tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-226531052024-03-18T20:48:45.360+11:00FletcherBeaverI used to want to change the world, now I just want to point and laughFletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.comBlogger8837125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-88540746100732429652024-03-18T20:20:00.001+11:002024-03-18T20:20:16.927+11:00Bull Dogs Playing<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzADfcYsXtMYloULFUys4aUFUXflI9Y6qPhX7XMJwVzKr_VOTWWd-zcaFMm105tx3vEoNfaCU_vZj0' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /> <p></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-48846335985321020352024-03-16T09:17:00.004+11:002024-03-16T10:34:14.629+11:00Maybe I'm Weird<p><span style="font-size: large;">Sam got home around 5.30pm yesterday and he clearly wasn't talking to me. And when he decides not to speak to me, it is total.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sam is still not talking to me this morning and you know what, I don’t really mind it. I used to try and fight it and make him speak to me, on the very rare occasions that this happens, and that was stressful, but now, I find, relaxing into it, I kind of like it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I can do silence, it is oddly calming. No need to speak, no need to answer questions, no need to have anything to say. There is a part of me that kind of likes it. It makes me wonder if I'd like one of those silent retreats?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, you know, being the weird little loner that I, allegedly, am, I'm almost happiest in my own world, just writing everything is nice. And, you know, Sam spends a lot of his time telling me what to do, and this is sort of a relief. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I could get to like this, I know, maybe I’m weird.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-81712810849510447802024-03-15T13:09:00.020+11:002024-03-15T13:52:04.501+11:00Friday<p><span style="font-size: large;">Oh, groan, back to the rental, to find out the model number of the cook top and to clean some more. Please let this be the last time. I'm so over it. Don't tell Sam. Oh, he knows, I find it hard to hide my displeasure. I just want it to be over, and it will be over next week when the new tenants move in.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I exhaled the wrong way, or too obviously, through my nose when I was putting on my shoes, and Sam cracked the shits.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"You don't have to go, don't worry. I'll go myself." </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i>You know, the people who don't drive, who have never bothered to put in the time and energy to get their licences can't really complain when their dedicated unpaid chauffeur doesn't particularly feel up to driving them about, there is always public transport, never the less...</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"What?" I asked. Half heartedly, you know as if what he said was somehow ambiguous, yes that is true, it was very half hearted. And despite myself, maybe with just the slightest hint of hope at not going. <i>You know, sometimes you can't help those things.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And Sam had packed a backpack in no time and had marched out the front door. And was gone.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Truthfully, I was beginning to feel a little unwell again after eating lunch, and was a bit annoyed with myself at feeling unwell again, if I was feeling anything, that was really what the tired exhale </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span>was all about</span><span> as I put on my shoes.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I didn't argue, though, bad me. After asking, what? I said nothing else until Sam left. I didn't say, you are being ridiculous, I just kept quiet.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm feeling tired and lacking in energy, that's why I was exhaling loudly. Truthfully. I don't want to be sick.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sam knew I didn't want to go, though, that is true.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He thought... oh, I guess you get the picture.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-80284438081105135662024-03-14T23:36:00.023+11:002024-03-15T08:41:46.151+11:00I Feel Better<p><span style="font-size: large;">I feel better today.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Actually, not so much this morning, I was still a bit seedy this morning, when I took the dogs for a walk. I saw the will-you-clean-up-the-skerrick-of-poo-off-the-footpath-after-I'd-picked-up-my-dog's-poo guy, from the other side of the road. He gave me a look. I held his gaze, oh, I had to, momentarily, then I turned away thinking, you have a good day, mate.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I don't know what made me sick? Dizziness and vomiting? Nah, I don't know? I want to say food poisoning, off-food, but they aren't really the symptoms of bad food.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I made a full recovery by this afternoon, though. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I listened to music.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I feel better now.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I can't complain. No-one listens anyway, you know, as 'they' say.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sam bought a new Apple Watch, he gave me the run down on it, I'm still not really sure what it has that his old one didn't have. I got his old watch, of course. This one's face is always illuminated, I guess that was a (first world) problem with my old one. I haven't really noticed yet. But there were times, I remember, when I had both my hands full and I wanted to know the time - oh, yes, I know, a watch telling the time is pretty quaint - and I have tried to get the screen to light up by touching it with my nose. That never worked.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-52160114421956181852024-03-13T14:35:00.017+11:002024-03-13T15:08:28.391+11:00I'm Sick<p><span style="font-size: large;">4am. I roll over in the middle of the night and the room spins so severely that I just have to hang on and hope it will stop.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">WTF? It is sudden and shocking.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then I start to sweat so badly, I am cold if I pull the doona off me, but am hot if I pull the doona over me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I try rolling onto my side again, and the room spins again, although not as badly as the first time, maybe it is because I am ready for it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I get up and have a piss and put my towelling dressing gown on for the sweating and get back into bed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">At some point, I take my dressing gown off again as I was too hot.