we took the friend home his younger brother Nate was there at the window. On the way home in the Bentley Three said, “I waved to Nate.” Six said, “But I waved to him first.”
Three: No you didn’t.
Six: I did. You just didn’t see me.
Three: I saw you fine.
Six: You didn’t. You were too busy waving.
Three: I waved more times than you.
Six: I waved eight times.
Three: I waved even double the times you waved.
Six: No, I was wrong. I waved sixty billion times and I saw him first.
Three: Did not!
Six: Did!
Three: Stop looking out of my window.
About then I’m gritting my teeth and holding the steering wheel so tight if it were a living thing it’d be dead, and I stop the Bentley quickly, usually sliding it off the road into the verge (and once into a ditch, but that’s another story) and give them a good talking to.
Of course it does no good and soon another subject is being argued about as though it’s an Olympic sport.
Roll on next week, I say.

Comments

]]>Oh come on...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/07/02/oh-come-on-6434344/2009-07-02T01:46:24+02:00 <p><span><span>There are some really silly Ads on TV here at the moment. <br>When I say silly I don’t mean amusing, I just mean real stupid. <br>One is a government jobby where a child is shown shouting at her doll. The idea here is if you shout at your children they will give the doll a serve. <br>Aside from the obvious – this is an Ad made by people who don’t have children – frankly I’d be quite happy if my kids shouted at their bears rather than abusing me all day long. <br>There’s another one which has been banned in several States. It comes on in the evening and features a bloke and his girlfriend in bed. She groans and turns away from him and then three copper-type blokes enter the room and the one says, “Now sir, you were speeding.”<br>Yes, it’s to do with premature ejaculation and it’s for some snake-oil type product that apparently can prolong the moment. Me personally, if indeed I had that problem madam, would like some idea of just what amount of extra time you could expect for your $29.99. I suppose though looking at your watch during the business could be a bit off-putting.<br>Anyway, it seems there have been many complaints to the advertising standards people along the lines of it makes men feel small (another problem, surely?) or inadequate. Er, yes...I think that’s the idea. <br>To be honest, I’m wondering what a bloke with this problem is doing watching TV when really he should be upstairs practising the too-and-fro and getting it right.<br>And the final one today is for some snack biscuits type thing where the woman comes on and daintily takes one and nibbles it and says, “they taste so good you’ll eat them straight out of the packet.”<br>Wow! That’s incredible! I’ll go and get me some of those right now! <br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/07/02/oh-come-on-6434344/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>There are some really silly Ads on TV here at the moment.
When I say silly I don’t mean amusing, I just mean real stupid.
One is a government jobby where a child is shown shouting at her doll. The idea here is if you shout at your children they will give the doll a serve.
Aside from the obvious – this is an Ad made by people who don’t have children – frankly I’d be quite happy if my kids shouted at their bears rather than abusing me all day long.
There’s another one which has been banned in several States. It comes on in the evening and features a bloke and his girlfriend in bed. She groans and turns away from him and then three copper-type blokes enter the room and the one says, “Now sir, you were speeding.”
Yes, it’s to do with premature ejaculation and it’s for some snake-oil type product that apparently can prolong the moment. Me personally, if indeed I had that problem madam, would like some idea of just what amount of extra time you could expect for your $29.99. I suppose though looking at your watch during the business could be a bit off-putting.
Anyway, it seems there have been many complaints to the advertising standards people along the lines of it makes men feel small (another problem, surely?) or inadequate. Er, yes...I think that’s the idea.
To be honest, I’m wondering what a bloke with this problem is doing watching TV when really he should be upstairs practising the too-and-fro and getting it right.
And the final one today is for some snack biscuits type thing where the woman comes on and daintily takes one and nibbles it and says, “they taste so good you’ll eat them straight out of the packet.”
Wow! That’s incredible! I’ll go and get me some of those right now!

Comments

]]>Doctor, doctor...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/07/01/doctor-doctor-6428616/2009-07-01T01:06:01+02:00 <p><span><span>I took Three to the doctor’s yesterday to get his sickness looked at because it seems to be because he’s really congested. Not that that stops him running around like a dervish, as they say, but still it might be something serious. <br>Now, Three likes to speak his mind, is afraid of no-one (except for the mythical ‘men’ who I threaten I will call to come and take him away if he keeps misbehaving...), and is very vocal. <br>We got in the doctor’s surgery and on duty was a plump, middle-aged, nervous looking woman, busy wiping her glasses with the bottom of her blouse as if trying to summon a genie. <br>Personally I thought she should see a doctor, but then I’m no expert. <br>Three stood in the corner, glaring at her as Six and I sat down. Then he pointed a finger at her and shouted, <br>"I will not come near you. You will not put that stellyscope near me. I will turn you into a monster because I am a Transformer. Leave me alone. You are a witch." <br>The doctor started flapping her hands and fanning herself. “My word!,” she said, “I have never come across a boy like this before."<br>I managed to get him to sit on my lap eventually with the threat he would have to go straight to hospital. She managed to look in his ears in amongst the screaming and howling but couldn't get him to take any breaths because he held his breath.<br>She reckoned he’s probably got a chest infection because his temperature was a bit high, but really she couldn’t be sure because he wouldn’t let her examine him.<br>At one stage she said, "I don't really know what to do because I've never experienced a boy like this before."<br>Well, welcome to my world. <br>The best bit was, when we were leaving he said to her, all innocent and kind and fluttering his eyelashes, “Could I please have my lolly now?” <br>She looked at him, frightened at this child who I’m sure she thought was the spawn of the devil himself and muttered, hands shaking, “I’m afraid we’re right out of lollies at the moment.”<br>Three stared at her, his brows knitting like Heathcliff’s. I picked him up under one arm and carried him out. “I want my lolly!,” he shouted as I bundled him into the Bentley.<br>Six, who now has one science lesson a week and is learning far too much for my liking, said, “Three, if we have to go to hospital they will carry out an examination of you and your bones. An infernal examination. Now, you don’t want one of those.”<br>No, indeed. <br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/07/01/doctor-doctor-6428616/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>I took Three to the doctor’s yesterday to get his sickness looked at because it seems to be because he’s really congested. Not that that stops him running around like a dervish, as they say, but still it might be something serious.
Now, Three likes to speak his mind, is afraid of no-one (except for the mythical ‘men’ who I threaten I will call to come and take him away if he keeps misbehaving...), and is very vocal.
We got in the doctor’s surgery and on duty was a plump, middle-aged, nervous looking woman, busy wiping her glasses with the bottom of her blouse as if trying to summon a genie.
Personally I thought she should see a doctor, but then I’m no expert.
Three stood in the corner, glaring at her as Six and I sat down. Then he pointed a finger at her and shouted,
"I will not come near you. You will not put that stellyscope near me. I will turn you into a monster because I am a Transformer. Leave me alone. You are a witch."
The doctor started flapping her hands and fanning herself. “My word!,” she said, “I have never come across a boy like this before."
I managed to get him to sit on my lap eventually with the threat he would have to go straight to hospital. She managed to look in his ears in amongst the screaming and howling but couldn't get him to take any breaths because he held his breath.
She reckoned he’s probably got a chest infection because his temperature was a bit high, but really she couldn’t be sure because he wouldn’t let her examine him.
At one stage she said, "I don't really know what to do because I've never experienced a boy like this before."
Well, welcome to my world.
The best bit was, when we were leaving he said to her, all innocent and kind and fluttering his eyelashes, “Could I please have my lolly now?”
She looked at him, frightened at this child who I’m sure she thought was the spawn of the devil himself and muttered, hands shaking, “I’m afraid we’re right out of lollies at the moment.”
Three stared at her, his brows knitting like Heathcliff’s. I picked him up under one arm and carried him out. “I want my lolly!,” he shouted as I bundled him into the Bentley.
Six, who now has one science lesson a week and is learning far too much for my liking, said, “Three, if we have to go to hospital they will carry out an examination of you and your bones. An infernal examination. Now, you don’t want one of those.”
No, indeed.

