Walking home in the afternoon sun, look at that blue sky

The Buddster is getting fat. He's actually put on 0.2 of a kilo, as weighed at his last vet visit, so he's not really getting fat, but he looks a bit chubby in this photo, I think. It is really just the angle of the camera and how he is sitting, but that didn't stop me being a bit surprised when i first saw it

Move Over Sport

I chose to sit next to a cute, presumably Muslim, guy with one of those Muslim beards, on the tram this morning. Are those chin beards Muslim beards? I don't know? He had a round, handsome face and gorgeous coffee coloured skin. He was taking up ¾ of the seat when I sat down, and he seemed reluctant to move over any more than would allow half my arse to hang off the seat on the isle side.

I readjusted, you know, did the "seat wiggle" as if to give him a hint that maybe there was some inequity in the seating arrangement as it stood, but no, he didn't relinquish a millimetre. Nothing. Not a shiver, not a flinch, nothing. Not even an annoyed glance in my direction. He was the immovable object and he clearly didn't care how much room I had.

I see, I thought to myself.

I pushed my thigh gently up against his thigh and felt how solid it was, how muscular, it felt really nice. Warm and strong. I applied pressure, like we were intimate, if you know what I mean. I think I even did one of those nose scrunches, just to myself, as I felt the muscles in his thigh. And then he moved right over giving me half of the seat. I gave myself a look of satisfaction, nobody saw it, but I felt it. A smirk, I guess you'd call it. Very satisfactory it was too.

Street Art, Wanda Sykes goes to the gala as Carmen Miranda

Fitzroy, I call this soap opera Street Art

 

I call this one, Lick My Arse

Public Transport Princess

There were, seemingly, just single trams trundling down Collins Street this morning. And I had to wait, what seemed like, an inordinate amount of time between cars. I'd just missed one when I first got to the stop, and then two eventually turned up at once, one from either direction, a number 12 from MacArthur Street and a number 48 from Spring Street. So, of course, they were crowded. We were packed in like sardines, once we eventually got on board. All the single trammies, all the single trammies, all the single trammies, all the single trammies, I sang to myself. I wondered, as I stood and gazed out the window at the city sliding by, why they were running single trams in peak hour? Shrug. It was a mystery.

There was a rat-face HR administrator, well that is what she looked like to me, sitting below my right arm. I knew the type, when I saw it. Truthfully, she was gorgeous, but the pained expression on her face made her appear otherwise. She was looking up at me, scowling. (Unaccustomed as I am to being scowled at) I wondered if I had spinach caught in my teeth. (I resisted the urge to check) No, I didn't really think that, but that is my favourite Miranda scene from Sex in the City that always comes to mind if somebody is looking at me quizzically. Was I unwittingly singing out loud? Alicia Keys, No One. It is a catchy tune, to be sure, but no, I wasn't.

Pursed lips. Big eyes. I looked down at her without moving my head, like one might, if one (had just notice a cockroach crawling towards one) hoped something in their line of sight might just go away. She had an expectant look on her face, as though she was trying to pass a kidney stone, that made the corners of my mouth curl up at the edges at that thought. She gazed up at me, as though she was about to speak. And as Catherine Tate's nan would say, I thought, "Oh, 'ere we go"

Then she was saying something, apparently, to me. My headphones blocked the sound, but I could see her lips moving, I could see the corners of her eyes scowling, I could see her eyebrows moving up and down, and I got the sense it was all directed at me. I felt a slight shiver up my spine and I thought, it is not going to get any better than this. (me with my cone of silence headphones) I just knew it. Feelings in my water, as they say. Clearly, she was addressing me and I assumed, I was supposed to be interested in what she was saying, nay, supposed to listen to what she was saying. So, I pulled my headphones from my ears.

"Can you change handles," she said pointing to my right hand holding the strap above her head. "It is just if the tram stops suddenly you might elbow me in the head."

My first thought was, Are you serious? My second thought was, should I check for hidden cameras, surely she is having me on, this is too stupid for words? By the strained look on her face, apparently, she was serious. "I'm sorry?" I said. (Resisting the urge to simply say, "Que?")

"If the tram stops suddenly," she continued in her more entitled than thou tone. "You might elbow me in the head."

Only if I aimed properly, I thought.

The woman next to me cleared her throat. Rightly, or wrongly, I took it to mean that she just couldn't quite believe what she was hearing either.

My next thought was, Suck it up buttercup.

My elbow was a metre from her head. I had more chance of getting her in the missionary position if the tram stopped suddenly than my elbow connecting with her empty head. That prompted a smile across my face, which I was very keen to stifle. I wondered if, suddenly, I was looking as constipated as she was. (Her nose seemed to be scrunched up as though she had smelt something nasty)

I looked at my elbow, then I looked at her head. "I'll be very careful," I said.

I put my headphones back into my ears. But she appeared to speak again. She continued speaking. Apparently, I had to listen to what she was saying. I exhaled, something Sam knows very well, and I pulled my headphones from my ears once again. 

"I'm really very nervous about your elbow," she said. "I think it would be a kind thing for you to do…" She pointed at the strap above my left shoulder. "To change hands."

"Apparently," I said. I proceeded to put my earphones back into my ears.

"No, don't do that," she squawked.

I could feel myself pull my head back and away from her, almost despite myself, as if recoiling from her.

"I really think you should consider this from my point of view."

