Saturday, June 30, 2012

Those great big lies

The great big carbon tax that we were never going to have, to get Julia elected, became the great big carbon tax we had to have to keep Julia in power, which will become the great big carbon tax that Big Ears Abbott will get rid of to get Big Ears Abbott elected as Prime Minister, which will become the great big carbon tax that Big Ears Abbott won't be able to repeal once he is elected. All of that political hot air on a tax that ironically will have little, or no effect, on the hot air emissions... er... carbon emissions of the planet.

Friday, June 29, 2012

Australia's Shame


We sit and listen to the "big" news item, which shouldn’t be a news item at all. Is there going to be an election? It is quite possibly the biggest beat up of a news item in the history of Australian politics. The boat people.  I don't really get it? The boat people, which amount to so few people arriving in Australia each year, shouldn’t even rate as a news. It is pathetic, no really. It is completely political and it borders on racist... strums every racist cord we have and every single Australian should be completely ashamed about it.

What does it amount to? A few thousand people… who are in the most desperate of circumstances.

Ninety people die as a direct consequence of our policies of resistance.
And both sides of the political divide looked suitably horrified and both Big Ears and Big Arse claimed to want to find a solution and to stop playing politics with the issue. Finally! Then Big Ears states his answer is Nauru and Big Arse says that her answer is Malaysia and our collective mouths drop open, or should have if they didn’t, because nothing has changed and the two, and I use the term loosely, leaders continue to play politics with the issue like absolutely nothing has changed.

Big Ears reiterated Nauru despite the fact that every one who was sent to Nauru has been granted refugee status.
Big Arse reiterated Malaysia despite the High Court of Australia ruling it illegal... and despite the fact that previous to Big Ears and the Howard govt realising that it was one of the best vote raising tools, causing the labour party to cave in and lose it’s nerve and to abandon it’s long held ideals, on shore processing was Labour Policy.

The  politicians of Australia don’t care about people dying, they only care to be seen to care, but really they only care about their own power, don’t be under any   misapprehensions.

We need to legislate for on shore processing of refugees. There is no other humanitarian option.

Thursday, June 28, 2012


Out to the wastelands and back again


I worked in Thomastown, my, my, my isn’t Thomastown ugly. The wastelands, dotted with cheap orange brick veneers that weren’t even nice when they were new. Rows and rows of them, it is unrelenting. It is flat and uninteresting. Although, not so far out of the city.
The government has successfully convinced the general moronic public that Melbourne has grown too big and that now we need medium density housing? The great unwashed believe this now to be true unquestioningly, so they will now accept whatever destruction this wreaks on any of our suburbs willingly.
Go on, test it out? “They” are convinced.
“Well, you know, we can’t afford to let Melbourne keep growing the way it is.”
I say that it is bullshit and that it is political. It is nothing more than the politicians keeping their generous political donors happy. Otherwise, why is it always in Smith Street Fitzroy? Or Nelson Place, Williamstown? Or Marine Parade St Kilda? Why? That is where the property developers who donate generously to the political funds of both political parties can maximise their profits.
Let’s take Thomastown? It is not so far out of the city. There is nothing there that needs to be preserved. In fact, if you bulldozed the lot, cleared it all, you could build sustainable housing of any height you wanted and it would probably only prove to improve the area.
There are many locations just like Thomastown through out Melbourne though, for non-politically motivated development.

I could have been finished in an hour.
10.23. I’m in Thomastown at a client. Diagonal polished pine boards line the walls in the offices, which are attached to a big warehouse, your usual warehouse/manufacturing set up, thirty, forty years old. Stained, brown nylon carpet covers the floors, the whole place smells a little metallic, or oily, or is that a combination of both? I’m sitting at a seventies brown stained desk, everything feels just a little dirty, or is that just old? I could really be finished now, but I am trying to stretch the time out, you know, to maximise my pay. I feel the chill of dishonesty, the thrill of getting away with something, as I delay and delay and delay, which is not really getting away with anything at all, really. No, it is just slightly sad and kind of lonely and a little devious. I’m bored with “the stretching of time” maybe I want to scream. The blokes are talking in an office across the landing. Their voices suddenly rise up and then die down in natural men’s business laughter. The sound makes me horny. I wonder what they’d do if I screamed? I feel like an outsider, a ring in, an imposter, that’s because I am. I don’t belong here, I’ve just been called in to clean up their year for them. I don’t think I want to do this any more, delaying after a few hours so I can stretch it out for more money. For a pittance extra. It is boring. It is destructive to one’s psyche, scrambling for crumbs, on a go slow for meagre extra ratios. I must get myself a real job and focus my skills on me, for me. I’ve delayed for 25 minutes, thus far. It only serves to make me feel somewhat undeserving and second rate. Oh could you imagine if I accidently left this piece of paper on the desk. Could you imagine? I’m putting it in my brief case and getting back to work now.
I was finished by midday. At least the sun was shining as I drove out the driveway.