Comments

]]>The young ones...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/30/the-young-ones-6423092/2009-06-30T01:03:57+02:00 <p><span><span>I was all set today, with Six in school and Three at pre-school, to spend the day working on <em>Mr Wolf</em>, which I have almost finished, praise the Lord! <br>But then I awoke this morning to the melodic sound of the Bellbird, and of Three vomiting on the shag pile rug. <br>So, he’s at home today and I’ll be tending to his needs. I’ve managed to get most of the vomit out of the rug but, you know, it’ll never be the same again. At the moment it looks less like a shaggy dog than a dog who’s just been in a very smelly river and then rolled in something very nasty indeed. <br>Ho-hum. <br>On a lighter note – on Friday when I picked up Six from school, Three was running around with this little girl he sees at pre-school, called Rachel. As Simon & Garfunkel would say, they’ve got a groovy thing going, baby. <br>In the Bentley on the way back from school I laughed out loud when Three said, “Six, did you see me playing with Racheee?”<br>Six said, “Oh yes, Three, I certainly did. It seems you have your eyes very much glued to that girl.”<br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/30/the-young-ones-6423092/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>I was all set today, with Six in school and Three at pre-school, to spend the day working on Mr Wolf, which I have almost finished, praise the Lord!
But then I awoke this morning to the melodic sound of the Bellbird, and of Three vomiting on the shag pile rug.
So, he’s at home today and I’ll be tending to his needs. I’ve managed to get most of the vomit out of the rug but, you know, it’ll never be the same again. At the moment it looks less like a shaggy dog than a dog who’s just been in a very smelly river and then rolled in something very nasty indeed.
Ho-hum.
On a lighter note – on Friday when I picked up Six from school, Three was running around with this little girl he sees at pre-school, called Rachel. As Simon & Garfunkel would say, they’ve got a groovy thing going, baby.
In the Bentley on the way back from school I laughed out loud when Three said, “Six, did you see me playing with Racheee?”
Six said, “Oh yes, Three, I certainly did. It seems you have your eyes very much glued to that girl.”

Comments

]]>Oh yeah...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/25/oh-yeah-6384806/2009-06-25T03:23:57+02:00 <p><span><span>So, the latest on the Bosch dishwasher is that the extended warranty people sent an email to Three Weeks (because he is the only Bosch person in the area) telling him to give me a call to arrange to fix the bloody thing (bloody thing is a technical term used by irate people who have bought a Bosch dishwasher three years ago). <br>Of course, he didn’t call. So I call the extended warranty people again and they tell me if it’s the door seals then these are not covered under the warranty anyway. Of course!<br>I then call Three Weeks, actually he should be called Four Weeks as a month has now gone by since I first called him. This is the conversation:<br>“Oh yeah. I remember. You’ve got a leak. Where is it coming from?”<br>“Well, we don’t know really, do we? On account of the fact that you still haven’t managed to drag your lardy arse the 8km up here” (I didn’t actually say, lardy arse, but it was on the tip of my tongue).<br>“Well, I don’t know if the parts have come yet.”<br>“What parts?”<br>“The parts you want.”<br>“But we don’t know what the problem is yet.”<br>“Don’t you?<br>“No, you NEED TO COME AND LOOK AT IT!”<br>“Oh yeah.”<br>“When?”<br>“Tomorrow.”<br>“Okay.”<br>“No.”<br>“What?”<br>“I mean tomorrow is not good.”<br>“What about Monday morning?”<br>“Oh yeah.”</p> <p>Now, on Monday this week I had to have an x-ray on my hand because one of my fingers is hurting badly (it’s the one I use for pointing out things, and jabbing at tossers).<br>The x-rays get delivered to the doctor’s on Tuesdays. <br>I called the surgery today (Thursday) as I’d heard nothing from them.<br>“Hello, have you had the x-rays delivered this week?”<br>“Oh yeah.”<br>“Has mine arrived?”<br>Rustle of paper.<br>“Oh yeah.”<br>“Right. So, is it all okay?”<br>Yeah. No, I mean, yeah no.”<br>“So I need to come in to see the doctor?”<br>“Oh yeah.”<br>“When were you going to let me know, like next week or something?”<br>“Yeah.”<br>“Right. So is Monday afternoon okay?”<br>More paper rustling.<br>“Oh yeah.”<br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/25/oh-yeah-6384806/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>So, the latest on the Bosch dishwasher is that the extended warranty people sent an email to Three Weeks (because he is the only Bosch person in the area) telling him to give me a call to arrange to fix the bloody thing (bloody thing is a technical term used by irate people who have bought a Bosch dishwasher three years ago).
Of course, he didn’t call. So I call the extended warranty people again and they tell me if it’s the door seals then these are not covered under the warranty anyway. Of course!
I then call Three Weeks, actually he should be called Four Weeks as a month has now gone by since I first called him. This is the conversation:
“Oh yeah. I remember. You’ve got a leak. Where is it coming from?”
“Well, we don’t know really, do we? On account of the fact that you still haven’t managed to drag your lardy arse the 8km up here” (I didn’t actually say, lardy arse, but it was on the tip of my tongue).
“Well, I don’t know if the parts have come yet.”
“What parts?”
“The parts you want.”
“But we don’t know what the problem is yet.”
“Don’t you?
“No, you NEED TO COME AND LOOK AT IT!”
“Oh yeah.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I mean tomorrow is not good.”
“What about Monday morning?”
“Oh yeah.”

