Monday, June 30, 2014

Love my buttons

I rediscovered my second favourite button to the mute button, the lift doors closed button, working again in a multi level building, on the third floor.

They both block out the annoying world in a lovely way. The lift doors closed button is slightly more amusing than the mute button. You can watch people run for the lift, as your finger is closing the doors on them. It is a joy.

Sunday, June 29, 2014

Despite the shitty weather all day, the sky still turned pink at dusk

Friday, June 27, 2014

Day off

Jack tried to get me to do the Impossible Job for another week. Really? A weeks worth of work squeezed into one day, just because some HR person is trying to make a name for herself. Oh no my friend, that is a whole world of pain with very little in it for me, other than an impossible work load that is most likely only going to destroy my good name... if I, indeed, have one. Okay, what good name I do have. I'm sure the HR person will be proved wrong in the end, but I am not going to end up as collateral damage in the process.

So, I lied to him. I told him I had a big family thing on over the weekend and couldn't work next Monday, which is not entirely untrue. Jack's a good Greek boy, I thought he'd understand. I could have just said I was unable to work. I um'd and ah'd about which path to take, the simple 'no', or the longer reason. I went with the longer reason. He agreed with me and essentially wished me well.

I stayed in bed till 11.11, Buddy and I. Lovely and warm.

So, a day off? What to do?

Have a haircut, pay money off my CityLink, bought toothpaste and a cheap dvd at the dvd shop sale. Four people asked me for a cigarette, do I look like a walking billboard? Two people asked me for money, do I look like a bank? The sun was shining, the sky blueish, Smith Street vibrant. Then I headed home, put colour in my hair, moisturised, hung the washing and took my curry lunch back to bed with my bulldog and watched the movie.

A Josh Lawson movie, Questions for Ben. Even if it is bad, Josh sure is pretty.

Buddy snored all the way through it. Philistine.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

It's a bit like being in a football team

The boys at the new job are a cute bunch. Strapping. Handsome. Friendly. There is a whole gaggle of them.

A lot of them are big boys, the types who’d have played football at school. I can picture a few of them in their footy shorts. I wish I could picture all of them in the change room. There are some big bulges in their jeans and some of them have really big arses. Big, chunky arses and thick legs. One of them walks like my Rottweiler used to walk, moving from the hips and bum. I can't help but notice.

Tom used to always say that straight boys have fat bums. Of course, he didn’t mean all straight boys have fat arses, but those boys who do have fat bums are most likely to be straight. Maybe, it is the fathering gene? You know, they have to be well equipped to shove that sperm all the way up in there.


The head of marketing has a great big chunky arse. I can't help but notice whenever he walks past. I can't help but imagine how his jocks are straining, as they are pulled tight across those big legs and over those big buns. I get a mental picture every time he walks past of patterned, white coloured jocks with stripes high lighting his contours.

I can picture him standing there naked, with his hands cupped over his cock and balls, his big white flanks outside the triangle of his arms; black hair on his stomach following a trail up to his chest. There would be that big shapely arse, the crack between each cheek like an axe cut, with small black hairs lining the split all the way down to the backs of his big solid thighs.

Shake of the head. “Hi.”



“Hi” he’d say, as he headed back to his office.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

The New Happy Job

Okay, so the new assignment started before July 01st. Shh, don’t tell anyone. It is all a part of the deal Jack made with (the name of the company). The days I’m not at the Impossible Job, I’m now at the Lovely Job. It's easy getting to Notting Hill, who'd have thought? Straight out the freeway, it doesn't take long, as I am heading against the traffic the whole way. Free as a bird, no stress. Smiling.

I get to see the freeway traffic coming into the city and it makes me think all over again how mental we all are with peak hour traffic and how I never want to be in that bumper to bumper traffic crawl into the city.

It must do people's head's in, maybe unbeknownst to them. It must be adding to everybody's stress, that unremitting grind to get to your place of employment. As much as I love my car, I could imagine that a lot of mental stress would be eliminated if we got rid of cars altogether. It must be soul destroying sitting in that crush of automobile tin day in and day out. Oh, it must be. It must be one of the reasons why people turn to drugs and have affairs? I know I would if I had to endure that trial every day.