"Yes, I have picked up on that."

I put my left ear piece back in.

"No, no, no, please just change hands and then we can all have a safe tram ride." She smiled, still, it was kind of nasty. Demanding.

I put my headphones back in. As I said, the tram was crowded and there was another person next to me, with their back to me, who was wearing headphones, who could not hear our conversation, who was taking up the space I would have needed to use if I was to use the other handle. Besides, princess was just being ridiculous.

She was then making faces, as though she couldn't believe me. She was gesticulating with her hands in mid air and looking at me as though her frustration levels were just too much to bare.

Oh princess, I thought. Maybe that was the first time anybody had, actually, said no to you. She was really beautiful, if she could have dropped the ugly attitude.

She clearly wasn't finished. She was indicating for me to listen to her again, so again I took my ear pieces out.

"I just want to tell you," she said as she stood up. Was she getting off, or was she going to hit me? "You are one of the rudest people I have ever had the misfortune to meet." Then she did a kind of pirouette, her gorgeous long hair flicking at me, and the other woman to my right, like the devil's fingers might do if Satan swished his hand in midair. The woman next to me, and I, did a kind of horizontal Mexican Wave with our heads to avoid the flying split ends. Princess turned towards the door. She had on skin tight black tights, so tight that you could practically tell if she'd shaved this morning, stretched across her perfect figure. She had on a very short black leather jacket over that. Her hair was perfect, her figure was flawless.

Oh, no you don't. I had to say something, I just knew it, her behaviour couldn't pass by without a comment, I knew that. 

"Hey luv," I said. I was somewhat taken aback by my camp use of the word luv, so clearly in public. I wondered if I was suddenly sounding like Mr Humphries on a tram? It was probably better that way, though, as I was too distracted by my apparent gayness to check the next thing that just tumbled from my mouth. My filter was down, to be sure, by this stage. She looked back momentarily, but long enough. I pointed with my chin. 

"You're a bit fat for that outfit," I said.

The woman standing next to me inhaled sharply at my quip.

"Like…" Princess open and closed her mouth. She now resembled one of those Japanese animations with those impossibly large eyes. “Whatever!” She swished her hair around again, the woman next to me, and I, Mexican waved our heads again, and Princess exited the car.

I knew the fat quip was, quite possibly, out of line in this day and age, so I gingerly stole a glance at the woman next me. She smiled, giggled even, so, rightly, or wrongly, I took that as approval from the sisterhood for my non-PC comeback.

I put my headphones back in. Alicia Keys sang, Where Do We Go From Here. I chuckled, conspiringly with Alicia. I got off at the next stop without making eye contact with any of the other passengers.

Historical Bourke Street

White Night Lights

Screeching Woman sitting just in front of us

Life Isn’t Always Fair And We Don’t Always Play Nice

We headed to the State Library for the Deep Sea White Night display inside the library. We came in the side way from Little Lonsdale Street. So suddenly we were on the top of the steps looking down over the throbbing crowd. There were barriers running up and down the library stairs guiding people in different directions.

We were heading down the stairs to the throbbing crowd of Swanston Street, next to a barrier that was dividing us from the long line bringing people up into the State Library. There was a crowd controller at the bottom of their line letting people through intermittently, presumably to stagger the crowd, letting their queue clear as they were taken up into the library, before the next group of people were allowed through.

That section of their queue heading into the library was the only area that cleared in, I’m sure, a 100 metre radius, in the middle of a sea of people for as far as the eye could see.

The barrier was made of shade cloth wrapped over metal uprights, but halfway up the steps dividing us and them the metal uprights seem to have disappeared, which allowed the shade cloth barrier to fall away to knee height, which made it easily step-overable.

And a couple of people behind us did just that, as the queue just over the barrier cleared waiting for the next influx of people to be let through.

Sam and I looked at each other, but decided we couldn’t do the same thing.

We took a couple of steps down the steps, but it was just gridlock in front of us, we simply couldn’t move. Suddenly, we were like sardines going no where.

If you had been claustrophobic, I’m pretty sure you would have had a problem.

So we turned back. “Step over,” I said to Sam. “We can’t move that way anyway,” I said pointing down the stairs. “What else can we do?”

So we took a step over the barrier, unfortunately, as it turned out, just as the next group of people were let through, filling the empty space like water into an empty receptacle. Suddenly there was a rat-faced, mop-haired middle aged woman standing next to us in the queue heading up the Library stairs.

“OH NO YOU DON’T” she cried furiously, a voice that could shatter glass. She pulled up the barrier like she would if her daughter’s knickers had fallen down in public. “We've been waiting for 2 hours," she screeched at us. She looked at us with a mixture of anger and abhorrence, we were the devil incarnate, you could see it in her eyes.

"Wait a minute and she'll be gone, I said to Sam, as Screeching Woman and I eye-balled each other. Oh, it was late and I was tired and we couldn’t move in our queue anyway. And my feet were starting to hurt, as was my back. Her eyes were huge by this point and she seemed to gasp for breath at my inflammatory remark. She stuttered... speechless.

Hell hath no fury like…

She kept looking back at us as she moved slowly up the stairs. If she’d bought two fingers up to her eyes and then pointed them back at me I’d not have been surprised.