Now, on Monday this week I had to have an x-ray on my hand because one of my fingers is hurting badly (it’s the one I use for pointing out things, and jabbing at tossers).
The x-rays get delivered to the doctor’s on Tuesdays.
I called the surgery today (Thursday) as I’d heard nothing from them.
“Hello, have you had the x-rays delivered this week?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Has mine arrived?”
Rustle of paper.
“Oh yeah.”
“Right. So, is it all okay?”
Yeah. No, I mean, yeah no.”
“So I need to come in to see the doctor?”
“Oh yeah.”
“When were you going to let me know, like next week or something?”
“Yeah.”
“Right. So is Monday afternoon okay?”
More paper rustling.
“Oh yeah.”

Comments

]]>Fat chance...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/24/fat-chance-6375286/2009-06-24T03:12:52+02:00 <p><span><span>I don’t know if you saw the story last week out of Tokyo but it seems a study has shown fat people live longer than thin and healthy people. <br>To be honest I’ve not got much time for research like this. It reminded me of the bloke who used to run the local off-licence (evocatively called Bottle Shops down-under...) where I used to live in England many moons ago. He was a ferrety looking person with the pallor of a funeral director, but he was married to a sultry Italian woman who looked like Gina Lollobrigida. Yes of course I used to go in there regularly (umm, I mean into the off-licence..). <br>One day I was chatting to him about drinking and how much you should or shouldn’t consume, and also at the time there was loads of news about the benefits of eating plenty of fruit and veggies. <br>“You don’t believe all that, do you?” he said.<br>Sometimes I wonder. I mean if anyone can show me any definitive research that shows eating fruit and veggies makes you live longer I’ll eat my hat, I mean I’ll eat an apple. <br>Of course, it could be the same with this ‘overweight people live longer’ mularky. <br>Apparently what the Japanese Health, Labour and Welfare Ministry found was that people who were overweight at the age of 40 lived longer on average than people with other physiques.<br>The study showed that thin people had the shortest life expectancy, on average dying six or seven years earlier than overweight people. Serves them right for being so bloody pious, if you ask me.<br>Researchers studied the health of about 50,000 people aged 40 or older over a 12-year period. They looked at the past physiques of the participants and how long they lived past the age of 40, and grouped them according to their body mass index (BMI), an indicator of how fat a person is.<br>Men of regular weight (with a BMI of between 18.5 and 25) at age 40 lived for an average of 39.94 more years, while those who were overweight (BMI of between 25 and 30) at age 40 lived a further 41.64 years.<br>Women of regular weight lived on average a further 47.97 years, compared with overweight women, who lived another 48.05 years.<br>Obese men and women (BMI of 30 or more) lived a further 39.41 and 46.02 years, respectively. But thin men (BMI of less than 18.5) were on average expected to live 34.54 more years, and thin women another 41.79 years.<br>Possible explanations as to why thin people could die earlier included a theory that thin people are more susceptible to contagious diseases.<br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/24/fat-chance-6375286/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>I don’t know if you saw the story last week out of Tokyo but it seems a study has shown fat people live longer than thin and healthy people.
To be honest I’ve not got much time for research like this. It reminded me of the bloke who used to run the local off-licence (evocatively called Bottle Shops down-under...) where I used to live in England many moons ago. He was a ferrety looking person with the pallor of a funeral director, but he was married to a sultry Italian woman who looked like Gina Lollobrigida. Yes of course I used to go in there regularly (umm, I mean into the off-licence..).
One day I was chatting to him about drinking and how much you should or shouldn’t consume, and also at the time there was loads of news about the benefits of eating plenty of fruit and veggies.
“You don’t believe all that, do you?” he said.
Sometimes I wonder. I mean if anyone can show me any definitive research that shows eating fruit and veggies makes you live longer I’ll eat my hat, I mean I’ll eat an apple.
Of course, it could be the same with this ‘overweight people live longer’ mularky.
Apparently what the Japanese Health, Labour and Welfare Ministry found was that people who were overweight at the age of 40 lived longer on average than people with other physiques.
The study showed that thin people had the shortest life expectancy, on average dying six or seven years earlier than overweight people. Serves them right for being so bloody pious, if you ask me.
Researchers studied the health of about 50,000 people aged 40 or older over a 12-year period. They looked at the past physiques of the participants and how long they lived past the age of 40, and grouped them according to their body mass index (BMI), an indicator of how fat a person is.
Men of regular weight (with a BMI of between 18.5 and 25) at age 40 lived for an average of 39.94 more years, while those who were overweight (BMI of between 25 and 30) at age 40 lived a further 41.64 years.
Women of regular weight lived on average a further 47.97 years, compared with overweight women, who lived another 48.05 years.
Obese men and women (BMI of 30 or more) lived a further 39.41 and 46.02 years, respectively. But thin men (BMI of less than 18.5) were on average expected to live 34.54 more years, and thin women another 41.79 years.
Possible explanations as to why thin people could die earlier included a theory that thin people are more susceptible to contagious diseases.