It’s funny, the name Thomastown conjures up, well in my mind anyway, the area belonging to a big strapping blond boy in overalls and a tool belt. Y-Gen, well built, good looking, a bit bisexual on the right occasion, not that he’d talk about that. I pictured electric blue overalls, with a number 1 on the back, boxers not briefs so you could see his todger moving about underneath the thick cotton, long blonde hair and a sexy smile.
I laughed to myself, as I turned left out of the driveway and merged into the traffic as my blinker sounded click click, click click.
He’d have a really pretty cock, you know that don’t you? Thomas.
Next right. At the traffic lights. Turn right… and accelerate.

I went to a bakery café to buy lunch on the way home. I wanted luscious, I wanted a dazzling array of choices, I wanted colour, I wanted texture, I wanted fatty food as far as I could see.
They had four pies heating in the warmer and some jam tarts and a white plastic tray of cinnamon donuts. They had grey linoleum and stainless steel cabinets, as in spongeable, not fashionable. It was all pretty ordinary, really. I could feel my fingers twitch and my mouth just naturally curl down into a grimace.
I wanted amazing pastries. I wanted transportation, I wanted Kansas, I wanted Toto. I wanted relief from the urban dysfunction. I should have got out as soon as I saw the state of the place, but I hesitated and the man was behind the counter looking at me before I thought to escape.
“Vhat vould you like?” He looked like he’d just come in from the back yard where he’d been burying the bodies.
“What flavour pies do you have?”
“Meat flavour.” I imagined he had a mincer out the back and not a shovel at all.
Only plain pies? And you call this a bakery. “I’ll have two thanks.”
A chill ran down my spine as I wondered how old they were?
Ah the suburbs, what a place to get the hell out of, I thought to myself, as I cross the road to my car.

I chatted to Mark on Skype for the longest time… eating the pies, which turned out okay. Mark was concerned about the terrible photo he thought I had posted on Facebook. He told me about how badly the restaurant is doing now that the Hanoi council has dug up the road… about the staff there, the good ones and the bad one. He distressed about what a bitch (his daughter) Jane has turned into. She is totally ignoring him now that he doesn’t have any money to give her. Mark says it makes him feel that she never really loved him in the first place, the only thing she loved was his money. And we talked about… how both of them have high standards for every one else, standards neither of them have to live up to. Mark says his new family in Hanoi makes him feel good and how he just has to accept the fact that he doesn’t have any children back in Australia.

Anyway… It’s Lady Ga Ga tonight at Rod Laver Arena. 7.30pm, be there or be…
Santo arrived early and hungry. He wanted to get food, more or less, as soon as he arrived. He was very hungry hippo.
“What time will the others be here?”
Shane had said something last night about getting dinner before we left.
“Oh, they won’t be here until the very last minute.” David is squeezing in a meeting with someone. And Shane is in “BIG WEEK” mode. He’s got big proposals to get in before June 30th and he is SO busy and, roll of the eyes, it is a (probably another) BIG WEEK!
But doesn’t that just mean you have been disorganised up until this point and are rushing to do things at the last minute? I’m sorry, but it has been my experience that people who clam loudly and repeatedly to be SO BUSY, or have NO TIME, (more often than not, waste of space HR girls) are usually the incompetent employees.
“We should get dinner now, if we want to eat.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for them, you know, to be nice?”
“No.”
So we got Indian and it was lovely too. We both had butte chicken just because we both wanted it, when we’d usually get different dishes and share.
David arrived at 6.25pm, five minutes early, after his meeting. Shane had arrived home some minutes earlier exclaiming something about being SO busy and he ran up stairs saying he had to have a shower.

