One of my very favourite movies, Dangerous Liaisons. I love it.
"It is beyond my control"
Thursday, August 31, 2017
Psychosomatic Illness
I've developed a psychosomatic illness, if you would even call it that, when Sam says diner is ready, I have to go and take a piss. Every night. It is a recent thing. Is that even a thing? Sam just shakes his head.
"Do you always..." you can hear the rest.
It is probably some long lost childhood trauma finally bubbling to the surface. I just knew, I should have a few more of those. It is not healthy to be so normal, I am sure. It is kind of weird, though, like clock work, or is that like piss-take? And now that it is in my head... every night. In the words of my favourite movie, It is beyond my control.
I should google it, I guess. Of course, that is never really recommended. Google will probably tell me it is cancer, or ulcerated something, or some mental disease, of some sort. Denys-Drash Syndrome, that's what I got when I googled it. Truthfully, I think it was the word syndrome. That is some hideous condition.
Oh, who are we kidding, Google will tell us what the businesses have paid Google to tell us, well, at least for the first page, or two, of the search. Whoever has paid Google the most, that is what we'll be told.
Remember when the internet used to tell you interesting, useful information? Not what business has paid them to tell us. Remember that?
"Do you always..." you can hear the rest.
It is probably some long lost childhood trauma finally bubbling to the surface. I just knew, I should have a few more of those. It is not healthy to be so normal, I am sure. It is kind of weird, though, like clock work, or is that like piss-take? And now that it is in my head... every night. In the words of my favourite movie, It is beyond my control.
I should google it, I guess. Of course, that is never really recommended. Google will probably tell me it is cancer, or ulcerated something, or some mental disease, of some sort. Denys-Drash Syndrome, that's what I got when I googled it. Truthfully, I think it was the word syndrome. That is some hideous condition.
Oh, who are we kidding, Google will tell us what the businesses have paid Google to tell us, well, at least for the first page, or two, of the search. Whoever has paid Google the most, that is what we'll be told.
Remember when the internet used to tell you interesting, useful information? Not what business has paid them to tell us. Remember that?
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
Guilt, it is Such a Waste of Energy
You know, sometimes I feel like such a shonk.
Sam does all of the buying of the food, and pays for the meals when we eat out, and he does all the cooking. I do the cleaning of the kitchen after the cooking, and I pay the rest of the bills. I also do the clothes washing and any home maintenance that may need doing. We both share the cleaning of the house, I vacuum and he dusts, on a Sunday. I don't know if that is fair, but both of us seem happy enough with the arrangement.
So, Sam goes to work full time and he does all the cooking when he gets home. Thankfully. I am so glad I don't have to cook. Shake of the head. He comes home for lunch every day, we usually eat leftovers from the night before, or we go out to eat. I stay home and I don't work. I say that I am on long service leave, I'm just lucky that way. Someone said the other day, the boyfriend of a friend, "You are so lucky that you work from home."
Sure, let’s go with that, I thought.
Truthfully, I have been pissing around since we got back from Europe.
So, the shonk bit is... I race around, literally for 10 minutes and clean up the kitchen before Sam gets home for lunch at midday and again at 4.30pm before Sam gets home from work. Literally, it takes me 10 minutes, sometimes 5 minutes. Twice a day. Twenty minutes tops, and the house is clean. That is my day done. The rest of the time, I do what I like.
That's what I have to do on a daily basis. Some days I just feel like a con artist, when it is 4.40pm and I am finishing my 5 minutes of work, wiping the last saucepan and sliding it into the cupboard, as Sam closes the front door having just got home.
"Tea?" I ask, smiling sweetly.
Today, just now, after collecting historical photos of Melbourne all day on the internet, I thought, Jesus! I better get the kitchen done, Sam will be here soon, only to realise, after I was done, that I had raced around an hour early. Stupid me, I'm even losing track of the day.
There is apart of me who thinks, You really should cook. Poor Sam works all day and then has to come home and cook. Then the other part of me says, shrieks, ARE YOU FUCKING MAD? Cook? Everyday? Like a life sentence? No thank you.
Because I can cook. Actually, I'm a really good cook. As Shane found out once. After being housemates forever, with Shane cooking often, (He started training to be a chef, when he first left school, until he discovered what the hours were like, or something. Truthfully, Shane is pretty ambitious) if anyone was going to cook, I casually whipped up a dinner party for a friend I hadn't seen for some time. And then I met some guy I fancied and I cooked for him. Shane stood in the kitchen doorway with his mouth open, saying the words,
"You can cook? You've never cooked for me."
