Father and Son

Son to father, "Dad, I had sex for the first time."

Father, "Well done son, isn't it amazing." He beamed broadly at his son, as if to say that is my boy.

Son to father, "Yes, dad it was amazing."

Father, "Son come and sit next to me and we can talk about it."

Son to father, "I'm having trouble sitting at the moment, dad, my arse hurts." 

His father's eyes widened. He stammered. He opened and closed his mouth. 

His son thought his father was doing a very good impression of a fish.

A Penis

A penis

leads to

ap'eness

leads to

a penis

leads to 

ap'eness

leads to

a penis,

which naturally

leads to happiness

... of course,

Penis' make everyone happy.

(Please read the instruction book before use. Please familiarise yourself with all safety instructions. Not to be used for any other reason other than that the manufacturer intended)

Bright Green and Radioactive

My CT scan appointment was scheduled for 12.30. It came around quickly. Apparently, I had to drink the radioactive liquid and then I had to sit around for 2 hours while it did whatever it does then the test would be at 2pm. I had to fast for 2 hours prior, so fasting from midday.

I was asked all the usual allergy questions. I was asked whether or not I’d had a CT scan before. She wanted to know if I was allergic to the radioactive liquid they were going to inject into my veins.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“The liquid makes you feel warm.” She offered.

There was that time when they pumped the stuff into me by IV and I’d nearly had a freak out about the needle in my hand. I was so close to a melt down, that I had to make myself run my eyes over every detail of a Jaguar Mk 2 so as not loose it altogether. From back bumper to front bumper and everything in between. It took a blue, green and white Jag before the dreadful thing was all over. I was so close to a panic attack, I held on by my fingernails. Wince!

I looked at her and felt myself smile nervously at the memory. “Oh yes, I have.”

“So no reaction then?”

“No allergic reaction,” I said.

“Good then.”

I was led to a room where I was to undress, put on a white hospital gown and some dark blue cotton pants. “Lock you’re your valuables in the footlocker and then wait on the blue chairs.”

The hinge on the footlocker was broken, so that didn’t instil much confidence from the get go.

Pants and a gown, I guess in these ever more prudish days it just doesn’t do to have people with their arses hanging out.

The nurse, a jolly no nonsense older woman with grey hair and sensible trousers, putting the stent in, or IV catheter, or cannulation, or whatever it was called, said, “I’ll insert your IV.”

“Do I have to sit around with that in my arm for 2 hours?”

“No, you don’t have to take the dye orally, so we are just going to get on and do it. You should be out of here in half an hour.”

I wondered about the fasting thing, but said nothing. I'd had an apple at 10.30, what harm could that do?

Nurse put on blue rubber gloves and held the sharp, stabby thing in her hand. The needle looked big and long and thick. She picked up the tourniquet and came for me.

“I’m glad I got over my fear of needles,” I said, as she came for me from the cart. I don’t know why I always say that? I’m not sure if it is a warning about past phobias, so go easy on me. Am reassuring myself that I would be okay now with all of this. Is it was a boast of what I had achieved? As I said, I don’t know.

“So did my husband.”

“I just decided not to be frighten.”

“All needles hurt,” she said. “There is no getting around the fact.”

"It was never about that pain," I said.

"Just the idea of it," she offered.

"Yes," I said. That was really it.

She put the tourniquet on. “Pump your fist.”

The slightly sticky touch of her blue rubber gloves pulled at my bare skin. “That’s a good vein,” she said. “A Lovely vein. I’d rather one over here,” she pointed to the inside of my elbow. “But this one is presenting itself.” She point to the top edge of my elbow.

“I’d make a good junkie.” I winced. I thought it would sound clever, all things considered, but it just sounded like a cliché.

We both laughed.

“You’re going to feel a sting…” I watched it, I make myself watch it now a days. It is like facing the firing squad without a blindfold.” Ah… There…” she said.