David laughed at Shane calling himself a top. I could hear by David’s tone exactly what he was thinking. You can’t be a top with a button for a dick.
Remember, David and Shane went out for a while. I guess that is what you’d call it. Desperate cohabitation of lonely souls may be another term for it. Whatever.
“I am a top,” exclaimed Shane like a child might insist he was a fireman.
“Yes,” David laughed. “Of course you are.”
Shane had told me that he had topped Ali and I don’t think he saw my raised eyebrows. Either Ali doesn’t like being fucked and he’s just being polite, or he took enough crystal and someone’s little finger would have felt good, or he has very low expectations about being fucked, or he has a congenitally small arse hole and it is good for him.
But, David wasn’t accepting it at all, the more Shane insisted that he was a top, the more David rejected the suggestion with a derisive tone. Maybe, Ali has a webbed bum hole.

Whoever Lady Starlight is she opened the show and she was worse than awful. I’m not sure if she sang, I’m not really sure what she did, other than ponce about the stage and make us all want to throw things and yell, “GET OFF!”

Lady Ga Ga was great, as you would expect. Great dancing, great singing, great sets and a great performance all around. Her dancers worked hard. The three people in white dresses gliding along the stage were amazing.
The bitch can sing! Like Madonna could only dream about.
My favourite song is still, You and I.
She didn’t chat as much as I would have liked her to. I’ve seen her chat much more in other concerts on dvd and I like my artists to stand there and talk. David said, and I don’t know if this is true, that they complained in Sydney because she talked too much. But, you know, that is, pretty much, the difference between Melbourne and Sydney. In Sydney, they only care about what you look like, in Melbourne we like to hear what you have to say.

Some time later...

Although, running through the online listings and checking out the very reasonable prices in the area, I might just move there.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Here we have a princealbert

Does dick jewellery make your tiny cock look bigger?

Missy meowing as I moved around to get more comfortable in bed this morning was her saying, “keep still,” rather than good morning, cats being what cats are. I was a little surprised that she is still on the bed. I contemplated bumping her off for the attitude, but then if you bumped your cat off the bed for attitude you wouldn’t have a cat in the first place.

I dreamt that my brakes went on my car, heading down a street in the city that was a decent down a hill. I can still feel that feeling of the pedal going all the way to the floor and me pulling on the steering wheel as if that was going to pull me up. It was a beautiful built up area filled with ornate Victorian shops built up two or three stories. It seemed very cosmopolitan, like Victorian Melbourne would have been. I rolled into the side of the road and hit the gutter to stop. I was all the way across town from my mechanic, and my main thought was that if I could still drive the car there. I got out to check my brake fluid under the bonnet. But the car wouldn’t keep still, the hand brake seemed to prove ineffective, despite it working to help pull me up just moments earlier. I couldn’t keep my car still, every time I leant on it, it moved away from me. And cars came and parked next to me crowding me in, blocking me from the street. Suddenly, I am in the middle of a sea of cars.

Then I woke up. I rolled over and Missy meowed at me. Sideways look, almond eyes.

My feet are sore as I get up and go to the toilet. My feet being sore, seems to be a common complaint these last few days. I wondered why? Could it be a result of my recent regression into smoking for two weeks and the consequent cessation of that dreadful habit? Did my circulation do a flip flop and now was readjusting to the drop in carbon monoxide? Or something. What do I think?

I had to go to the super market as I was out of coffee and I wondered about driving because of the cold and the expediency and my need to be slothfully comfortable? I pulled on my tack pants and my red woollen jumper straight over my pyjamas, which consist of a white t-shirt and underpants and my beanie just for good measure, negating the need to look in the bathroom mirror, as I was fairly sure of the horror I would discover if I did.

Then I realised that I hadn’t put the rubbish out last night, so I was busy in the middle of doing that when I looked up and Guadalupe was standing in the open doorway.
Damn!
I was hoping I could get to the supermarket, get home, make coffee and get back into bed before she arrived.
“Oh… hello?” It took me all my strength not to say, oh… it’s you.
So, where I was a little half hearted about my trip to the supermarket for coffee before the bloody cleaner arrived, now I was striding down my street in the direction of Woollies before I knew what I was doing.
Coffee, yogurt, milk and I was home again. I told Guadalupe that she didn’t need to bother with my room as I was going back to bed, as soon as I had brewed some coffee. I could see the glint in her eye as soon as I said it. She was determined to get up there and poke about, as if to spite me.
“Just vacuum then? Ay? Mr Christian.” And then she was gone, before I had a chance to respond.
Damn you woman!
I got my food and coffee together and I hightailed it up the stairs, but she was done by the time I got there. She’d vacuumed, pick up the dirty dishes and was out again before I got a chance to shut the door on her firmly.
As I would realise some time later, she had even managed to get her grubby little hands on my water glass, as I leant over to enjoy a savouring sip of H2O. Damn her again!