I can, it just bores me. Every night, day in, day out, going to the supermarket, thinking of something to cook, every night, for the rest of your life, no, ah, ah, shake of the head, no thank you. Occasionally, in a spasm of sisterly generosity, I have whipped up a lasagne, or a spaghetti Bolognese you know, something simply, for Sam, but every day, for the rest of our lives, people do less time for murder.
In the kitchen for 20 minutes a day, that's enough for me.
I should just stop feeling guilty about it.
Sam does all of the buying of the food, and pays for the meals when we eat out, and he does all the cooking. I do the cleaning of the kitchen after the cooking, and I pay the rest of the bills. I also do the clothes washing and any home maintenance that may need doing. We both share the cleaning of the house, I vacuum and he dusts, on a Sunday. I don't know if that is fair, but both of us seem happy enough with the arrangement.
So, Sam goes to work full time and he does all the cooking when he gets home. Thankfully. I am so glad I don't have to cook. Shake of the head. He comes home for lunch every day, we usually eat leftovers from the night before, or we go out to eat. I stay home and I don't work. I say that I am on long service leave, I'm just lucky that way. Someone said the other day, the boyfriend of a friend, "You are so lucky that you work from home."
Sure, let’s go with that, I thought.
Truthfully, I have been pissing around since we got back from Europe.
So, the shonk bit is... I race around, literally for 10 minutes and clean up the kitchen before Sam gets home for lunch at midday and again at 4.30pm before Sam gets home from work. Literally, it takes me 10 minutes, sometimes 5 minutes. Twice a day. Twenty minutes tops, and the house is clean. That is my day done. The rest of the time, I do what I like.
That's what I have to do on a daily basis. Some days I just feel like a con artist, when it is 4.40pm and I am finishing my 5 minutes of work, wiping the last saucepan and sliding it into the cupboard, as Sam closes the front door having just got home.
"Tea?" I ask, smiling sweetly.
Today, just now, after collecting historical photos of Melbourne all day on the internet, I thought, Jesus! I better get the kitchen done, Sam will be here soon, only to realise, after I was done, that I had raced around an hour early. Stupid me, I'm even losing track of the day.
There is apart of me who thinks, You really should cook. Poor Sam works all day and then has to come home and cook. Then the other part of me says, shrieks, ARE YOU FUCKING MAD? Cook? Everyday? Like a life sentence? No thank you.
Because I can cook. Actually, I'm a really good cook. As Shane found out once. After being housemates forever, with Shane cooking often, (He started training to be a chef, when he first left school, until he discovered what the hours were like, or something. Truthfully, Shane is pretty ambitious) if anyone was going to cook, I casually whipped up a dinner party for a friend I hadn't seen for some time. And then I met some guy I fancied and I cooked for him. Shane stood in the kitchen doorway with his mouth open, saying the words,
"You can cook? You've never cooked for me."
I can, it just bores me. Every night, day in, day out, going to the supermarket, thinking of something to cook, every night, for the rest of your life, no, ah, ah, shake of the head, no thank you. Occasionally, in a spasm of sisterly generosity, I have whipped up a lasagne, or a spaghetti Bolognese you know, something simply, for Sam, but every day, for the rest of our lives, people do less time for murder.
In the kitchen for 20 minutes a day, that's enough for me.
I should just stop feeling guilty about it.
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
Tuesday Jazz
I've been listening to John Coltrane, me and Bud, cuddled up in a woollen blanket. It is cold outside. I feel cold. Buddy is warm. He snores and he really stinks when he farts, but he is like a hot water bottle.
I read the news (today, oh boy) nothing much. I try not to read too much, just the highlights, something interesting. I avoid anything on the anticipation of a war between two mad men, so that I don't live through it before it has happened.
Sam comes home for lunch. We had Puttanesca Pasta for lunch, Sam and I. It was the best Puttanesca, I reckon, Sam has made.
I cleaned the house. Well, the kitchen. And folded some washing. Towels and undies.
I bought butter and bread, sourdough, from the bakery, it is expensive, but worth it, it's got body and soul. It is covered in seeds, which scatter across my kitchen bench every time I cut the bread.
There are now two homeless people in front of Coles asking for money. Can you imagine being homeless, it gives me a shiver to think about it. I don't give them money, though. I give money to The Smith Family.