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">8:30am. Otto jumps on the bed with me in it alone and I roll over to hug him and the room starts to spin again. Then I stretch out across the bed and lie on my stomach and really feel sick and the room spins and I think I am gonna vomit and I go to the bathroom and while the sensation of going-to-vomit lasts for some time, I don’t actually vomit.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sam comes up stairs and finds me squatting in front of the toilet, moaning.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sam gets me a bucket so I can lie in bed without the fear of vomiting over everything. Sam gets me headache tablets. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Then he jokes that he hopes it wasn’t tasty cheesy off which he knocked the mould, or the chicken he bought on special at Coles because of its immanent use by date.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I tried to laugh, but I can’t.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Otto comes bouncing back upstairs while Sam is gazing at me. Sam tells me Bruno is under the bed sleeping still.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">8:35am. I call Boris but she is on the tram and she says she has to call me back.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It’s raining outside.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">9am. I stupidly, I rolled over and look under the bed to see Bruno, I have some idea about getting him up on the bed with me, as a big comfort bear, and everything spins and I start to vomit into my bucket and I vomit quite a few times but nothing really comes out. Bruno comes out from under the bed and stands next to me and watches me vomiting for a while and then he rushes out of the room and heads downstairs.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sam comes upstairs saying something about Bruno coming downstairs to tell him something. “Are you all right?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">9.15am. Boris calls back. We chat about what has to be done. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I fall asleep.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">9:55am. I wake up to vomit again. It’s awful vomiting when the room is spinning. The heaving and retching go on for what seems like forever.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I can taste sesame seeds, or something like that. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ollie hops up on the bed and sleeps next to me. He climbs up onto my stomach and while I think that is not going to be good for me, it turns out it is. He is only light, after all.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Midday. Sam wakes me up to see if I’m okay.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I am wondering why he woke me up and he tells me he is dealing with all the things he has to do for the tenants to move into his rental. Some renters signed up at the first inspection.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’m surprised it is midday.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">12:10pm. I get up. I think I’m feeling better. I put on a T-shirt and as I’m pulling on my track pants the whole room starts to spin. I say out loud what the hell is wrong with me? I hold onto the bed end to steady myself.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I empty my sick bucket And I have a pee.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I sit on the side of the bed, but I don’t regain feeling as well as I did a few moments ago. Ollie is pestering me for pets.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">12:15pm. I take my track pants off again and get back into bed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">12:20pm. Sam comes upstairs and says he’s got ginger so he can make congee. I say I want toast, but Sam insists it should be congee.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I feel a bit shaky again, it’s as if getting up and putting on my T-shirt and track pants took away all my energy, or caused a relapse of whatever the hell this is. I’m not really hungry, well it’s kind of odd it comes and goes.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I pull the doona up to my chin in a comforting way.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I think to myself, I’m not really frightened of dying, what the hell else is there left to do in life? I’m in Fitzroy where else would I want to be? I don’t feel bad about saying that, even though I am kind of joking, but half serious too. Of course, I don’t want to die, but you know I think about it, the only really bad thing would be leaving Sam, I don’t wanna leave him.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I think of David, who is always saying he is done with life, and I laugh.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Listen to me I’ve been sick for something like eight hours, imagine all those people who fight for life for the longest time, nyr, good for them.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And organ donation, what’s that about? Imagine if one of your organs had to live on in some thoroughly objectionable person? Could you imagine? If a conservative voter got my liver?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Funny the things you think when you are in the grip of illness.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">12.45pm. I go downstairs and eat my conjee.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I still don’t feel great, but at least I feel better.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And a day off, the consolation prize to be sure.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Oh yes, I checked the other day, I don't know why, other than my eye surgery when I had a week off, I haven't had a sick day since 2019.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I googled the symptoms, really it could be anything from an inner ear infection to brain cancer and just about everything in between. Don't google your symptoms.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-4785420462590514412024-03-12T12:27:00.011+11:002024-03-12T15:31:29.754+11:00Walking The Dogs<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook", serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">As we cross over King William Street, as we approach the Blue Chilli Café there is a possum on the footpath, I don’t know, 20 metres in front of us. (I have no idea, really, but not right in front of us, some way ahead of us) </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook", serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">There is a lesbian couple sitting at the tables outside the Blue Chili Café and one of them looks very concerned about the possum with two Bulldogs coming down Brunswick Street. She reminded me of James Garner. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook", serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m not at all sure what she thought I was going to let the bulldogs do? Tear the possum apart in front of them? Presumably? Why else would we have switched over to panic stations, I ask you? </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook", serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, she gets up like the Bionic Man and starts to run up Brunswick Street towards us. I could almost hear the Steven Austin music start to play, I wanted to laugh. No, seriously? Get a grip you idiot. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook", serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">A moment later, the possum turns, it may, or may not have spotted the bulldogs, and runs up the nearest tree. I'm not at all sure the bulldogs even saw it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook", serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Bruno, Otto and I stopped at the Blue Chili to drink some water from the dog bowl provided at the front door. The lesbians are sitting right outside the front door. The girlfriend reminded me of Harvey Keitel. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook", serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">I chat to some guy waiting in the doorway who says that Bulldogs were the original Looney Tunes hero. I say something like, “Hey he’s my hero, my hero.” The guy and I laugh. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook", serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">The guy says, “Anything you want, Spike, anything you want.” We both laugh again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook", serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Bruno, having finished drinking, shakes his head and multiple Catherine Wheels of juicy bulldog saliva – oh, come on, it is most just excess fresh water from around his big gob – fly through the air covering the lesbians, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, who, both sitting right next to the dog bowl, visibly recoil.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook", serif; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook", serif; text-align: justify;">I say, “Oh yes, sorry, they do do that.” I tug on the dog leads and make a clear get away with the Bulldogs, for once in their non-working dog lives, setting off with me just as quick. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook", serif; text-align: justify;">Thank the universe for that legendary lesbian sense of humour? (Oh come on, it’s funny) is all I can think.</span> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-31997568102859274452024-03-10T07:36:00.022+11:002024-03-10T16:34:05.624+11:00And Then It Is Sunday<p><span style="font-size: large;">And suddenly it is Sunday, the days go by quicker and quicker, I swear.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm up early. I had a rather disturbing dream about a previous colleague/manager. Belinda H who, clearly in the grip of anorexia, ruled the finance department like a skeletal poster child for Donald Trump, making everyone in the department hate their job having to work under her until she'd fired each of us for some made up reason. I always guessed it was on the days her body dysmorphia was at its worst, that she’d stride out into the main office {think the scream of a T-Rex} and pick a victim to destroy just to make herself feel better. In the dream I was transferred to her department to be her assistant. (in real life, I'd stopped talking to her long before she sacked me because she was just so unpleasant to deal with) Oh the horror! I was forced to sit with her,(I could smell the evil exuding from her pores like battery acid) together we solved all the departments long standing financial problems, me feeling I was in a hostage situation.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">She needed an assistant as she spent most of her time in the company's sex room, down the staircase next to her office. She gazed at me in a self satisfied kind of way.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I sat up in bed with a start. "Ah! What the hell?" I was sitting up at 6am thinking, I must never go into that room. Wide Eyes. It is not an image to which I want to give any thought. Oh? Er? You could never unsee that.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Where does this shit come from?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And then I was awake. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I switch off the air-con and I head downstairs. It was still dark outside.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm drinking coffee with Milo in front of the fan. The house is hot, as you may well imagine. I open the window and the back door but it is no cooler outside. Nobody else is up, just me and Milo, cuddled up to my left leg, in a rather 'too hot' kind of way, but he has to get his love where he can when the dogs aren't around, so I don't push him away.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We take the dogs for a walk at 8am. And it was hot already, there was a coolish breeze, but the sun was already hot.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The whole neighbourhood is walking its dogs before the heat.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-72967630733566129312024-03-09T23:26:00.014+11:002024-03-10T14:03:13.250+11:00Hot Saturday <p><span style="font-size: large;">39 degrees today. It's going to be 39 degrees for 3 days, the whole long weekend, yes, we have Monday off. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We went for a walk early. 8am.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">After that, we stayed inside by the portable air con.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And it got to the forecast temperature. And it was hot outside.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I was going to write, but somehow, I got sucked into downloading historical photos of Fitzroy, Melbourne's first suburb after all. I'm fascinated by the buildings we have lost. I'm always looking for pictures of how the suburb used to look. You know, how you can be distracted by a pimple on an arse if you are supposed to be writing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The dogs were feisty into the night, not really sure why, but none of us got to sleep until 2am. Really annoying.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-73498217739762329292024-03-08T11:16:00.006+11:002024-03-08T21:02:43.319+11:00 Walking The Dogs Day 2<p><span style="font-size: large;">So, I’m taking the dogs for a walk along Johnson Street again this morning. We’re careful to walk on the other side of the road to what happened yesterday. As we get along Johnson Street, Clean-Up-Your-Poo man is at the front of his shop, again, this morning. He sees us, well, I guess two Bulldogs aren’t all that hard to spot. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Johnson Street is having a relatively quiet moment and he walks out into the lane heading out of the city and says, “If you ever do again what you did yesterday, I’m gonna report you to the council.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Oh, I think. You again. He’s like a dog with a bone, or a dog with a poo, as the case may be. And I think, well, I’m not entering into that argument with him today, so I say, as quick as a flash, and I’m not really sure where this came from, “Are there prescription drugs that you should be taking that you are neglecting to take by any chance?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He says, “What the fuck are you talking about, mate?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Well, if there’s some sort of anxiety medication that you should be taking, that you are not taking, well, that could explain your behaviour.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He starts to say that I’m a jerk, I think fucking jerk were the words, something about “people like you really shit…” </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now, you understand the lights have changed at Brunswick Street, by this time, and cars are approaching him, still standing in the middle of Johnson Street, raving on, and they start to honk, effectively censoring his colourful language, and he had to do a tiptoe tiptoe Jeté, or is it Plié? Leaping, </span><span style="font-size: large;">retreat back to his side of Johnson Street and the bulldogs and I walked away, with me, thinking that it was just a beautiful moment.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-36533659655298719742024-03-07T13:46:00.008+11:002024-03-08T13:56:35.154+11:00Walking The Dogs<p><span style="font-size: large;">I take the dogs for a walk in the morning. Otto has a shit in front of a homewares shop. I pick it up. There’s a couple of minuscule spots of shit left on the footpath, as there often is. Even if you got down and rubbed at it with a plastic poo bag, it probably wouldn’t change it. It might smear it a little, but nothing much else would happen.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There’s a guy out the front of the shop doing something with a ladder, not sure what. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">As I walk away, he says, looking frightfully concerned, “Can you clean that up better than that?” he asks. He points with his finger.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I look back. Seriously, how anal are you, I think. “No mate,” I say. “That’s it. It’s done.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Is that all you are going to do,” he asks.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Yes mate,” I say. “What do you expect?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“You’re a fuck wit,” he says kind of threateningly.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Yeah, good onya,” I say as I walk away.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I must walk the dogs by there tomorrow morning, I think, and see if I can get Otto to do another shit. I chuckle to myself. I won’t pick it up at all and I can watch his head explode.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-58062798332094771762024-03-06T16:10:00.007+11:002024-03-07T09:13:01.152+11:00Nearly There<p><span style="font-size: large;">I've nearly pulled it all together before my 2 days off, and a public holiday Monday, Labour Day.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I've got really sore eyes which is not helping.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sam swanned off to see a realestate agent about renting out his place. He left early to clean before the photographer turned up.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It's just me and the bulldogs lying at my feet.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I had everything done by the time I signed out, surprisingly. Public holiday Monday, so I don't have to work an extra day to get everything finished, which kind of negates the meaning of a public holiday. Lovely. 3 days off, bring them on.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-27279589332779978042024-03-05T20:04:00.009+11:002024-03-07T09:10:55.503+11:00You Want To Visit Today?<p><span style="font-size: large;">My head's spinning. I've got a million things in my head, going round and around, mentally juggling...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Jill messages me early to say she's be making one of her more and more infrequent visits, I could hardly say no.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm surprised I got through that today.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Jill didn't come until after 5pm, so that was good, just as well. Her and her gorgeous daughter played with Otto, first time meet.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It was hot. We took the woofs for a midnight walk. There is something lovely about a late night walk on a hot day.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-28400164862617020462024-03-04T13:03:00.001+11:002024-03-06T16:08:20.207+11:00A Mountain To Climb<p><span style="font-size: large;">It's just a shit show, this time of the year, 01st March everything changes. I've got a mountain of stuff to get through.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Later.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-13538479682334644212024-03-03T18:30:00.008+11:002024-03-03T21:19:19.407+11:00Sunday<p><span style="font-size: x-large;">Oh, look at that, it is nearly Monday again and I didn't win lotto.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And look at that, the weekend is nearly over and I still haven't written that best selling novel. What is wrong with me? How did I forget to do that? Brilliance is up for debate, or is that on the fritz?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Oh, look at that, Monday morning is just moments away, knocking on Sunday night's door, and work awaits. I can plug back into being a cog, like a rat running on a wheel. We're all little rats running on our wheels.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">But you know what, despite everything I say, it's lucky that I don't really mind my job, especially working from home. Yeah, working from home. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I know I've said that before.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In fact, when I finished work on Wednesday last, there were a couple of looming potential shit shows, so it will be interesting to see if Boris got blindsided by those in the ensuing days. Let's hope not. Hope not, I say? Well, do I really care? Nyr? She out ranks me, so go for it. I'll just mop it up, again, as I do.