It’s just as easy on the way home. And the poor souls are back at it on the other side of the freeway, bumper to bumper.


Oh, who would have thought this time last week I would not be stressing about the Impossible job?

Monday, June 23, 2014

The End Is In Sight And A Glorious New Beginning Is Blooming

I was up at 5.45am. It was still dark. This is bullshit, I resisted thinking.

I went outside for a cigarette. Buddy came straight inside, which was unusual for him. It was cold and dark and you normally need a crowbar to get him out of his kennel in such conditions.

I got up and checked the gutters in the dim light. It was a good thing I did, as the Golden Elm, from two houses along, had dumped a sheet of leaves all through the box gutter, as it has a tendency to do this time of year. Next doors Yukka Tree dumps it’s fucking fronds into my gutter too. I must get up on the roof with my bottle of poison and spray it again. I did real damage to it last time I sprayed it, but I see I am going to have to keep spraying it constantly until it is dead. I’m not asking my next door neighbour, she always uses the excuse that she doesn’t have the authority to chop anything down, as she rents. But, I’m sure, K and G, the owners wouldn’t mind. And who cares if they do.

I prepared my muesli in the dim light of the morning kitchen. There is something kind of exhilarating being up so early in the day. It’s the whole rebirth thing, I’m sure. I’m no longer stressing “big time” as I had been about the Impossible South Job now that I am finishing next week, as scheduled.

I put the central heating on. I ate my muesli while the heating warmed up the bathroom. Then I had a shower. I cut a large piece of apple pie – leftovers from Mark and Luke’s party at my place on Saturday night – to eat for lunch, as I didn’t have anything else and I just wanted to get today over with without having to worry about finding lunch. I could eat it cold at my desk to stave off the hunger pains when necessary.

I left at 6.40.

Cars had their headlights on as they drove towards me. The roads were relatively clear as the cars morphed into red tails lights in the distance. The dark of the morning embraced me in my journey. I drove all the way with my headlights on. The street with the free, all day, car parks was more empty than it was last week. I parked and wondered to the office in the dark.

I crossed the soulless business centre in the dark. It always seems like a place where people would kill themselves, or have. What a horrible, miserable place. It reminds me of what we’d get if Tony Abbott is allowed to make the rules or, at least, get rid of the rules around building planning. Our cities would end up as dull and soulless as Tony Abbott himself.

I had to turn the lights on when I got into the office. I sure hoped there wasn’t an alarm system. I was at my desk at 7am.

I sneaked in another cigarette at 7.15.

The clueless HR chick was in at 7.15 (Oh, they are clueless, don’t start – the women’s waiting room before they give birth) when I came back up stairs. So, at least she knew I was in that early and I that I wasn’t faking it. Not that I really need that, but it is good to have.

I did what I had to do. What I have been employed to do.

I sent off the Audit paperwork - another thing outside my job description. They asked me to check it, but the head accountant had checked it, so why did I have to, I ask you? He’d signed off on it, so fuck it. I sent off all the documents, without a second thought.

The accounts lady sat with me as I did end of month for the New Zealand office. They act like I should know what I am doing, and so far I have faked it without a flaw. I’ve never done it for their company before, this was my fist go at it. I never really feel like I know what I am doing, it is a part of the job, and if you can’t fake competence just a little, you are not going to succeed with contract work.

It poured with rain some time during the afternoon and I was glad I got on the roof this morning in the dark at 6am and cleaned out the gutters.

I left at 3pm, thinking I had done everything. I just have to give myself the benefit of the doubt, as I normally always have, I vaguely know what I am doing. I can’t be too worried about trivial things people throw at me, otherwise I’d never relax away from it.

I didn’t ever want this job to morph into a longer contract. I don’t want to work for a company that has reduced the hours they commit to finance from 32 hours per week to 8 hours per week. That usually never works. It is someone, probably HR, (read, it is HR) grandstanding, only to be ultimately proved wrong. But in the mean time I’m the poor sod who gets squeezed, and is made to look incompetent, so fuck them, I am not doing anything beyond my assignment job description, I’m not getting sucked in. They might as well learn sooner than later that they are wrong.

