Friday, July 31, 2015

Mazz's Last Day

I was up at 5.30am. It was dark. I wrote my blog until 7.30am, catching up on all the work gossip. I, actually, love my time writing in the morning.

I got to work just after 8am. Mazz was in agony sitting at her desk. She’d been standing on the train and it had jolted violently and had sent her back into spasm. She moved like someone whose back had seized up.

We had a state of the company talk first up, at 9.30. Mazz had taken pain killers by then and was floating in the air high above us all.

The CEO gave the talk. To start with he thanked the traditional owners – after some vigilant, politically correct, type who was sitting in the front row reminded him – and he gave the distinct impression he didn’t know who the traditional owners were.

Then One of The Execs got up and played fifty questions, the answers were all found in the CEO’s talk (yawn), with hand picked minions giving chocolates to the people who got the questions right. You know, that earnest, mind numbing, team building exercise that the sincere type of exec pulls who thinks they are doing some thing worth wile for the employees.

One of One of The Execs hand pick minions was The IncorrectPayment woman the latest employee with the massive incorrect payment going out to them. It was Kirin who did the calculations, another one of her fuck ups. I decided I wasn’t going to say anything about the incorrect payment to Kirin. We just had to get through Mazz’ last day without her mentioning it, which she didn’t, just by the way. The IncorrectPayment woman has never mentioned the variance in her payment, lets hope she doesn’t start now.

It was the path of least resistance. If I say nothing, I don’t have to do anything. If I say something, Kirin would make me do the calculations, chase it up and quite probably, she’d tell Paddington Bear that it was my fault, or, much more likely, Mass’ fault. This way, if an auditor picks it up, Kirin has no wriggle room to squirm out of it, or chance to blame somebody else. I hope that doesn’t happen, but I am purely thinking of myself here.

We had a morning tea after the state of the company address to wish Mazz good bye.

Mazz’ last day, it went quick in the end. Mazz, Kirin and I walked out at 4pm. We said good bye on the foot path as the sun shone. I waved good bye to Mazz as she walked away but she didn’t look back. Her willowy frame, in her oversized coat, headed along the street, leading with her hands, as she does, almost Doctor Seuss like. I will miss her. I will miss her smile and her positivity and her humour. I will miss her camaraderie, laughing with her, dishing on the staff who annoy us. I will miss the teamwork and the honesty and the fun we had. We made work fun together. I will miss that.
I went for a walk for an hour after work.

About ten minutes from home, my sister rang to say she’d drop in for a cup of tea before she went to the footy. She was home before I got home.

My brother in-law is considering buying a BMW 1 series. Apparently, it is one of the few cars left that you can get a manual gear box/diesel engine combination.



Sam made gorgeous soup for dinner. Tomato and vegetable with pork balls. Yum, yum.

Don't mention the OCD

Mazz doesn't like people mentioning her OCD. I mean, she doesn't have OCD, as such, but she, maybe, has a touch of it. I joke about it with her sometimes. I leave paperwork on my desk and I say to her just before I leave, "Hey Mazz, see all that paperwork strewn across my desk."

"Yes," she'll say.

"Don't worry about it, I'm going to be using it first thing in the morning."

"Damn you Christian " she says. She'll curse to the sky with her fingers outstretched.

And we'll both laugh.

She doesn't have OCD, she is just organised. There is a touch of the demonic about her organisation, granted, but it is just being smart and efficient and getting things done.

She and I are very procedurally driven at work that is why we get on so well. And we both have the same sense of humour, of course. And I make her cake, that is a big part of the reason. Ha ha. I do make her cake, that's not the funny part. We both love cake. I experiment making her gluten free cake, practising for when I have to cook for Sebastian.

A couple of days ago, Obese Olwyn (Oh, could you imagine sniffing those panties, it would be like wrapping a hammock around your face, I am sure) came around to see Kirin - she and Kirin are like that, I'm holding up my hand with my fingers crossed - and as she walked by Mazz's desk, she tipped over a pile of letters that Mazz had on the edge of her desk to be posted. "What does that do to your OCD?" asked Obese Olwyn.

Well, as you can imagine, Mazz was annoyed by her stupid act and by the insinuation and she corrected Obese Olwyn.

"I'm sorry, but I do not have OCD and quite frankly I find you saying that offensive," said Mazz. "Just because I am organised and efficient with what I do it doesn't mean..."

Obese Olwyn laughed, her fat jolly laugh. "Oh Relax, it was a joke."

"That is what I am trying to tell you, Olwyn, I don't find it funny, not at all."

Mazz sent Olwyn an apology email a bit later saying sorry if she over reacted.

The thing is, that is what Kirin says about Mazz, you know because Mazz is organised and procedure driven and Kirin is sloppy and slap dash. Quite clearly Obese Olwyn has got it from Kirin, which, to some people, could be construed as bullying. Mazz's manager Kirin shouldn't be saying such things to other staff members  no matter who that other staff member is.

Obese Olwyn is a pain in the arse, she is really loud and is always into everybody's business. You could say that she tackles office gossip like she tackles her food, whole heartedly. If I am over the other side of the office, I just don't seem to be able to have a conversation with anyone without Obese Olwyn throwing her 2 cents worth. 1 cent worth in. Yabbing-on uninvited.

She goes away on holidays with her parents, at 40, you know the type. She and her parents have just been on a cruise. I can imagine Obese Olwyn in her neck to knees standing forlornly on the deck gazing wistfully out to sea.

Thursday, July 30, 2015

Mortally Wounded And The Arrows Just Keep Coming

I was up at 5.45am. I knew I would be, essentially falling asleep at 9pm on the couch last night. I don’t really mind, I quite like getting up early, now a days, and writing.  I lay in bed in the dark for half an hour before I got up, listening to Sam snoring. I kind of like that time in the morning, all warm and dark and cosy.

There was one red dot of a coal left in the fireplace, when I came downstairs. I pulled my fire magic with small twigs and small pieces of wood and got it burning again. Lovely.

I wrote my journal. Caught up my blog. At night when the teli is going it is too hard to concentrate on writing, but it is quiet in the morning.


We have a huge error at work, which Mazz and I found on Tuesday. It is a repeat of an error we had previously, which (big boss) Remy made Kirin do an audit in January to assure him it would not happen again, was not happening still. Teflon (I say that ironically now) Kirin, of course, gave it to me to do. Or should I say, Pass the Buck Kirin gave it to me. What can I say, she is the boss. I produced a spreadsheet checking for errors on which this latest error was marked for Kirin’s attention. Kirin, who never really checks anything, didn’t look into it and now 7 months later is has raised its ugly head bigger and badder than ever before. Oh, I am not looking forward to that.

