Cold Saturday Morning

It's really cold in Fitzroy this morning. For our readers who live in cold climates that is 5 degrees C.

It doesn't really inspire thoughts of going out and getting into it, I can tell you, for us Aussies.

I had to go to the supermarket because Sam forgot to buy butter for my morning toast when he was at the supermarket yesterday.

I hate going to the supermarket in the morning to get butter because by the time I get to the front door Sam has added 20 kilos of rice and 20 kilos of dog meat and can I go to the deli department, and, oh yes, we might need some potatoes and pumpkin. 

It is cold outside, misty, foggy, grey and overcast and the cold bites at me. It is now 7 degrees.

I put Guy Sebastian on my headphones. I sing along to Before I Go as I walk down my street. There is no one else around.

The streets are quiet, I guess, it is still early on Saturday morning.

And then Sam usually calls me when I am in the supermarket telling me all the specials he has just seen that I should pick up while I am there.

But, I only want fucking butter for my bread and I am hungry because I haven't had breakfast because there is no butter.

Oh, I don't know, perhaps the cold weather makes me grumpy.

When I’m checking out, a cute guy in black shorts and a black singlet comes in with the best arse on him, which just makes you want to lick out his arse crack out right there and then. Well, not actually in the supermarket, you understand.

As I head out of the supermarket there is another message from Sam to pick up... but, I am now crossing the street and it would not be untrue to say I felt nothing but relief at missing that message.

When I get home, I cut my bread and go to put it in the toaster quickly because I am getting hangry, but the toaster elements are red and it is already cooking toast, and I grumble, yes, I did grumble.

"I'm just cooking myself some," says Sam.

Charlie has a habit of buying super processed white sliced bread and it turns out Sam has a penchant for super processed white sliced bread too, and he is cooking himself some toast, which is unusual for him as he doesn't normally eat breakfast. 

His toast pops and he is taking it out but it is still white, not toasted at all.

"That isn't even toasted," I say.

Sam visibly shakes and says, "I'm too scared to leave it in any longer."

He holds my gaze.

I laugh.

And he laughs.

I say I'm sorry.

I put my bread in the toaster.

I kiss Sam. He hands me the coffee he has made for me.

I smile at him. 

He smiles at me.

He puts Nutella on his white toast.

Friday Off

We took Otto to a new vet yesterday, one recommended by a fellow bulldog owner. It was a bit further away, and Sam booked a 4.45pm appointment. Some days it is painfully obvious that Sam doesn't drive.

Our nervous little pooch really lost his shit as the vet tried to put a stethoscope up to his chest, it was sad to see.

The vet called for a nurse to help, who was slow to appear, then said we'd put Otto up on the table so he had less space in which to move around.

That was when I stepped in and picked him up in my arms and held him reassuringly on the table so the vet could listen to his chest and examine his front leg on which he intermittently limps.

We bought kebabs somewhere out in the boondocks of Melbourne on our way home. Sam and I sat there in the caravan annex type cafe and ate ours, with Otto parking his arse firmly down looking up at us once we'd givin him the first piece of lamb.

I still think Otto seems a bit sad, but I may well be projecting onto him, I don't know.

Today, I really have nothing to do, so Otto and I are on the couch together while he, I am sure, gets over yesterday's ordeal, haha, not really, he is asleep the way dogs spend most days, and I am pissing around with my old blogs, generating AI images for them and re-write whole sections. 

Am I wasting my time, quite frankly in the larger scheme of life, quite possible, but for my own peace of mind, and sense of accomplishment, no way.

Anyway. That's all.

Stepping Back Into Life

Okay, back to the gym today. Sam has been nagging reminding and I guess the time has come to shake off my malaise about Brun dying and get back into life.

I so don't want to, I can assure you, but that is how I always feel when I am getting back to it after having time off.

None of us want to go to the gym, not really. But none of us want to be fat and to drop dead early, now do we, so we do what we do.

Anyway, I'm getting up and going. No, I am. I am. Watch me. I'm going now.

Once I get back into it, it isn't nearly so bad, I mean, fuck me, there are even days when I enjoy it.

Sorry Brun, I can't stay in morning for you forever, my lovely, sweet, teddy bear of a pooch, who I miss with every fibre of my being every second of the day. I love you snuffly, and I will never forget you. Oh, Jasus! Tears in my eyes again.

A Good Little Liar

Thinking about the story I spun to Boris so easily yesterday, it got me reminiscing.

I'm a good liar, what can I say. I am excellent at it. It is a skill I realised I had from an early teen age.

They just flow out of me on demand, convincing and strong with a straight face.

I used to tell them with gay abandon, if you will excuse the expression.