Comments

]]>No, I can't...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/23/no-i-can-t-6367562/2009-06-23T03:22:56+02:00 <p><span><span>I’ve been trying to think of someone, anyone really, who I’ve come across in the past six months who has any idea what the fuck they are doing. <br>I discovered this morning that the Bosch dishwasher which is leaking all over the expensive blackbutt timber floor is still covered under warranty. That’s good, I thought. But whoa there, hang on... I paid the store I bought it from - David Jones, Chatswood, if you happen to be in the area take my advice, drive right on by, do not even slow down.<br>It seems that though I paid extra for an extra three years, the DJ’s people have not registered the extended warranty with the insurance people, so now I have to start faxing stuff, my fingerprints and DNA profile and all manner of ‘proof’, before I can even dream about getting my dishes all sparkly again. Really you’d have thought that was illegal. I mean it’s like taking money without delivering the goods. It seems the insurance people get this about three times a week.<br>Mind you, they are insurance people so how true that is, I just don’t know. I mean to my mind they’re lumped in with estate agents, car mechanics, call centre operators, the people at Telstra, bankers, peodophiles, pickpockets, genocidal murderers and, oh sorry, I got a bit carried away there. <br>Meanwhile, I had phoned the local Bosch person, as you may recall, to fix it because I’d forgotten about the extended warranty. I call him every week (this is week three) and he’s still not been out to even have a look, despite living only 6km away (about four miles). <br>So, hopefully once the warranty is all confirmed the people at Bosch will send someone out, anyone except for Week Three, I hope. <br>We shall see. <br>Anyway, I’m thinking of getting a sort of league board made up and put somewhere, maybe in the kitchen, with a list of Tossers of the Week. The only thing that worries me is I don’t have more than a couple of hours spare time a week and frankly the way things are going updating the board could be a fulltime job. <br>Hmm, maybe I could interest a keen school leaver who’d like to learn about commerce, umm, or not. <br>The only thing is with that, I’ve seen the kids around here and while they could get an A grade in Slouching Along, and certainly a Distinction in Hanging Your Shirt Out Over Your Arse, and clearly a Diploma in Monosyllabic Utterances and Grunts, I’m not sure any of them are ready for a demanding business role of this type. <br>Finally, I saw an advert yesterday (this has nothing to do with what I’ve been talking about but my mind wandered and I think you all deserve to know which way it veered) for a Director of Training for Greenpeace. The people they want trained are called Direct Dialogue Associates. What? Well, I figured out it’s the people who come up to you on the street and go, “And how are you today?”<br>Honestly, these days everyone has a fancy title. I think mine should be, Director of Special Familial Affairs with Executive Power Of Censure Over Related Infants. My side portfolio would be, Chef du Jour, Spag Bol.<br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/23/no-i-can-t-6367562/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>I’ve been trying to think of someone, anyone really, who I’ve come across in the past six months who has any idea what the fuck they are doing.
I discovered this morning that the Bosch dishwasher which is leaking all over the expensive blackbutt timber floor is still covered under warranty. That’s good, I thought. But whoa there, hang on... I paid the store I bought it from - David Jones, Chatswood, if you happen to be in the area take my advice, drive right on by, do not even slow down.
It seems that though I paid extra for an extra three years, the DJ’s people have not registered the extended warranty with the insurance people, so now I have to start faxing stuff, my fingerprints and DNA profile and all manner of ‘proof’, before I can even dream about getting my dishes all sparkly again. Really you’d have thought that was illegal. I mean it’s like taking money without delivering the goods. It seems the insurance people get this about three times a week.
Mind you, they are insurance people so how true that is, I just don’t know. I mean to my mind they’re lumped in with estate agents, car mechanics, call centre operators, the people at Telstra, bankers, peodophiles, pickpockets, genocidal murderers and, oh sorry, I got a bit carried away there.
Meanwhile, I had phoned the local Bosch person, as you may recall, to fix it because I’d forgotten about the extended warranty. I call him every week (this is week three) and he’s still not been out to even have a look, despite living only 6km away (about four miles).
So, hopefully once the warranty is all confirmed the people at Bosch will send someone out, anyone except for Week Three, I hope.
We shall see.
Anyway, I’m thinking of getting a sort of league board made up and put somewhere, maybe in the kitchen, with a list of Tossers of the Week. The only thing that worries me is I don’t have more than a couple of hours spare time a week and frankly the way things are going updating the board could be a fulltime job.
Hmm, maybe I could interest a keen school leaver who’d like to learn about commerce, umm, or not.
The only thing is with that, I’ve seen the kids around here and while they could get an A grade in Slouching Along, and certainly a Distinction in Hanging Your Shirt Out Over Your Arse, and clearly a Diploma in Monosyllabic Utterances and Grunts, I’m not sure any of them are ready for a demanding business role of this type.
Finally, I saw an advert yesterday (this has nothing to do with what I’ve been talking about but my mind wandered and I think you all deserve to know which way it veered) for a Director of Training for Greenpeace. The people they want trained are called Direct Dialogue Associates. What? Well, I figured out it’s the people who come up to you on the street and go, “And how are you today?”
Honestly, these days everyone has a fancy title. I think mine should be, Director of Special Familial Affairs with Executive Power Of Censure Over Related Infants. My side portfolio would be, Chef du Jour, Spag Bol.