I gritted my teeth and felt the sharp sting. It felt huge, the slide in seemed interminable. I wiggled my toes and could taste the saliva in my mouth.

“Um… Ah. No, I’m not happy with that one, it’s not… its telling me the valve isn’t liking it…”

“You have valves in your veins?”

“Yes, to control the flow of blood. So if you walk along with your hands by your sides all the blood doesn’t rush into your hands.” She smiled. “This is why us ladies get varicose veins, something, I’m sure, you would have no knowledge of.”

I remembered my mother’s ropey blue boiled dumpling skin legs and thought I had some idea what she was talking about.

“Well. You learn something every day,” I said.

“Ah, yes,” she said. “That has slid into the vein okay,” blah, blah, something about blood blow back, or blood flow, but I was picturing locks in my veins, stopping my hands inflating like Donald Duck’s car tyre when something went wrong. “But I am not happy about it.”

I started to feel sweaty, dizzy, like the old days. Should I tell her I’d be better without the commentary? I decided just to grit my teeth and say nothing.

“I’m sorry, but I am going to change to your other arm. This rarely happens,” she said. “Just a moment.”

I felt the cold barb exit my skin. She put a round spot band aid on my left arm. “Hold that,” she instructed.

That was okay, it seemed so much more correct for it to be my right arm anyway. She got a new needle from her cart, which looked bigger than the first one.

Then her sticky latex fingers were holding my right arm.

“That’s a good vein.” She slid the needle into my right arm under the skin.

I was feeling queasy by the time she’d finished. Hot. I could feel sweat on my brow, while I felt chilled at my core. I was hoping I wouldn’t shake.

“That doesn’t feel painful, does it?”

“No.”

“Good.” She smiled. I want to say she gave me a reassuring pat, but I don’t really think she did. “They will call you in a minute.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled. Hesitated for a moment, then walked away.



“Would you like to come through?” It was the girl from the start with the questions about allergies. She led me through an adjoining door.

The machine was big and cream and plastic. Space age. They always look space age to me. Or do I mean science fiction, all that cream plastic from futuristic movies I saw as a kid. “Lay down there with your head on the pillow with your feet this way.”

“Okay.” The bed didn’t seem long enough.

“We’re going to do some scans first, then I will inject the dye.”

“Sure.”

I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. It was quiet. It was still. It’s just nice lying here, I thought. The bed lifted slowly. Then the bed was long enough. There was a camera, or a laser, or a cell of some sort directly above me. I closed my eyes and didn’t open them again until it was all over.

"Breath in and hold you breath," said a voice straight out or 1984. I felt my chest expand as I breathed in. The machine whirred, well not so much whirred as hummed. I could feel myself move, I think. It was like being in an aeroplane late at night, with a Pink Floyd heartbeat soundtrack.

"Breath normally," said the voice.

I relaxed.

I had to raise my arms above my head, but that is how I sleep some nights so I was really comfortable like that.

"Breath in and hold your breath," said big brother.

I didn't know if I was moving, or not.

"Breath normally."

The door opened and closed, footsteps approached me.

"Now I'm going to inject you with the radioactive dye."

I don’t think it was called radioactive dye, but that is what I heard. "Okay."

"Do you feel any pain?"

"No."

"You will feel a warm feeling, you will get a taste in your mouth, you may feel as though you have wet your pants. But that will only be momentarily."

"Something to look forward to," I said.

"I'm sorry?"

"Never mind."

She walked away.

Keep still, I thought? It was what I do best. I could fall to sleep. I suddenly felt warm, my mouth tasted funny and rather than wetting my pants, it felt like a prostate irrigation. I kind of liked it, the feeling, it was like being a bite wired.

"Breath in and hold your breath." I pictured a hologram head projected on to the wall straight out of Doctor Who.

It felt like I was moving again.

Then there was silence and stillness and waiting. I felt cocooned and calm and safe. So relaxed, I am part pussy cat like that. Om.

