Happy New Year

We stayed home, watched the Songs of the Decade concert on Sydney Harbour on teev.

I fell asleep on the couch and Sam had to wake me up in time for midnight. 

Partay!!!!!!

We covered Buddy and Brun's ears during the fireworks.

We were in bed pretty soon after the new year began.

Happy New Year.

The World Is Full Of Idiot Drivers

I realise that I am a whiny little bitch behind the wheel.

“The only. Person’s ears you are making bleed are mine,” Sam tells me all the time.”

But how can you not be, I say in my defence, when there are so many god damn fuckwhits on the road who seem to have fluked it for a licence. OMG! So many stupid people behind the wheel of a car. Idiots.

“What are you doing?”

“It is 50 kilometres an hour, not 20, you fool.”

“This one is clearly on their phone.”

“Stop talking and drive your bloody car!”

“Go around them, go around them, I could drive a fucking bus through the space you have.

“Why have they stopped in the middle of the road. Why? It is mindboggling.”

“OMG! Your car has blinkers, why don’t you try using them.”

I blame the reduced speed limits. There are now so many different speed limits, coupled with speed camera technology, coupled with fear pervading modern society, that everyone defaults to 20 kphs just to be safe.

And, let's just note, that ever since reduce speed limits have been introduced, road deaths and pedestrian deaths have risen dramatically. I'm not saying that reduced speed limits contribute to road fatalities, but it does make it plainly obvious that reduced speed limits do nothing to stop road deaths.

Post Op

What can you do when it is 43 degrees? It is hot at 43 degrees, I kind of like it, none the less, but it is very hard to get motivated to do anything physical. An air conditioned car helps. It is time to stay indoors and keep still.

I was hungry by lunchtime, but Sam said he was still full from breakfast, so I had sardines on toast. But sometime later, not long after, Sam was hungry and he made red berry smoothy ice cream, which was followed by a mountain of spring rolls.

“This is the strangest lunch I think I have had in some time,” I said to him. Maybe it was the heat?

We were picking up Brun at 1pm, but the surgeon called and said he was still a bit puffy, so he wanted to keep him until 3pm.

We left just before 2.30pm to pick Brun up. It was 43 degrees as we approached the vet’s rooms in [name of suburb].

And then there was our little guy, his head in a cone collar, which he has to wear for 10 days. (that will be fun) The final price was the original quote minus the other two things we won’t deleted in full. The special deal on aesthetic, which wasn’t a special deal at all, seemed to have been discarded. I’m not sure why? Sam seemed to think it was my cool demeanour as I was discussing it with the surgeon, that got us over the line. With our deductions. I don’t remember feeling anything like cool. I just gave it my best shot, which didn’t seem like it had any affect at the time.

It was hot driving home. Brun tried to climb through the buckets seats as he want to do.

Buddy rushed over as soon as he saw Brun, and he and Brun sniffed conspiritually. “What happened? Oh, I see. You were taken in where? I see. Really? What on earth. By these two clowns? (head flick in our direction) They did what? Yes, yes, oh. Really? That’s got to hurt, however you look. At it.”

Brun had trouble with the logistics of his cone with his head being 3 times as big as normal. Buddy barked at him on and off. Brun is still a bit out of it really. Poor him.

We headed to the bedroom and turned on the air conditioning with both bulldogs.

Sam fed the dogs in our bedroom.

We came downstairs after the cool change around 7pm. We ate creamy pasta for dinner.

We played with conehead for a while. Buddy continued to rush at Brun barking at him. Scardy cat Buddy gets triggered by odd and unusual noises. Scrape, scrape, went the cone on the furniture, the walls, the doorways, the cupboards, the floor, our calves, just about everything really.

“Bark, bark,” woofed Buddy. “You are freaking me out, freaking me out, I tell you.”

Deluded Rantings

Barnaby Joyce ranted on about there being a higher power which we ignore at our peril.

Which bit? Not eating shellfish? Wearing clothes made from mixed cloth. The bit about drunkenness being a sin. Or not cheating on your wife?