We headed back down stream, until she was gone. But it was gridlock in front of us still, really we were shuffling ahead a millimetre a minute, if that. I was intimately acquainted with the back of the head of the person in front of me. We couldn’t move. So like salmon we headed back up stream to the weak spot in the barrier and hopped over, as the other people were all doing. Suddenly there was a flood of people coming over the barrier, like refugees into Europe.

“We’ve been waiting for two hours,” I said to Sam. And then chuckled.

The queue moved up the steps and inside steadily. We were inside in what seemed like a relatively short time, so much for two hours.

There were guides all the way along instructing us to keep moving.

“We’ve been waiting for two hours,” I said in Sam’s ear.

“Stop it,” said Sam.

Then we were at the doors to the library chamber.

“Move straight inside and take a seat,” said the guide by the door.

So we moved around the circular room and took our seat in two captain’s chairs.

I pointed out Screeching Woman to Sam, who’d just taken her seat before us. “We’ve been waiting two hours,” I said.

“Shhh,” said Sam.

I took a photo of her and showed Sam.

He pushed my hand away.

The show was gorgeous, under the sea. It played on repeat, so when it started again we knew it was time to go, to let the next group of people take our seats. We headed for the exit, blue light lead the way.

I got to the door just as the Screeching Woman did. Someone held the door open for her, she looked back to make sure the person behind her got through, you know, nicey pie polite, she had no idea it was me. Our eyes met.

Oh, I don’t know what possessed me, really I don’t. Call it the late hour, call it my warped sense of humour, call it what you like. But the next thing out of my mouth was, “We’ve been waiting 2 hours.” High pitched, in her tone, imitating her. Oh yes, I know, strike me dead and everything else.

Screeching Woman’s eyes expanded to huge in a millisecond. She gasped for breath, clearly not knowing what to say.

“YOU! YOU! YOU!” she stumbled. I thought her head was going to explode, her mop of hair quivered, like something out of Godspell. “It is people like you…”

The stairs across from the main exit door were in a shade of bluish darkness, and Sam and I disappeared down them quick as a flash, Sam moving faster than me, you betcha, so that the end of Screeching Woman’s sentence was lost to us. We headed into the art gallery halfway down the stairs and fortunately Screeching Woman didn’t follow.

People every where

Deep Sea in the State Library

Deep Sea Crabs

Black is Black

Reaching into a wardrobe to find a black hoodie when all I, essentially, have are black jumpers and black tops, is almost impossible, let me tell you. It is like looking into a cave. This is where infinity lives, I thought, a black hole hidden there amongst the black fibres, as I fumbled around not really being able to differentiate where one garment finished and another started.

Goodness me, I thought, as I fumbled in my pocket for my phone so I could cast some light on the situation.

How do all those hoity-toity girls cope (the sporty Pru and Trudes) who spend their lives in active wear. No wonder they have to run places, to run off the frustration of getting dressed in the morning.

Or, Ozzy Osbourne, for that matter. At his age? With his eye sight?

What about Emos? (I’m still not really sure what an Emo is, so there you go)

I giggled to myself. Should I get myself a bishop-sleeve cape and train a crow to sit on my right shoulder. One caw for yes, one caw for no, three caws for danger, four caws for Satan's breath.

I wondered if bats may just fly out as I lift some of the garments apart?

Perhaps I should set up a coffee shop in there, as Melbournians would be bound to flock to it.

Is this my alter, I thought, as I stood there with a wardrobe handle in each hand? Should I sacrifice something…? Maybe my cynicism. Ha ha.

How My Shopping Went

I didn't find any clip frames, damn it. I tried looking them up online to find shops selling them, but I only seemed to be able to find online sales for them. And I wanted them today, of course.

I've got a whole lot of broken antique pictures that I want to use as a collage of paintings for my study wall. Get them out of the attic storage and hang them and I reckon clip frames would be the easiest way to resurrect them.

But no. There doesn’t seem to be a shop in Melbourne selling them. Oh well, I guess I will just have to order them on line, and wait for them to turn up in the mail. Surely there must be some place that I can get them today? You’d think? I don’t find shopping entertaining, or a pass time, or a hobby, or whatever it is that people think about it, it is a means to an end for me. I don’t shop to entertain myself, I shop because I want something, and if I want something, I want it now. Screw your online shopping.

The secondhand cd shop had every Rolling Stones album except the two I want, Undercover and Dirty Work. I guess that is hardly surprising as they are the two least popular Stones albums, which is the reason I don't have them. I have had them both in the past, a couple of times on different formats, but I don't have them now. I decided that I could live without them. But now I want to complete my collection. I reckon I should be able to download them for free, as I have purchased both of them in the past, one of them twice.

But we did hire an apartment in St Michel in Paris for our trip in May. It is an awful lot like the "Taken" Apartment. Do you think that is a good sign, or bad sign? I'm taking it as a good sign, of course, nobody wants to end up a drug addicted sex slave. That doesn't happen until two weeks later when we get to Amsterdam. Boom boom!

Amazingly enough, I found a copy of Alison Limerick in an opshop for $1

Work Life Balance

Work Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Thursday and Friday off. Lovely. I like it.

Now, I just have to work out how to get the job permanently. I did freeze Melissa’s name in an ice block in the freezer, let’s see if that works. Why do I want the job? Because my dreams of being a writer are not materialising and I may just end up being a pauper in old age… um… err… did I just say that out loud? No, it is not that, I’m sure it isn’t that. It is? Well? The conditioning about having a job is hard to kick, really it is, so, I reckon, it is easier to have a job so I don’t worry about not having one. Does that make sense?