The door opened. Footsteps approached.

“It is finished,” she said.

Oh, just as I reached enlightenment. Her voice bought me back from somewhere.

“But because we pumped you full of radioactive dye, you will need to sit on the blue chairs for 10 minutes.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I’ll take out the IV.”

I hadn’t even thought about it, that is progress, that is how far I have come.

I was led back to the blue chairs. I got my phone and started writing in the notes section. Breath in and hold you breath…



“Do you feel okay?” Apparently, 10 minutes was up.

“I do.”

“You can get dressed and make you way to reception.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“You are very welcome,” she said.

Is the world getting stupider, or what?

In this modern era of information and technology, ironically, stupidly reins supreme. We settle for inferior, cars in the form of 4WDs, they pretty much don't do anything as well as a car, oh other than running off the road. How many single car accidents do you see where the driver has lost control of their 4WD at speed? 

We settle for 2nd rate politicians who are more often than not bought off by big business, (if anybody wants to talk about it, or not) making decisions for their monied donors and their own political future. Political donations should be banned, it is that simple. We aspire to political ideologies that we will never achieve, the workers voting for the right wing parties because it is the closest they will ever get to being wealthy. 

The anti vaccination brigade must be the stupidest bunch of people around at the present. All the medical evidence in the world to back up the latest medical advancements and yet people see fit to know better than the medical fraternity. Get your little sprogs vaccinated and do the world a fucking favour you Idiots. 

The divide between rich and poor is getting wider and wider and wider. 85 people at the top of the economic ladder have more wealth that the bottom 25% of the world population. 

It is probably part of, if not the reason for terrorism in the world today. Terrorism has to be about inequality, it has to be about groups of people who feel they are being treated less favourably, who feel they are left behind by the big business controlled world. Feeling disenfranchised must lead to acting out against the society who disenfranchised you.

The planet is dying, arguably we are at the no return tipping point, and yet people chose to believe the climate change deniers because it fits with their own lifestyle choices. 

"If I believe the climate sceptics, I can drive a 4WD without any guilt." And that takes us back to our first point.

On their 18th birthdays, I think stupid people should be issued with Mercedes ML63 AMG's, a cachet of guns and loaded syringes to vaccinate their own children. The world would be a better place for it.

The planet is being poisoned by us and we are encouraged to consume more for the good of the economy, in other words, the good of the wealthy.

We now shop for entertainment.

We have the internet at our disposal and what do we do with it? We post cat videos.

Half the world doesn't have access to clean, usable water and the other half of the world is eating itself to death.

The Golden Rule

We learned our morals from the bible?

That is never going to ensure our survival.

We need to be more grass roots tribal

and leave the fantasies (and frocks) to the priests,

and the fools.

Fifty Shades of Beige

It was a blustery, warm, overcast day from all accounts promising to be 34 degrees. 34 fucken degrees and all my short sleeve shirts were in the wash.

I had to go for my CT scan today, so I hustled along and got to work by 8am. I was hoping for a little quease and piet before the others got in. It was likely the Fatty Cake would be away again today, as Paddington came over yesterday arvo to say she may, or may, not be in today. Translation, she won’t be in.  She'd been away all week, I was hoping for another day.

We’ve started referring to her as F. The other day she and I were chatting, my phone was on the desk in front of us. A message came through from Sam asking if Fatty had made it in that day. Clear as day on my giant, luxurious iPhone 6plus screen. I slid my hand across the desk and covered the screen, as I told a friend of mine, cool as a cucumber. It wasn’t food so F wasn’t paying it any notice.

And while F wasn’t in this morning, I didn’t have the office to myself, I could have, but no. That sad cow, as Mazz used to refer to her, Stella Charmers, 50 Shades of Beige, from the other building was in my office ruining my solitude, with her spindly fingers clacking away on the keyboard making use of her Year 12 touch typing skills. Just her, only her. What are you doing here? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t, because if I had it would have come across as a hate crime. I forced myself to say, “Good Morning.” Gritted teeth, baby, gritted teeth.