Thank the universe for my new assignment. I was stressing about it so badly, as it is impossible to do what they want done. The Impossible Job employed me until June 30th, and now that I have a new assignment starting July 01st it can no longer morph into endless weeks of pain. It is weird, but I now feel perfectly relaxed about the Impossible Job, as I will no longer be doing it. It is really bad timing for them, he says smugly, but who the fuck cares.

And Jack even thinks that I have done him the favour, taking the Notting Hill job – I told him it was too far. But, he talked me into it, saying if he could find someone to fill in temporarily at short notice, he’d get the account and the on going fees, commissions, whatever, gold star for him. So, I’m on a win, win. Yay! And I’m my boss’ golden boy of the moment, ha ha. You shouldn’t ever have to think about work when you are away from it, certainly if you are not their permanent employee. Now I don’t. The new assignment is a breeze. It is a deliverance from hell, lovely.

I bought petrol on the way home, if Mark had put petrol in my car after using it all last week, it was on $10 worth. I went to my favourite 7 11 in Abbottsford. As I paid for my fuel and my joint rolling cigarettes, I realised that they do Tattlotto too, so I put a ticket on for tomorrow night.

I reckon two million dollars would do me just fine. It would put me where I should be, if I had had a successful career. It would be compensation for a vile grade six teacher who put me down for twelve months and a bitter auntie who put me down around the same time. It would be compensation for my auntie’s stupidity for selling her big house. And for the bitter auntie and my idiot cousin’s theft of my grandmother’s assets and for my other aunties alcoholic husband’s forgery of her will a day after she had a stroke. All of my relative’s who have left me and my brother and sister all of their money in their wills, of which we didn’t end up seeing one single cent. I learned at a young age that when it comes to money, people are horrible, lying cheats. Two million would be just enough to keep a secret from everyone. It would be just the right amount that wouldn’t change my life completely. It would be a complimentary win, rather than an evolutionary kind of win.


Ha ha ha, it can't hurt to dream.

I could have a white Fiat Abarth. Sam could have a white GTI Golf, automatic, of course. I could drive the Golf any time I needed a bigger car until Sam got his licence, therefore justifying having the small Fiat. So, in reality, I’d have two cars.

I was home by 3.30.

It was rainy and wet.

The atrium had leaked water. I didn’t check the side gutters when I cleaned out the main problem this morning. I mopped it up. Then I got back on the roof with my bucket and gloves and I cleaned the roof thoroughly.

The long standing leak over the kitchen bench didn’t seem to leak at all. I siliconed it a few weeks ago. Finally? Really, finally have I fixed the dam thing? Could it be true?

I built a fire with my last fire lighter. The last fire lighter is always depressing, it means we no longer have the power of fire until we replenish the stock. No more fires on a whim until I procure another box of the smelly little things. I could, of course, make a fire the old fashioned way, but I don’t buy newspapers any more, so we never have any paper with which to light a fire. I wonder what is worse for the environment, the whole newspaper industry, or the manufacture and ignition of fire lighters?

We ate Luke’s left over Bolognese, it was better the next day and with the addition of mushrooms and a little water I think it was quite possibly the most perfect Bolognese.

We went to bed at 10.30, Sam’s nana time. I didn’t resist, I was tired, I wanted sleep.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Oh that old work chestnut

Ah work, who needs it. But what about the future, I hear you say? Yes, well good point. The future? I guess I should be worried about the future? We spend so much time worrying about it, though. What about today? What about living in the moment? 

Is climate change and our federal government and other governments around the world scandalous neglect of the environment going to make the future a mute point? Is big business and the likes of Rupert Murdoch actively work against the environment scientists going to make the future less guaranteed? You know, you have got to wonder? All you have to do, like a good defense lawyer, is plant a seed of doubt in people’s minds… which they seem to have succeeded in doing, for ‘their’ own profits. I guess it is an easy one, as people don't want to believe it.