Comments

]]>Are they here yet...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/22/are-they-here-yet-6359631/2009-06-22T03:27:21+02:00 <p><span><span>So, I got to see Simon & Garfunkel on Saturday. <br>Well, actually I barely got to see them...let me explain. <br>As some of you will recall, I bought a ticket at the ridiculously high price of almost $400, so around 200 pounds, because that was all that was on offer, at least initially. As the weeks prior to the concert wore on the promoters dropped the price down to $75. <br>Okay, I’ve always wanted to see S&G live and I thought, hmm, 400 smackers will get me a super seat within hand-shaking distance of my musical heros. <br>You know, you can be so wrong. <br>The stadium is called Acer Arena, Acer being a computer company whose only link to music that I could find was the ability of their machines to help you download free music for which at some stage in the future you will go directly to jail (did you see the story last week about the woman in the US who was fined $2.4million for downloading 24 songs...). <br>Anyway, the concert was at Olympic Park which was built on a waste site back in 1999. I had to go to car park 5 which is like saying if you’re on your way to Marble Arch that you need to park in Walthamstow. Then you wait for a shuttle bus. It’s good really, the time spent in the rain let’s you mull over many of life’s mysteries, like where is the fucking bus. <br>In the Arena itself – it’s an indoors stadium – I discovered that the seats I and several hundred other people had paid handsomely for were on the floor of the arena, as was the stage, at the same level. The seats were not tiered so unless you were in the front row you could not see the stage at all. Unbelievable. <br>Conversely, those lucky folks who’d dipped into their savings to the tune of $75 were arrayed on tiered seats either side of us. This was good for them because it gave them the chance – pre-show - to laugh at us mugs in the pit. <br>Honestly, I was disgusted. I have never ever been anywhere where the seats were so poorly placed. <br>It wasn’t just me either. The level of complaining flowing across and around the seats was more vocal than Brian Clough.<br>As I always seem able to do, I did get a laugh and small ripple of applause because S&G were late coming on and someone shouted out, “where are they?” And I shouted back, “waiting for the shuttle bus.”<br>Anyhow, hearing them live was good, even if I couldn’t see them except by cracking my neck back and staring at the small film screen. Really, aside from actually saying I was there, I might just as well have watched the video when it comes out. <br>After it all finished – a good two hours of solid singing and a handful of interesting anecdotes – I walked outside with the hordes to wait for a shuttle bus but then decided to walk to the car park because it was quicker.<br>On the way this massive white stretch limo with lights arrayed along the sides and with blacked out windows swished past. <br>As I tramped along in the rain I thought, ah, now i know where my money went. <br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/22/are-they-here-yet-6359631/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>So, I got to see Simon & Garfunkel on Saturday.
Well, actually I barely got to see them...let me explain.
As some of you will recall, I bought a ticket at the ridiculously high price of almost $400, so around 200 pounds, because that was all that was on offer, at least initially. As the weeks prior to the concert wore on the promoters dropped the price down to $75.
Okay, I’ve always wanted to see S&G live and I thought, hmm, 400 smackers will get me a super seat within hand-shaking distance of my musical heros.
You know, you can be so wrong.
The stadium is called Acer Arena, Acer being a computer company whose only link to music that I could find was the ability of their machines to help you download free music for which at some stage in the future you will go directly to jail (did you see the story last week about the woman in the US who was fined $2.4million for downloading 24 songs...).
Anyway, the concert was at Olympic Park which was built on a waste site back in 1999. I had to go to car park 5 which is like saying if you’re on your way to Marble Arch that you need to park in Walthamstow. Then you wait for a shuttle bus. It’s good really, the time spent in the rain let’s you mull over many of life’s mysteries, like where is the fucking bus.
In the Arena itself – it’s an indoors stadium – I discovered that the seats I and several hundred other people had paid handsomely for were on the floor of the arena, as was the stage, at the same level. The seats were not tiered so unless you were in the front row you could not see the stage at all. Unbelievable.
Conversely, those lucky folks who’d dipped into their savings to the tune of $75 were arrayed on tiered seats either side of us. This was good for them because it gave them the chance – pre-show - to laugh at us mugs in the pit.
Honestly, I was disgusted. I have never ever been anywhere where the seats were so poorly placed.
It wasn’t just me either. The level of complaining flowing across and around the seats was more vocal than Brian Clough.
As I always seem able to do, I did get a laugh and small ripple of applause because S&G were late coming on and someone shouted out, “where are they?” And I shouted back, “waiting for the shuttle bus.”
Anyhow, hearing them live was good, even if I couldn’t see them except by cracking my neck back and staring at the small film screen. Really, aside from actually saying I was there, I might just as well have watched the video when it comes out.
After it all finished – a good two hours of solid singing and a handful of interesting anecdotes – I walked outside with the hordes to wait for a shuttle bus but then decided to walk to the car park because it was quicker.
On the way this massive white stretch limo with lights arrayed along the sides and with blacked out windows swished past.
As I tramped along in the rain I thought, ah, now i know where my money went.

Comments

]]>Ah, that's what they're for...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/18/ah-that-s-what-they-re-for-6330427/2009-06-18T05:34:25+02:00 <p><span><span>U.S. government-to-government arms sales are growing fast.<br>Arms sales were at a "pretty unprecendented level" after averaging $8 billion to $13 billion per year in the early 2000s, Vice Admiral Jeffrey Wieringa, head of the Pentagon's Defense Security Cooperation Agency, told Reuters in an interview.<br>Sales in the first half reached $27 billion, some 60 percent of the year's expected total, making it likely the actual 2009 total would top $40 billion, he said.<br>Wieringa said the Obama administration was committed to building international partnerships, and arms sales were an important instrument of that policy.<br>"We sell stuff to build relationships," he said.<br>Of course you do.</span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/18/ah-that-s-what-they-re-for-6330427/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>U.S. government-to-government arms sales are growing fast.
Arms sales were at a "pretty unprecendented level" after averaging $8 billion to $13 billion per year in the early 2000s, Vice Admiral Jeffrey Wieringa, head of the Pentagon's Defense Security Cooperation Agency, told Reuters in an interview.
Sales in the first half reached $27 billion, some 60 percent of the year's expected total, making it likely the actual 2009 total would top $40 billion, he said.
Wieringa said the Obama administration was committed to building international partnerships, and arms sales were an important instrument of that policy.
"We sell stuff to build relationships," he said.
Of course you do.