I wrote all day. My journal, which now becomes my blog, even if Santo thinks it is a waste of time.

The cute well, built, wog boy with the tight pants with the bulge in the front and the nice arse seemed to be the receptionist/PA to the company execs. Short hair, good ears, nice smile, slutty eyes, or was that just my imagination?
I could see him doing favours to get what he wanted, to get to where he’d got to. That sexy round arse would come in handy. I could imagine him on his knees with his suit pants around his calves, his stripy jocks stretched out of shape across the backs of his knees, his tie around the side of his neck and his shirt unbuttoned down to his belly button revealing his hairy chest. That round arse glistening with lube, the black hairs up his crack smeared flat with lube crystals, the edges of his cheeks turning red from the friction of the bosses relieving their tension inside him.
I saw his name as Anthony, although it would only be his Italian mother who would call him that, ever since he was a baby when she used to rub baby lotion over his balls and cock… Now the men call him Tony, with a handful of lube. The golden balls of an Italian son, the sexy arse of an Italian man… rumpy pumpy, head down, as the men rub lotion up his hairy split, with long curved fingers, just before they slide their digits into him as he grunts like a stuffed man pig,

Santo’s Samsung tablet arrived by delivery. I was expecting it to. He’s been talking about this tablet for weeks and weeks, humming and haring about whether to buy it or not. The delivery man said, “I have to confirm the name and get you to sign here.”

“That’s not me, does it matter?”

“Is this not for this address?”

“Yes, it’s for this address. It’s just that I’m not who it’s addressed to. He had it sent here instead of his own house, because someone would be home here.”

“There isn’t normally anyone home at this address when I deliver here.”

I was taken back, just a little. “Well… I’m home today.”

He was talking about Shane’s dick jewellery. Shane has been buying various pieces of alloy to slide into the piercing in the end of his cock. Prince Alberts and metal bars and what have you. I think he thinks it makes his small penis look bigger. No, I’m sure that is what he thinks. I’m not really sure if the logic stands up though. If you have quite a small cock, surely hanging things from it, which are bigger than your willy is, it would only prove to make your tiny wiener look even smaller? Anyway, each to his own. That’s the packages that the delivery man is talking about, anyway.

Santo came over after work and we went to YimYams and ate dinner.

Mark called and we chatted. He’s loving Hanoi again. He’s been out in the main square handing out fliers for his restaurant and it has been getting people in to eat. Bums on seats. He’s very pleased. He was heading out again tonight.

Lee Lou Jones 7.59 PM
Hello Chrissy Boy, Are you keeping warm? L x

Christian Fletcher 8:02 PM
I'm keeping warm. How about you?

Lee Lou Jones 8:23 PM
Very cold in my house, except for lounge, i feel like i may as well cocoon myself in here with kettle and teabags and see the world in Spring!

Christian Fletcher 8:32 PM
Lee Lou Lee Lou, I think that sounds like a good strategy. I'll come and wait out the winter with you, we can have never ending cups of tea.

Lee Lou Jones
Yippee!! Bring flannel pj's, see you soon, couch awaits you!

Christian Fletcher 8:41 PM
can I bring me boyfriend too? I promise I'll dress him up in flannel jarmies and make him look adorable

Lee Lou Jones 8:43 PM
Of course... the more the warmer!!... Is Santo happy with tea?

Christian Fletcher 8:47 PM
He's very good with tea, much better with tea than coffee, actually

Lee Lou Jones 8:49 PM
Good, you won't have to stop at the shops on your way here then.

Lee Lou Jones 8:58 PM
Good thinking, I guess with 3 of us we might need extra supplies.

Christian Fletcher 9:01 PM
Santo is an amateur, of course, but we can never have too much, I suspect

Lee Lou Jones 9:06 PM
Well he's in good hands, we'll teach him to see that bad habits are a bliss!... Talking of bad habits, i'm just off to make tea.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

What a Fucken Stress Head

It was dark and cold at 7am this morning. I was so comfortable in bed, I can’t begin to tell you how comfortable. Warm like honey, comfy as a feather, relaxed like a cat on a woollen blanket, as smooth as marshmallow. 