Some scientists say we have twenty good years left, so I’m never going to get to retirement, if they are true. Okay, I’ll be nudging it, true. But what is the point of planning so meticulously for Armageddon?

But back to the future. Granted, I should get myself a job that I love, yes I should. How many people do you think are doing jobs that they love? I have no idea, really. But mostly I hear people say that they hate their jobs? Or they wish they didn’t have to work. Or they wish they did something else. They wished they did something that they loved.

I wish I was one of those people who had it all sorted, career plan, superannuation paid to the max, money in the bank… energy bills geared towards the maximum discount, I wish I was. I’ve always been someone who has wanted to be something else, do something else, but never quite managing it. My personal life has always been so happy and so contented that my work life has always taken a second place. Shrug. So now it would seem that I have got to a stage when my professional life is a drag. Pity really. I know I have turned into one of those whiny people who I feel sorry for. It is true. How did that happen? I mean, I know how it happened, it is just an eye opener, is that a sad truth, that it has. I hear myself some days, oh what a whinger.

They say that old age is no place for sissies. We spend our whole lives preparing for it, which just seems odd sometimes. How much of living do we have to allocate to dying, I sometimes wonder?

So, have another ciggie, another cream bun and the future will take care of itself.

So who wants to work? I do, actually, I don’t mind work, but a good job, with nice people. I’m just beginning to hate continually going in and cleaning up somebody else’s mess. I think it makes me live in a constant state of anxiety. It must be time for a change.

My old boss, Beck, has the perfect job for me, but she can’t get rid of Miss Useless who my boss inherited when she took her job. Assistant Financial blah blah. (I can’t put the words in print) Miss Useless gets everything wrong and is hopeless. And she doesn’t even seem to care, spending her time on Facebook and Gumtree and other such sites, unashamedly. She got pregnant last year and everything was looking good for me, but then annoyingly she had a miscarriage, so she didn’t leave. Damn!

It was three days a week, which was not quite enough for me, if I am going to do a [permanent role, but now my boss is only going to work four days so what would be my role has increased to four days per week, which would just suit me.

Grrrrr!

Why is the perfect job dangled so temptingly in front of me but yet remains just out of my grasp? It is annoying. I'm sure I have been a good person in this life.

I’ve got one day a week this week and for the next month. I think I am on the outer with my boss Jack. I’m not really sure why.



Anyway, I’m off out into the garden to clean up.

Saturday, June 14, 2014

I'm a 21st century human being after all... apparently

Doctor Johnny said the strap on my toe was a good idea. He asked if I felt any pain when I was in bed at night? I wondered if we were still talking about my toe. I was tempted to answer, that depends if you are doing it right. He asked if there was any stabbing pain? Again, see previous answer. 

“I’ll send you for an xray.” He showed me a list and said, “These are the places that don’t charge.”

“Okay.”

“But you don’t have long, as they will close soon.”

I turned in the opposite direction to where I was going intending to do the block and head up Langridge Street to Nicholson Street and through the back streets of Carlton. I thought it would be easier than heading west, essentially, with all the city traffic. All those traffic lights that now litter Victoria Parade, I hate them. Stop start. Stop start. Stop start. I figure one of those whiney, moly-coddled Gen Y’s must have got frightened at an uncontrolled intersection one day and had complained to the government to make the city safer for them.

I’d not travelled one hundred metres when I was stopped at the first red light (the idiot councils are installing those stupid small traffic lights all over the inner suburbs) when I thought, the quickest way from point A to point B can’t be heading away from point B to begin with. What was I thinking? Victoria Street was remarkably empty of traffic, so I dropped a quick U-ie and headed towards the city along Victoria Street.

The traffic took up all of the positions at the lights of Victoria and Hoddle, except for the far left hand side lane, so I quickly slipped on my indicator and change four lanes. There was a truck next to me and a car, a black BMW sedan, and a truck on the other side of it. A semitrailer pulled up next to me in the left hand turn lane, making me feel a little hemmed in. I’m glad I am not one of those namby pamby scardy cat drivers of today who is intimidated by such things, I simply saw it as a challenge.