Auditing the system, that error was originally made by Kirin herself, but I audited to find it. It was all Kirin’s mistake though. And even though I did mark it for Kirin’s attention, I could have fixed it in January and now I am not really sure why I didn’t. But being the boss Kirin is responsible.

I have to tell Kirin about it today and, essentially, being in the mortally wounded position that she is in, it is going to be a really fucken big deal. She is struggling for her survival.

Wish me luck.


Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Hostilities Have Been Kept At Bay

I lay in bed for a bit thinking about work. I woke up thinking about it, I’m sure that isn’t good. I’m stressing about how I am going to cope, once Mazz has left. The two of us have been working flat out for two weeks to get everything done. 

Kirin has offered no help, none at all. I don’t know what she has been doing? There has been a lot of whispering with the HR staff. There has been a lot of standing at HR desks having, what looks like, secret conversations. Mazz and I reckon something major has gone wrong yet again for Kirin and she is trying to smooth it over. You know, since Kirin is, effectively, on her last warning with the company, and all. They don’t bring in the procedural auditors on you for no reason and that is what is happening to Kirin. Our big boss Remy didn’t tell me that until I had accepted the role, yeah, cheers, thanks a lot. Kirin knows and I know that that probably had a lot to do with Mazz slating her on her way out.

Why did I accept this job? Stupid me. Since I will really be the only person who knows all of the procedures, I probably would have got just as much work as a contractor training the new person, if I hadn't taken on the role, filling in in the role when the new person burnt out and gave up and training up the next new person, all the time not having the pressure or the responsibility.

I got up at 6.15am.

Kirin isn’t talking to Mazz, that was quite clear from when I first got to work today. It appeared Kirin wasn’t talking to me either. Kirin pulled me aside when we were along together at some stage and asked me if I had spoken to Jack. “No, not one word. I thought he would have called, but he hasn’t.”

“Not even to congratulate you?”

“No, nothing.”

(That is not entirely true, as Jack and I sent each other a couple of love letter emails saying thanks for being so special to the other. Sigh)

(Mazz was originally going to go and work for Jack, my boss Jack, they met up and had a discussion, but Mazz got a permanent role herself)

Kirin said that she’d heard from Guru Greta, who had been told by Jack that Mazz had to him that she was leaving (name of company) due to Kirin’s shonky work practices. Kirin is dark.

“Jack didn’t tell me, I haven’t spoken to him, he told Guru Greta and she told me,” said Kirin. “What has Mazz said to you?”

“Mazz hasn’t said that to me. She has only said that she wasn’t coping, that the workload is too great for one person, that it really needs 2 people to do the role properly,” I said. “And, you know, none of the staff get anything right, that sort of thing.” This is true, that is what Mazz has said.

“It is not good to have that out there, being said about you,” said Kirin. “Well, I am not going to take it up with her.”

And there you have it, Kirin, again, is not going to take it up with Mazz. So, what can you do?

I went back to my desk and looked at what I had messaged Mazz on my phone. I am careful not to put too much in writing. And there it was, Mazz saying to me that Kirin was doing something shonky. Oh, I could see it immediately. Mazz means bad procedures, not getting proper documentation that sort of stuff, she doesn’t mean anything illegal, she doesn't mean fraud. Anyway, I’m keeping my mouth shut. Kirin isn’t going to broach it with Mazz, so neither am I. I’m not that stupid. Kirin can do her own dirty work, again, she is the boss. I wonder if Kirin wants me to broach it with Mazz, maybe that is why she is mentioning it, because if I told Mazz I am sure she would want to set it straight with Kirin.

Kirin stayed dark until she left early, grunting a good bye at the 2 of us. Yay. Gotta love that in a work environment. She was sick last week and had 3 days off unusual for her and she still hasn’t really recovered. 


Or was she going for as job interview? Her name is mud in the company, she knows that, I know that, the bosses know that. Mazz has added to that by complaining to Big Boss Remy behind Kirin’s back. (He loves Mazz) Kirin knows that. Mazz Knows that. A cease fire has been maintained, or is that hostilities have been kept under strict control, as Mazz leaves on Friday.

We ate my favourite chicken curry for dinner.

I fell asleep on the couch at 9pm, I was exhausted, from the bitches at work bitching at each other. I woke up again at 11pm. We both went to bed then.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Three Brass Vases

I was up at 6.30am. I’ve been getting up early and writing fiction for my other blog. It is nice and quiet in the mornings if you get up early.

I got to work just after 8am. The first time I’d made it to work on time, since I became permanent. Well, I can only assume on time, as Kirin has said nothing about what hours she wants me to work. I worked it out myself, that if I want to continue to leave at 4.30pm, which is just a luxury, I need to get to work say around 8am. I’ve only managed it this morning for the first time. Kirin looked up this morning and said, “Did you wet the bed?” It wasn’t quite what I wanted to hear. I guess I should be grateful that my work environment is that laid back. I guess.

Mazz is leaving because she feels everything is done the wrong way at (name of company). She also says she can’t work with Kirin, as Kirin give her no support at all. Mazz also says that Kirin blames us for all the mistakes she makes. Our big boss Remy told Mazz this was the case.

I guess it is fair to say that Mazz thinks that Kirin is incompetent.

Mazz questioned why my email and my logons hadn’t been set up. Later in the day, Kirin said she had to fill out some form before my email would happen. Mazz just looked over at me.

Kirin seemed to be pissing around with who knows what all day, she even gave Mazz the variation report to do, which made Mazz sulky. Kirin seemed to be doing some sort of secret business all day with (name of company) HR, there were lots of whispers and the like.

Mazz and I kept saying to each other, “What is she doing?” We are the gang of 2 Mazz and I and even though I’d really like her to stay and it to be me and her, it isn’t going to be and I must remember that in the end, it is going to be Kirin and I. I should really be careful how much I say to Mazz. I mustn’t leave myself vulnerable to Mazz blurting it all out to Kirin on her way out the door at the end of the week. The end of this week, boo hoo.

We left work at 4.30pm. Fat Frankie got in the lift with Mazz and I and he commented about the two of us leaving on time, which was really unusual.

“There is 2 of us,” I said. That’s it, of course, there is 2 of us. Mazz and I have been working solidly to get out on time.

I went for a walk for an hour after work.

We ate stir-fired vegies for dinner.