The grey beyond the windows was not appealing. It was not drawing me out. I could have been less interested than with a poultice over inflammation.


Missy was lying stretched out on the floor next to me. I’m too restless a sleeper for her to enjoy a full night on the bed. Usually, every thing is fine until I fall asleep, then I think the pussy bitch takes a beating. (She's a female and she is a cat... before we get them writing in)

I started listening to radio national, but it seemed pointless, a stupid delaying tactic, not much more. (I had to get up. I had to head to the salt mines) All those people getting mileage from all of their opinions? Talk, talk, talk, talk. Do you think we have become a society of talkers? People getting their opinions out there just for the sake of getting their opinions out there?

Then I was standing unsteadily on my own two feet in the dim light bleary eyed. I looked around but the bed was still and quiet. Just the one, it was silent, no noise but me. There is a certain thrill about such stillness, it brings goosebumps to the skin.


I was out the door by 8am, heading up G Street to the 109 tram. I was heading to X Street Port Melbourne to work. My feet were still tender just like they were walking home last night. Why do I have sore feet? Why?

The boulevard of Victoria Avenue is so grand and so picturesque with its cathedral ceilings and its open plan spaces, wide and luxurious all paved in green.

What is it “they” say now? It seemed expensive.

I walked the, seemingly manicured, lawns, along the straight edged bluestone, parallel to the straight steal rails, to the precise cut of the decking making up the new mini super stop, nestled under the trees.

It’s a gorgeous place to start the day from. Or is that, it is a gorgeous place from which to start the day.


A cool breeze blew. I drew my suit jacket tight around me. I thought about work? I wasn’t replacing someone today, I was working with him. I wondered what kind of loser needs me to come and assist him? Hold their hand, if you like. This is not, after all, rocket science, nor am I looking for a cure for the common cold, or baldness, or eternal youth. It is just adding a few numbers together, let's face it. A relatively smart chimp could probably be trained to do it.

It was heading towards 8.15.


I’d checked the map last night and it should be the second set of traffic lights after the turn onto the light rail track at which I had to get off. Easy. Why hadn’t I considered Port Melbourne before?

But, of course, the Port Melbourne Tram is the light rail, the old train line and it doesn’t comply strictly to the lay out of the roads. It’s all different, suddenly it wasn’t how I expected it, how I saw it on the map last night. The first street came and went, so I should get off at the next stop. But at the next stop, I couldn’t see the name of the road, the stop didn’t align with the intersection. I dithered and I hesitated and then the tram was off again, as I realised I should have just got off. Then the tram seemed to travel an inordinate distance before it stopped again. I was berating myself as I was getting off, for not being quicker in my thinking and have just leapt off as an act of faith, rather than staying on to only have to inevitably wait for another tram heading back in the other direction.

Am I no good under pressure?

Can I not make instant decisions, like all the smart people can?

The only thing I could hear was a resounding, “duh!”

What time was it? 8.43.

The return tram took forever but it finally came. What was the time 8.50.

It is very pretty around there, verdant with picturesque pathways, wide open commons, lined with cute cottages. Spacious. Clean. Cute. Inviting, really.


As I got off, where I should have got off in the first place, I asked a man to confirm the street up ahead was, in fact, X Street. He said it was. I deny I asked him because he looked so cute in his beanie pulled down over his, presumably, cold ears. I deny I asked him because the sun had just shone onto his handsome face. He was simply the closest. Do you seriously think that gay men have their heads tuned by handsome men?

Then I’m walking along X Street and my feet are hurting more. My work shoes haven’t done much walking and they seem to be biting into me. I’m sure I’ve walked enough in them for them to not hurt, but apparently not.

I’m stressing, all the time telling myself what an easy time I had of it yesterday. And then I am wondering if I’m actually feeling stressed, or maybe it is just boredom. Maybe I am bored and underwhelmed by my work situation. I’m not getting enough regular work for it to be not concerning me and I know I have to find myself a permanent job.


I come to (the number), but it is some kind of college. It is 8.58. I ask at the counter, after I have waited for, what I forget is, juvenile students laughing about the pencil the woman behind the counter is sharpening for them. Something about it being pointy, I’m not sure if it was a sexual innuendo, I don’t get the joke clearly, just get out of my fucking way, the clock is ticking.

“Oh yes, (she gives me directions).”