I'm going to go for a bike ride. I’m trying to go for a bike ride every day, every day I am not working, that is. Apparently, the walking I have been doing every day is not enough. I got a new rear tyre on my bike in the last few days, so I am good to go. Best I go.

Then I might go to Ikea and get some clip frames for some pictures I have for the collage of paintings I am working on for my study wall. I’m sure I saw a wall of them in some shop some time ago, I’m hoping it was Ikea. I can picture them up on the wall just before you get to the checkouts. Or is that just creative visualisation? I wanted it, so I am picturing it.

Then I might go to the second hand record shop in Brunswick Street and look for the 2 Rolling Stones albums that I don't have. That would be fun. I’ve been buying cds in opshops for $1 recently. I’m going to be super pleased if I turn over the next cd and it is one of the Rolling Stones cds that I am missing. That small thrill, to the core. I want to feel that, but somehow, I don’t think it is going to happen, Rolling Stones cds don’t end up in opshops, so I have to up the ante to go to specific cd shops. The cd I see the most in opshops is Didos, No Angel, I don’t know why. I could also have bought Robbie Williams entire collection. Alex Lloyd is another biggy.

Then I'll make lunch for Sam.

It is cool and overcast.

I have to book an apartment in Paris and an apartment in Amsterdam and I have to book the Eurostar to London, for our trip in a few months.

And what I don't get done today, well, there is always tomorrow.

Was It Getting Bigger?

The whole of Gertrude Street seemed to be under construction this morning, the tram stop at Gertrude and Smith, the intersection at Gore Street being resurfaced, and the really ugly apartment building being built on the corner of Gertrude and George, consequently all of that was playing havoc with the cars, which was making it difficult for the pedestrians to cross the road. I zipped across between two cars, yes I did. I tell you people are getting really mean. I ran between cars, it would have been my fault if anything happened, I admit that, it was the cars right of way, but that doesn't mean the chick behind the wheel of the white Suzuki 4WD couldn't have taken her foot off the accelerator to accommodate me, but she didn't, she just kept right on accelerating right at me. The world is becoming a meaner place.

But it does mean there is an abundance of tradies around the place. A shout out to the blue-eye boy holding the stop/slow sigh in George Street today, in his hoodie and high viz vest, you baby are hot. Slow, stop, anything you want, honey.

I finally remembered to transfer my new Alicia Keys album onto my phone. New to me, not a new release, $1.25 at the opshop. As I Am, 2010. I was quite pleased to get it too, as I have never really been a great Alicia Keys fan and this is an opportunity to get to know her music just a little better.

I was back into a short sleeved shirt, it was a cool morning, but the expected top temp was meant to be 31 degrees, so the weather report says.

We’ve had a couple of colder days and I wore a long-sleeved shirt to work for only the second time this year. It felt weird to have my arms covered.

Trams don't wait for you in the mornings any longer, I have noticed. Once the driver would wait if he saw you running to catch the tram, but not any longer. I guess it is just the way of the world. I suspect it has a lot to do with the privatisation of the tramways.

Two newer, larger, relatively full trams passed me in MacArthur Street, but I was still a long way from my stop so I didn't even try to catch those. Then an older, relatively empty, single tram car came trundling down the road. They are so cute, compared to the new ones that just seem to be getting longer and longer. The single cars are like the little terriers of the tramway network. I can almost imagine them going "Yap, Yap, Yap, Yap," all the way down the street. I started to run, but I was still up by the Diana Memorial, so it was really unlikely I'd get it, but I tired. Of course, I just got to spitting distance of it and those doors closed and off it went, "Yap, Yap, Yap."

However, it isn't that far around the corner to the next stop in Collins Street, at no 1, so I hustled off down the road to the intersection. It was pretty empty, it wouldn't be stuffy hot, I could get a seat. I zipped across Spring Street, saw a gap in the traffic coming into Collins Street, there is always a gap, there is always a slow one, more than likely on their phones, and I zipped across to the big old useless, oh, um, er, the lovely new super stop and dashed along it, hanging onto my bonnet and bag, as the last of the passengers were heading up those steps. The tram can't go while there are passengers still getting on, let’s face it, no matter what the new private owners dictate, so I was in with a chance. Then I was up the steps, the doors slid shut behind me and off we went, as I headed to an empty seat, trying not to sound like I was gasping too heavily for breath. An athletic Asian boy in a crisp, white shirt got on behind me. I sat trying to regulate my breathing, as he jumped passed me like a gazelle.

We never want people to think we have pushed ourselves to achieve something, we all want the other person to think we just managed "it" all in our stride. I didn't want to shake and drip with sweat.

I sat backwards on the crazy patterned lime green seats. The tram was relatively empty, but that didn't stop people standing. I gazed off into space, breath, breath, breath.

The tram was relatively empty, so the air was still fresh and not too stuffy. Some mornings with a packed tram it can be like stepping into a sauna. And after walking to the edge of the CBD, it is almost too hot and too stuffy some mornings.

I know, I know, I should walk all the way to my office, which I’d be happy to do, but it is just a time thing, as that would take me another half an hour, up to, and I really like getting to work as early as I can. Catching the free tram through the CBD it only takes 5 minutes, or so. This way I can still leave the house at 8am with Sam and still get to work at 8.30am.