Sam and I walked into town on Saturday to eat Laksa, in Little Lonsdale Street. I saw a homeless woman who I used to see when I used to walk into town to the awful law firm, that was getting onto ten years ago. She's been homeless for at least 10 years. Can you imagine? How has she filled her days for 10 years?
I must give the Smith Family another donation.
I wonder how the Liberal Governments war on poverty turned into an assault on the poor?
I read the news (today, oh boy) nothing much. I try not to read too much, just the highlights, something interesting. I avoid anything on the anticipation of a war between two mad men, so that I don't live through it before it has happened.
Sam comes home for lunch. We had Puttanesca Pasta for lunch, Sam and I. It was the best Puttanesca, I reckon, Sam has made.
I cleaned the house. Well, the kitchen. And folded some washing. Towels and undies.
I bought butter and bread, sourdough, from the bakery, it is expensive, but worth it, it's got body and soul. It is covered in seeds, which scatter across my kitchen bench every time I cut the bread.
There are now two homeless people in front of Coles asking for money. Can you imagine being homeless, it gives me a shiver to think about it. I don't give them money, though. I give money to The Smith Family.
Sam and I walked into town on Saturday to eat Laksa, in Little Lonsdale Street. I saw a homeless woman who I used to see when I used to walk into town to the awful law firm, that was getting onto ten years ago. She's been homeless for at least 10 years. Can you imagine? How has she filled her days for 10 years?
I must give the Smith Family another donation.
I wonder how the Liberal Governments war on poverty turned into an assault on the poor?
Monday, August 28, 2017
Monday
I entered a short story competition, entries close the end of August, so I had to get it done. Results published in November. What am I going to spend the prize money on, I wonder? Ha ha. I really need to win a story competition soon, to justify calling myself a writer, not that I ever tell anyone I'm a writer, but if I won a writing competition I could.
I sent my tax to the accountant, something I've been meaning to do for weeks, well, since, June 30th, I guess. I do it all electronically, I haven't seen my account for ten years, maybe longer.
Then I watched YouTube all day, some car resto shows, I caught up on the latest episodes. I should subscribe, really, but I get lots of emails already that I never read. And then I watched old eps of What's My Line. I only really watch the mystery celebrity guest.
Oh yes, I tried to go for a walk before lunch, but my damn knee is still too sore. Did I mention that I have a sore knee? It's been sore for about a month. I guess, I better go see the doctor. Sam doesn't want me too get medical advice.
"Waste of time," he says. "What are they going to do, take an xray?"
"Well, yes, I guess," I said. "That is exactly what they'd do."
"It'll get better," he said. "Stop being a pussy."
It doesn't feel like it is getting better. My morning walk is on hold.
I sent my tax to the accountant, something I've been meaning to do for weeks, well, since, June 30th, I guess. I do it all electronically, I haven't seen my account for ten years, maybe longer.
Then I watched YouTube all day, some car resto shows, I caught up on the latest episodes. I should subscribe, really, but I get lots of emails already that I never read. And then I watched old eps of What's My Line. I only really watch the mystery celebrity guest.
Oh yes, I tried to go for a walk before lunch, but my damn knee is still too sore. Did I mention that I have a sore knee? It's been sore for about a month. I guess, I better go see the doctor. Sam doesn't want me too get medical advice.
"Waste of time," he says. "What are they going to do, take an xray?"
"Well, yes, I guess," I said. "That is exactly what they'd do."
"It'll get better," he said. "Stop being a pussy."
It doesn't feel like it is getting better. My morning walk is on hold.
Sunday, August 27, 2017
Friday, August 25, 2017
Vote Yes for Same Sex Marriage
Don't you all want to stop talking about same sex marriage? Don't you want everybody to stop talking about same sex marriage? Aren’t you sick of hearing about it, I know I am. Don't you all want to get on to the next thing that needs to be dealt with in society?
So, gay people have been loud and pushy, you think? Some people think. So say the "No" campaign, to get some people onto the "No" side? Well, maybe? Maybe not? It is time to stop dwelling on the messenger, though, and think about the message. If gay people have been pushy, that is because nobody would listen if we weren’t loud and pushy. Sorry, if that has come across as rude, but we have been persecuted for 100’s of years for simply being who we were born to be. And if we never got loud and angry, on occasion, we’d still be illegal, we’d still be going to jail. It is that simple. This is not about who said what? This is about everybody being treated the same in society.
Is Australia the last Western Country to legalise same sex marriage? It is certainly one of the last.