The building is fabulous, big and spacious, huge airy dimensions, like a building of true warehouse origins.

The entrance is kind of small and unimposing, like one is going in a back way. The boy on reception is cute, “wog, wog, wog,” as Santo would say. He says he’ll get Garth for me.

Garth duly appears. He is middle aged and short. He seems a bit nervous, like he isn’t sure about himself. Do I see myself in Garth’s face? I look away before the answer comes to me.

Every guy is wearing a tie, the first time I have forgotten to put one in my bag. Duh! Stupid me! I hope Garth wont rat me out to the boss.

Garth has adjustments to make, that he doesn’t seem to know how to do. I wonder how long he has been doing this? Really Garth?

He says he is going to leave me to it. I ask him the questions I need answers to and then he is gone. He must have a good relationship with the boss around here to be able to get someone in while he absents himself.

Really? Leave me to it? I see? At some stage I stumble across Garth’s salary of 200K. Really? Oh, not such a dead end loser. It turns out Garth is the boss. Bugger!

He’s done all the preliminary checks and cross checks, so most of my work had been done. Consequently, I’m finished by 11.30. I can see the sun shining outside and I am keen to get back out into it. It is nice just working the morning and heading home around lunchtime.

As thrilling as that is, how carefree it makes me feel, it is further evidence that I need to find myself a permanent job. This kind of carry on is not going to pay the bills, well, certainly not in the long term that is for sure.

Garth is coming up the stairs as I am leaving. He thanks me.

The sun is shining as I walk back to the light rail. I hope I got everything right. The managing director of the group of companies, no less. My natural insecurities think that I must have screwed something up. I’m bound to have with the boss looking over my work.

I text Santo to have lunch. He calls me back, he is walking to a cafe as I text and will meet me there shortly.

I wonder if all my jobs this week will amount to just a few hours and then I am done. Fuck it! Most likely they are, I hadn’t thought about that previously.

I have lunch with Santo at the Thai restaurant off Flinder’s Street. He is there already when I get there.

There is a loud mouthed girl sitting next to us talking loudly to the man sitting opposite her. I complain that she is annoying.

We walk up Swanston Street and Santo tells me that the only thing he hears is me complaining. I try to explain and he points out that I am talking just as loudly as the annoying girl who was sitting next to us.

I turn to him quietly and ask why he is being such a bitch.

He laughs and says it is all about Christian Fletcher, Christian Fletcher, Christian Fletcher.

I ask him again quietly why he is being such a bitch.

He apologises and does the arm pulling down through the air action and says, Team Christian, Team Christian, Team Christian.

“Better,” I said.


I leave him in La Trobe Street, he turns left and heads back to work. I turn right and head home.

I may have upset Santo, as he wanted to come over for dinner, but I have tomorrow off and I don’t want to go to bed at 10pm with Nana Santo.

Anthony called and told me that he has had good reports from the weekend away. He was supposed to be going, I think, but, I presume, his agoraphobia stopped him.

“Oh really. I don’t know anything about it.”

“Really? Shane went down there for the weekend.”

“Shane didn’t say anything.”

“Really,” said Anthony

“Shane doesn’t really tell me anything about what he is doing.”

Apparently, Andrew went down as well. And apparently, a good time was had by all.

“They all enjoyed the food that Sebastian prepared.”

“Well, you know,” I said. “Once you’ve tasted one thing Sebastian has cooked, you have tasted it all.”

“Oh really.” Anthony laughed.

“All of Sebastian’s cooking tastes the same, really.”


It was cold and around 6pm I decide to have my dinner and head to bed to watch TV.

I don’t really want to live with Shane any more, thinking about the weekend and me and Santo not being invited. What is the benefit of living with so called friends, I think? If that is how he is going to be, I can only conclude deliberately exclusionist, there is no advantage for me living with friends. In fact, the only person getting some sort of advantage here is Shane, getting to live in a grand house that he wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford to live in.

I’d be better off living with strangers on a purely financial business arrangement where I can call all of the shots and not have to make any allowances for friendship.

If I kicked Shane out, he’d have to go and live in some hovel, which would probably cost him more, which he probably wouldn’t be able to afford, as he is so hopeless with money. The thought makes me feel good. Is that bad?

Is that just revenge/mean which would come back and bite me?

Would I be better off living with strangers? Is that, actually, true?