But, mid teens, it all came crashing down with a series of well execute lies coming unravelled like the ball of wool to grandma's knitting getting caught on the spooked fleeing dog's hind leg.

Neil Kirkham's and my criminal enterprise of shop lifting the things we wanted got busted wide open.

I, of course, was deemed to have fallen in with 'the wrong crowd', and this was all just an aberration on my part, which suited me, the ring leader, completely.

But, it was at that point, lucky for me, that I realised that, in actual fact, lies did me no real good at all, and my very best skill was packed away not to be used again, unless in case of emergency.

So, before I turned 18, I pretty much learned that complete honesty was a much more useful tool for one's growth and well being.

Oh yes, there was, of course, that one last hoorah just for old times sake, just after I turned 18, which went spectacularly wrong where I ended up in court with the shop detective speaking up for me saying, I just wasn't the type of kid she saw normally and that I didn't belong there, and she gave me detailed instructions on how to beat the 'wrap' which I did... er... well, just to set me finally on the correct path definitely and forever.

Lottie said, much later, (she never found out about it at the time) it was because I was clearly struggling with my gayness, yeah, sure, whatever mum. Oh, that could, in fact, be true, you know, maybe.

But that was the last dishonest thing I did.

Of course, complete and direct honesty in a corporate setting hasn't always gone down well, in fact, on my latest PDR The Big Poo noted that on occasion Christian is too blunt.

Nyr! Who gives a rat's arse about those corporate slags. Prostitutes to the corporate $.

I've always had the good fortune to be a good little saver, too, just naturally, without effort on my part, which has always done me well too. (It has also led me to be baffled by other peoples inability to save) It has always allowed me to tell corporate types to go shove it when the going got too excruciating, or more to the case, the times I have been sacked/retrenched, let's face it, it is the same thing, (3 times, if you must know) I have been able to take my time finding a new salt mine in which to work.

Good to Know I've Still Got It, I Guess

I was going to take another sickie today. I got up early and sat up until Sam got up, when he told me to get to work and stop being silly.

So, I signed into work.

Boris calls me late morning about another issue, when she asks me if I am alright.

I'm a good little actor, I tell you, I always have been. The key is preparation, be prepared, know your lines.

I fake illness explained.

Boris was telling me that I was strong, and I'd get through it, and if there was anything she could do to help, please don't hesitate to ask.

Good to know I've still got it.

Contemplating Life

I took a sickie. I have 40 days of accrued unused sick leave, and you know what, I'm going to take it. Well, some of it anyway.

Reading back over my blogs, as my friend Rachel says, "Tell the world to go fuck itself, sometimes it is good for you."

I really want to quit my job, but I am too gutless.

Reading back over my blogs, as my friend Aby said, "Promise me you won't get stuck in some pointless financial job making money for people who don't care about you, you are way better than that."

Sam's worried about losing his job because of AI.

Reading back over my blogs, as my great mate Tom said, "You have to do what makes you happy, just look at me, I'm getting half a life,  don't waste any of yours."

Really, Sam having a job, or not having a job, is not dependant on me having a job. Not really.

Reading back over my blogs, as Mark says, "We are all responsible for our own lives, no one else is."

Would I be okay, if I gave up my job and wrote? Oh god (ironic use) I'm guessing you are sick of me asking that question?

Reading back over my blogs, as my gorgeous, funny, intelligent mother said, "I was happily married for 50 years, and all I could think when your father died was, all I want is another 50 years. Life goes so fast, Christian, it really is over before you even know it."

I guess there is a certain danger to go back and read everyone's truths, you know. Or enlightening? I'm still deciding which. Trying not to hate myself.

Walk Into Town Sunday

We walk into town, so I have a haircut in the city. Some how Sam and my haircuts have got out of sync, can't remember how that happened. So it was just me getting a haircut today. That's kind of the pressing problem for the day, how to sync up our haircuts again, so, I guess, life is pretty good.

The sun is shining. The sky is blue.

It’s a nice walk into town.

Midday. I get to the salon. Nobody is waiting, which is good, but no hairdresser available either.

Mindless dance music is playing.

10 minutes later. A woman walks in. "I don’t have an appointment but I was wondering if I could get a haircut." She sounded kind French. You've got to love hearing a French accent. 

My haircut never takes long.

Fifteen minutes later. We’re at David King of Sichuan Stock Pot in Russell Street having soup for lunch. I have tomato based soup. Sam has pork soup base.

It’s not exactly the warmest day sitting in the shade.

Otto eats leaves.

1.11pm. We’re walking home.

The sun is still shining in a wintry kind of way.

We tell the nice girl in Bailey Nelson about Brun dying. She’s lovely. She is very sympathetic.

1:32pm. We’re home.

We spent the rest of the day on our screens on our couches.

That was it. That was the day done. Another Sunday over.