Gay people aren’t going to be satisfied with a plebiscite that was designed to uphold Tony Abbot’s Catholic beliefs. You all know that a plebiscite that costs 122 million that isn’t binding is nonsense. An extensive survey that would have cost 2 million dollars would have done the same thing. (And we could have spent 120 million on the poor) Personally, I think we should boycott the plebiscite, as engaging in it only gives it legitimacy; something specifically designed to favour the older generations who are, apparently, more likely to vote no, and to disenfranchise the young who are more likely to vote yes. But, everybody tells me a boycott is not the way to go.
Gay people aren’t going to stop fighting for a fair and equitable treatment in the world if the plebiscite returns a no answer. The fight will continue because gay people are, literally, fighting for their lives, and no subterfuge by conservative politicians will stop that. So, it won’t stop with a no vote in a pointless plebiscite, the conversation will continue, it will continue to ring in all of our ears.
And here is the ridiculousness of the whole thing, from all accounts, what is generally believed to be true in our society is that the majority of the population thinks gay marriage should be legalised, and the majority of politicians would vote yes in parliament if given the chance, and yet we are wasting 120 million to pacify a couple of dinosaurs’ in the Liberal Party.
So, here’s your chance, to get everyone to finally stop taking about this subject, here is your chance to give everyone peace on same sex marriage, Vote Yes and everybody can just stop taking about it.
Thursday, August 24, 2017
Funny the Things You Think
When I was a kid, I used to hate the brown bits on bananas, which was unusual for me because as a kid I wasn't a fussy eater. The brown bruised parts of bananas I just couldn't abide, and my mum used to take those sections and eat them herself.
Here's to all the mums who eat their little boy's bruised banana segments, so they don't have to eat them until they have grown into men.
Now a days I just chop up the banana, bruised bits and all, and scatter the pieces over my muesli, without a care in the world. Funny the things you think about as you wait for your first coffee to kick in, before you have put anything in your stomach.
Onya mum, I thought. I smiled to myself.
Onya mum, I thought. I smiled to myself.
Here's to all the mums who eat their little boy's bruised banana segments, so they don't have to eat them until they have grown into men.
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
I Quit Smoking
I did quit smoking though, 3 days in, with the onset of this cold. I would have quit anyway, but the cold did hurry it up. Of course, I am famous for quitting smoking, I do it all the time. It is good to be off them, even if I don't really feel it yet.
I smoked for a couple of weeks. A bag of pot for a week, then cigarettes for a week, and then I stop. Then it will be a few months before I smoke again, before I want a bag of pot, much to Sam's chagrin. Toothy smile.
I don't even like it, the cigarettes that is, they make me feel second rate, shitty, to tell you the truth. I always feel better when I stop. Funny the things we do.
I wondered if my time scale is correct, so I am going back through my journal just to check. So, 25/7 to 21/08. Sam is right, he said it had been a month.
We got back from overseas June 10th and I stopped smoking the following week, lets say 13/6, so I didn't smoke 13/6 to 24/7.
We went overseas 6/5 and I'd smoked for about a week before that. So let's say I smoked 01/5 to 10/06.
Sam is right, my smoking is creeping up, when I thought I'd done so well. So, I really need to not smoke for the rest of the year, at the very least.
Do I dare look at the beginning of the year, Jan to May? Hmmm? I'm sure I didn't smoke for those months. Of course, Sam disagrees.
Anyway, despite the cold, my breathing feels easier, my head feels clearer, my weight/gravity feels lighter, my stomach feels less nauseous. There is a sort of a lightness to be felt, that smoking takes away. An airiness. A physical ease with the world. I don't know how better to describe it. (He writes as he descends into another coughing fit) Big smile. I'm sure I will feel better soon.
Midday. I've just had lunch. I might go back to bed.
I smoked for a couple of weeks. A bag of pot for a week, then cigarettes for a week, and then I stop. Then it will be a few months before I smoke again, before I want a bag of pot, much to Sam's chagrin. Toothy smile.
I don't even like it, the cigarettes that is, they make me feel second rate, shitty, to tell you the truth. I always feel better when I stop. Funny the things we do.
I wondered if my time scale is correct, so I am going back through my journal just to check. So, 25/7 to 21/08. Sam is right, he said it had been a month.
We got back from overseas June 10th and I stopped smoking the following week, lets say 13/6, so I didn't smoke 13/6 to 24/7.
We went overseas 6/5 and I'd smoked for about a week before that. So let's say I smoked 01/5 to 10/06.