“Good morning,” she said. She never would have said anything if I hadn’t said it first. I could see what a strain it was for her, to drag herself away from her VERY IMPORTANT WORK. She’s always doing VERY IMPORTANT WORK, sweetie. She is one serious cow, bordering on unpleasant.

She departed the office pretty soon after I arrived. Was it something I said? Who cares, why question it.

There was a moment of peace after that, perhaps half an hour.

But, as soon as the “girls” arrived in the office, they were chatting away. Why do “girls” talk so much? And the girls here have awful voices. Fran and Mindy Van Wart were in first and while Fran has a nice smooth voice, Mindy Van Wart’s ugly Scandinavian tones could strip paint from walls. What is it with those really ugly vowels? It’s like she chokes on every one of them, firing them out her arse, rat tat tat, in between the consonants. None of the latest HR recruits are Aussies, they all seem to have accents from exotic locales, what’s with that? (At the risk of sounding like somebody from Reclaim Australia) Just saying? I don’t care. The latest debutant is some fat Scottish slapper, who has round wire glasses and a penchant for pastel colour twin sets, pearls and brown slacks. Why are you dressing like a woman 30 years your senior, I want to ask her.

Oh Fifty Shade of Beige soon came back and pretty soon was yabbering away with Fat Frankie. Really? Fuck off to your own office you sad cow. And fat boy shut the fuck up. Fat Greek, only son, I bet, who loves the sound of his own voice.

Oh great, Fat Boy has just told Fifty Shades of Beige that he was having an industrial shredder delivered today to shred all the remaining paperwork, before he leaves next week. Oh yeah! Just when I thought Obnoxious Jelly Roll Fat Boy couldn’t possibly get any more annoying than he already is. Serves me right for being antsy, just wanting some peace and quiet in the office. All you new age hippie types would be blabbering something about getting what you resist, or what did I do to bring this on? Or something? No doubt,  (David) Gioncallis would be offering me some sort of positive affirmation to recite.

Fortunately, Fat Frankie set himself up with the shredder at the front of our floor, far enough away from me. I so wanted to walk up the front to see his fat legs wiggling violently from the metal teeth, as the industrial shredder devoured his fat carcass, with a spray of blood across the walls and ceiling like that fountain in front of the UN building in Geneva. But, sadly, no.

Still, I was back to peace and quiet. F called in sick. Apparently, she sounded like Darth Vader. I was busy, got to work.

But no, Fifty Shades of Beige was soon back. She had meetings with people all morning at the desk next to mine and I had to listen to her low level intense murmur for hours, like being blindfolded and having that constant drip of water hit your forehead with metronome regularity. Discussing her Spanish holiday, her wedding and her girlish aspirations towards motherhood. “Ideally, I’d like to have 18 years old, well adjusted, educated and ready to go out into the world kids.”

I heard the Fifty Shades of Beige say to one of her many visitors, “I come over here so I am not disturbed.”

Upon hearing her say that, I could see myself throwing myself across the desk, like Patsy Stone screaming, “You bitch troll from hell!”

Fat Frankie and Fifty Shades of Beige both concluded that their main pet hate were people sending them emails with no phone number so they couldn’t call them back, no doubt to hear their own voices just a little more. They love to talk.

Fifty Shades of Beige said she felt like sending those emails back return to sender due to no contact details, “But that wouldn’t help reception’s opinion of me being no fun and too aggressive.” She laughed nervously.

Reception’s opinion, I thought? That’s not just a fucking opinion.

Quitting Smoking

I still don't mind walking behind a smoker in a gentle breeze, even though I haven't smoked for more than a year. I'm still that much of a smoker at heart. Breath it in. Inhale. I guess I'll always love that smell, a freshly lit cigarette on a spring day. Memories of yesterday, of things that have been. I guess there are worse things?