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sam's rental is finally done, after a couple of days pulling it together finally, now its time to call in the <strike>lying bastard</strike>, er, realestate agents to get the tenant selection started and to see how <strike>many of their promises fall apart quickly,</strike> er, quickly they can fulfil the promises they made to get Sam to give them the job.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We discovered the local recycle centre and we took a car load of old paint tins and dropped them off. We'll take the rest of the rubbish there this week. And then we're done.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I thought the recycle centre would cost, but it doesn't, so, I guess I'll have to say something nice about the council, that was it, and I am going to load up the car with lots of shit and clean up this place too.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Time to put my feet up, or at least I would if Bruno wasn't taking up the other half of the couch. But I've got my half, really a quarter, so I'll take my something from nothing and just relax and enjoy what is left of Sunday.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-53672185330218694872024-03-02T10:00:00.004+11:002024-03-03T08:44:08.336+11:00Aging<p><span style="font-size: large;">There’s no advantage to aging, none, it just dying by degrees, on a glacial time table.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There is no wisdom gained, in fact, so many people become increasingly stupid with age, especially those of a conservative nature. More set in their ways, with even less logic. There is no contentment, as friends die before you at an alarming rate. There is just anxiety, at what's the next decrepitude to befall you.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Gone is the confidence in forever.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Gone is the illusion of time to spare.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That grease patch you hit at 25 years old that has propelled you towards your demise at an ever increasing rate of speed becomes even more apparent year by year.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And if you haven't lived your life to your utmost potential, there is the regret, that only death is going to put right.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Time is precious and with time you come to realise it is in short supply.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And all the while you are becoming more and more feeble with which to battle life's injustices.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And you become invisible.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Oh yes aging, when is someone going to cure it?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-60244120518198849592024-02-29T18:26:00.019+11:002024-03-02T10:05:01.136+11:00Day Off<p><span style="font-size: large;">Feb 29th, it is a mate's birthday. I remember dancing with him at Mardi Gras when he was 8 years old. Happy birthday, Rob.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I took the woofs for a walk early, in the cool of the early morning. It was nice after yesterday's hot day, although not catastrophic as suggested by clearly ratings seeking weather reports now a days, well, not where I live.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I got new Van Morrison tracks, old stuff, apparently his first album, plus a few more tracks packaged up as a best of collection, when I went to submit my tattslotto. Life could be a dream, hey? I like Van Morrison's old stuff, he's kind of an Irish Bob Dylan. Kind of. I saved it as his first album.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I got burgers from Huxtaburger on my way home. It pissed me off that they don't take cash any longer. Too lazy to provide a proper service for all their customers. When I got home, they'd got my order wrong too. I'm pretty sure they got my order wrong last time I bought from them. Hopeless. It'll be Grill'd Burgers all the way from now on.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I slept on the couch for the afternoon. Lovely, huh? I lay back listening to Van Morrison and woke up at 5pm when my bladder communicated with me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I got a collection short stories by author Nam Li. I got them on my Kindle, Kindle's make sense to me now, despite having, or perhaps because of, bookcases full of books. I was giving the stories a read late this arvo, once I'd woken up from my nap, when Sam signed out of work and lay on the couch ordering dog beds which I didn't think we needed. He kept asking me my opinion on buying the dog beds. Seriously? When I'd already said he wasting his money.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Grrr!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now, I'm lying back on the couch with my feet up on the arm of the couch as fresh air blows in over me from an open window.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Lovely.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Bruno is lying on the floor next to me using my left foot as a pillow.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Nice and warm and furry.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And that's my day off. And I have another day off again tomorrow. Good huh? Of course, I am supposed to be writing a novel on this two days, not sleeping on the couch.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I did recently re-write the words to Baby Got Back to make a gay version, oh, I don't know why, because I could. And it's all because of Friends, of course. Who wants to see that?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now I am eating instant noodles with cabbage and chicken and Kim Chi.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"What's with the cabbage," I ask? We usually have prawns and fish cakes.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Cost of living crisis," responded Sam without missing a beat.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-55326411427045874632024-02-28T17:28:00.011+11:002024-02-29T07:39:55.807+11:00Bruno's Bits<p><span style="font-size: large;">My dog Bruno has big balls and a big dick. I'd never personally thought about them, but others do, clearly.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The straight guy’s comment on his balls.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"That's a decent set of balls he has on him, mate."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, um?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">or...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Wow! He's got a nice set of nuts on him."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“What? Er?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And the women comment on his dick.