We watched Go Back To Where You Came from, until about 11.30pm. Makes you kind of ashamed to be Australian watching the racist types, but then one of them has a change of hart and it was only the awful bitch from Queensland who was left being a bigot, so it made me feel good again about Aussies.

I now have 3 brass vases on the mantelpiece. One has been there forever with the back door key in it. Not all that long ago when we were cleaning out the boxes up stairs of stuff that past resident have left, I found the larger brass vase and it joined the smaller one on the mantelpiece. Even more recently, when we were walking Buddy in George Street and one of the houses was having a garage sale in the front yard, I bought a rather attractive shiny brass bottle that joined the other two on the mantelpiece and then there were three. Well, I cleaned the second vase to join the ranks, as it was really, badly tarnished. Now, it shines unnaturally and makes the other 2 look very dull. I guess I am going to have to clean the other 2 now, which is not really what I want. I like the patina. It was just that the one I did clean was so terrible. I just wanted it to look a little better, not the shining beacon it turned into. Grrr. Maybe, if I clean them all one, then they will naturally tarnish back to kind of a dull shine? Maybe?


Monday, July 27, 2015

Abolish Compulsory Voting

I think we should abolish compulsory voting in this country. Therefore, one would assume, that only the intelligent people would vote. It would change the political landscape for the better. It would stop such legislation as Tony Abbott's refugee and border security legislation having an effect. It would stop politicians appealing to the scared, base element in our society.

Sunday, July 26, 2015

How do you like a couple of dicks on your footpath


Spelling Bee

Children in a spelling bee? We have officially run out of ideas. Really? What version of this tired old show is this?

It's called a vehicle for channel 10 personalities, not entertainment for the viewers.

Saturday, July 25, 2015

ReClAim Australia

I've been reading the Reclaim Australia Facebook page, it is like a dirty little secret. It is jam packed with self righteous idiots, it is throughly astounding. I think maybe it is giving me an idea of what a character I might write would say if I wanted to portray the uneducated and the ignorant. OMG! So much stupidity, so much ignorance. Still, I guess, the dumb, white trash needs to have a group to belong to too. I am always amused by their spelling mistakes and their sketchy grasp of English grammar, ironically, a lot of them write as though English is their second language.

These people are what Tony Abbott wipes his arse with to stay in power.

Looking at the Reclaim Australia Facebook page is like a car crash, I try to look away but the scope of ignorance is breath taking and it keeps luring me back, like looking at a car wreck with a decapitated corpse hanging from the drivers door bleeding onto the road. It is at the same time tantalising and obscene. 

Wow. It is stupidity in a blaze of glory. It is just not something I see every day. Sadly, it is just not something I ever thought I'd hear Australian's saying, Well, maybe in the 1950s under Menzies White Australia Policy. We will have to stop knocking America for its southern rednecks now.

One of the devotees told me, we shall call her Tina, because that is her name, Go find a page that you can relate to and leave this one alone! (I hear Pauline Hanson whenever I read their stuff, male of female it doesn't matter)(there was another one on The Project last night, they all have that same northern Queensland, I-repeat-everything-my-mammy-told-me-without-thinking, kind of accent. You know they are going to be big on the war and the queen, god's country and all of that. You know they will answer with, "It just isn't right," when they have a question they can't answer) I guess there is a certain part of me that has to check that it is actually real. It is like going to the zoo and standing in front of the lion's cage, I might want to poke them to hear the sound of their growl, but I don't want to get into the cage with them.

There is no understanding that radicalisation of Australian Muslims is made possible by how non-Muslim Australian's treat the Muslim youth. Meaning that the treatment that Muslim youth get from groups like Reclaim Australia and the propaganda from such places as the Murdoch Press is why Australian children are fighting for something they weren't necessarily raised to believe. In short, it is Reclaim Australia's behaviour that makes radicalisation of Australian Muslim youth easy. But, you know, that would take some sophistication of thought, now wouldn't it.

These people are, at least in part, the problem, they and the Liberal Parties policies, are driving the radicalisation of Muslim Youth as much as anything else. Really, it could be argued that Tony Abbott is creating the perfect storm of terrorism with his self serving security legislation. It is this sort of stupidity that will say, "See, I told you so," when a terrorist act happens, not realising that his actions were, at least in part, a driving force behind it.

The genesis for the Muslim State was, to a large extent, created by the West invading Iraq.

Ignorance begets ignorance. Hatred begets hatred. Bigotry begets bigotry.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Love In Dark Places

Piss and shit and puss and vomit – you are getting fucked mindlessly at 3am blind drunk off your mind – you are spewing in the garden as the guy who just fucked you wipes your shit off his cock. Your phlegm is sprayed across the grass glistening in the moon light. He has sticky shit skin fingers, you can see them sticking together when you look back. His wedding ring is gold, occasionally glinting in the dim light. You have vomit flavoured, sour breath, you can taste it. He has a sticky foreskin with raisons of your shit under it. What can you say, this was unexpected. If you'd known, you'd have come prepare, still, it didn't slow him down any, now did it, he got right in there. Fuck it felt good, getting opened up like the little bitch that you are. You can see his choc chip knob as he pulls his foreskin back. He tries to shake it off. The smell of your shit is in the air.

He looks up at you with those eyes. Sexy or menacing? The eyes of a lover, or a psychopath, you are really not sure. You think they are the reason you liked him. The way he looked at you. Was it menacing, or commanding? It was the eyes, it had to be, as he wasn't much of a talker.

The wind blows cold in the dark. Bitter is the wind at 3.30am.

You shiver cold in the night. You start to say something, you don't know what. Words. Just say something.

He calls you a dirty faggot, before you feel his fist in your face. Crack! Bone hitting bone, that's what you feel. A sudden impact, unexpected. You stagger backwards. Dazed. You bring your hand to your face, automatically. Your face is wet, also kind of sticky, like treacle. It is numb, you can't feel it, the blood on your hands. You look passed your hand to see the back of your guy disappearing across the oval towards the darkness of the trees and then out of sight.

You are alone on in the park in the early hours of the morning with your jeans and jocks around your ankles, wiping the sleeve of your hoodie across your wet stub of a nose. Cum oozes from your cock now shrivelled the size of a footy frank.

The frost on the grass is making your shoes wet. There is a breeze blowing up the backs of your legs. Up the stretched hole in your arse. You almost laugh at that thought, but you don't. You grab the waistband of your jeans and jocks and you pull them up together. None of it is fitting you exactly right, material is sticking to you in odd places and is seemingly caught in other places. You don't care, suddenly you want to do is to get out of there. You button your trousers and pull your hoodie over your head.