The lights changed. The two trucks on either side of me selected the first of their sixteen gears and rumbled into life, with the sound of air escaping and metal vibrating, lurching forward visibly. I slid away from them quickly, as did the BMW. I’m still in love with my GTI6, even if in car years – not dissimilar to dog years, I’m sure – she is rapidly becoming an old woman, she can still pick up her shirts and sprint with the best of them, when I give her my right foot. I could have easily left the BMW behind, but instead we did a kind of synchronised driving, as I swapped from lane four to lane one and the BMW did the reverse of that. We just kind of swapped, with the BMW falling in behind me as we did the swap in a big X pattern in Victoria Parade.

Lane four was clear ahead, lane one was not, although the white van in front was moving. Lanes two and three were not clear and were stationary. I had no choice though as I had to turn right immanently. The BMW skirted the mess of traffic in lane four and disappeared out of sight.

The white van now in front was crawling along at a glacial pace, and I couldn’t see through it, it as it had a frosted back window, to see what was in front of it, so much so that lanes two and three cleared. I slipped into lane two to see there was nothing in front of the white van. I felt myself roll my eyes as I whizzed passed. I slipped back into lane one, as soon as I got passed. Pretty quickly there was a long line of cars turning right the last few jutting out into my lane and I had to slip back into lane two and pass all of them. I swapped lanes a couple of time more, in a slalom due to slow drivers until I was in the right hand turn lane into Rathdowne Street. I was way at the back of that lane and there were so many cars in front of me that I thought that I wouldn’t get around on the first green arrow, so I veered left back into the forward lane, figuring I could hang a right at the next side street, Drummond Street, and be on my way, instead of sitting in the right hand turn lane waiting for the next green arrow. The traffic was heavy, but I could see at the next side street that the stopped oncoming cars had left room for those of us wanting to turn right. I watched the white Golf that had been in front of me in the right hand turn lane as it made the green arrow with ease and I thought, Damn!

A slow Hyundai in front of me crawled along, so much so that I wondered if I would make the green light at all, but we did. It continued to crawl along to the right hand turn lane at Drummond Street where it put its right hand indicator on and I thought, Damn! again. It just stopped at the clear path around in front of the stopped oncoming traffic and I wanted to toot, but I didn’t. Then, just as it seemed to timidly inch forward (would that be centimetre forward now a days?) to make its way around, one of the stationary cars sitting at the front of the oncoming traffic decided to turn left, obviously as a spur of the moment decision, not seeing the motor bike coming up on its left and the two collided and the motorbike rider fell off his bike and ended up laying on his back on the ground across the entrance to the lane of Drummond Street that I wanted to use.

“Idiot!” I said, as I banged my hands on the top of the steering wheel. “Oh shit!” I nudged forward up behind the slow Hyundai, which I suspected would fold and just sit and wait it out. I was block in on all sides, there was no way for me to untangle myself from the mess of cars surrounding me. I slumped back against the seat and started to accept defeat. Then, miraculously, the slow Hyundai moved off completing a very smooth U-turn and I followed. It accelerated off into the far left lane and the two of us slid passed all the stationary cars that were heading east and slipped around left into Rathdowne Street as smoothly as you like.

From the jaws of defeat, I thought.

I rocketed up Rathdowne to Queensberry, turned left and then turn right back into Drummond and parked. Phew!



As I walked to the xray building, I started to feel somewhat ashamed of my reaction to the motorbike rider getting knocked off his bike. A man got hit by a car and all I could think was ‘idiot’ and feel concern only for myself and how it was going to affect me. I felt a shiver of shame run up my spine. I called the car driver the idiot, really. But still, I was really only concerned about my path being blocked, it is true. I wasn't shocked, I was more annoyed than anything. I didn’t really think the rider was hurt, however, it all happened slowly and he kind of slid on the road. But still...

I guess I am a true 21st century human being after all, despite what I may say to the contrary. The thing that would have made that statement more true was if I'd got out my iPhone and filmed the whole thing.