Sam is right, my smoking is creeping up, when I thought I'd done so well. So, I really need to not smoke for the rest of the year, at the very least.
Do I dare look at the beginning of the year, Jan to May? Hmmm? I'm sure I didn't smoke for those months. Of course, Sam disagrees.
Anyway, despite the cold, my breathing feels easier, my head feels clearer, my weight/gravity feels lighter, my stomach feels less nauseous. There is a sort of a lightness to be felt, that smoking takes away. An airiness. A physical ease with the world. I don't know how better to describe it. (He writes as he descends into another coughing fit) Big smile. I'm sure I will feel better soon.
Midday. I've just had lunch. I might go back to bed.
Tuesday, August 22, 2017
In Bed with a Cold
Buddy, and I, are in bed with a cold. Well, I have the cold, not Bud, he's stretched out and snoring next to me. I feel like crap. I don't think I have had a cold for ages. It feels like ages? I don't know how long it has been, but I don't feel good. I'm watching car resto shows on YouTube and I'm coughing a lot. I might go and get a coffee, I don't think I can drink anymore honey and lemon drinks.
I wanted a chocolate biscuit to cheer myself up. A chocolate coated Scotch Finger, is there any other type of chocolate biscuit, I ask you? I knew we had some, as I bought them. They were half price in Coles, so I bought two packets. Sam couldn't see the logic. Apparently, if they are half price, you buy one packet and get them for half the cost. I certainly didn't see it that way, half price, you buy two packets and get twice as many biscuits for the same price. It is a no brainer.
I couldn't find them in the kitchen, Sam was clearly hiding them from me. I sniffed around in my weakened state, cursing Sam's skulduggery. Poor me, I thought, more than once, as my body ached, and my bare toes curled on the cold floor tiles. But I found them, yes I did, and the unusual place in which I found them confirmed that Sam was, in deed, hiding them. Rude.
I wanted a chocolate biscuit to cheer myself up. A chocolate coated Scotch Finger, is there any other type of chocolate biscuit, I ask you? I knew we had some, as I bought them. They were half price in Coles, so I bought two packets. Sam couldn't see the logic. Apparently, if they are half price, you buy one packet and get them for half the cost. I certainly didn't see it that way, half price, you buy two packets and get twice as many biscuits for the same price. It is a no brainer.
I couldn't find them in the kitchen, Sam was clearly hiding them from me. I sniffed around in my weakened state, cursing Sam's skulduggery. Poor me, I thought, more than once, as my body ached, and my bare toes curled on the cold floor tiles. But I found them, yes I did, and the unusual place in which I found them confirmed that Sam was, in deed, hiding them. Rude.
Monday, August 21, 2017
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Friday, August 18, 2017
Hear No Evil, See No evil
I think when you globalise terror for political and corporate gain, we all suffer. Whenever I see there has been an, alleged, terrorist attack in the world, I know it is my queue to stop reading and listening to the news for a few days, so the hysteria can blow over. Life is much nice without the World Wide Psycho Drama encroaching on it. Sixteen people dying at the hands of some mentally deranged person running them down with a car is terrible for those people, but it is not terrible for my life. If it weren't for the news media chasing corporate profits delivering the tragedy directly into my lounge room, it wouldn't affect me in anyway. If I don't watch the news, it doesn't get to me.
We watched Game of Thrones season 2 all night, which was way more preferable.
We watched Game of Thrones season 2 all night, which was way more preferable.
Thursday, August 17, 2017
Old Pink Floyd
I'm listening to old Pink Floyd. I've never really listened to the stuff before Dark Side Of The Moon, but now I have Apple Streaming, I can listen to anything I like. Lovely, isn't it?
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
What's the Problem?
Sam bought a new water filter. Sure, I dropped the top of the old one and it broke, but only the small flap thing that covered the water spout broke off. It wasn't really necessary, it wasn't integral to the working of the jug. However, Sam bought a new one and he can't quite understand why I don't like it.
The old jug was clear with a white plastic top. The new jug is kind of pink plastic with a white plastic top with pink spots the same colour as the main body.
It was the only one they had when he went to buy a replacement, he said.
"Where did you go, Crap Jugs Are Us?" I asked.
Sam can't quite understand what I am objecting to?
The old jug was clear with a white plastic top. The new jug is kind of pink plastic with a white plastic top with pink spots the same colour as the main body.
It was the only one they had when he went to buy a replacement, he said.
"Where did you go, Crap Jugs Are Us?" I asked.
Sam can't quite understand what I am objecting to?