A group of boys yell something from the other side of the oval. You freeze. Still, like a gazelle in the cold hard gaze of the hunter. It's just the usual 4am drunk stuff. They are yelling at the night, not you, you see that. They can't see the semen dribbling out of your arse, cock and the corner of your mouth. What they'd do if they could, hey? You stuff your bloody hands into your pockets and walk quickly to the perimeter of the cleared grass to the safety of the trees. Across the clearing in the opposite direction to the latest intruders. Just in case, you never know. Turn and walk away.

You relax when you are out of the hard gaze of the open night. Your steps quicken though, as the cover of trees brings it's own fear. Nobody can see you in the darkness of the shadows. Nobody can see you cry in the dark. The tears and blood and snot, are running down your face hidden in the shadows. You wipe your sleeve across your face again. Your nose hurts now at your touch. You hurry to get out of the night. You fart and shit your pants in your haste.

The elms line the pathway in lines like sentinels. The pathways cross the grass crisscross. The park lights fall in pools intermittently. The more brightly lit street glows in the distance, up ahead, like a mirage, seemingly momentarily out of reach. You quicken your pace to make the unreachable reachable.

The street is deserted except for streetlights standing along the road, the light, golden fluid, sweeping out from each pole like a full skirt. You look right, a delivery truck turns off the main road, you look left, a cat runs across the road and disappears. You head down the street.

"What are you doing out so late, man?" He is suddenly walking next to you, appearing out of nowhere.

You recoil. "Nothing. Heading home." Where the fuck did he come from?

“Holly shit, look at you, man, look at you. You’re bleeding man, bleeding. What happened to you, man? What happened to you? You’re bleeding. Bleeding.”

You cover your face with your sleeve. “Nothing,” you mumble from behind it. “Nothing happened.”

“Something happened mate, something happened. Nothing didn’t happen. Something happened.”

“Nothing mate?” you say. This guy is sped up on something. You want him to go away. You want to lose him, you contemplate walking fast, you contemplate running.

“Something happened man, something happened, something happened. Clearly something happened…”

“Leave me alone…” Is he going to fuck you over too, you think.

“Why you shitting on me mate, why? I’m just asking the question.”

“I got hit, okay. I got… I got…” Tears come, you don’t want them to, but you well up.

Suddenly, there is something white flashing in your peripheral vision. “Here mate. Here.”

He is offering you a large, white, crisp handkerchief. “No,” you say.

“Take it, mate. Take it, mate. I want you… I want you… I want you to have it.” He hands it to you in a great flourish like ribbon twirling. “You are bleeding man. Take it.”

You take the handkerchief, you don’t really know why. You wipe it across your face. The dry blood crusts on the white material like red dust.

This is turning out to be the weirdest night. When you were sitting watching your TV at midnight and there was nothing on, you wished you’d gone to bed, as your still small voice had told you to do.

“Tell me what happened man? Tell me what happened?”

“Nothing.” You wish he’d stop asking. What do you say?

“Tell me what happened man? Tell me what happened?”

“Nothing!”

“Tell me!”

“Nothing!”

“Tell me!”

“A guy punched me… okay… after he fucked me…” That just slipped out. “Okay.”

“Then he threw you out?” He sounded incredulous.

“No…”

“No?”

“No!” What do you say?

“No? I don’t get it.”

“There was no out.”

“No out?” He pulled a quizzical face.

“We were out. In the park. We fucked in the park.”

He looked surprised. Big eyes, like he is putting it together in his head. “In the park? You guys have sex in the park?”

“Yes.”

“You meet in the park?” He holds his hands in the air as if a question.

“In the park?

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“No strings attached?

“No strings attached.”

He looks at you with big eyes. “You lucky bastard.”

“What?”

“You lucky bastard! I want to have sex...”

“Huh?”

“Not with you.” He hesitates. “Not that there is anything wrong with you, man,” he holds up his hands “you seem, you seem very nice. But I like girls.” He shrugs. “If I liked dudes, I’d have sex with you,” he looks you up and down. “I’m sure, I’m sure it would be great, you’re nice looking and all, except for the…” He circles his face with his finger. “But without that, you and me, no worries.” He laughs. You wonder if he really is propositioning you. “But you need, you know, you need, let’s face it, you need a… a vagina.” He laughs. “I like girls… with vaginas. I wish they’d fuck in the park.”

You laugh. It just comes out.

He laughs nervously.

“Was it some kind of sex game?”

“What?”

“You’re face?” he scrunches up his face. He balls his fist and punches the air.

“No.”

“Do you guys punch each other to get off?”

“No.” You hear your voice sound incredulous.

“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know what you guys do, you know, I’m just asking, you know, just being friendly.

“He was just a fuckwit…”

“I don’t, you know, oh except when I was 12 with Stephen Roth, in his tree house, in Box Hill, but that was just kids stuff and I’m sure that’s not what you guys do.”

“Married guys, they are just like that sometimes,” you say.

“Married guys?”

“Yeah.”

“You and married guys?”

“Yeah, lots of married guys in parks.”

“Holly shit,” he says. “With wives, married guys?”

“Yes.” Fuck it, you think, why not tell him, he seems to want to know. “Once they cum, the guilt kicks in and sometimes they lash out.”

The traffic lights at Alexander Parade turn green your way and the little green man lights up and you and your new best buddy continue walking across the wide road.

“That’s the thing with guys that I’ve always wondered about, you know, two guys, I’ve never known some to ask, but isn’t it messy? Don’t you mess the bed, you know, with all that jizz?”

“If you have been doing it right,” you say. You laugh.

He laughs.

He’s kind of funny, you think. He’s not bad looking either.

“What have you been doing?” you ask.

“Oh, you know, hanging out,” he says. “Smoking pipes with my buddy, in North Fitzroy. Can’t you tell?”

“Yeah, maybe,” you say. “Maybe I can tell.”

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

I Just Fucked Your Bitch

Piss and shit and puss and vomit – you are getting fucked mindlessly at 3am blind drunk off your mind – you are spewing in the garden as the guy who just fucked you wipes your shit off his cock. Your phlegm is sprayed across the grass glistening in the moon light. He has sticky shit skin fingers, you can see them sticking together when you look back. His wedding ring is gold, occasionally glinting in the dim light. You have vomit flavoured, sour breath, you can taste it. He has a sticky foreskin with raisons of your shit under it. What can you say, this was unexpected. If you'd known, you'd have come prepare, still, it didn't slow him down any, now did it, he got right in there. Fuck it felt good, getting opened up like the little bitch that you are. You can see his choc chip knob as he pulls his foreskin back. He tries to shake it off. The smell of your shit is in the air. 