New succulents in the sun

Sunday Chore Day

I just want to say that Sam is a Sunday ruiner. "No more internet. Time for chores." Big smile, as though we come from some place that is green and smells like pine. Time to wash and clean and vacuum and sweep the garden. Grrrr!

I'm not one who goes in for too much house cleaning generally.

Getting the music right was difficult this morning, I was trying to be adventurous choosing from all the new releases on iTunes. But the Blues let me down, it was all a bit like a sprint across the bayou with a three piece string band. New Age was like it was 1am Monday morning after a hard weekend, "and all ya drugs had stopped working." The soul girls were screeching. World music was either mogadon chic, or a dance party. Even trusty Craig David seemed to be in a hurry to get some where. In the end I settled on Chaka Khan sings the American Song Book.

Secret in Their Eyes

We went to see Secret in Their Eyes, mostly because of the said to be amazing scene when Roberts finds out her daughter has been murdered, when her partner discovers the daughters body in the dumpster at a crime scene they are sent to investigate.

David called in the afternoon to chat and we got onto the new Julia Roberts movie and that we'd both heard that she got a standing ovation from the crew after she'd shot the pivotal scene.

David wanted to see it, I wasn't so sure. (I want to see the Peanuts Movie, so what did I know) But, I did vote for it. Sam did not want to see it, he wanted to see Spectre, so did Lachlan.

What can I say about it? The first shot of Nicole Kidman and she is in a Chanel Suit... as you'd expect. Julia Roberts was such a sad sack throughout the film, I wondered at one stage if she'd, actually, taken her teeth out for effect. The cinematography was great, it worked. I didn't mind the jumping backwards and forwards between the different 13 years apart eras, I found that well done and easy to follow, although, David and Lachlan didn't like it. The much hyped daughter death scene was okay. Nyeh. The dialogue was wooden. The plot improbable, or just not that well played out. Nicole was her usual clipped vocal breathy minimalist delivery style, although her interrogation scene was probably my favourite. I didn't really buy the twist, I didn't think it was really all that plausible, although, I guess it worked in the much loved original Argentinian version.

I thought the most entertaining part of the film was when the woman in front of David turned to glare at him when he'd giggled with Lachlan one too many times. It was like a Meerkat death stare. I'm sure her head rotated 360 degrees. Then she dramatically changed seats, with a harrumph. This was followed by David giggling at her for shifting seats, laughing at her in defeat, which she didn't take quietly.  

"You are just rude!" she hissed.

David leant over and said quietly, "Get over it, darling."

"No I won't, DARLING!" she replied. (She was a bogun scorned)

You and your bad perm, I wanted to add, but I didn't.

David and Lachlan giggled some more.

As we exited the cinema to the under ground car park, the consensus was that the film was rubbish and that David had one more chance to redeem himself, as he'd picked the equally disliked San Andreas recently. But, as I have always said, David has questionable taste in movies at the best of time. (His favourite movie is the dire Notebook, enough said)

Finally, I don't know to what the title was referring? Nah, no idea. I must ask the others.

Sunny afternoon when the boys are shirtless

Gotta Luv a Meeting

Jesus Christ they love a fucken meeting at my work, it is a fucken gab fest. I’m sure half the people are justifying their fucken jobs by having a FUCKEN MEETING!

“Let’s get it catered.”

“Oh yes, lets.” Fast tiny claps of the hand in front of their chests.

I see them, chatting away, all the fucken time in the world, like the day is never going to end. I tell you, I wish I had half of their fucken work schedules.

If you took away half the fucken meetings half of them wouldn’t have anything to fucken do. We could operate with half the fucken staff, I am fucken sure of that.