Sunday, August 13, 2017
Cigarettes
If I buy my cigarettes at 7/11 they cost $30. If I buy my cigarettes at the milk bar they cost $27. If I buy my cigarettes at Coles they cost $23.25. Woollies are marginally cheaper than Coles. If I buy my cigarettes at the tobacconist/cigarette shop they cost $20.90.
Same cigarettes, different shops.
I'm quitting Monday, so it doesn't matter that much to me. A part from anything else, it is just too expensive to smoke. Who can afford it?
Same cigarettes, different shops.
I'm quitting Monday, so it doesn't matter that much to me. A part from anything else, it is just too expensive to smoke. Who can afford it?
Saturday, August 12, 2017
Friday, August 11, 2017
And Then The Steps Were Done
The sun is shining today.
I read all the online news until the morning had just about slipped away.
I went for a walk at 11.11am, as it turned out. contributing to my minimum 180 minutes exercise for this week.
We ate Thai for lunch. Sam and I went out for it.
I pissed around on my computer for an hour after lunch. I shopped for dinner in Woollies.
Then I got on and finished the back steps. All done. I thought of my dad who taught me how to do these things, if not by direct instruction, by example, although it could have been either. I used to hang out with him and he worked in his garage, or in the garden, most weekends. It started to rain after I was done. Buddy didn’t get to go to the dog park because of the wet weather.
Thursday, August 10, 2017
Getting back To The Home Maintenance
3pm. I started looking at the paving. What I had done previous to that, I have no idea, such are my carefree days. Now, if only Sam would view them in the same light. What's with all this "achieving nonsense?" I ask you.
I pissed around for sometime, rearranging the stone pavers into the most pleasing pattern. Sam's interference yesterday, placing 4 smaller pieces in the gap for which I can't find the original piece, had solved the problem of the missing piece. And while I didn't entirely like what Sam had done, it only took changing 2 of the 4 pieces he'd placed in the problem gap to one, so there were now 3 pieces instead of 4 to make it all suddenly look right.
I could have gone on doing this for the rest of the day, tra la la, checking and rechecking, but then the thought of Sam arriving home and looking disapprovingly at yet another day that I hadn’t, actually, progressed to concreting any of the pavers down, came into my head. I was only delaying, anyway, nervous at the fact that I didn’t really know what I was doing, but then who does? Who always knows what they are doing? Isn’t it the people who go forth regardless who are the ones who achieve in life. Isn’t that what “they” tell us?
So, I mixed up the mortar and I go on with it. I’d finished the upper step and the facia of that step by the time Sam got home. Of course, he took over from there and added his bit to it. I like that he does that and it frustrates me all at the same time, as he gets in my way, but I wouldn’t change it for anything.
I pissed around for sometime, rearranging the stone pavers into the most pleasing pattern. Sam's interference yesterday, placing 4 smaller pieces in the gap for which I can't find the original piece, had solved the problem of the missing piece. And while I didn't entirely like what Sam had done, it only took changing 2 of the 4 pieces he'd placed in the problem gap to one, so there were now 3 pieces instead of 4 to make it all suddenly look right.
I could have gone on doing this for the rest of the day, tra la la, checking and rechecking, but then the thought of Sam arriving home and looking disapprovingly at yet another day that I hadn’t, actually, progressed to concreting any of the pavers down, came into my head. I was only delaying, anyway, nervous at the fact that I didn’t really know what I was doing, but then who does? Who always knows what they are doing? Isn’t it the people who go forth regardless who are the ones who achieve in life. Isn’t that what “they” tell us?
So, I mixed up the mortar and I go on with it. I’d finished the upper step and the facia of that step by the time Sam got home. Of course, he took over from there and added his bit to it. I like that he does that and it frustrates me all at the same time, as he gets in my way, but I wouldn’t change it for anything.
Wednesday, August 09, 2017
Didn't Do Much
I didn't too much. I went for a walk listening to Joe Cocker. My exercise for the week. Apparently, we have to do 150 minutes per week to stay healthy. I do 3 one hour walks and that is 180 minutes, making me more than qualify. I'm aiming for a walk every day, except the weekend, but mysteriously, at the moment, I have a really sore knee, so perhaps 3 days will have to suffice.
David came over and we went to the costume shop to work out his drag look for his birthday party reunion. His birthday never stops and, of course, he has to do a performance. Naturally, he chose the shortest dress there and every time he bent over the whole shop got an eye-full. An old woman waiting for her niece in the fitting room gasped and her Chihuahua fainted.