Thursday, June 12, 2014

If you don't like the cold, don't come to the best city in Australia, we can live without you

Mark and Luke are about to arrive from up north. It will be good to see them, even if they seem to whine about the cold the whole time they are here. What is it with N.S.Whalers? 

"Yes, yes, we've heard it all before."

"Oh really... you did realise it was winter, didn't you?"

"If you don't like it here... why come?"

"Oh, man up!"

They are my best friends and I don't really mean it, the complaints, but "isn't it cold here" is like having a busted toe, you get over it pretty quickly.

I'm sure most Melbournians just smile and think, pussy. Roll there eyes and think I wouldn't trade the coffee and the style for anything you have... or don't have, as the case may be.

Yeah, sure, it is warmer where you live, you are further north. And of course it is cooler here as we are further south. It is true, there is no denying it. So get yourself a woolly jumper, or some thermal undies, if need be and enjoy your visit. Or, come in summer when it is definitely not cold here. It isn't rocket science guys.

'They' never get much sympathy from me, as I like the cold. I don't feel it, either, which, I guess, counts for liking it somewhat. I like the cold embrace of a frosty winter morning rugged up in warm clothes, heading out into the street, my breath puffing out in front of me visibly. I like open fires. I like thick veggie soup. I like roast dinners and the warmth from the stove warming the kitchen. I like the coziness of a warm house when you come in from a cold day. I like the difference of the seasons. If I had to choose and I'm glad I don't have to, as Melbourne is plenty hot enough in summer for anyone, I'd choose the cold over the heat any day. At least in the winter you can get warm easily enough. I find the long dry heat of summer hard to escape from.

Anyway, I'm off to the doctor to have my toe looked at. Yes, it is still sore and swollen, and I am a bit sick of walking around like one of the 'injured'. But it has been much better since I started taping it to my next toe. Doc Johnny at 2pm, the man of so few words. I'm not complaining, you understand, I like it. He says what is necessary and that's it. Pity there aren't a few more people like it in the world.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Sick Of My Sore Toe

It's cold, really cold, and I don't feel the cold, not normally, but I am this morning. Big woollen jumper, two t-shirts, track pants and big, warm socks into which my track pants are tucked. I know, I have to check myself before I leave the house it is not a look in which one can venture out. But, shrug, still I am warm.

I am still hobbling around on my sore toe, it is my left foot too and I have a manual car. The pharmacist thinks I may have broken it, me, who has never broken anything. He wasn't at all convinced when I told him that I thought I could still bend it. Apparently, you can still bend a broken toe. Who'd have thought?

He rolled his eyes when I told him that I'd made two doctor's appointments both of which I have cancelled. I know, I know, once was because of work and the other... um... boyfriend time.

"Strap it up and go to the doctor," he said.

Did you know that there is a myriad of strapping bandages in the chemist, a whole shelf of them, prompting Sam to quip, "How clumsy is everybody?"

It is beginning to get me down, as it heads into the second week. I'm going to call the doctor.

I didn’t make a doctor’s appointment, I don’t know why? I’m sure I was thinking that I wanted to get the carpet man all confirmed for Friday and then I’d make the doctor’s appointment around that. I called the carpet man to confirm, but he didn’t call back. Bloody tradesmen! I'm slow in organising such things and when they don't turn up it ruins all my plans. We're having a party on the 21st, I wanted it done before  then. Oh well, back to the drawing board.

David came for dinner. We ate Japanese Curry. We watched the Normal Heart, which was okay, nothing special, really to be honest.  Long Time Companion was a better film. I find those beginning of the AIDS epidemic movies a bit old hat now. I’ve seen it all before. We’ve moved on.

Thursday, June 05, 2014

Don't Ruin My Day, Jack

Oh yes, of course, Jack phoned in the middle of my photo editing and gave me an assignment for a month starting today. He called early and I ignored him. Don't ruin my day, Jack, I thought. 

But when he called the second time, I answered. Bugger! What is with this stupid work ethic? Why does work have to get in the way of the important things in life, I ask you? I was perfectly happy pissing around at home, and now I have to travel across town - okay, it is only the next suburb, but it is on the far side of Richmond, almost to the river, where there is no where to park... unless you pay and even then it is not guaranteed, unless you get there early.