In front of me was a pair of blue pants, right in my eye line. Nice they were too. I wasn’t trying to look at anything, I was just trying to make my heavy breathing not obvious to all around me. But, there is was, right in my line of sight. I gazed freely, not really focusing, but focusing too. A bit of a perve, with a bit of a stare. Just looking ahead of me. I must admit, I just let my gaze be fixed, not really caring. I didn’t look up, I didn’t look down, I didn’t look away, I just looked straight ahead. I never think that anyone is taking any notice of me on the tram in the mornings, where I am looking. I’m quite low key, is what I think. I imagined what kind of undies he was wearing, it is true, I confess. Boxers or briefs? Short trunks or long trunks? Did he have a hairy stomach, spreading up to a hairy chest? He seemed to have nice thick legs.

Then the hand went in the pocket. He made a bit of an adjustment of himself. His hand wandered subtly around in his pocket again. Then the hand went in the other pocket and it took out his phone, to which headphones were attached. He seemed to be changing the music. He slid the phone back into his pocket and turned sideways towards the door. His suit pants looked even better in profile. Had it got bigger?

I stole a look at his face, he was gazing out the tram window. A handsome wog boy, nice. In his thirties. He looked married, but maybe that is just my fantasy?

Then it was my stop. I stood up. He stepped in front of me to get off too. He got off at the tram stop and kind of looked around to see where I was going, it seemed. He turned and waited on the tram stop as I walked away. Funny, I thought. Is all of that in my imagination? It didn't seem like it. I was happy just to walk off. It is kind of nice to know, but I don’t want to pick any one up, thanks anyway handsome. A smile, and off I went, a spring in my step. I looked back from the traffic lights, he was still looking in my direction. I smiled to myself.

Turn Your Love Around

Was it cold? Was it not? Was it too cold for a short-sleeved shirt? Was it not? Could I wear my trusty short-sleeved shirt to the free tram stop without freezing my arse off? I walk to Collins Street, I catch the tram, the over-filled, smelly, hot tram for my free ride down Collins Street, during which time the sweat rather uncomfortably pools on my back and my chest, lays in a slick sheen down my arms and in the small of my back, running down my bum crack on a particularly bad day, threatening to vacuum-seal my shirt to my body. I can feel my self washed in dampness as my dry shirt belies what is beneath. Hoping, just hoping the air-con is sufficient enough, or the tram not so damp-hot-stuffy that I make it to William Street before I cascade obviously.

I listened to George Benson.

I wore a long-sleeved shirt, and immediately began to regret it as soon as I left the house. I didn't want to be a sweaty slick on the tram, so I walked to Brunswick Street with the intention of catching a tram. One just left as I got there, one of those long new, ones with numbers of articulations. I'd just missed it. But there was another coming, so I crossed over to catch it. But Brunswick Street was bumper to bumper. The first tram had simply crossed the intersection and stopped. The second one would take an age to get to me. The first one was going nowhere. I might as well walk to the interchange at Victoria Parade, so I did.

I got to the interchange just as the first tram did. I crossed the road and jumped aboard. Three stops from the free zone, it crossed my mind to risk it. But no. What is my mantra? $4 is a poor risk for humiliation. I can afford $4 to avoid the tramways boot squad from hauling me off the convey belt of worker ants heading to the daily grind in the hive. I swiped my PT card. I remained by the door. Before-mentioned sweating in mind, at least at the door there was the promise of the occasional gusts of fresh air at each stop.

There I was huddled by the door – okay, okay, so one person finds it very difficult to make a huddle, I was huddled none the less – so I can breathe in great lung bucketful’s of fresh air every time the doors slide open. The doors slid open at Albert Street, I swung out into the breeze. The morning was fresh, the sky overcast. The air was lovely. I swung back in. More people get off at Albert Street than I would have given credit. I swung out at Spring Street. Oh yes, some woman with a sphincter as tight as nun’s nasty gave a tutt, or a sideways glance, however, this being the first tram, the front tram a head of the one behind one would have thought it would be full, but it was not. The tram was unusually empty. At 101, I was against the wall, right next to the door, and there was nobody behind me. The woman sitting down, against the wall admittedly, stood up and said, "Excuse me."

Really, I thought? I had on my bat-fink shield of steel headphones so I ignored her.

"Excuse me," she said again. I couldn't hear her, but I knew what she was saying.

I looked sideways at her.

She stood there cats-bum as you like glaring at me.

I laughed.

She doubled down on the serious look.

I didn't move.

She was determined.

It was a standoff.

Stupid bitch, I thought.

"Excuse me!"

I spun around on the sole of my shoe, with an over-exaggerated sweep of my arm and mouthed, After you.

She shook her head like an irate grandma, half-stepped and half-pushed into me, as she manoeuvred around me, none too pleased.

George sang, Turn Your Love Around.

It Was Like Watching A Cretin Beat His Head Against A Brick Wall Mindlessly

As I stood on the corner of Brunswick Street and Victoria Parade in my blue checked short sleeved shirt, the one in which I think I look rather smart, the temperature dropped and the rain started to fall finely, like a mist, and I wondered to myself, as the cold pierced my skin, maybe I misjudged this outfit rather badly. Suddenly, it was grey and wet. I scanned the street for similarly dressed people, safety in numbers, but there were none. Oh well, nothing I could do at that point, except forge ahead and hope the bad weather doesn't get any worse.