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"He'd make all those female bulldogs very happy, I'm sure." Laugh.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Huh? Oh?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">or...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Do you breed with him?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, no, he's a pet."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Because he looks like he'd certainly get the job done." Big smile.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“What? I’m sorry… oh?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I never know what to say to these comments. Well, I am used to it now, and I just laugh, now, but originally, I am pretty sure, I was kind of stunned into silence.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"What? Er? Um? Oh?" Kind of shocked, although maybe shocked is overstating it. Perplexed might say it better. I just thought it was too weird the first time it happened, but then it kept happening.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It still catches me off guard. And they invariably look so pleased with themselves.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It's just weird. Not really sure of the motivation. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-80926183677744515582024-02-27T09:12:00.011+11:002024-02-27T12:48:12.260+11:00Osmosis Smith My IT Guy<p><span style="font-size: large;">Osmosis Smith, let's call him Tim for short, my dedicated IT guy, because that's what you get when you work for a wealth law firm that is on track to earn $1 billion this year - yep, that's what greedy corporate lawyers who are adding to the destruction of the fabric of society earn - has a big arse.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Tim usually wears tight suit trousers which keep his big bum in some sort of order, but yesterday he was wearing jeans, I'm not really sure why. His jeans were quite baggy and as such made his rear end seem bigger than it usually does.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I asked him to do a twirl, which he did obediently, with that cute pout on his handsome face. He has lovely eyes.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Jeans," I said. I twirled my finger in mid air above my head.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes," he said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Well... nice," I said when he was back facing me. I was talking about his big, beefy butt, but I couldn't let him think that. "Nice jeans."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Thanks," he said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm not sure if he gets it, or not. I don't know.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I watched him walk away. Big arse sashaying all the way to the door.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-41439195691546248292024-02-26T12:02:00.014+11:002024-02-28T18:19:11.890+11:00Monday In The Office<p><span style="font-size: large;">Monday in the office.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It is so utterly pointless coming into the office, everything is better working from home.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We’ve been shown a better way to live, and now they want us to give it up. Willingly. No!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’m in a finance meeting in the afternoon, beam me up Scotty, so boring. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">OMG! That just yap on and yap on. No one cares about your budget. No one cares about the figures. No one care about your reports. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Oh kill me now!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yap yap yap yap yap!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-28008515512772166352024-02-25T23:25:00.022+11:002024-02-28T18:26:42.000+11:00Sunday<p><span style="font-size: large;">I dreamed, oh, how do I explain this dream, we were having an end of training dinner, and we seemed to have been paired up somehow and I’ve been paired up with cute Stewart Cook [a straight friend I haven't seen in years] and they’ve been jokes about us being an item and so he was jokingly, saying sweet, nothings in my ear, and I was liking it, of course. We were going to the dining room, and there was a table piled high with a mountain of food, and just because we are walking together we ended up sitting together and then I wasn’t sure whether Stewart wanted to sit with me and then he had a friend join him, and they’re only two seats and I was taking one of them and the two of them were standing looking at me as though it wasn't an issue, and I wasn’t sure whether Stewart wanted his friend to have the seat with him instead of me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">7:10am my wake up. Otto is lying on my side of the bed, on top of the doona leaving me with very little of it, so my legs are sticking out, cold.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We are lucky to be alive when we are’: a devastating gay love story returns to the stage. Thirty years after Holding the Man author Timothy Conigrave died, Belvoir St theatre’s artistic director is bringing back the play adapted from the book – with his partner in the lead role.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Alexei Navalny’s body given to mother by Russian authorities. Remains handed to Lyudmila Navalnaya nine days after Putin critic’s death in Arctic prison, say supporters.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Antarctica sea ice reaches alarming low for third year in a row. The extent of ice floating around the continent has contracted to below 2m sq km for three years in a row, indicating an ‘abrupt critical transition’.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">8am. Sam and Otto get up. Sam tells me about Otto’s reaction to the flea liquid and Bruno’s diarrhea during the night at 5am which he had to deal with. I thank the universe, yet again, that I sleep like the dead. If I ever lose that, I may just do myself in.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">8.05am. I make coffee.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">8.10am. Bruno was up.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">8.15am. I make vegemite toast.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Am I surprised Pete Doherty is still alive? No, he’s too smart to die’: the Libertines on feuds, friendship – and their unlikely sober reunion.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">9am. I start watching YouTube car show, Coldwarmotors.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sam cleans. I let him. He does the vacuuming that I usually do. I don’t get up and offer, oh, I don’t know why? I wasn’t in the mood. Is that terrible, I guess it is.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I have a shower. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We leave for [rental property] to work on the window covering for the second bedroom, yet again. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Mid morning. We arrive at the parking in Brunswick, I think it’s Jones Park. The cricketers are playing all in red, all the car spots are taken. Grrrr.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And then I see, the park is full of parents and their kids, lots of them, another reason to be thankful to be gay. (Of course, gay people have kids, but you know what I mean) What is this, a collective birthday? Go home you people, I think, and take your little sprogs with you. I want my quiet time in the park back. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Oh yes, I know, they are just as entitled to use the park too, so my therapist tells me. Ha ha, I don’t have therapist, but I might need one after this lot. There are so many of them it is like a fucking circus.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Their young kids are playing in the dog water dish with no sign of moving away to let the dogs drink, so I just let Bruno and Otto go for a drink and it is astonishing how quickly the parents materialise to move their kids.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">11.20am. Bruno, Otto and I are parked in Coburg Woolies car park while Sam gets sandwiches and drink.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I message Mark in Northern Rivers and say to him that I bet he is jealous of me being in Woollies car park on a sunny day.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Green with envy, he replies.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I chat to Mark constantly, he is my favourite person in the world, after all.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Not long after, we’re at the rental eating sushi. And drinking orange juice with passionfruit.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The white curtains we got from Jill yesterday are too long and no good, so Sam calls Spotlight to enquire about getting a new venetian blind made to measure? Apparently, they can cut the larger blinds down to size for a price, of course, but Sam has to order them online.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"I want oak Venetian blinds..."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes, order them online." No phone orders, apparently. Sam would later find it difficult to find the oak Venetians to be cut down to size online.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I dust the existing venetian blinds. I start the cleaning process. Everything is now done.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The house over the road has put out stuff on the nature strip which looks clearly like a hard rubbish collection so, as bold as you like, in broad day light, Sam takes the remaining hard rubbish we have, some old lights, an old wall heater, a broken chair, and a bag of rubbish that his body corporate decided that [ex-tenant] and [ex-tenant] had left behind in the garden, which they hadn’t, so Sam was now responsible for its disposal.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We load some blankets and sheets and towels, and some material we could possibly use as a couch cover, up in the car.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">1.30pm. We leave [name] Street. I laugh to myself that that is the day done. We’re not the type of home renovators who believe in over work.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">1.35pm. A big, young wog boy in baggy black basketball shorts and a red jersey almost minces down Bell Street (that's the reason I noticed him) and across the lights at Pentridge Boulevard at which we were waiting. He gave me a look, a scowl, if you like, as he saw me looking at him walking towards us. He has great legs.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We go to St Vincent’s Abbotsford and drop off a bag of, er, donations the blankets and sheets and towels.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">2:09pm we are home.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We lay on the couch and watched screens for the afternoon.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Otto vomited twice, not really sure why? He climbed up on the ottoman just for the occasion. Was he too hot? I don’t know. Sam cleaned up after the vomit, I swept the back yard while I looked after Otto while Sam cleaned up.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We ate cream pasta for dinner.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We watch the news and The Project, after which Sam goes off to have a shower and I turn the TV off and try to write my journal and some blog posts.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We watched 60 Minute – MH370, Alex Batty, Andre Agassi</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">9.30pm. Bruno and Sam went to bed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I cleaned the dishes and watched another car YouTuber, Mortske, and his 1965 Buick Riviera.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">10.15pm. Otto and I went to bed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I have to get up early, after all. Monday morning in the office.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And that's the weekend done.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-77733315049599881112024-02-24T22:55:00.002+11:002024-02-28T18:28:03.938+11:00Saturday<p><span style="font-size: large;">First up, we walked into town and got haircuts. The dogs came with us. Funny, I thought, as I got my $20 cut, once I used to pay $70 for a haircut. Well, when it got to $70 and I got the junior in the saloon and not my hairdresser of choice, that was when I stopped paying $70 for a haircut. $20 now. I have a haircut every 4 to 6 weeks. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">12.05pm. I’m in waiting in the salon. The owner says it’s just a short wait for the ugly guy hairdresser, while she seems to be cleaning, which I am happy with as I like the way the ugly guy hairdresser cuts my hair. But, then a young guy with spiky hair comes in and he is waiting to get his hair cut, so the owner chick directs me to her chair and she will cut my hair.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It is, if I said kind of uncomfortable looking at myself in the mirror, it would be overstating it, but it is true I never sit and look at myself as long as I do while I am sitting in the hairdresser’s chair.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, haircut done, we intend to head over to Sam's place as there is one window that still needs roller blind/Venetian blind/curtains one of those, apparently there are rules with rentals covering window coverings. We've tried Venetian blinds, the one we got didn't fit and we had to take it back, so, now we have to try again, it is the last job we have to get done.