He looks up at you with those eyes. Sexy or menacing? The eyes of a lover, or a psychopath, you are really not sure. You think they are the reason you liked him. The way he looked at you. Was it menacing, or commanding? It was the eyes, it had to be, as he wasn't much of a talker.

The wind blows cold in the dark. Bitter is the wind at 3.30am.

You shiver cold in the night. You start to say something, you don't know what. Words. Just say something.


He calls you a dirty faggot, before you feel his fist in your face. Crack! Bone hitting bone, that's what you feel. A sudden impact, unexpected. You stagger backwards. Dazed. You bring your hand to your face, automatically. Your face is wet, also kind of sticky, like treacle. It is numb, you can't feel it, the blood on your hands.  You look passed your hand to see the back of your guy disappearing across the oval towards the darkness of the trees and then out of sight.

You are alone on in the park in the early hours of the morning with your jeans and jocks around your ankles, wiping the sleeve of your hoodie across your wet stub of a nose. Cum oozes from your cock now shrivelled the size of a footy frank.

The frost on the grass is making your shoes wet. There is a breeze blowing up the backs of your legs. Up the stretched hole in your arse. You almost laugh at that thought, but you don't. You grab the waistband of your jeans and jocks and you pull them up together. None of it is fitting you exactly right, material is sticking to you in odd places and is seemingly caught in other places. You don't care, suddenly you want to do is to get out of there. You button your trousers and pull your hoodie over your head.

A group of boys yell something from the other side of the oval. You freeze. Still, like a gazelle in the cold hard gaze of the hunter. It's just the usual 4am drunk stuff. They are yelling at the night, not you, you see that. They can't see the semen dribbling out of your arse, cock and the corner of your mouth. What they'd do if they could, hey? You stuff your bloody hands into your pockets and walk quickly to the perimeter of the cleared grass to the safety of the trees. Across the clearing in the opposite direction to the latest intruders. Just in case, you never know. Turn and walk away.

You relax when you are out of the hard gaze of the open night. Your steps quicken though, as the cover of trees brings it's own fear. Nobody can see you in the darkness of the shadows. Nobody can see you cry in the dark. The tears and blood and snot, are running down your face hidden in the shadows. You wipe your sleeve across your face again. Your nose hurts now at your touch. You hurry to get out of the night. You fart and shit your pants in your haste.

The elms line the pathway in lines like sentinels. The pathways cross the grass crisscross. The park lights fall in pools intermittently. The more brightly lit street glows in the distance, up ahead, like a mirage, seemingly momentarily out of reach. You quicken your pace to make the unreachable reachable.

The street is deserted except for streetlights standing along the road, the light, golden fluid, sweeping out from each pole like a full skirt. You look right, a delivery truck turns off the main road, you look left, a cat runs across the road and disappears. You head down the street.
What a pair, Dumb, and Dumber

Monday, July 20, 2015

The Rock and Roll Lead Singer

I thought Adam Lambert was a great choice as Queen front man. I was a little excited about it. However, I was listening to him fronting Queen and I thought, interestingly, he didn't quite cut it. His voice isn't quite unique enough fronting a big rock band, it became kind of generic sounding, generic rock singer. Adam Lambert has an amazing voice, but some how out the front of Queen it became kind of ordinary rock singer voice. 

Then I thought, he is replacing the greatest rock singer ever, so even if he came in second, so to speak, it is still pretty good. Hey?

Then I thought, of course, the greatest rock singer ever is still very much alive and still treating the boards singing his lungs out, so Adam Lambert comes in 3rd, I guess that is not a bad place to be.

It is just hard to listen to somebody other than Freddie Mercury out the front of Queen. Freddie, Freddie, Freddie, you are irreplaceable.

Actually, Paul Rodgers fronted Queen for a time and I liked him better than Adam Lambert too.

Sunday, July 19, 2015

Corner Shop

Saturday, July 18, 2015

Corner Shop

Friday, July 17, 2015

Shiny black Jaguar

Thursday, July 16, 2015

Daffodils

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

This is where change.org fails us all.

This is where change.org fails us all. No good is going to come out of this for anybody.

This is pretty sad really and I think the sadder thing is that the majority of Australian's would now agree with this. I think because successive Australian governments have played to our fears and used law and order as a political tool we have become a mean and vindictive society. Sure, this guy did a terrible thing, but this is about him being allowed to work and study in prison, this is not about him being let out of prison. A prisoner asking for privileges after serving 23 years in prison is not a sign the prison system is broken. 

I would suggest that Christine Simpson needs to find better things to do with her time. Maybe, she could go and work with the poor, or prisoners even to fill the hole that the lost of her daughter created. The only way to get over such a tragedy is to forgive the person who committed the crime, otherwise it just eats you up, as I think we can see here.

(It is also interesting to read the comments on change.org, most of them are full of spelling mistakes, written by people who, shall we say, have a very limited grasp of english grammar)



NSW Premier: my 9 year old daughter was raped and killed – don't allow her murderer insulting new privileges
Christine Simpson Australia

My name is Christine Simpson. My 9 year old daughter Ebony was walking home from her school bus when a cowardly paedophile named Andrew Garforth abducted, raped, bound her arms and legs and threw her into a dam.

The Supreme Court sentenced this monster to life in prison. That was 23 years ago – but now it's come to my attention that his status has been 'downgraded' to a medium security prisoner, getting new privileges like doing woodwork courses and get a job in prison.

Few people understand the pain of losing a child especially not in the circumstances of how we lost Ebony. As a parent, you NEVER get over it. The only solace we take is hoping that Andrew Garforth is living in a worse hell than the one he created for us. The thought that he can do courses or get a job is offensive to us as well as to the millions of Australians who expect more from our justice system.

Please sign my petition to Premier Mike Baird. He has the power to intervene and reverse this decision – to give my family some peace and ensure the justice system doesn't allow rapist, killers like Andrew Garforth insulting new privileges.

Yours faithfully

Christine Simpson

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Sunset Over Fitzroy


Walking passed the flats in Napier Street, the sky looked "just so" as the sun dipped in the west. Buddy scampered along with his nose down sniffing like dogs do and he didn't notice at all. The colours were quite lovely, really, yellows, oranges and blues. There was a chill in the air, which is always the best air to be walking in, especially with an enthusiastic bulldog leading the way.