I walked to Spring Street and caught the tram, it was one of the old single cars. When we got to 101 Collins Street, a guy standing on the stop tried to board the car at the very last minute, as he stepped to the door, the doors closed in his face. He recoiled and the doors opened again automatically. He stood back and then again he tried to enter at the last minute. Again, the doors closed in his face and he recoiled, again the doors opened again automatically. For the third time, he attempted to board the tram at the last minute, the doors again closed in his face, again the doors opened automatically. It was like watching a cretin beat his head against a brick wall mindlessly. And a tram full of people were held up, stationary, and all they could do was gaze out the window with their mouths open. Or was that just me?

Matt With A Drill

Oh, I don't know why, just because, breaking my rule of only posting photos that I have taken. I think it is his arms. And his face. And the promise of what is in those black shorts, sure. Why not. It was the arms.
I was cleaning up my drafts, originally, I had an Italian guy with a drill in his hand, but it wasn't really a good image and I wasn't really sure why I kept it. And then I came across this image, so I called him Matt, because he seemed to be more Anglo than Mediterranean, hence Matt.
And here he is, Matt with a drill, formerly known as Mario with a drill.
And I am sure you are all like me fantasising about Matt's drill work.

David got me this t-shirt

Breakfast

And when I am home on my own I get to lick the bowl and the beaters without being told I will end up a fat slag

Baking a cake. Creaming the butter and sugar, and no taking a finger full.

Bananas ready for a banana cake. 
I always laugh thinking about what Sebastian always says, 
"If you have rotten fruit, throw it out."

What The Hell?

Why the hell (that was intentional) did all of our federal politicians go to church before they attended their first day of parliament this week? Really? I don't want my parliamentarians attending church sending the message that some how that it is some sort of worth while thing to do. Get to Canberra and start passing some laws, like we elected you to do. If they want to go to church, there is nothing wrong with that, of course, but they should do it privately and in their own time.

What Does A Boy Have To Do To Keep A Job

Since I have had that Melissa’s name in the freezer, (the girl who I am filling in for) she has had a miscarriage, a divorce and cancer twice, with both her tits lopped off most recently… shrug?... who would have thought?

But, she is still coming back in a couple of months to take the job back. What do I have to do to get rid of her? Should I freeze her name inside an ice block in an ice block tray, in the freezer?

I told Jill, and she actually said that I was responsible for Mel's problems... roll of the eyes...

“It all started out as a joke, luv…” I said. “Rachel and I and a late lunch.”

“But look what has happened to this girl, ever since you and Rachel started this “joke…” said Jill, air-signing parenthesis, with disgust in her voice.

(No wonder the new age’ers are gaining traction in the world today)

Never the less… I wouldn’t mind keeping the job for 3 days a week? Mon to Wed, it is quite nice. Thu and Fri off. It works for me. The job is easy, piece of cake. Being causal is even better, I can work what days I want.

Of course, Rachel, the one who told me to do it in the first place, now says I am too evil for words.

"Gosh you are harsh," says Rachel. Laughing.

Really? Full of suggestions, but when it actually comes to pulling the trigger, they wimp out, I thought.

Snigger, snigger. (I think it was when I asked what I had to do to kill the bitch… a step too far? Even Rachel recoiled at that point)

I'm thinking I might freeze her name inside the ice block to see how that goes. (I used an old olive container from the supermarket deli)

It is nothing personal, Melissa, eh, business is business. I quite like Mel, to tell you the truth, she's nice.

The best thing about having a job, I have discovered, is the fact that I no longer worry about not having a job.

(Of course, when I have, eventually, disposed of her lifeless body, and I am stuck with the weekly grind of the office, I’m sure I will probably say, at some point, “Um, er, 3 days a week? What was I thinking?”)

I tell you, this new job, they always have sweets in the office. If it isn't chocolate, or scorched almonds, it is shortbreads and assorted lollies. Today, it was cheese cake and chocolates, it was somebody's birthday. This is all I had. I'm trying to stay away from temptations, but it is hard.

Not only have we got another monster development of however many apartments, to ruin our suburbs as we know them, but, as if to make a point of how awful the whole thing really is, our gorgeous plain trees in Eades Street East Melbourne have been ripped down due to the "developers requirements." The East Melbourne Council should be utterly ashamed of itself for allowing this to happen. We lose our magnificent trees due to a property developer pursuing a profit? Really?

Living Forever

I've never really understood why the religious right is sooooo obsessed with gay peoples lives? I've never known why. If they have found the enlightenment of religion, what is it they say, living in the light of their lord Jesus Christ coming to earth to absolve them of all our sins, surely they should be happy. You'd think.

Let me just say, that people can believe in whatever they want to believe, and I hope whatever they believe brings them joy and happiness. After all, isn't that what beliefs should do for you?

You know what I think it is, I think the religious right have enormous egos and are self righteously smug. They think they have found the truth to life and they think they can laud it over anybody, especially those who don't agree with them. We know better.

Religious belief. It's kind of a hard one to define though, as so many of us are still brainwashed by religion at such a young age. And this conditioning from such a young age is hard, almost impossible to shake. It is the same as how we cling to our matchbox cars, or our barbie dolls, or not riding backwards on trains, they take us back to a simpler time, a happy, carefree time, so many of us don't want to let it go. It is how we cling to our mother and father, to childish things. Do religious people simply never grow up? There is god and religion still taking care of me, so I don't have to take care of myself, not fully anyway. I don't have to think, thinking has all been done for me.

