Any Distraction Will Do

I was going to write all day. It was wet and cold, perfect day for it. However, somehow, I got to watching What's My Line on Youtube all afternoon. So easily distracted. And the worst part is that I have seen them all before. 

Any distraction will do.

Interestingly, they had on a lovely smiley woman whose occupation was Gorilla Hunter. And that seemed to be perfectly acceptable occupation. 1956, how times have changed. John Daly asked her when she was going on her next hunt and if she wanted to take the panel with her. It gave me chills, to tell you the truth.

I do love the 1950s though, oh, except for the rampant racism, the crushing misogyny and the life destroying homophobia, the unquestioned religion, and the reputation destroying prudishness. And then there were the terrible diets, the archaic medicines, the poor public health and inferior longevity, and the crushing poverty for the poor. Oh yes, and the beginnings of the destruction of the planet with it rampant, uncheck industrialisation.

I do love the 1950s… on the surface. The glitz and the glamour. The cars. The style. The full skirts.

Witches Tit Cold

I waved Sam goodbye before 8am. Day to myself. I love Thursdays.

It was a freezing day, though, but we were nearly out of fire wood, and I wasn’t sure when we’d be getting any more, so I put on an extra jumper instead of lighting a fire. I still had cold toes. It wasn’t the same thing.

Despite the theory of getting a load at the end of winter so it dries out completely over summer, I’d let the wood get low, it had been getting warmer. Okay, I’m slack.

And then big wog boy (some people may think that that expression is an insult, but it isn’t in the gay community. In fact, it is a compliment, desirable, if anything) who usually delivers my wood, couldn’t do anything until Tuesday. He was only delivering tomorrow and then he was away all weekend. I reckon he’d taken the weekend off due to the warmer weather – out snorting cocaine with mates, up the snow, or something. I have no idea what he was doing, of course, but I have found that is what big (he is big and muscular,) wog boys like to do on their days off – and then the cold snap caught him out. (Am I over thinking it?)

It has been warm, it really has. (You got to love some aspects of global warming) I really thought I could feel spring coming in, dare I say even a hint of summer to come, but suddenly it got cold these last few days. Bitterly, witches tit cold, surprisingly.

We ate leftover Japanese curry for lunch with fried egg.

It was cold all day and wet.

The first day of my weekend always feels great. Calm. Relaxed. Nothing to do. How life should be. I headed down to Smith Street to put my TattsLotto on. I need a Porsche, a beach house and 5 million dollars. I sniffed around the op shops. I bought a George Michael single.

I tried to organise firewood in the afternoon without much luck.

I made a banana cake with the bananas I had stolen from work. We get a fruit basket every day and I took bananas on Monday but forgot to eat them, so instead of leaving them on my desk at the end of the day I threw them in my bag and took them home. So, on Wednesday when the fruit bowl was replenished, I took more bananas, but this time with the intent of taking them home. Yes, okay, it is hardly in the spirit of the fruit bowl, but it is a once off, I won’t be taking bananas every week.

We ate fried rice for dinner.

I stayed up until midnight writing my Other Blog.

Where's Your Emergency?

I was crossing the road outside the old fire station. The road was clear, it was kind of quiet this morning. I was nearly across the road to the tram stop when some guy in a Toureg came around the corner drove up behind me and tooted me because I hadn’t quite completed crossing the road, despite having, perhaps, 100 metres to a red light.

Really, I thought?

He stopped at Albert Street. I walked along the tram stop in the middle of the road. I caught up with him.

I couldn’t resist. “That got you a long way, didn’t it mate,” I said.

He wound down his window, “I’m sorry.”

“That got you a long way,” I said.

“So why don’t you get off the fucken road so we can drive you fucken, moron,” he said. Angry as you like. Not even 8am.

The light changed to green.

“Buddy, where’s your emergency?” I asked.

He drove off.

Beware of the Irish Bearing Gifts

The doorbell sounds in the afternoon. Buddy gets there before me and snuffles and scratches at the bottom of the door. He is kind of loud to anyone listening from the outside.

I open the door and the guy in white overalls has retreated to the gate.

He says something about Buddy.

“He won’t hurt you,” I say.

I walk out to the gate.

“I’ve been working in the street this week and I have been noticing your roof...”