Saturday, July 11, 2015

The Afternoon Light


I try to go for a walk for an hour every night after work and I nearly do it 5 days a week, and some times on the weekends too. 7 days a week is my goal, even if a day off here and there is good too. Last night, as I walked passed the Exhibition gardens the light was so perfect, big city light, I guess, that I wanted to capture it. I think this photo nearly did. I really needed a wide angle lens and if I'd thought quicker, I'd have panorama'd it, but I was in exercise mode and I didn't do that.

Friday, July 10, 2015

Don't Touch Your Face

Mazz's was talking about her mother taking her to the agricultural show when she was a kid, her mother would tell her that everything was covered in germs and bacteria.

"Don't touch your face," Mazz's mother used to tell her. "Don't touch your face."

Mazz mimicked her mother, when she said she felt like she was getting a cold. It was very telling, that one sentence explained an awful lot. I'm not sure why, may it was the way Mazz said it, you know, that moment of honesty.

Mazz has all sorts of hypochondriacal worries, which suddenly made sense. Funny about that, when your mother warned you not to touch your face when you may have come in contact with germs, that you'd grow up to have concerns about your health.

I find it interesting.

Mazz practically introduces herself as gluten intolerant. I went to buy her a coffee and she told me she needed Zymil, as lactose doesn't agree with her. The cafe was out of Zymil, so I got her almond milk thinking that was the closest to lactose free and she told me that she had to be careful with nuts and she wouldn't drink it.

I guess, it is interesting for me, as my mum told me it was good to get dirty. "A bit of dirt never hurt anyone," said my mum. "In fact, it gives you immunity, if it does anything."

And if I ever tried to pull a sickie from school.
"Mum, I don't feel well..."
"Go to school and you will feel better."
"Mum, I think I am dying..."
"Get to school and you'll recover," my mum would say. "Nobody ever dies at school."

Thursday, July 09, 2015

Life Is Too Short, Indeed

I work with two characters from Inside Out, Angry and Miserable. I like them both, as it turns out. It can be quite draining, though. As I headed out the front door at 4.30pm today, I broke into a chorus of Cabaret, 

"Come to the cabaret old chum. Come to the cabaret..." 

I'm not sure what possessed me, exactly. The fresh air, the sunshine, the end of the day. As I ran across Victoria Parade, I felt a spring in my step. Tra la la. As I scampered across the grass median strip in the middle I thought, Life is too short to be too glum and I crossed the tram tracks and very nearly got hit by a tram.

Life is too short, indeed.

My team I have Angry and Miserable (that's Mazz, who is actually the most positive upbeat person I have ever met, but this is what she has been reduced to)

In another team there is Happy (meant ironically), Cranky and Snappy (as in quick to anger and not smartly dressed, you understand)

And the third team, oh the third team. Ninny (who I live), Always Right and Hopeless. Fat Guts Carol Brady, Barbie and Flakey, in charge.

Life is too short.

I've trained (boyfriend) Sam well to photograph cars he sees that I might like


I want one of these in my toy box


Tuesday, July 07, 2015

Am I Mad, Or What?

I’ve been back at the job I was at for six months for the end of last year and the beginning of this year, now helping out with a merger with another company.

I worked with Kerin and her throwing in the towel and resigning. Poor Kerin, with just a little bit more support, she would have been good.

I was there for them hiring Mazz ahead of me early in the year.

Mazz resigned yesterday and I was offered her job. A permanent job. I don’t much like them, permanent jobs. They don't tend to go well for me, more often than not I find those in positions of power over me are, at best, only interested in themselves, often dishonest, and at worst borderline psychotic. It is a sad indictment on working life, but one I have found it to be true. Consequently, I like having all care and no responsibility. I like being able to move on never getting caught up in the politics of a permanent job, in the psycho drama as I like to call it. But, this job is walking distance from home and I can wear casual clothes, no suits. It just seemed appealing to settle down for a moment, so it seemed crazy not to take it.

I dreamt about what it mean to me deep down to accept this job. I dreamt about being told not to go “there,” not to go into that “room,” not to do “that,” not to go down "there," all the don’t do stuff, all night. What do you think it meant?

I got up at 7am. Sam got up not long after.

I thought about getting to work by 8am, I managed 8.15. Sam and I set off to work together. Sam doesn’t like his new job, he wants to resign.

I told Kirin that I accept the job, it is on a 6 month contract, but with the anticipation that it will be extended to permanent after the six months is completed. It makes no difference if it isn't, I can simply go back to my assignment work if it is not.

I accepted a job in which I will become the 4th person in the position in the last twelve months. Kylie was sacked and walked off the premises. Kerin resigned when she wanted to walk out into the traffic rather than go back into the office. Mazz says she has never been more stressed out, or worn down in her whole life and never has she felt more relief than after she resigned. So what can be said to be the common factor in all of this? Kirin. Kirin who, Mazz and I acknowledge between the two of us, blames other people for her mistakes, who tells our big boss, Remy, that her mistakes are her subordinate’s mistakes.

The truth is that Mazz is very anal about procedures and process’, which is a great thing, certainly nothing really to be criticised for, but she finds it difficult to cope if things aren’t done just so, and that is certainly the story Kirin is telling our boss, Remy.

“She can’t cope when things go wrong,” says Kirin, “so much so that I just don’t think this kind of role even suits her.”

The truth is that Mazz does find those things difficult, especially when she doesn’t have any support.


So, why am I thinking I am different? Mazz and Kerin were relatively inexperienced and as far as I can see, having never worked with her, Kylie was, perhaps, incompetent.

I don’t really believe that Kirin can be trusted completely. She really knows her stuff, but she borders on slap dash with her inability to check things properly. She has a tendency to blame those working for her for the mistakes that occur because she doesn’t check the things she should check. Eventually, the subordinate is so weighed down with Kirin’s mistakes and excuses that they are crushed under the weight of it all, Kerin and Mazz would say.

Mazz confirmed this by going directly to Remy behind Kirin’s back and questioning him about all the issues in our department.

Kirin doesn’t really seem to have a complete idea what it is that those working for her have to do and what responsibilities they have to carry. She doesn’t really have a good idea about her subordinate’s workload.

I know that. I have stepped into this space full knowing these facts.

Mazz and I laughed about the dreams I’d had.

Di came in from (My current contracting company) also to help out with aspects of the merger. Di and Kirin are old slapper buddies from way back. I don’t know why, but Mazz tried to talk to Di about her situation. Mazz said later when she walked back to our desks, Di and Kirin were chatting but shut up when they saw Mazz coming. Mazz said she saw Kirin say, “She’s coming.”

Kirin and Di are, essentially, (am I bad) a couple of old smoking boguns together.