But, what do I think is going to happen? The truth is that living with Shane makes me feel bad. He doesn’t seem to grasp the fact that this is my house and for him to continue living here on some level he has to make me feel good about him living here.

Truthfully, something has to change.

It was 6 degrees at 9pm.

I just want to spend the rest of my life snuggled up in my bed.

I guess that is bad.

Oh… what am I going to do with my life?

Monday, June 25, 2012

One down, four to go


Monday morning, the alarm seemed to sound too soon. I’d woken a few times during the night in the wee small hours, still with plenty of luxurious time to sleep some more, still with plenty of night ahead of me. Lovely.
At one time, Santo and I were awake together and I started to chat to him.
He shhhh’d me each time I said a word.
Then his finger was making a straight line across my lips.
I chatted some more.
“Don’t speak,” he whispered, putting words to his actions.

He told me "what for" in the morning. “What were you thinking?”
He’s no fun at all. I don’t mind waking up and chatting, it makes the night seem longer, it makes it seem more… more and more.

He and I got up when his iPhone sounded its gentle alarm. The next thing we were standing together in our dressing gowns in the kitchen bleary eyed. It was very quiet and dark. Then Santo is giving me directions on how much muesli I should pour into his bowl.
“Not too much! Not too much!”
In no time we were walking along Gertrude Street together in the cold. It was a winter’s morning, that’s for sure and it was disappearing quickly. Slipping away.
I put money on my myki card at the milk bar. The nice lady behind the counter had to get her glasses out of her bag to complete the transaction. I wondered what she had done up until that point during the morning?  Think they open at 7am, had she done nothing for an hour?
I caught a tram. Santo continued walking.

I was stressing big time, freaking out, I felt like I didn’t know anything, that I was an ignorant expert on the brink of being fond out.
The one thing I was thankful for was that the first EOY assignment was (the name of the client), my familiar assignment on my own, to learn.
It turned out to be easy, easy peasy. Once we got over the hurdle of me checking the system version number, and missing the fact that I got it wrong, and it hadn’t been updated… and having a problem because of it and the ensuing drama on the phone to (the name of my company) until they twigged as to what the problem was.
Once we got passed that, it was easy, a piece of cake, what I was stressing about I have no idea.
Stupid though, a stupid mistake that will not do my reputation or my confidence any good. I know I made it because I was stressing.
Gotta stop stressing, because I really do know what I am doing.
I just need more work so I can learn the new system back to front.
I used to just power though this stuff without any worries, once. I never made mistakes because I never used to stress about stuff. Everything was good, my confidence used to equal my ability. I’m still not back to the levels of confidence of before the black law firm’s betrayal. I now know that you can be sacked, gotten rid of, if you produce good work or bad, it doesn’t have to make a difference. The corporate world is full of poison, you can never underestimate it.

I checked everything with (the name of my colleague). What EOY reports she wanted. She didn’t ask for the super report and I didn’t print it, but I think I should have. She is, presumably, going to need it. That was stupid, I shouldn’t try to be so clever.
She ran through some mistakes from last week, but she and I had done those transactions together and I pointed that out to her and she soon shut up about it. That is, of course, still not good. That is not a correction, or good work done, it is simply a deflection and you can’t continually get away with that. Eventually, you get found out as a fraud, as hopeless. She could still blame me without me knowing that she has, to my boss in my appraisals. I hope she doesn’t.
Fuck! I’m still learning, I really am. On the job with all the mistakes that go with learning that way. The hope is though that the ratio of mistakes made never exceeds the number of praises given, naturally.
Come on knowledge (of the system) come to me quickly.
The funny thing is, that really I feel that I have done relatively poor work for them (extenuating circumstances with standing, the fact they didn’t have the knowledge to instruct me properly) and yet they keep asking me back

I dropped an enormous log in the dunny, halfway through the morning. One of those unbelievably long ones that coils in the bowl on a seemingly never ending cable.
(the name of the client) always makes me take a dump, usually two of three times. It seems to be a natural laxative, like the RMIT Building is the brain tumour building. The (the name of the client) building is the shit building. It is too simple an explanation that it is a comment on the organisation.
I wonder if it is the instant coffee?