Afterwards, we drank coffee and ate cake. I had a huge slab of lemon slice washed down with strong, black coffee. My great aunt Ada used to make a mean lemon slice and I can't help but think of her when I order it, despite her having been dead for most of my adult life.
David had a latte, "Do you have honey, instead of sugar?" He had a violet crumble and nougat brownie slice, which sat on the plate like a modern art instillation, swirls of chocolate sauce that somehow highlighted the fat that its circles contained. He shovelled it into his mouth as he talked, predominantly, about himself and about the costume shop letting out his outfit so it would fit him.
David came over and we went to the costume shop to work out his drag look for his birthday party reunion. His birthday never stops and, of course, he has to do a performance. Naturally, he chose the shortest dress there and every time he bent over the whole shop got an eye-full. An old woman waiting for her niece in the fitting room gasped and her Chihuahua fainted.
Afterwards, we drank coffee and ate cake. I had a huge slab of lemon slice washed down with strong, black coffee. My great aunt Ada used to make a mean lemon slice and I can't help but think of her when I order it, despite her having been dead for most of my adult life.
David had a latte, "Do you have honey, instead of sugar?" He had a violet crumble and nougat brownie slice, which sat on the plate like a modern art instillation, swirls of chocolate sauce that somehow highlighted the fat that its circles contained. He shovelled it into his mouth as he talked, predominantly, about himself and about the costume shop letting out his outfit so it would fit him.
Tuesday, August 08, 2017
Home Maintenance
I read all the online news. (Just lately, I have been questioning how long I can sustain the lifestyle of doing nothing but staring into my laptop screen all day?) Not writing, still with my laptop on. (Despite promises to myself not to do that) I should make a time to turn my laptop off during the day, if I’m not writing, perhaps 9am is a good time.
9am. Get outside, breath in the fresh air.
10.30am. Getting off my laptop, well, that didn’t quite work. (Shut the computer, go outside)
Nice and sunny now. Smoking too much. Eat some vegemite toast, apparently, vitamin B helps fight depression. (Not that I suffer from depression, but it is good to know)
11am. I started on the back steps, re-motaring the pavers that came off, unstuck years a go. First thing, scrape off all the old mortar from the concrete steps underneath the paving. Actually, first thing put on a little Aerosmith. Just sitting in the sun is quite nice, tra la la. (some time later) Shake my head, day dreams are nice, pick up the scraper again.
Stopped for lunch when Sam gets home. We ate cauliflower soup, with huge door steps of toast to dunk into it. Too many carbs? Who said that?
So, back to the steps. First thing, find the cordless headphones. (The corded headphones keep catching on my knee, as I bend down, and they keep ripping out of my ears as I stand up again) Take it away Steven. (Aerosmith. Keep up) It’s a bit frustrating, as I am still missing some pieces. Nothing for it, start rummaging around in the garden in the hope to find a few more pieces. Nothing like a bit of archology to fix the garden steps. I locate that spikey garden implement, the one that comes in the set of three that I never know really know what it is for? I'm sure it is just some useless thing with which the corporate whores pad out the gardening set to screw more money out of us all. I prod around in the garden and I soon find the other small pieces.
2pm. Still missing on piece, arguably the most important piece. Centre piece, second step. Grrrr.
Sit and have yet another cigarette. So, to recap.
Apparently, one can’t spent one's whole life watching YouTube? So they say. So, the next best thing is a bit of home maintenance. And that brings me to the back steps. They have irritated me for quite sometime, the four, or so, missing pieces, and all the small facia on the third step. It was last Saturday, when I thought to myself, all the pieces were just here, looking at the garden beside the steps. That was when the, er, let’s just say it, the junkie I lived with at the time, in a fit of uncharacteristic energy cleaned up the back yard.
“See what I’ve done?” Eyes pointing in different directions, like a good dog that wanted a pat on the head for his efforts.
“Oh… um… well. You didn’t throw out the stone paving for the steps, did you?”
Apparently, it all went to the tip.
Close the eyes, one big breath. What can you say?
Shamefully, fast forward 15 years. (“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” he mutters nervously.) Last Saturday, in an act of desperation, I shoved my hands down into the soil of the garden next to the steps to see if any pieces had survived, had been missed in the fit of speed-induced action, to find a small piece of paving. Well, I thought to myself, if there is one piece, there may well be two. In the next few hours, on two days, I found all of the pieces except for one, arguably, the most important piece, the centre piece second step. So, I just have to find that last piece.