What was it that I heard, be careful of Irish roof plumbers coming to the door and offering to do work uninvited? They've been ripping off the old and the unaware. Good thing I read newspapers, I guess.

“Oh yes.”

“See how the iron on your roof…”

“Where are you working?” I ask. Good question to flush out the cheats, I think.

“The white house.” He points in the distance.

There are a number of white houses. “Which White House?” I ask.

“Mr Caulfield, I’m working For Mr Caulfield, down the road.”

“So, you said, what house was that again?”

“The one with the scaffolding, you may have seen it there this week.”

No, I didn’t.

I was hopeful when he came to the door, concerned about my roof which needs some work, I thought maybe someone cared. Really? I didn't think this was the guy, though.

“See the bump?”

No.

“See the lump?”

No.

“See how your roof bows?”

No.

“Well it shouldn’t do that?”

“Do what?”

“It should be straight.”

How stupid does he think I am. I was kind of exciting, though, having the enemy standing right in front of me.

“I could get my boys to have a look.”

“How much did you say?”

“We would film it.”

“Film it?” Goodness my, why on earth would you film it, you charlton?

“To show you what’s given way.”

“How much did you say?”

“As it turns out my boys are free. Free today.”

“What about Mr Caulfield?” How long was I going to toy with him?

“We’ve almost finished doing him…” over... “his job.”

And that Irish accent. “How much?”

“Usually, it would be 15.50, but the special price for you today is 900.”

15.50, I think. How much is that? Oh, that’s thousands. He means $1550 dollars to have my roof inspected.

“It is up to you,” he says. “Just say the word.”

Nice move, make me think I am getting a good deal. But $900 just to get my roof inspected? That still seems an awful lot for an inspection. “I’ll call you,” I say. “If I want you to do it.”

You big fat pig. You are a liar and a cheat, I think, as I head back inside.

“I’m just here to help,” he says.

Oh please. I give a withering smile. What tradie ever says he is just here to help? Really? Too funny. I try not to laugh at him.

Sunday

Sunday. House cleaning day and grocery shopping day. What a good way to fuck up a Sunday.

The sun shone, it was a lovely day, so there is that. We took Buddy to the dog park. The Crazy Spud Lady was there with Spud the dog, so we avoided her. The grass was verdant green in the gorgeous morning sun. The  Crazy Spud Lady standing in the middle of the park. What was she wearing on her head? Was it a turban? It was a cross between a rag and that crazy gingham head towel that the Arabs wear. It gave her the look of someone whose head was being held together with a bandage. She had on a shapeless coat, so the whole style was Crazy Spud Lady meets scarecrow, all that was missing was the cross strapped to her back. And the limbs akimbo pose. Sam was all for avoiding her altogether, but I said, "Don't be afraid," and we said hello as we passed her by and that was that. She can make your ears bleed with the nonsense that comes out of her mouth that is for sure, but the trick is just don't stop walking and you'll be fine, say hello and everyone is relatively happy.

I listened to John Farnham on my headphones as I vacuumed the house.

We walked to Richmond and ate Hoi An food. We ordered too much and felt revoltingly full by the time we left.

We shopped for groceries and lugged four green bags home full of produce like mules, a bag slung over each shoulder.

We watched Loving Vincent, the painted movie, painted in Vincent van Gogh style. It was good, lovely really. Armand Roulin, the main character was gorgeous. It is the second time, after Archer, that I have found an animated character hot.

The Genius Of The Rightwing, The Suppository of Wisdom

You can't put pig on a lipstick - George Christensen

Whose The Prime Minister

“Oh, darling, we gave it a good shot,” said Lucy. She straightened his collar and adjusted his tie and brushed the tear from his eye. “Now be a good boy and call an election.”

Office Talk. Yap Yap Yap Yap. Fascinated By Stupid

It is amazing how just a couple of people can have a big affect on an office. I have two who just talk shit. There is Mia who I call The Idiot because, well, she is an idiot. The stuff she says makes no sense at all, for the most part. And then there is Goong, who just has to comment on everything. He is loud and he just has to talk all the time. He is the person who just has to fill the silences in any conversation. And when the two of the get going...  it is absolutely fascinating the drivel they go on with. And if I am not stressed, or under the pump, and everything is going well in my square centimetre of the business, I find them amazing to listen to, not the least for the complete bollocks they speak. Most of the time I can't make any sense of it.