Handsome face, hot arse

Red Owl street art

An IDA Volvo

Good old dick graffiti, kind of old school, it's a dying art

Equal And Fair Society

To all the people who think it is better to raise the GST rather than increase personal income tax to fix the revenue problem the government is experience, take down your striped social media solidarity photos for Paris as you’re willingness to make society less equal ultimately fuels terrorism.

Instead of being sucked into thinking about the bad things in the world, here is a beautiful Rover at which to look. Gorgeous, isn't it. It would so be on my car collection list if I write a best seller, if Aunt Gina dies and leaves me her fortune, (come on Aunt Gina!) if I win tattsLotto.

Stop Participating in Terrorism

There is a great way to fix the terrorism problem, stop participating in it, as they say. And for us mere civilians I think that means stop watching the news. I saw the headlines on The Age yesterday morning, and I simply disengaged from the news for the rest of the day. Instead of watching the news last night, we watched Ted 2. And then we watched shows we'd recorded for the rest of the night.

My theory is that if you stop the people who depend on making money out of ramming the news down your throat, firing the world psycho drama at you as if out of a gun, your life has to be much happy.

Remember, it is probably never going to happen to you.

This boy was walking in front of me. A strapping, dark-haired lad on a mission to somewhere. I followed him for a couple of blocks. I imagined he was off to his girlfriend's for a booty call. I think it was the way he walked, there was definite angst in his step and a nothing-is-going-to-stop-me kind of attitude to him breezing through the the day. There was definite purpose to each step he took. He had sweaty palms and elevated heart rate and a flushed complexion. 
I smiled and said, "Nice night for it." Of course, I meant walking.
 He furrowed his brow as though he was searching for meaning in what I said. Perhaps, he  thought I was telepathic. He checked his pockets, maybe it reminded him he needed condoms. Maybe, he got dressed in a hurry and he was checking that his fly was zipped up? Maybe the pocket checking was just a nervous twitch. 

I was going walking. That is four nights this week, not bad, hey? One day to go and that will be five days of exercise. Friday gets a bit problematic though, being the end of the week, and all. If I don't exercise on Friday night, I always mean to get an hour in over the weekend, Saturday morning, Sunday morning, but it is rarely successful. It is the weekend after all. I should ride my bike.

I was standing at the lights with this handsome dude. I had my head phones on listening to music. I took the photo thinking my phone was on mute, but afterwards when I checked it wasn't, he must have heard it. Oops. But then again, he was staring at his phone, as we all do now and there was the sounds of traffic all around us.

Remembrance Day

Again it is time to rejoice

in the futility of war.

We never seem to learn,

the next conflict begins.

We don’t get the lesson

from what we’ve done,

that nobody wins.

We use bigger guns.

Julia, from HR

Who knows what HR stands for? Anyone? Anyone? Anyone? Have a guess? Come on. Have a guess? Give it a go? Your best shot? Come on? Here, I'll help. Harridans Regurgitating? Housewife's Reactive? Happy Reckers? (although, they are rarely happy) Hookers Regardless? Hateful Retchs? (no misspelling, that is how they talk to most people) Oh come on, you are spoiling it. Have a go? Well, I'll tell you. Hideous Rat-Faced Bitchs! Everyone of them. Unhappy, mother complex uptight control freaks. Bunch of ugly slappers, usually fat, always brainless, with that schoolmarm attitude. But then, I am pretty sure I am HR phobic, so, maybe, you shouldn't take any notice of me.

Ha ha, it feels good to vent occasionally, don't you think? Vomit it up, it is good for the digestion. Teach that HR manager to come over to my office and roll her eyes. 

I'm guessing that you are thinking, cranky thing. And maybe I am. 

We are all so programmed to only want to read positive stuff. It is funny that people railed against political correctness and yet it seems to have taken us all over. If you can't say something nice, as my old grand ma... and all that shit, is the mantra most people live by today. Just be nice, everybody be nice and the world will get along fine. Yeah, yeah, that has always worked for us.