I was finished there at 4.30, so I headed home early. The afternoon was cold and dull. One thing, the mental St Kilda Road tram was quite at that time. I walked from Swanston Street, just trying to get some exercise in. Don’t they say that walking is the best exercise? Despite my office shoes not being the best for walking.
Immediately, as I start to walk up the hill, some bitch with a nasal voice was talking loudly and excitedly to her male companion, a few steps behind me. They wee keeping pace with me. My pet hate! Of course! That’s what you get for doing the right thing and hoofing it up the hill instead of picking the easier option of the tram. Why me, I think. I risk life and limb and run across Russell Street just as the lights change to escape them. So do they and we are stranded on the centre island together. Yabber, yabbber, yabber. No use getting angsty. Don’t be a complainer, as Santo would say. Getting fatter and grumpier, the woodman’s words come into my head. So, as we reached the other side, I dropped back and let them get a head. When they got to Market Lane, some thing down there attracted their attention and they stopped, proceeding again up Bourke just as I got level with them. Then they fell into step just behind me, as her screech threatened the sanctity of my eardrums once again. They turned left into Exhibition Street just as I was contemplating running out into the Exhibition Street traffic.

I don’t know why it is always girl’s with annoying voices walking behind me, usually on a phone, talking loudly. Of course, this can’t be true. Girls don’t have monopoly on being annoying, boy’s can be just as annoying. Maybe it is because girls have higher pitched voices and I find them less appealing? Is it because I am a big homo and I am prepared to forgive men more because of the promise of a bit of cock? Maybe it is because girls have been taught over the last fifty years of women’s lib that they have to speak up to get somewhere? Maybe girls just like to talk more? Supposedly, that is meant to be true, although I have always assumed it was a stereotype? Maybe not.

The house seemed unnaturally still when I got home. The light had just turned from day to the first blush of evening. Winter heading towards dusk.
I headed to bed early, it was cold and wintery and grey. I watched TV rapped up in my doona with my laptop on my lap. I love it, it is like my warm comfy safety pod.
I ate the left over noodles from last night. They were yum. Are they better the next day too? You know, like lasagne? I didn’t warm them up until after Masterchef, when Shane is home and sitting in the lounge watching TV. He is very chatty and seems to want to talk, like everything is back to normal. I still take my dinner back to bed, because I am comfortable there and it suits me and I like it and it is about me and not about Shane.
He is sitting I the lounge room with a blanket and no fire. Still, after all this time, it would appear that a fire is beyond his capabilities.
I sorted the paperwork and directions for tomorrow’s job in Port Melbourne. It’s always good to get the names, address and charging details on to a piece of paper before I go. I have decided that I can, at least, be that organised. I can be, at least, that much less than totally slack.
I spoke to Mark on Skype. He said he missed me. He said he felt like he was never coming home.
Mark had posted some new photos on Facebook, so I signed in to see them… and then Perry was messaging me at the same time.
And then Mark’s diner was bought to him on a tray by one of his staff and he had to go.
So… I spoke to Perry.
G/day Christian
Perry

Hey Perry, how are you?
Christian

Pretty darn good my friend, loving life despite winter!!
Perry

I'm good too. It must be cold this year though because for someone who doesn't feel the cold, this last week, or so, I have been having dinner and then getting into bed to watch TV
christian

Sounds like a typical night for me Christian, love my bed and TV and warm doona… only stay up to play FB…
Perry

I think my bed is now my favourite thing
Christian

Do you have an electric blanket?
Perry

No, I hate electric blankets, always have. I actually like getting into cold sheets and going brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr and wrapping my self up in the bed clothes
Christian

Whatever rocks your boat, i like a cold room with a Goose down doona
Perry

that sounds lovely
I'm liking going to bed earlier
and falling asleep in front of the TV
Santo thinks it is terrible
Christian

Not that this is a competition but is 5pm a winner?
Perry

maybe not quite that early
J
but home, dinner and off to bed, certainly
shut the cold world out
Christian

We are so in tune with each other...bit spooky really!!
Perry

21:50
J
Christian

Nite
Perry

sweet dreams
Christian

I feel I have been a little estranged from Perry of late and it is nice to chat to him, but I am not sure if the standard of that conversation is really going to cut it, is really going to enhance our friendship any. I’m sure it is too stilted and too strained for that.

Missy came in late and lay in the middle of my bed purring loudly.
I got sleepy and drifted off to sleep watching teev. I love that feeling, it is, almost, my favourite thing to do. That lazy, sleepy, drifty kind of feeling. I dragged my sorry arse out of the bed at midnight to close my laptop and put it away safely. Some time after that, I switched off the light and was asleep in no time.