They don't believe in abortion or euthanasia but they seem to have no problem with killing during war, or, in the case of America, the death penalty for crime. I don't understand that at all.

But then, what they believe has changed considerably over the years, now hasn't it. Let's look at divorce, where that was once, what is it they say, the immutable word of god, now they seem to have no problem with multiple marriages and multiple divorce.

But, you know, what is the immutable word of god. Who knows. What they chose to believe in the bible is what seems to suit them.

The cloth of different types, working on the Sunday stoning an adulterous wife to death, the abomination of shell fish, they don't believe so much.

Oh but the gay thing they are sticking to.

But not the women being silent.

Is it all about heaven and the arrogance of believing they get to live forever?

Lazy Saturday

We headed into the city to eat lunch and have haircuts. Lazy Saturday. We ate Indonesian. I had my haircut while Sam sniffed around JB. At the last minute, he said he didn't want his hair cut.

The weather was glorious.

I bought new work shirts, new short-sleeved shirts for the rest of the summer. I bought a loud blue checked on and a purple one and a plain grey one. I'm going for the more casual look at work. I've ditched my suits and I'm wearing chinos and cool shirts.

We shopped at the Asian grocer. Sam inspecting the shelves very intently. Me, on my phone, or imagining the cute boy shopping next to us in his undies. Or taking photos.

We walked home in the sunshine, through the parks.

We leave for Europe in 4 months and we should have been booking accomodation for that, but we didn't get to that. Shopping in the city is exhausting. Ha ha.

I spoke to Jill, she is having doubts about going to live in Queensland. She is going in May to avoid the Melbourne winter. 

"But what about the Queensland summer," I asked.

Yes, well, that is the doubt.

We ate fried rice for dinner.

We watched The Second Exotic Marigold Hotel.

Red balloon

Friday afternoon on my bike

Riding up the Yarra to the Bolte Bridge

I went for a bike ride in the afternoon

Sunny old Melbourne

I rode the length of the Yarra, right up to the Bolte Bridge. This is not the Bolte Bridge, for those of you who don't live in Melbourne, this is the Sandridge Bridge in the middle of town.

The American Solution

I don’t understand the resettlement of refugees to America. (actually, I do) The idea that refugees aren’t allowed to be settled in Australia is, according to the Lying Party, oh sorry, Liberal party, to shut down the people smugglers business in Indonesia because the “golden ticket” of living in Australia is taken away. Refugees would be resettled to 3rd, presumably unappealing, countries like Cambodia, or PNG, or the moon, it doesn’t matter, so those refugees wouldn’t get on boats in the first place. But, if they are being sent to America, surely, America would be just as attractive, if not more attractive, to refugees?


To me this suggests that resettlement in Australia was never the issue. It points towards what the true fact of resettlement of refuges really is and that is that it is the only policy success the Liberal Party ever had. Under Tony Abb..vomit… Abb…vomit… Abb… vomit… the previous Prime Minister it was the only policy that worked for them, everything else they put their hands to was a complete failure. (large parts of the 2014 budget still haven’t passed the senate) So it never had anything to do with people smugglers and everything to do with appealing to the base racist nature of Australian’s to keep their political jobs. The Liberal Party doesn’t care how many lives they ruin to stay in power and the American deal proves it.

Coming home from the osteopath, he was great, he fixed my back.
My car is wrapped in its new silver space suit car cover, it seemed such a shame to unwrap it, so I caught the tram. And it is my way to be kind to the earth. I thought it was all going to  go horribly wrong when I was still in my trackies at 10.17am for an 11am appointment, but I had a shower and caught a tram and was still there in time to flip through the out of date Home & Garden before he came to the door and said, "Christian."

Running For The Tram

I left work at 4.30pm, somewhat disappointed that ITs fuck up had stopped me from getting right up to date. They were supposed to update my application, but they didn't manage to finish it, from all accounts they hadn’t managed to start it. Damn! I wanted all of last month's figures finished by now. Oh well.

There I am giving a fuck, I suddenly thought as I left the office. I shook my head. I must be getting better? Getting better, I laughed to myself. Getting worse? Better/worse? It is perception, now isn’t it. Even though I don’t like to work all that much, I do it properly when I do it. No half-arsed measures, no, no, no. If it is worth doing, it is worth doing properly. If it is not worth doing properly, don’t do it at all. Stay at home, I approve of staying at home. Yes, I do. That is my life’s mantra. It is just nice lying here, which is much more preferable to working, but if you are going to drag your sorry arse into the office, then make sure you do everything properly, no mistakes, no regrets, then you can go and sit on your arse again, without any worries. That is my life’s moto.

I walked up Collins Street, end of the day, lovely old Collins Street, with its glorious architecture, what is left of it. (The Aleppo end of Collins Street, I thought) A tram passed me heading in my direction, which I decided not to try and catch, lazy, don’t want to run, dragging my feet up the footpath. The sun was shining, the trees dropped shadows dappled to the ground. There were people in the street still wanting to make their last appointments for the day, their last meetings, you can see it, rushing about the place with that hungry look in their eyes.