Comments

]]>Sometimes you wonder...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/17/sometimes-you-wonder-6320233/2009-06-17T01:32:02+02:00 <p><span><span>Here’s the thing – I ordered Six’s winter school uniform and it didn’t turn up because the woman who does it (I use the phrase in its losest sense...) put me in the wrong ledger, whatever that means, and so I had to go into school and talk to some woman who looked like she was sucking on a lemon and who said to me, “don’t bite my arse off.” Frankly nothing was further from my thoughts, but it did send a shiver up my spine. Mind you, nothing compared to the shivering Six was doing as he tried to keep warm in his shorts. <br>Eventually, weeks later, the uniform turned up, well some of it. The lemon-sucking woman handed me over the strides (pants as they call them here) and five long sleeve polo shirts. I checked because that’s just me and the polos were all short sleeves. So, I took them back and she rummaged around the uniform shop (a shed without a lock which is apparently why so many bits of uniform seem to walk out of their own accord. Now, I’m no rocket scientist but I’m not sure I need a degree in astrophysics to figure that a lock of some kind would be good). <br>Anyway, I digress. This week the correct polo shirts turned up. Well, four of them, the fifth had apparently been given to some other child who I’m sure I’ve seen in the playground shivering, and who I now seem to be sponsoring. So, though I’ve paid for it all months and months ago I’m still one shirt short. <br>I went to the P&C meeting to vent my concerns and suggested someone look into all this and they looked at me like I was from Pluto and speaking Plutonese. “The ladies are volunteers,” one shocked woman told me. “Volunteer what?” I asked, but I got no answer, just some evil looks. <br>I also asked why this is the only school in Christendom that has no sign out front, you know the one that tells you which child has maimed someone most effectively in last week’s interstate judo championship. <br>“Oh,” said the headmaster, a man routinely referred to as Grandpa, “the lock is broken and so we don’t put anything in there because someone might come along and change the letters around.”<br>To be honest, having looked around, that level of academic ability is unlikely to be found in this area. I can imagine some could change the letters to read something like, “I’ll have large fries with that” but I doubt it would go further, and for sure the apostrophe would either not be there or in totally the wrong place. <br>I called the dishwasher bloke last week too to try and get a leak fixed. He said, stretching his words out like elastic, “Well, I’ll have to order the part.”<br>“Well could you do that, then?”<br>“But is it the door seal or the washer,” he pondered. <br>“Well I don’t know,” I said, “not being a dishwasher repair man myself.”<br>“Ah, I see,” he said slowly. “So what shall we do?”<br>I took a deep breath. “Can you come and have a look?”<br>A sharp intake of breath and a low whistle. “Well, you’re up the mountain, aren’t you? Well, I’ll have to see.”<br>I’ve tried to get Six enrolled in the local soccer team (I think I’ve mentioned before, rugby league is referred to as footy or football which must surprise the players every time they find the ball in their hands, but there you are). <br>The woman organising the team (I use the word organise in its losest sense, of course) keeps promising to get back to me once she has spoken to all of the teams. But the registration date has now been and gone. <br>I imagine she is saying, “We got this kid, he’s an Aussie but his Dad’s a Pommy bastard. That means he’ll try and organise things” (She would string the word ‘organise’ out for about a foot and a half). “Now, do we want that?”<br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/17/sometimes-you-wonder-6320233/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>Here’s the thing – I ordered Six’s winter school uniform and it didn’t turn up because the woman who does it (I use the phrase in its losest sense...) put me in the wrong ledger, whatever that means, and so I had to go into school and talk to some woman who looked like she was sucking on a lemon and who said to me, “don’t bite my arse off.” Frankly nothing was further from my thoughts, but it did send a shiver up my spine. Mind you, nothing compared to the shivering Six was doing as he tried to keep warm in his shorts.
Eventually, weeks later, the uniform turned up, well some of it. The lemon-sucking woman handed me over the strides (pants as they call them here) and five long sleeve polo shirts. I checked because that’s just me and the polos were all short sleeves. So, I took them back and she rummaged around the uniform shop (a shed without a lock which is apparently why so many bits of uniform seem to walk out of their own accord. Now, I’m no rocket scientist but I’m not sure I need a degree in astrophysics to figure that a lock of some kind would be good).
Anyway, I digress. This week the correct polo shirts turned up. Well, four of them, the fifth had apparently been given to some other child who I’m sure I’ve seen in the playground shivering, and who I now seem to be sponsoring. So, though I’ve paid for it all months and months ago I’m still one shirt short.
I went to the P&C meeting to vent my concerns and suggested someone look into all this and they looked at me like I was from Pluto and speaking Plutonese. “The ladies are volunteers,” one shocked woman told me. “Volunteer what?” I asked, but I got no answer, just some evil looks.
I also asked why this is the only school in Christendom that has no sign out front, you know the one that tells you which child has maimed someone most effectively in last week’s interstate judo championship.
“Oh,” said the headmaster, a man routinely referred to as Grandpa, “the lock is broken and so we don’t put anything in there because someone might come along and change the letters around.”
To be honest, having looked around, that level of academic ability is unlikely to be found in this area. I can imagine some could change the letters to read something like, “I’ll have large fries with that” but I doubt it would go further, and for sure the apostrophe would either not be there or in totally the wrong place.
I called the dishwasher bloke last week too to try and get a leak fixed. He said, stretching his words out like elastic, “Well, I’ll have to order the part.”
“Well could you do that, then?”
“But is it the door seal or the washer,” he pondered.
“Well I don’t know,” I said, “not being a dishwasher repair man myself.”
“Ah, I see,” he said slowly. “So what shall we do?”
I took a deep breath. “Can you come and have a look?”
A sharp intake of breath and a low whistle. “Well, you’re up the mountain, aren’t you? Well, I’ll have to see.”
I’ve tried to get Six enrolled in the local soccer team (I think I’ve mentioned before, rugby league is referred to as footy or football which must surprise the players every time they find the ball in their hands, but there you are).
The woman organising the team (I use the word organise in its losest sense, of course) keeps promising to get back to me once she has spoken to all of the teams. But the registration date has now been and gone.
I imagine she is saying, “We got this kid, he’s an Aussie but his Dad’s a Pommy bastard. That means he’ll try and organise things” (She would string the word ‘organise’ out for about a foot and a half). “Now, do we want that?”