I don’t know about Kirin? I like her. It would be disappointing if she said awful things about us all, if she was disingenuous, behind our backs. I wonder if she battles through and we are all just collateral damage making her look good.

Some times I wonder? Consequently, I’m not sure if I could ever trust her. But then again, we aren’t friends, we are we colleagues, in fact we are boss and subordinate. She’s the boss and maybe Mazz and I are just forgetting that. The problem is that Kerin’s and Mazz’s story is that Kirin just isn’t a very good boss. I reserve my judgment.


I can't complain too much. I have always been a lazy arse and I have continually run away from the boss's job. My old manager always said it was like working with another manager. Pity, I have always shied away from it. I always wanted to do different things, I always wanted to be a writer instead of a manager. Actually, it is all the meetings and all the exec arse kissing that managers have to do from which I have always run away.

Monday, July 06, 2015

Gorgeous Fitzroy

Lovely Carlton

Sunday, July 05, 2015

Gay Marriage One Term Tony's Liberal Party Style

“Sacred right of a man and a woman,” says One Term Tony. “Why doesn’t the world get it?”

“What are we going to do! What are we going to do! What are we going to do?” shrieks Mincing Poodle Pyne.

“Why can’t we just tell the truth…” says One Term Tony.

“I’m sorry?” says Angry Joe.

“What do you mean?” squeaks Poodle Pyne.

“You are not making any sense,” says Everyone-Is-Entitled-to-be-a-bigot Abetz.

“Say that again?” says Gerbil-of-a-Thing Joyce.

“Why do we have to say anything?” says I-Know-Nothing Morrison. “We should keep it secret.”

“That our Lord and saviour says no to it,” says One Term Tony. "It is an abomination according to god and the scriptures."

“No!” growls Angry Joe

“No!” yaps Poodle Pyne.

“No!” says Everyone-Is-Entitled-to-be-a-bigot Abetz.

“No!” says Gerbil-of-a-Thing Joyce.

“No!” says I-Know-Nothing Morrison.

“Then why can’t we tell them it will increase terrorism?” says One Term Tony.

“Nothing is working,” says Old Man Andrews.

“Cory’s bestiality reference didn’t fly,” says I-Know-Nothing-Morrison.

“The fad thing didn’t work either, no one is buying that,” says Angry Joe.

“I still think that children deserve the best start in life should work,” says Everyone-Is-Entitled-to-be-a-bigot Abetz.

"The security of knowing their biological parents and the diversity of male and female role models, no one is buying that now,” says Silver Fox Turnbull. “And please don’t trot out the polygamy thing aaagain.

“So what can we say now?” asks One Term Tony. “Now that America has gone and lets us down so badly.”

“The whole world is turning gay,” shrieks Poodle Pyne. “What are we to do?”

“It’s not looking good,” says One Term Tony. “The whole world is caving in.”

“Not in Asia,” says Everyone-Is-Entitled-to-be-a-bigot Abetz.

‘No, no, no, no, no, Asia hasn’t,” says Gerbil-of-a-Thing Joyce.

“Yes,” says One Term Tony. “Give that a go. Asia isn’t buying it, so how can we be expected to.”

“I like it,” says Everyone-Is-Entitled-to-be-a-bigot Abetz.

“It might work,” shrieks Poodle Pyne.

“It’s good,” says One Term Tony. “Asia, Asia, yes Asia, we’re going to go with that. Ar Ar Ar Ar Ar Ar.”

“They’ll see us as…” says Gerbil-of-a-Thing Joyce.

“A bigot,” says Everyone-Is-Entitled-to-be-a-bigot Abetz. “A bigot!”

“No, that will never fly,” says Gerbil-of-a-Thing Joyce.

“Can we link it to breast cancer,” says Everyone-Is-Entitled-to-be-a-bigot Abetz. “Gay marriage causes breast cancer!”


“We don’t want to look like bigots,” says One Term Tony.

“Fixers,” shrieks Poodle Pyne.

“Rich,” Angry Joe calls out.

“Decadent,” says Gerbil-of-a-Thing Joyce. “They’ll see us as Decadent.

“Decadent. Ar Ar Ar Ar Ar Ar, I like it,” says One Term Tony. “We can’t legalise poofs getting married because it will threaten our trading partners in Asia because they will see us as decadent. Yes!”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” says Silver Fox Turnbull.

“We’re going with that,” says One Term Tony. “We’re going with that. Asia is the problem.”

Saturday, July 04, 2015

That explains it then

I was waiting for it. I wondered how long it would be before that murdered footy coach's son was said to have been on Ice when he stabbed his father. I think it took less than 24 hours, and there it was on the front of the news paper today. I am not even sure if it ever has to be proven, in our drama ridden society, I think it only has to be suggested.

Sage-like nod. "Did you hear the son was on ice." 

"Oh." Knowing look. Nod nod. 

(That explains it then)

Does that give us comfort, there is the explanation, or drama, that is the explanation, I'm not sure.

The big boogey men of the 21st Century.

The new catch phrases, that as a society we, seemingly, couldn't live without. I'm not sure if we have just become incredibly lazy, you know, something to do with the modern sound bite? Is it the dumbing down of society, everything gotten for its least cost. In an increasing technologically driven world we seem to only understand the 3 word slogan. Our pathological liar of a prime minister took it to a whole new level where it just had to be a slogan and it didn't even have to be true. All style and no substance, that is what will mark Tony Abbott's prime ministership, but I digress.

Anybody who is drug effected is on Ice.

Any act of a madman is a terrorist attack.

Anybody bitten by a dog was attacked by a pitbull.

Maybe, we always need the bad guy? Maybe, we always need the enemy? Maybe we need that to function as a society? Maybe we need that to feel safe. There is the danger and there are the people who are going to save us from that danger, clearly defined, today namely it is Tony Abbott and his police state. I am beginning to wonder.

Thursday, July 02, 2015

Terminally ill Martin Clunes.

We've got a new guy in our office who looks just like Martin Clunes, if Martin Clunes was terminally ill. It makes me chuckle whenever I see him, not because he is sick, as he isn't sick, well, not that I know of, but because he really does look like a skinny, underfed version of Martin Clunes. He has big jug ears, almost too big for his head, receding blond hair and a big smiley mouth. 

We often develop nick names for employees, just for when we talk about them, there's dancing boy, fat frankie, cutey bum - actually, I keep that one to myself - and ponytail. You can guess what his - um, in fact, I don't even know what his real name is, now that I think about it - nick name is, Skinny Martin. Actually, he gets the full monkier, Terminally ill Martin Clunes.