8.31am. “Good morning, good morning, good morning, good morning, good morning, good morning, good morning, good morning, good… morning… everybody,” says dopey Goong.

Jason, (We share an office, pod, area, my work buddy) nor I, don’t answer. We don’t respond. Silence. But then Jason doesn’t say much, just the way I like it.

He and I are like Ralph Wolf and Sam Sheepdog we only say hello and goodbye, beginning of the day, and the end of the day. Jason never comments about The Idiot, or Goong, and I never comment to him about them.



9.06am.

"I'm here. I'm here," says The Idiot. "The trams are crazy today. OMG! Some girl was sick off the tram." Inane laugh. I almost find her inane laugh more annoying than the stupid yap she goes on with.



The Idiot is a fat Greek girl whose as wide as she is tall. And weirdly she smells, like mildew, or mould, or something stale. She talks so much crap.

Goong is her partner in opening-your-mouth-and-shit-falling-out crime. They are evenly matched. Sometimes, I wonder if they are the most perfectly realised comedy duo and I am just not in on the joke.

But in the end, it is just ‘stupid’ and you can’t fix stupid.



Is she just late, I think? Is this just the deflection from the real, boring truth, made up stories to mask that she is simply late? She slept in. She had trouble getting her kids ready. She got stuck in a revolving door, she couldn’t find the leg holes in her undies? Who knows?

(Stop trying to work stupid out, Christian, I think)



"Sick off the tram?" asks Goong, emphasising the "off."

"Sick off the tram," says The Idiot not realising her mistake.

"Sick off the tram?" says Goong again.

"I need to get things done and this computer better help me," says The Idiot, with her customary inane laugh. I call it The Idiot laugh.

"Here's hoping," says Goong.

"I was supposed to get here early?"

"Well, you are early for tomorrow?" says Goong

"I know," says The Idiot. Inane laugh. "I am.” Ha ha.

Stop talking, I think.

"How was your weekend?" asks Goong.

(Oh, ‘er we go, I think)

"I forgot the pin number to all my cards, credit cards everything, I couldn't even get $10 out."

"What?" asks Goong

"All the pin numbers to all my cards, debit cards, cash cards, the whole lot, over the weekend," says The Idiot. "I forgot them all." She laughs, as if it is funny.

(That’s tragic, I think)

There was silence for a time, as, I can only presume, Goong couldn't understand what The Idiot was saying.

“You for…got…"

"All the pin numbers, to all my cards, total mind blank," says The Idiot. "Lucky I had some back up money."

(One might question why you'd need to go to the ATM if you have back up money… one might wonder?)

"It must have been very relaxing," says Goong.

(Huh?)

"What?" says The Idiot.

"Well, you wouldn’t have to worry anymore," says Goong. "If you can't remember…"

“Oh yes,” she says, but you can tell she has no idea.

“Done,” says Goong.

“Done alright,” says The Idiot.

“Nothing to worry about,” says Goong.

"I was just happy to know I was coming in here," says The Idiot.

"You were happy to come to work?" asks Goong.

"Yes, at least I knew half my mind would be in here," says The Idiot. "And I don't have to worry about money…"

"Or the lack of it," says Goong.

"What?" asks The Idiot.

"You don't have to worry about your forgotten pin numbers."

"Oh… yes… no," says The Idiot, as if she still had no idea what Goong was talking about.



“Oh, shut up.” I meant to whisper, but I said it out loud enough for Jason to hear. I hoped he didn’t hear. Of course, he wouldn’t react.



“So much to do. Don't know what I have done. Got to get moving. Get this show on the road," The Idiot says. Not really sure who she was talking to?

"Did I give you the blah blah, blah blah, blah blah?" asks The Idiot.

"Yes, you did," replies cute Declan.

"Did I? You see things are bad," inane laugh, "I can't remember anything. I need to do crosswords to make my brain think again," says The Idiot.

“All good,” says Declan.



Mercifully there is silence. The morning started to settle into the morning hum as mornings do.



The next thing I hear is Goong say, "Like a fat lady on fire?"