Comments

]]>Brrrr...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/11/brrrr-6280278/2009-06-11T02:12:55+02:00 <p><span><span>It’s been really cold here the last two days, though you’ll laugh when I tell you it’s 15C in the day and about 2C at night, and it’s sunny.<br>Yes, I know it looks like I’ve gone all lily-livered and years ago I’d have slipped on a t-shirt to go out in minus 5C and play with snow, but the wind chill here is very nasty. <br>If you look at a map you’ll see the south pole is not a whole long way away and when we get a southerly it brings the smell of polar bears with it (musty they are, let me tell you...).<br>Teachers at Six’s school were walking around yesterday with about five layers on, which frankly is a bit of overkill, but still it is cool. <br>An hour away in Lithgow (regular readers with a memory will recall we went there to Ironfest and nearly froze to death) it snowed yesterday and also in Katoomba in the Blue Mountains which is also just an hour’s drive.<br>I don’t think we’ll get snow here but when I put the rubbish bins out last night the clear air, full moon and smell of woodsmoke reminded me a lot of England on a cold winter’s night, only there were no yobs returning drunk from the local pub and kicking my front gate in. Oh, how I miss it!<br>Right, off to chop some more wood.  <br></span></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/11/brrrr-6280278/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>It’s been really cold here the last two days, though you’ll laugh when I tell you it’s 15C in the day and about 2C at night, and it’s sunny.
Yes, I know it looks like I’ve gone all lily-livered and years ago I’d have slipped on a t-shirt to go out in minus 5C and play with snow, but the wind chill here is very nasty.
If you look at a map you’ll see the south pole is not a whole long way away and when we get a southerly it brings the smell of polar bears with it (musty they are, let me tell you...).
Teachers at Six’s school were walking around yesterday with about five layers on, which frankly is a bit of overkill, but still it is cool.
An hour away in Lithgow (regular readers with a memory will recall we went there to Ironfest and nearly froze to death) it snowed yesterday and also in Katoomba in the Blue Mountains which is also just an hour’s drive.
I don’t think we’ll get snow here but when I put the rubbish bins out last night the clear air, full moon and smell of woodsmoke reminded me a lot of England on a cold winter’s night, only there were no yobs returning drunk from the local pub and kicking my front gate in. Oh, how I miss it!
Right, off to chop some more wood. 

Comments

]]>Mad cow disease...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/09/mad-cow-disease-6266372/2009-06-09T02:42:59+02:00 <p><span><span>I just got these from a good friend in Melbourne (currently swine flu capital of Australia, but of course I’m reading nothing into that). You might have seen some of them before but there’s some excellent ones here...<br><strong><br><em>Economic Models Explained By Cows </em></strong></p> <p><strong>SOCIALISM</strong> <br>You have 2 cows. You give one to your neighbour. </p> <p><strong>COMMUNISM </strong><br>You have 2 cows. The State takes both and gives you some milk. </p> <p><strong>FASCISM</strong> <br>You have 2 cows. The State takes both and sells you some milk. </p> <p><strong>NAZISM </strong><br>You have 2 cows. The State takes both and shoots you. </p> <p><strong>BUREAUCRATISM </strong><br>You have 2 cows. The State takes both, shoots one, milks the other, and then throws the milk away... </p> <p><strong>TRADITIONAL CAPITALISM </strong><br>You have two cows. You sell one and buy a bull. Your herd multiplies, and the economy grows. You sell them and retire on the income. </p> <p><strong>SURREALISM </strong><br>You have two giraffes. The government requires you to take harmonica lessons </p> <p><strong>AMERICAN CAPITALISM </strong><br>You have two cows. You sell one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows. Later, you hire a consultant to analyse why the cow has dropped dead. <br><strong><br>ENRON VENTURE CAPITALISM</strong> <br>You have two cows. You sell three of them to your publicly listed company, using letters of credit opened by your brother-in-law at the bank, then execute a debt/equity swap with an associated general offer so that you get all four cows back, with a tax exemption for five cows. The milk rights of the six cows are transferred via an intermediary to a Cayman Island Company secretly owned by the majority shareholder who sells the rights to all seven cows back to our listed company. The annual report says the company owns eight cows, with an option on one more. You sell one cow to buy a new president of the United States, leaving you with nine cows. No balance sheet provided with the release. The public then buys your bull. </p> <p><strong>THE ANDERSEN MODEL...</strong> <br>You have two cows. You shred them. </p> <p><strong>FRENCH CAPITALISM</strong> <br>You have two cows. You go on strike, organise a riot, and block the roads, because you want three cows. </p> <p><strong>JAPANESE CAPITALISM </strong><br>You have two cows. You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk. You then create a clever cow cartoon image called 'Cowkimon' and market it worldwide. </p> <p><strong>GERMAN CAPITALISM</strong> <br>You have two cows. You re-engineer them so they live for 100 years, eat once a month, and milk themselves.... </p> <p><strong>ITALIAN CAPITALISM</strong> <br>You have two cows, but you don't know where they are. You decide to have lunch. </p> <p><strong>RUSSIAN CAPITALISM</strong> <br>You have two cows. You count them and learn you have five cows. You count them again and learn you have 42 cows. You count them again and learn you have 2 cows. You stop counting cows and open another bottle of vodka. </p> <p><strong>SWISS CAPITALISM </strong><br>You have 5000 cows. None of them belong to you. You charge the owners for storing them. </p> <p><strong>CHINESE CAPITALISM</strong> <br>You have two cows. You have 300 people milking them. You claim that you have full employment, and high bovine productivity. You arrest the newsman who reported the real situation. </p> <p><strong>INDIAN CAPITALISM </strong><br>You have two cows. You worship them. </p> <p><strong>BRITISH CAPITALISM</strong> <br>You have two cows. Both are mad.... </p> <p><strong>IRAQI CAPITALISM</strong> <br>Everyone thinks you have lots of cows. You tell them you have none. No-one believes you. They bomb the **** out of you and invade your country. You still have no cows, but at least now you are part of a Democracy.... </p> <p><strong>NEW ZEALAND CAPITALISM</strong> <br>You have two cows. The one on the left looks very attractive. </p> <p><strong>AUSTRALIAN CAPITALISM </strong><br>You have two cows. Business seems pretty good. You close the office and go for a few beers to celebrate. <br></span><br></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/09/mad-cow-disease-6266372/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>I just got these from a good friend in Melbourne (currently swine flu capital of Australia, but of course I’m reading nothing into that). You might have seen some of them before but there’s some excellent ones here...