Sam rolled his eyes and called me a whinny baby. It's okay for him, he who gets to walk to work. He put his hand up - as in 'talk to the hand' - as I, well, moaned, there is no denying it. Ha ha, he he! Isn't that what boyfriends are for, I ask you?

I mentioned the boyfriend agreement and after he stopped laughing, he said, without missing a beat, that clause 78 subsection 5 specifically stated that one boyfriend was not to cause the ears of the other boyfriend to bleed.

What could I say?

He said, "Case closed."

"But, but..." I wasn't finished being... um... self indulgent.

"You do realise that some people travel hours to work?"

"Yes, but they are stupid people, doing stupid things, and they only have themselves to blame... and they are not relevant here."

What could he say?

Sam shrugged and gave me "that look." (Kind of pursed lips, head slightly tilted forward, looking at me with his piercing eyes up against his top eye lids) "You are being ridiculous." (I love the way he says ridiculous, with his accent, it always makes me melt just a little)

What could I say? I had been winy enough by that point. Smile.

Wednesday, June 04, 2014

Easily amused

My bulldog and my boyfriend snore in exactly the same way, it does amuse me. Maybe, I am easily amused? He is lying under my desk - my bulldog not my boyfriend - and I have my toes tucked under his tummy to keep them warm, while I work on my computer.

I have been scanning all of my family photos for quite some time. I was very nearly finished, so I can give 100 years of family photos to my brother and my sister. I was at the stage of transferring them all onto USB's for both of them. I have been doing it for the longest time and the end was definitely in sight. 

On the weekend, after cleaning up my study for the previous week, or so, I had found a few more photos, so I decided to scan them and add them to the collection. It was a great feeling, adding a few lost images to a huge collection. I originally scanned most of the photos on Mark's scanner, but since then I have bought my own scanner. As I added the new images, I realised that my new scanner is a trillion times better than Mark's old scanner on which I scanned the bulk of the photos. Damn! Shit! I was pissed off about it. The old scanner scanned the images into small pictures not unlike the originals. The new scanner turns them into big modern images in which all of the detail comes alive. Bugger!

I remember the exact moment that I decided what I had to do. It was on Sunday night, at David's birthday party, that the thought came into my mind. I have to rescan every one of the photos. Ur!

So that is what I have been doing this week. I still can't really believe it.

So I did a little OH&S on myself this morning, picking up my stuff from the coffee table and moving it to my newly cleaned study desk. Sitting on the floor at my coffee table all day is just giving me a sore neck and back.

So, here I am, gritted teeth - re what I now have to do - and all. The scanning is the relatively easy part of the project. It is the restoration of the 50 year old, 60 year old, and older images, that really takes all the time. That is the bit I love, I love the challenge of it. Even the most damaged photo can be photoshopped back to life. I love thinking about how a photo was taken, lets say in 1940, and how it has spent 74 years as a print, gathering 74 years of dirt and damage and I am able to use 21st century technology - technology the photographer never even dreamed of - to bring it back to life.

But to do it all again? Grrrr! My immanent sense of achievement has just evaporated, flown out that preverbal window.

Still, they are all dated, a lot of them to the day, and catalogued, that has also taken an inordinate amount of time and I don't have to do that again, so that is the bright side, the glass half full moment. Half of them were dated, as a lot of them were sent back home from overseas with a small description on the back. Others, I got my mum to tell me the year, before she declined into la la land. And other's I have made an informed guess, comparing clothes and cars and houses and peoples ages in photos of which I knew the dates. This was very important, as I have a whole portrait album of all of my relatives from the late part of the 19th century and the early part of the 20th century which doesn't have one name next to any photo. So while all of my relatives are superbly documented, 100 years later nobody knows who any of them are.

Originally, I was leaving the white boarders, for historical reasons and because that allows me to save those lovely soft edges of the image itself, which are so whimsical. But, now I am cutting them off, as it makes the image bigger and it makes it an image, rather than a scan of an old photo. I'm not sure which is best, I'm torn on the issue.

Okay... where was I?