I loved that image. Well, not really a real person burning, of course, I don’t want to see that. Maye, a cartoon character, with a blonde, platted beehive, and Dame Edna Everage glasses pointy at the edges, and a poppy print kaftan running down a hill in a blaze of orange flames. Maybe a poodle with pearl earrings. And a yellow fluffy cat on an orange velvet collar.



"Like a married lady," says The Idiot. “Like a married Lady.”

"A married lady?" questions Goong.

"A married lady," says The Idiot.

"I'm guessing she would keep a blog," says Goong. "First Monday, first Tuesday, first Wednesday…."

"First Monday as a married lady," says The Idiot.

"First Monday," says Goong.

"Today," says The Idiot.

"Today," repeats Goong.

"First Monday…as… a pregnant lady," says The Idiot. Inane laugh.

"I think the baby will come quicker…"

"As a married lady," says The Idiot. Inane laugh.

"I think it would," says Goong. "As a married lady."

"You've got to laugh," says The Idiot. And she laughs that nauseating inane laugh yet again.

"The first drops that fall from her face…of joy," says Goong.

"Of joy?" questions The Idiot, as if she doesn't understand the concept.

Was Goong getting poetic? No. I must have misunderstood.


"We got a new prime minster yet, Goong," asks The Idiot.

"I don't know."

"Check," says The Idiot. "You never know in this lovely country."

She asked that continually today.


She then ranted on again about forgetting all her pin numbers and how cash was the new currency and how she'd be in trouble if it weren't for cash, then it wouldn't matter if she forgot all of her pin numbers, cash was the currency, cash is what is going to save her, save the city, save the planet. Inane laugh.


“Have we got a new Prime Minister yet?”

Buddy and I waiting for the shopping to be done. I check my instagram with my eyes glued to my screen, Buddy standing watch. He is much more social than I am. He still has undiminished belief in humanity, I don't.

Rainy Sunday

Rain and hail in Melbourne this morning. It was cold, too, where it has even been, kind of, warm this last week.

It is the kind of day to build a fire, make hot chocolate and bring up the next season of American Horror Story on Netflix. (Maybe, I could give the Aretha playlist a rest now) 

Buddy is in my lap, I'm sitting on the floor, forcing my legs into the body cast position, he's not a chihuahua, after all. He likes to be warm.

Sam and I are sitting at the coffee table, laptop next to laptop. Eggs and smoked salmon, avocado and toast were what was on the breakfast menu.

Sunday, of course is cleaning day, so Heir Sam reminds me with the words, "Don't get too comfortable." Sometimes, I think I might dress him up as Hitler and invade him, he can be so bossy. Oh, I guess, it'd be me getting invaded. Back into the Poland suit, again, I guess. 

Sam's watching me write this, but he isn't reading what I am writing. Buddy distracts him, when I think he might focus in on my words. Ha ha. That is what I say to his bossiness. Ha ha. Actually, calling him Adolf usually gives him an attitude adjustment.

I vacuumed. Sam polished the woodwork. I sugar soaped the bathroom walls, they'd needed it for a long time.

The sun came out, it rained, the sun came out.

We took Buddy to the dog park in the afternoon. Dogs need to exercise no matter what the weather. The sun came out again, so off we went in the sunny window. Five black and white dogs and ginger Bud in the park, so we left. Ha ha. The wind started to blow bitterly cold, so we walked to the supermarket. I sat on the edge of the garden, Bud stood at my feet off his lead watching the world go by. Everyone thinks he's too cute sitting with me off his lead.

Super Hero Sam

Sam’s super hero name would be Side-Eye. His super power would be that he could kill with his peripheral vision.

Aretha Franklin

The Queen of Soul. Dead. What a life. A singing legend. What she left behind, we should all be thankful for. Fine music that is ours forever.

Her music is timeless, like the Rolling Stones, or Renee Geyer. All blues/soul singers, once again proving the timeless quality of the blues and soul. The best music in the world.

I Mix Greek Yogurt, Honey And Stewed Apple Into My Muesli

I wake up at 7am and the rain is falling. I think about the purple plants in my garden that curl up due to lack of water, at least, they will unfurl now. I noticed them recently curled tight, so I am pleased about the rain.

The rain gets heavier and heavier, as I make coffee. It is nice, I like the sound of rain on the roof.