The tram stopped at the lights up ahead. I glanced back over my shoulder and there was no other tram in sight. Funny, the longer the tram sat at the lights, the more I wanted to catch it. The closer I got to the intersection, the more I wanted to be on that tram to make my escape, get home, beat the crowds, get out of the city. So I started to hurry up the hill. Then I was level with the tram stopped at the same lights, we were neck and neck. I ran across William Street as soon as the lights changed to red – I watched the last car come to a stop on the white line on the red light in William Street, which was a minivan. Momentarily, my mind allowed the minivan to come through the red light, as I ran out in front of it, with me turning side on to it, turning my shoulder towards the front of the van defensively, the van hitting me full on, “Ouch, fuck!” I heard myself call out. I was thrown through the intersection sliding on my arse on the bitumen, tearing my pants and my shirt from my frame. There were gouging injuries to my arms, legs and buttocks, tearing the skin, tearing the flesh, as I slid through the intersection, spinning around in an ever increasing pool of my own blood – I watched my imaginary self slide passed in a microsecond, whoosh, my head turned in microsecond increments, frame by frame.

I looked at the stationary van. Whoosh! I jumped over myself, the trail of flesh and blood, crossing William Street, like a human stain. I crossed over half of Collins Street to the tram stop, in front of a large bus waiting at the lights, coming towards me, that had not started to move as yet. It shook as it built up revs per second. The new tram had slid through to the stop, one of those useless super stops, only implemented so the private contractor that now runs the trams could eliminate city stops without there being a huge public outcry. (The general public are losing IQ points every year, you can see it in who they vote for, for instance, the poisonous red-haired bitch from Queensland, the bag of shit president, and they’ll accept anything that is sold to them)

As I ran up the walkway, a secretary in a dated power suit slid in in front of me – hem just that bit too long, suit just that much too big, hair just that much too blond, piled too high in a bun – slowing me down and holding me up. She was one-eyed in her determination, the unpassable object, she wasn’t allowing me onto the tram before her, no sir! As she marched forth, with everyone else, hooked in, blinkered, their unchangeable course set, one of the old trams slid in behind the new tram, so, at the last moment, I hopped onto the old tram, stepping sideways, breaking away, up the stairs, up into the god’s, some may say, sitting right up the front, like Jackie, as they also say, as I am now used to the new, low rider trams. Most people focussed on the new style tram, like ants on a carcass, it was first into the stop after all, not so many people got onto the old tram, so those of us on the old girl got seats and avoided most of the peak hour crush. Lovely.

I huffed and puffed, as I sat. What is it that Michal Mosley says, short, sharp bursts of exercise are good for losing weight. I wondered if running for the tram counted? It was up a hill, after all, it was for 100 metres, I wondered.

Breath out. Close my eyes. The day is over. The tram rumbled its way through the city underneath me.

People Are Weird

The Cars That Ate Paris

I was walking home, up MacArthur Street crossing over St Andrew's Place when a white Camry turned right into St Andrew's Place without stopping for me. “Give way to pedestrians,” I said. I made a WTF gesture with my hands in the air and called him an idiot, as one does. Then I kept walking. Fools who don't know the road laws, I lamented to myself, shaking my head. And that was that.

I was listening to KD Lang on my headphones. She has a great voice, I never knew.

He drove up the next street, on the other side of the small park just there, Parliament Place and turned into Cathedral Place, the street at the other end, and appeared to be waiting for me with his passenger side window open at the end of the footpath at the top of the hill. But the car was on such an angle that I couldn’t really see inside, it was just a car with an open window, waiting. It was the threatening open window, a portal into shadows, with the promise of… what? I didn't know. Fat, entitled, dented male ego retribution, or some shit. Another hard done by, straight male. Perhaps he had a gun? Well, who knows what the crazies are up to? Was this footpath rage? Well, I guessed it was still road rage as he was driving a car.

Fine, I thought, I’m up for a discussion. Learn your fucking road rules, I said under my breath.

The still car gave off a threatening vibe, like a face with no features. As I got closer, however, he turned left into MacArthur Street and rolled slowly back down the hill in my direction. He rolled passed me slowly and stopped, as though he was being confrontational, but scared at the same time, or some such fucking thing, I don’t know. It was odd behaviour. I saw his face for the first time, momentarily, dead eyes, expressionless, but he rolled too far, intentionally, or not, I don’t know. I was left again staring at a car with an open window, into which, again, I couldn’t really see. Are you scared little man, I thought. (Bullies are always cowards) What a completely useless show of confrontation.

I’m guessing he wanted me to go over to his car, but the footpath is wider there so I didn't have to get close enough to make eye contact.

"Learn your road rules, you moron," I called out to him, but I really couldn’t be bothered with it anymore, so I kept walking, not willing to waste any more of my time. It was odd, really odd. And that was that.

Why he came back for a second bite of the cherry, as they say, and had then turned mute at the very last minute, I have no idea.

From there all the way to the other side of Victoria Parade, it is difficult for a car to stalk a pedestrian, what with the one-way lanes and the permanent and impermanent barriers, so I felt safe from the white Camry. Moron, I thought. But as I headed through the side streets of Fitzroy and then the smaller streets, I imagined him suddenly appearing at the end of Little Victoria Street (Has anyone seen the film Dual?) And me with my noise cancelling head phones on, I probably wouldn't hear him coming up behind me. I probably would know anything until his bumper hit the backs of my knees.

People are weird, I thought, as I nonchalantly glanced back over my shoulder... a few times.

I, of course, didn't see him again.