"But what have you organised for recouping the expense," said Julia, with that clipped HR tone.

"I'm not recouping the funds."

"So how will it work then?" asked Julia.

"Well that is up to... um... you and the manager."

"But the managers don't do it."

"Well," I said. "That would be your field of expertise..."

"I don't handle financial..."

"I meant training."

And there it was, there and then, she didn't even try to hide it, the eye roll. Just like that.

You've got to be kidding me, I thought. Don't try and palm your work off on me, I'm not having it. Go find some junior to try that move on.

I bought 2 coffees and a banana and chocolate chip muffin. It was a tough day.

The afternoon sun. Going for a walk. It was hot, I cold feel the heat on my face when I was heading west, of course. Do you think it charges your battery? The sun? Vitamin D? I wonder? It gives me a buzz. Puts a spark in my tank.
Who thinks I was taking a picture of the boy in the black shorts?

Buddy and Wolfy

We took Buddy for a walk to the off leash at the commission flats. He played with a big wolfy type dog. The big wolfy type dog came straight over to Buddy with that look on its face. I’m always a little weary of big wolfy type dogs coming straight for Buddy with that look on their faces, but when the two of them were leaping about together and taking turns at pissing on everything in sight, I figured they were fine.

Wolfy’s big, butch, tattooed boy owner was more than a little embarrassed when Wolfy kept getting on top of Buddy and humping him in the middle of the oval. I just laughed and thought, Well Buddy, you always want to play with the big dogs, but Wolfy’s owner ran in and pulled them apart like he wasn’t going to be accused of having a fag dog. Then Buddy gave humping Wolfy a red hot go, he would have needed a stepladder to pull that particular move off, but it didn’t stop me thinking, That’s my boy.

Then big, butch, tattooed boy owner said, "You're dog's very fit, mate, he's in great shape."

And I thought, now I know where Wolfy gets it from. Ha ha. What is it that never falls far from the tree?

"People with their bulldogs, they let them get fat."

"Oh no, Buddy is on a proper diet, he only gets proper food and portions."

"It shows," he said.

I made cherry cake. Sam bought a huge bag of cherries on special when we were shopping. "What the hell are we going to do with so many cherries?" he asked.

Gogglebox Boy

Oh that boy on Gogglebox - yes, I watch it, it is a new thing, I've just got into it - one of the straight mates, always in his shorts, I want to pat the back of his leg. It's the way he sits, I think, kind of crotch forward. He's got great legs. One of the two adorable buddies, the semi-ranga. I want to slip my hand up the back of the leg of his shorts.

Ha ha, ho ho, I wonder if they'd televise that reaction?

I like the old chick too. She has the weirdest laugh. Odd, but good. I like her sense of humour.

I like the cute father and son, too.

The gay guys are funny.

We record it and watch it when there is nothing else on, when it is a quiet night on the teev. It is good fill in TV for when Sam is cooking and I'm checking my blog, or facebook, or some such thing.

I always have my laptop on, it is the first thing I do when I get up in the morning. It is the first thing I do when I get home. I'm kind of computer addicted, mostly I am trying to write something, I'm not just doing the social media thing. Sometimes, I think I should leave it off, don't have it going, but then I turn it on and I don't think that any more.

The Julia Rose. My mother's middle name was Julia, is Julia, she is still alive, of course. Just because she can't speak, think, care for herself, understand what is going on around her, I shouldn't forget she is still alive. I bought her a Julia rose for one of her birthdays, I wonder if it is still flowering in her garden? I wonder how many times she bought those buds to her nose and thought of me? There are things I'd still like to ask her, and that it is so sad that I can no longer do that, despite her still being alive.

Apricot Roses. I've been seeing apricot roses about the place and I think they are my new favourite rose. My very favourite rose is the Julia Rose, its gorgeous. Having posted this photo, I went to take a shot of the gorgeous apricot roses in my neighbourhood, but they are finished and I couldn't. Over for another year.