I think about the farmers doing it hard in the drought, and then I think about my purple plants again, they will look happy and bright thanks to the rain. Thumbs up.

I'm guessing rain in Melbourne isn't doing any farmers any good.

I wonder how many of the farmers still vote for political parties that deny global warming?

I mix Greek yogurt, honey and stewed apple into my muesli. It mixes well. Is it bircher, I think? I google bircher. It looks like I didn’t I know what bircher is. I thought the apple and yogurt… there you go, you learn something every day. I sip my coffee and listen to the rain fall.

Religion Rules?

Sam and I take Buddy to the dog park. Buddy meets up with his buddies and they run a round.

The kids are playing sport on the oval, taking up most of the oval, but that's okay, sport takes up room.

Recently, we have been told that we need to keep our dogs away from some of the kids because they can’t have contact with the dogs for religious reasons. Really? (Grimace) It is a park in which the dogs run around. The kids don’t have to have contact with the dogs, that is up to them, not us. It is a dog park, as well as a sports oval, it is a shared use facility.

Don’t tell me what to do with my dog and I promise I won’t tell you what to do with your gods. In my atheist world view, my dog is real and your 2000 year old beliefs are nonsense, but I’m not trying to change their lives with my beliefs. I say nothing to keep the peace. I have no animosity towards the kids, or their religion. If your religion brings you happiness I’m happy for you, but don’t try and use it to change my life.

I just find religious beliefs too ridiculous for words. (But, I guess you all know that already?)

Something, someone, may, or may not have said, over 2000 years ago is relevant to my dog's happiness in 2018 how?

I bristle at religious beliefs being held up as sacrosanct. Maybe they are sacrosanct to you, but they are not to everyone.

And how much of this is the religious adults imposing their views on their children? I ask you?

Another glorious sunrise

First Day of The Weekend For Me, What's Not To Like?

It is funny, often on a Thursday it feels like a Monday to me now. Especially, if I get out early and walk down to the shops at 9.30am. 9.30am feels the same every day, it is that time of the day when everything hasn’t quite got going.

As I head down the street, I am momentarily surprised to see the bakery open. Isn’t it closed on a Monday? But it is Thursday, silly me. I love those minds tricks, they are fun. The coming back from them is fun, that mental mind flip. It is because I spent the weekends with Sam and the week days on my own, so walking down the street now on a Thursday is how Mondays used to feel as they were the first days of the week that I had to myself.

Does that make any sense? I hope so.

I love that fluidity of reality, even if it is just momentarily. A snatch. A fragment. Just caught in one’s peripheral vision, one might say. Never real. Never fully realised.

 

Annoying People In The Office

8.40am

"Good morning, good morning, good morning, good morning, GOOD! MORNING!" chimes Goong as he arrives, as he does every morning.

I say nothing, this demented fool really annoys me.

Jason, who sits next to me, doesn’t reply either. But, then again, Jason never says much. Just how I like them, a man of few words, is our Jase.

"What's good about it?" asks old Norm, unexpectedly. I’m taken back a bit with Norm’s seeming cheek. He just happens to be passing through on his mail round. Good for him, I think. (Perhaps, it not only me who is in the I Hate Goong Club?)

"Oh, everything," replies Goong like a demented Play School presenter. “You name it…it’s GREAT!”

"That's what you say," says Norm in his matter of a fact 70-years-on-this-planet way about him. I may have once thought we were running a sheltered workshop having some old bloke around the place, maybe when I first started, but old Norm brings a world weary honesty to the smart corporate types. And he’s as sharp as a tack.

“Life is grreat,” chimes Goong. (Emphasising the great, so it could easily be followed by a mate, woof, or is that showing my predilection for advertising jingles? Ha ha. It makes no never mind. You get my point.)

Norm sneers as he powers through the office.

When Goong and Mia, the fat, short Greek chick who runs around the office rather than walks, get talking, they talk so much unbelievable crap I want to cut my ear drums out of the sides of my head with razor blades.

Goong on the phone not long after he gets in.

"Hello, hello, hello and hello again."