Funny, in such a relatively short period of time, all the pieces became quite buried. The 2 larger pieces were still vertically in the gardens next to the steps, but they had worked their way down to 5 centimetres below the surface. The smaller pieces were scattered through the garden, now under the existing plants.
What do I take from this? Never listen to junkies.
Nah, that’s far too easy. What I take from this, is that I am just a lazy arse. Still, never too late to change that, hey?
Steven starts singing the theme from Superman and I feel energised.
I was still struggling to get the stones worked out on the facia of the steps, tra la la, what is the hurry. Then Sam got home, and, of course, he took over and placed the stones, declaring it done and telling me to get on with it.
What he had done didn't look too bad, I have to admit to myself.
It had been nice sitting out in the sun in the fresh air moving pieces of paving around. Now, I have to mix concrete and, actually, do the job. Do I know what I am doing? No, but, apparently, I shouldn't let that stop me.
10.30am. Getting off my laptop, well, that didn’t quite work. (Shut the computer, go outside)
Nice and sunny now. Smoking too much. Eat some vegemite toast, apparently, vitamin B helps fight depression. (Not that I suffer from depression, but it is good to know)
11am. I started on the back steps, re-motaring the pavers that came off, unstuck years a go. First thing, scrape off all the old mortar from the concrete steps underneath the paving. Actually, first thing put on a little Aerosmith. Just sitting in the sun is quite nice, tra la la. (some time later) Shake my head, day dreams are nice, pick up the scraper again.
Stopped for lunch when Sam gets home. We ate cauliflower soup, with huge door steps of toast to dunk into it. Too many carbs? Who said that?
So, back to the steps. First thing, find the cordless headphones. (The corded headphones keep catching on my knee, as I bend down, and they keep ripping out of my ears as I stand up again) Take it away Steven. (Aerosmith. Keep up) It’s a bit frustrating, as I am still missing some pieces. Nothing for it, start rummaging around in the garden in the hope to find a few more pieces. Nothing like a bit of archology to fix the garden steps. I locate that spikey garden implement, the one that comes in the set of three that I never know really know what it is for? I'm sure it is just some useless thing with which the corporate whores pad out the gardening set to screw more money out of us all. I prod around in the garden and I soon find the other small pieces.
2pm. Still missing on piece, arguably the most important piece. Centre piece, second step. Grrrr.
Sit and have yet another cigarette. So, to recap.
Apparently, one can’t spent one's whole life watching YouTube? So they say. So, the next best thing is a bit of home maintenance. And that brings me to the back steps. They have irritated me for quite sometime, the four, or so, missing pieces, and all the small facia on the third step. It was last Saturday, when I thought to myself, all the pieces were just here, looking at the garden beside the steps. That was when the, er, let’s just say it, the junkie I lived with at the time, in a fit of uncharacteristic energy cleaned up the back yard.
“See what I’ve done?” Eyes pointing in different directions, like a good dog that wanted a pat on the head for his efforts.
“Oh… um… well. You didn’t throw out the stone paving for the steps, did you?”
Apparently, it all went to the tip.
Close the eyes, one big breath. What can you say?
Shamefully, fast forward 15 years. (“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” he mutters nervously.) Last Saturday, in an act of desperation, I shoved my hands down into the soil of the garden next to the steps to see if any pieces had survived, had been missed in the fit of speed-induced action, to find a small piece of paving. Well, I thought to myself, if there is one piece, there may well be two. In the next few hours, on two days, I found all of the pieces except for one, arguably, the most important piece, the centre piece second step. So, I just have to find that last piece.
Funny, in such a relatively short period of time, all the pieces became quite buried. The 2 larger pieces were still vertically in the gardens next to the steps, but they had worked their way down to 5 centimetres below the surface. The smaller pieces were scattered through the garden, now under the existing plants.
What do I take from this? Never listen to junkies.
Nah, that’s far too easy. What I take from this, is that I am just a lazy arse. Still, never too late to change that, hey?
Steven starts singing the theme from Superman and I feel energised.
I was still struggling to get the stones worked out on the facia of the steps, tra la la, what is the hurry. Then Sam got home, and, of course, he took over and placed the stones, declaring it done and telling me to get on with it.
What he had done didn't look too bad, I have to admit to myself.
It had been nice sitting out in the sun in the fresh air moving pieces of paving around. Now, I have to mix concrete and, actually, do the job. Do I know what I am doing? No, but, apparently, I shouldn't let that stop me.
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