Real Tart

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.”

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.”

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.