"Oh fan…tastic, except for… one thing. I think you know what it is. You know, you know, you know, you know, YOU KNOW." (If he’d yodelled I wouldn’t have been surprised)


"Someone hasn't done the right thing. It's not you, of course, it’s not you, of course not, it wouldn’t be you. No. Not you. But have you managed to find them, track them down the culprit and tortured them sufficiently." A peel of laughter. “I approve of torture… in… this… case.” More loud laughter. (Two girlfriends on the phone sharing gossip)


"Oh goody. Tell me the details, tell me the details, tell me the details. Tell me, tell me, tell me, TELL ME!"


“I still give you permission to torture them. Yes, I do. Yes, I do. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Yes, I do. YES, I DO! Do, do, do.”


There are very few people I’d like to suddenly see grasp their head with both hands and fall to the floor in the midst of a fatal cerebral haemorrhage, but I tell you, if Goong ever does, the snowflakes in my office may well be disgusted with my enthusiastic clapping.

Fortunately, there are periods of time when this demented parrot is quiet, I do have to add, otherwise I just couldn’t work there. I kid you not. I’d be out of there.


9.15am. Quite a good shit. Like clockwork mid-morning, and then some sometimes. I am sure it is healthy.

TMI? You know what, I don’t care about the people who may have said yes, just then. If you can’t deal with real life, if you need the stinky bits deleted, then you are just not real, are probably a Christian who goes in for fantasy and I feel sorry for you.

It is quiet. A place of peace and solitude. I keep writing my journal on my phone, as I sit on the can, no use wasting time. Usually, there is a stillness that is quite bracing and I get a lot written that I wouldn’t otherwise.

But, then somebody comes in and takes up residence in the far cubicle. Then they are dropping shit depth chargers noisily into the water, like a faecal carpet bombing, disturbing my peace. I am ready to go, I think, but then I can hear they are finishing up too, going as quickly as they came, and I didn’t want to put a face, er arse, to my companion’s noisy, turd campaign, as there are few guys within the office with who I’d like to make that association. Declan, maybe, Eamon, he’s adorable, possibly, but there are a few that would scar me if I did. Dear god it might be Goong and nothing on this earth wants me to associate his sad, old, saggy arse with anything, quite frankly.

And then his cubicle door went click and he was going, so I could just wait a few moments and avoid the whole eye contact thing. You know, you always feel like apologising for the stink, just in case, “I don’t know what the fuck went on in there?” Nervous laugh. But you don’t and it is just awkward. Looking down, moving sideways around one another.

He was out the first door, but he seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time at the sinks, so I decided not to be a baby and head out there anyway. I tip toed to the door and peaked through the portal window, and there was Goong leaning over the basin emptying his nostril under the running tap water. Euw! I tip toed back to my cubicle and locked the door and waited a bit longer.

It had to be, Goong, the prissy over-talker, who has to fill every silence with nonsensical jibber jabber. He is like a slightly effeminate Martian, skinny and lanky, with a feminine frame. 50 kilos at the most. His arms and legs are just slightly too long, and he has an enormous head, way out of proportion to the rest of him. That would be 20 kilos of him. Despite being a 60 year old Asian man, he has those bulbous feline Martian eyes, which I’m sure morph into something more pleasing to a human eye whenever anyone looks at him directly, but as soon as we all look away, they revert back to those bulbous alien eyes. His lips are repulsive too, kind of stretched, like some old Hollywood diva might end up after ill-advised surgery, well, there is certainly an essence of that.

The incessant talk is one thing, but the never ending positivity sprayed across the office continually like a super soaker water cannon is really not normal. It is an illness, tears of the clown. Really, no one, no one genuine, is the walking embodiment of the American Association of Positive Affirmations, the apple pie, hospitality, thousand island and ranch, etiquette service. “You have a nice day now, ya hear.” It is just creepy. I’m sure, if need be, he could say “Have a nice day,” in Klingon.


I bumped into him in the office again around by the printers.

"Hello, hello, hello and hello again," he sings at me.

I treat him with such derision, he is just too exasperating for words, so I feel I have to at least try be nice to him if ever we find ourselves in a “one on one” situation. Through gritted teeth I asked. "Hi, how are you?" Trying to sound light and breeze and for it not to come out as a snarl.

"Oh faaaann… tas…tic,” I can’t tell you the emphasis he puts on fantastic, it is gut wrenching. “It is such a nice Monday. A lovely Monday."

I’m never sure if he is trying to be deliberately provocative with the Monday comment, or if the sugar and spice act is real.