Wednesday, July 01, 2015

How hard is it to buy oil?

We'd walked to Victoria Street and done all the grocery shopping and we'd walked all the way home with bags in each hand. It is pretty much our Sunday routine now a days. He always complains about the weight of the bags, especially if I picked up my bags myself.

I can see him gazing at what I am carrying and I can almost see the mental calculations clicking over in his brain that he is making re the weight of each bag. Then he starts, “Um, I think you have lighter bags…”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, then you wont mind me testing them, will you?” 


I ask him if it has now become his game to fill the time on the walk home and he'll ask again if he can feel the weight of the bags I am carrying. So, I always let him do the bag distribution before we set off for home now otherwise he is impossible. He'll complain all the way home that I have the lighter bags to carry, otherwise.

The fact is that he won’t let us buy a trolley, either. Too nana, he says. “What are you, a pussy?”

This is despite the fact that we have sore hands, arms and backs by the time we make it home carrying those shopping bags and despite his complaining.


Finally, I sat back down at my computer to continue sorting out my poems. I’d sorted my poem workbook for April to June, so I could print them all. 70 something pages for the first 6 months of 2015. How do I get them all printed surreptitiously at work with Mazz and Kirin sitting close to the printer? Kirin doesn't care, she takes no notice, but since Mazz is a bit OCD she will sometimes want to know what I am doing. 

I’d finished off all of the poem fragments I’d had cluttering up the second half of my work book, so I’d decided to put them all on my blog, which completed the last 10 days of June. The last poem was a little weak, so I’d thought of some nonsense verses for it, I was keen to work on it. Sometimes I fancy myself as a modern day Dr Seuss, ha ha.

Then I remembered, around 5pm, after we'd done all of the shopping, that I’d promised Mazz I’d make her a chocolate cake to cheer her up. She's been stressing out over the huge number of hours she has put in for EOFY. She told me recently she is going to resign in a few months and head to Canada and the US to do some travelling.

“I was going to make Mazz a chocolate cake, I forgot,” I said to Sam. I shrugged. “Oh well, too late.”

“You could still make it,” said Sam. "You have plenty of time." My body ached at the thought.

“I guess I could.” I could. I would. I, essentially, promised her. I should, yes, I should. A promise is still a promise, no matter how comfortable you have got yourself late on a Sunday. Oh bugger it.

"You were supposed to say don't worry about it," I said.

Sam looked up giving me a look. "Off you go." He pointed towards the front door with his usual flourish of his wrist.

I’d done plenty of walking, Buddy, the shopping, so I decided to drive. Sam's eye brows raised when I said I was going to drive.

"You are going to drive to the shop?"

"Yes, I've done my exercise for the day."

I continued to get the raised eye brows.

"Do you want any thing?"

"Some oil, I want oil. If you are going to drive you can get me a large bottle." 

"Okay honey."

"Maybe some bread for my breakfast." Sam doesn't like cereal, so breakfast is always a little challenging for him.

It takes longer to back the car out than the actual drive itself. 1 minute, maybe, the car doesn't even warm up.

There was a 4 litre bottle of oil on special, but the shelf was empty. It was 25 cents per litre, or is that 100 grams? It is the standardised price, whatever that was, I don't know, but it sounded good. Just as I saw this, and the empty shelf, a young Woollies guy came around the corner.

“This oil that is on special has run out, would you have any more out the back?”

“Um, er, I don’t know.”

Not keen, I see. “Can you check?” I asked.

“I don’t think we’d have any, if it is on special.” He shook his head. I gathered the head shaking was referring to weather he was, actually, going to go and look.

Really not keen, I see! “Oh, well how do I find out?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I am not sure... Um, er...”

Goodness me, surely that is a relatively easy question. “Well, who does know?”

He looked unsure, or unwilling, I wasn’t quite sure what. We were at the end of the isle closest to all of the registers. He looked out to the main registers, kind of hopefully, as though the answer would come from divine intervention. He looked back at me. “Oh, um, the duty manager isn’t there.”

He looked blankly at me like he was really hoping that was the end of it. And then silence. There was a brief moment there where we both just gazed at each other. I wasn't expecting that to, effectively, be the end of the issue and I think he was rather hoping that it was. We seemed to both be waiting for the other person to make the next move.

Maybe, this was the moment we were both supposed to kiss. I nearly lost my train of thought with that, um, er, thought.

I see. This is like having teeth pulled. “Um, who could I ask?”

“Um, er…”

I'm sure that is not a difficult question. “Should I ask at the front desk?”

"Yes, yes. Ask at the front desk. You should ask at the front desk," he said.

I went to the front desk and asked one of the guys. He came back with me to the shelf where the oil should have been. I was now gazing at the empty shelf with the second Woollies employee. “Oh, um, I can check, but if it is on special it is very doubtful we’d have any out the back. I will check, but I can get you a rain check instead. Would you like a rain check?”

“I don’t know what a rain check is?” I said. I had a good idea what it sounded like from the name, but I’d never heard of it in a Woollies sense before.

“That is where you can come back another day and get the product for the special price.”

“Oh, no, I want the oil today?” You are not getting out of it that easily. I worked in a supermarket as my first job, you just have to go out to the store room and look on the pallet. It really isn't that hard.

So he called another guy who he sent out the back to check on the oil. So far this had taken 3 people and an inordinate amount of cake making time. It seemed like hard work, really it was beginning to feel like hard work. But I wasn't giving in.

I stood by the shelf and looked at the other oil. I had had a cursory check when I was first looking at the oil and the one on special had seemed as though it was the cheapest oil, but now I had time to wait I could see that the Homebrand oil was, in fact, cheaper. 22 cents per whatever the measurement was and its shelf was full. Oh well, there you go. It was just a pity I didn't have a better look to start off with, I'd probably be home by now. I’d take the cheaper oil on the shelf now and not want the special oil at all. What was the chance, I thought, that guy number 3 was going to appear with the "special" oil. How often do they, actually, have the product when it is on special? Oh stupid me, what a palaver that I could have avoided. Really, I am an idiot, I thought.

I stood for a while, people wandered past. I swapped from one foot to the other.

Eventually, I could see him coming back with a box of oil in his hand, out of which he produced a bottle and handed it to me.

“There you go,” he said looking triumphant.

"Thank you,” I said, as I took the oil and put it in my trolley. Oh well, there you go. I contemplated walking around a few isles and then coming back and swapping the oil, but what the hell. It seemed like it was my oil, the oil I was supposed to have.

I came home and made Mazz her chocolate cake. The cake will cheer her up, she will be pleased.