Economic Models Explained By Cows

SOCIALISM
You have 2 cows. You give one to your neighbour.

COMMUNISM
You have 2 cows. The State takes both and gives you some milk.

FASCISM
You have 2 cows. The State takes both and sells you some milk.

NAZISM
You have 2 cows. The State takes both and shoots you.

BUREAUCRATISM
You have 2 cows. The State takes both, shoots one, milks the other, and then throws the milk away...

TRADITIONAL CAPITALISM
You have two cows. You sell one and buy a bull. Your herd multiplies, and the economy grows. You sell them and retire on the income.

SURREALISM
You have two giraffes. The government requires you to take harmonica lessons

AMERICAN CAPITALISM
You have two cows. You sell one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows. Later, you hire a consultant to analyse why the cow has dropped dead.

ENRON VENTURE CAPITALISM
You have two cows. You sell three of them to your publicly listed company, using letters of credit opened by your brother-in-law at the bank, then execute a debt/equity swap with an associated general offer so that you get all four cows back, with a tax exemption for five cows. The milk rights of the six cows are transferred via an intermediary to a Cayman Island Company secretly owned by the majority shareholder who sells the rights to all seven cows back to our listed company. The annual report says the company owns eight cows, with an option on one more. You sell one cow to buy a new president of the United States, leaving you with nine cows. No balance sheet provided with the release. The public then buys your bull.

THE ANDERSEN MODEL...
You have two cows. You shred them.

FRENCH CAPITALISM
You have two cows. You go on strike, organise a riot, and block the roads, because you want three cows.

JAPANESE CAPITALISM
You have two cows. You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk. You then create a clever cow cartoon image called 'Cowkimon' and market it worldwide.

GERMAN CAPITALISM
You have two cows. You re-engineer them so they live for 100 years, eat once a month, and milk themselves....

ITALIAN CAPITALISM
You have two cows, but you don't know where they are. You decide to have lunch.

RUSSIAN CAPITALISM
You have two cows. You count them and learn you have five cows. You count them again and learn you have 42 cows. You count them again and learn you have 2 cows. You stop counting cows and open another bottle of vodka.

SWISS CAPITALISM
You have 5000 cows. None of them belong to you. You charge the owners for storing them.

CHINESE CAPITALISM
You have two cows. You have 300 people milking them. You claim that you have full employment, and high bovine productivity. You arrest the newsman who reported the real situation.

INDIAN CAPITALISM
You have two cows. You worship them.

BRITISH CAPITALISM
You have two cows. Both are mad....

IRAQI CAPITALISM
Everyone thinks you have lots of cows. You tell them you have none. No-one believes you. They bomb the **** out of you and invade your country. You still have no cows, but at least now you are part of a Democracy....

NEW ZEALAND CAPITALISM
You have two cows. The one on the left looks very attractive.

AUSTRALIAN CAPITALISM
You have two cows. Business seems pretty good. You close the office and go for a few beers to celebrate.

Comments

]]>Hazy shade of winter...http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/04/hazy-shade-of-winter-6233342/2009-06-04T02:54:12+02:00 <p><span><span>The fire is still warm. Embers whirl when I open its door. <br>Schoolgirls, laughing, appear out of the fog like drunken soldiers. One has a short skirt, bare midriff; a thick woollen scarf keeps her neck warm. The school bus is metal; creaking, groaning, engine roaring, climbing the mountain like an animal. The girls get on, a boy kicks a football through the door, jumps in after it and is swallowed with a hiss. <br>Six appears by my side, quiet as the mist. “Dad, when can I get the school bus?” he whispers. I look at him in his pyjamas, bear in one hand a Jedi warship he built in the other and I laugh because I'm glad to see him again and I say, “do you want toast or crumpets with your hot chocolate?” </span><br></span></p> <p> <small> <a href="http://realtart.blog.co.uk/2009/06/04/hazy-shade-of-winter-6233342/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>The fire is still warm. Embers whirl when I open its door.
Schoolgirls, laughing, appear out of the fog like drunken soldiers. One has a short skirt, bare midriff; a thick woollen scarf keeps her neck warm. The school bus is metal; creaking, groaning, engine roaring, climbing the mountain like an animal. The girls get on, a boy kicks a football through the door, jumps in after it and is swallowed with a hiss.
Six appears by my side, quiet as the mist. “Dad, when can I get the school bus?” he whispers. I look at him in his pyjamas, bear in one hand a Jedi warship he built in the other and I laugh because I'm glad to see him again and I say, “do you want toast or crumpets with your hot chocolate?”

Comments

]]>