I try to be nice to him, but his responses to me so often just leave me open-mouthed and rendered mute.

This boy was a nice piece of arse in his white tracky pants, they left little to the imagination, let me tell you. And no, I didn't take my phone out deliberately. I write on my phone on the tram on my way to work and I just happened to have it in my hand.

Things You Don't See Every Day

A fay, middle-aged gentleman with a pot belly and thick glasses, in a moss green cashmere jumper and taupe trousers, with a sharp crease ironed down both legs, suddenly emerged in the middle of the crowd of the sea of black on the tram – brief cases, faces staring down at their phones – with the most delicate plastic bottle of white skim milk with a bright pink label he was holding as though it was the most precious thing, looking confused, then, leading with a hand bent at the wrist, he tottered off to the back of the tram with a look on his face reminiscent of old Aunt Genevieve days before she was put away safely in a home for the bewildered due to brain degradation.

Rolling Stones Friday

I've been obsessing about the Rolling Stones these last few days, playing them constantly on my headphones. I still consider their music to be some of the best there is, even the bad stuff, and some of my favourite. I have Thursday and Fridays off, so what better thing to do on days off?

My current obsession started Tuesday on my way to work. I listened to the re-released bonus tracks from Some Girls on my headphones heading into the city. I don't usually listen to music as I walk to work, this last incantation... (no, that's not right? [in Bubble's voice]) incarnation of my working life always seems nicer if I listen to the sounds of the day, as I make my way, to the office. Open. Free. The rustle of leaves in the trees. Bird song. The clank of the trams rolling by. The sound of voices close by. People. Things. Traffic. Ringy ding dings.

I thought I found a nice antidote to Mick and the boys today, Stevie Wonder, but he got a bit raucous after a while. Stevie? Even I am surprised.

I switch him off. The silence is great.

I create a new header for my blog. I like the colours I come up with.
I write some poems. Finish ones that I had already started. They seem ho hum, but I decide to put them on my poetry blog anyway.
I contemplate a movie. Watch a DVD?
I think, I should read.
I read a review of Edmund Whites reading list, and feel stupid and unread next to him. Nothing by Henry Green is his favourite book. I've never even heard of Henry Green.
I decide to write instead. I am cross at hitting two keys on my keyboard as I type and momentarily wonder if the tips of my fingers are swollen? I wonder if I should measure them just to be sure? Ha ha, it is just ineffectual typing.

I eat mandarins and contemplate more coffee. How much coffee can one drink? I think, I should know the answer to that?

It is a grey day. Windy.

I feel sleepy and contemplate lying on the couch for the afternoon.  But that is not going to get me any where? Plenty of time to sleep when I am dead, as they say.
Perhaps, I'll watch Netflix. Writing is not really working. I'm not feeling it.
The house is quiet, just Buddy snoring on his bed.

Computer. Square eyes. Not much inspiration. It starts to rain. The wind blows. I contemplate an open fire. 
I decide on Payment On Demand. Just what is needed on a grey Friday afternoon, an old black and white. I make more coffee and peel two more mandarins. I pull the blanket over me, puff up my pillow and lay back on the couch.

Shrug. Friday afternoon. Lovely.

I might have once contemplated that a Bette Davis movie collection and a Rolling Stones music collection were somewhat incongruous, but, I guess, they are both retro now, that's what the kids would think anyway.

Is retro in, or out?

Wattle

Uni Boys

Walking passed the uni, you’ve got to love uni guys with hot arses in camel coloured pants. Backpack, pulling the back of his white cotton shirt up just so.

He smiles sweetly, full of what he has learned today. I smile back meekly, not allowing my thoughts to escape.

So pretty. Black hair, with a wave. Blue eyes.

The sun is shining. There is a whistle on my lips. I need one of those big butterfly nets, I think. From where do you get one of those, I wonder as I head down Victoria Parade? It would need to be like a pop up umbrella though, otherwise it would be a little unwieldy, you know, between catches.

I chuckle as I walk east and day dream about how much he would struggle... but, in this post Me-Too, humourless, Millennial world, you probably can't write that, (who knows?) so, he'd look back wonky-eyed through the netting and say instantly, with a coy smile, "Where have you been all my life," of course.