Magic Men

It was a sunny day. A lovely day. There was some car race on? Was it the dogs? No, I know, bike race? No, no, it is a horse race, some horse race, should we put a bet on? We walked in the sunshine, midday looking for lunch. I didn't put a bet on. And nobody seemed to care about a horse race in Victoria Street.

We ate spicy soup. And some jelly thing with pork and prawn, which I kind of liked, but Sam turned up his nose.

I was a little vague and I got out my phone. Sam shopped with his usual intensity.

You teach people of the existence of a supernatural being, then you live your life as if that super natural being is telling you the way to live, telling you the truth, that is delusion, that is insanity.

Believe in the magic man, don't believe in the magic man, whatever makes you happy, but remember nobody else has to live as though the magic man is telling them how to live.

People are going to have different views. You've got to respect them as long as they are respecting yours. There in lies the problem, conservatives demand respect, but rarely give it to differing views.

I wrote this at 14.30, crossing Nicholson Street Abbottsford, amongst the traffic, under the canopies of the plain trees, under the blue sky and the shining sun, as Sam encouraged me to move along to go shopping at The Hive. Me on my notes on my iphone. Sam bought greens and veggies and supplies for dinner for the week and I bought pink lady apples at 99c a kilo for snacks at work so I don't resort to buying cake. 

We walked home up Victoria Street to Bunnings where I wanted to buy a brown plant saucer, to replace one that I had, but in a bigger size, so it still matched the rest of my plants in my atrium, but Bunnings doesn't stock them in brown, so the nice boy with the dreds, and the nice legs in his shorts, assured me. I'm sure, I have bought them in brown there before. (Plant saucers, not handsome dred boy legs) I have a large begonia that only just fits in its saucer and it threatens to over flow if I get too enthusiastic with the watering can, so I just wanted a bigger size. I've trialled the bigger size with a black saucer that I have, but my eye goes straight to it, because its black. But, maybe, that is just me.

So we headed home. A walk in the sun. I didn't need the hoodie I had worn. Don't you hate it when you have to carry your jumper instead of wear it because you have misjudged the weather, it seems so unnecessary, so redundant.

The sun shone at home, the day sparkled, the afternoon glistened, so much so, that it just urges you to do something. It is easy to do nothing in winter. I wanted to plant my Ficus cuttings, but I needed sand, so we drove back to Bunnings. I cleaned the rest of the shit off my car before we left, it took some time. 

There was a cute boy in motorbike leathers who admired my Peugeot as we went upstairs in the glass fronted elevator, saying he had a black one, the paint work on which wasn’t as good as mine.

Really? I thought. Your duco must be really shit. Or was it that I'd just washed mine and that it was wet? Mine so needs a polish... and a proper clean in all of its corners and hard to reach places.

Who cared though, he was handsome and perfectly lovely to gaze at as we chatted.

I now have 25 Ficus cuttings planted up. If they all grow, which I expect they will, I have green fingers, or is that thumbs, after all, I'll have them coming out my ears. Who wants a Ficus? Perhaps, we should get a stall at a weekend market? I could make cake. Banana Cake and Ficus plants, and maybe some glitter, it would be a crazy kind of stall.

We ate chicken schnitzels and coldslaw for dinner. Sam made it all himself. Yum, yum.

Then public holiday was over, seemingly quickly. So the rest of the week will go quick, just a couple of days and the week will be over. And then the year will be over. Don't you think it has gone quick? Can you believe it is November already? Have you grown a moustache? I never do. Although, I kind of like the 70's porn stars at work this time of year.

Spring in Rachel's garden

Cherry Blossom

I had these miniature pots, I think leftover from Shane's failed bonsai attempts, that have been laying around for some time. I used to have them arranged on my windowsill in some kind of geometric installation. It only dawned on me recently to put plants in them, as succulents only really need shallow pots. So that is what I did.