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Lunch time, we are sitting outside the Nepalese restaurant in Burke Street. We ate two types of dumplings, curry steamed, and kind of falafel fired dumplings.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">1:20pm. We’re heading home up Bourke Street on our way home.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Funny, how there’s always a rat face little dog that wants to bark at the bulldogs sitting at one of the outside chairs at Florentino’s.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There was a ragtag group of save Palestine and anti-vaxers protesters. The anti-vaxers walked down Bourke Street with a megaphone that you are 400% more likely to develop myocarditis and I read the report that said 0.78% in one million may develop myocarditis.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We're home just before 2pm.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I get chatting to Jill, her neighbour had some freshly cut fire wood which I said I'd go and collect today and I called her to say I was lying on the couch and too lazy to come for the wood. Some how I told her about the blind acquisition and in typical Jill style, she has multiple curtains in the cupboard which she bought because, well, if the truth be known, she likes to spend money, it is kind of a hobby for her, so she could supply the curtains for the last window. So, we drove all the way to her place anyway, and she now lives way out in the suburbs now, as it turned out.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I've got a second car, my semi-classic car (hopefully, one day it might be valuable, but it isn't yet), that spends most of its life under a car cover in my back yard doing very little other than appreciating in value, fingers crossed, so while my main car is injured, by the last shit who backed into it and drove away, with an air bag warning light lit up on its dashboard, I have been driving my little white hot hatch for the last few days.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, we zipped across the city to get the curtains.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We came home and didn't do much for the rest of the day, satisfied we had tomorrow sorted.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-39609183634037324102024-02-23T11:37:00.015+11:002024-02-23T19:35:34.151+11:00People Are Cunts<p><span style="font-size: large;">People are basically dishonest bastards. I was just filling up the windscreen washer bottle to my car and I saw that the fourth person has backed into my car and driven away without leaving their contact details to own up to the damage they have done.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And you know they would just say, “Oh I didn’t think there was any damage.” No, you just didn’t give a shit that’s the answer and you thought you’d get away with it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">What might I do, you ask, if I backed into someone’s car? I wouldn’t back into someone’s car in the first place, watch what you are doing, backing a car it is not rocket science, as they say.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And you know the vandalism done to my bonnet, I don’t actually have any proof, and of course I could be wrong, it's just a feeling I have from dealing with her, but I reckon it was Taylor B, who backed into the front of my car and drove away who I had to have tracked down by the police, she always thought there was no damage, and I reckon she’s come alone, (she lives in the area) looked at the car and thought I haven’t had it repaired, which I haven’t yet, and she has keyed the bonnet of my car over and over again, like the entitled one I learned she was from dealing with her.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You know, we all know the true secret to life, just care less.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My windscreen washer doesn't work even after I have filled it up. And you know, the water bottle for the windscreen is down low on the right hand side of the car right where the latest c[word] backed into it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And driving today, there is an airbag warning sensor that I didn't have on my dashboard the last time I drove the car, before the latest c[word] backed into it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-4803120332534505452024-02-22T15:57:00.013+11:002024-02-22T19:24:26.236+11:00Hot Thursday<p><span style="font-size: large;">It's a hot day, a good day for staying inside.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I take the dogs for a walk early, before the expected top of 38 degrees. It is a lovely morning, warm, with the anticipation of a hot day riding on the cool breeze.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The rest of the day I unashamedly lie on the couch and watch dash cam footage of stupid people on YouTube, with two fans pointed at me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">At 4pm, it is 38 degrees.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The bulldogs lie around like they have no energy. Everyone calls Otto Otti. I said I would never call him Otti. I hear myself call him Otti. I blame it on the heat.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">All this lying around is too much for puppy Otto and eventually he finds himself a ball with which he entertains himself. He's good at entertaining himself.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You've got to love Melbourne, there is always a cool change, and right on time, 6.30pm'ish through it came.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-29363729421709176392024-02-21T08:22:00.003+11:002024-02-21T08:22:35.772+11:00A Couple Of Brick Veneer’s In The Suburbs<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQI0MX3jbGOS0rFEyofzNfdX9gWzeBAOFnPtfbajBg0IQjt3ezpxZyrkPQIIKMjepbqKanfR8l2CMc8KulKgHnN2JDRDG6AuIpYG1lMjYTFUP-iNSXa1YsPocVjBNz_1Y36vu2VOjO_XFzYv2Ltfdwhi7llADYJHJqGX1zZd52gqSqGg9b3-FI2A/s3452/A%20couple%20of%20brick%20vaneers%20in%20the%20suburbs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2002" data-original-width="3452" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQI0MX3jbGOS0rFEyofzNfdX9gWzeBAOFnPtfbajBg0IQjt3ezpxZyrkPQIIKMjepbqKanfR8l2CMc8KulKgHnN2JDRDG6AuIpYG1lMjYTFUP-iNSXa1YsPocVjBNz_1Y36vu2VOjO_XFzYv2Ltfdwhi7llADYJHJqGX1zZd52gqSqGg9b3-FI2A/w640-h372/A%20couple%20of%20brick%20vaneers%20in%20the%20suburbs.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22653105.post-54105252431488538252024-02-20T20:39:00.006+11:002024-02-22T22:35:50.336+11:00The Orange Monster<p><span style="font-size: large;">The only explanation that really makes any sense as to why people support Donald Trump is that he makes them feel good about their racism and their bigotry.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>FletcherBeaverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11032390523985607979noreply@blogger.com0