Which bit shouldn’t we ignore, Barnaby?

So, god created the world, then he waited 800 million years before he got us to kill his son to save us from the sins that he created in the first place. (A bit like the discounted aesthetic, kind of self serving) Completely, unhinged nonsense which can best described as a kind of state sanction infanticide. Or, as is really the case, the end point of thousands of years of Chinese whispers that started off as the mutterings of illiterate cave dwellers who didn't know the world existed beyond what they could see in front of them.

You know, if Barnaby Joyce wasn't in such a position of power, dare I say hypocrite, he'd be funny. A character of mirth and scorn. If you wrote that stuff nobody would believe you.

Brun's Op

Sam woke me up at 6am, he and Brun were coming back from downstairs. “Wake up.” We all had to get up. Brun was having airway surgery, a preventative procedure, pretty much. We had to head off to the vet as soon as we could. The vet opened at 7am.

7am. We left home, heading to [name of suburb], across town.

It was a glorious morning, down the highway in the Peugeot, windows open, 24 degrees, road practically empty. My favourite morning ever, just perfect. The Peugeot roared to life and accelerated beautifully from every set of lights. The highway was so empty it was like our own race track. A Subaru WRX, a VW Golf GTI and a Volkswagen Polo GTI, both white, were keeping up with us. It was fun. I felt alive. Good driving more so than fast driving, although fast too. We’re all too namby pamby, yes sir, three bags full, just ripe to be made a police state, to drive over 40 fuken kph now-days. Sometimes it is nice to let go, live a little, hair down, engines reving.

7.35am. We left Brun at the vet, the nurse took him by his lead and he followed obediently. He didn’t look back.

We had to get a new quote, as Brun wasn’t being de-sexed and there was a couple of scans we weren’t having done from the original quote. $235 for the former and $380 for the latter, off a quote of $2400. The new quote only dropped off $100, the reason being that in the original quote, arguably “the standard deal”, the aesthetic had been discounted, in the new quote it was not discounted, so that put the price up. The surgeon was asked to call us and explain. He gave the same explanation, in his best business like tone, and it made no real sense. The discounted aesthetic was just a decision they made, it bore no relation to what aesthetic was used. Presumably, Brun was only going to be put to sleep once, no matter which quote we accepted.

My response to the surgeon was, “Well, that makes no sense to me at all, roll of the eyes, what could we do, if that is what the price is, okay.” What could I say? He said it had all been explained to me, but the explanation I got wasn’t that, not that at all. I won’t bore you with the details now.

Brun would be ready to be picked up early in the afternoon.

9am. We’re at [name of cafe] having breakfast with Buddy. Neighbour, Jackson Wag stopped by, saying he couldn’t stay otherwise he’d have an exploding coffee pot situation at home, and then he stayed anyway. Kodak and his owner, also stopped for a chat, but the fact we were eating by then hurried them away again. Kodak’s owner is impossibly cool, I’m sure we all wished we were as cool as he. The nice lady from over the road wanted to know where the baby was? And a puppy called Tully, who Buddy sniffed encouragingly, stopped to eat at the next table.

‘Good puppy, well done,’ was Bud’s attitude.

It was lovely sitting out in the fresh morning air and the sunshine before the day got too hot. It was predicted to be 43 degrees today. It was nice to be out in it before it got to that. Sure.

Xmas Lunch

Okay, today was the Fletcher family Xmas lunch, what there is left of it now that mum and dad are dead and their grandchildren have all grown up, at my sister’s place in the country. Xmas is for kids. Getting together is nice though. I have to say that, it is expected, after all. No, it was nice.

It was going to be lovely in Melbourne 29 degrees, but 38 in [name of country town], not so lovely. The bulldogs had to stay home, first Xmas they have missed ever, 38 degrees is too hot for them. It would have been Bruno’s first.

We took David’s car. We’ve been looking after it while he has been faffing about trying to sort out his life. I promised him I’d keep the battery charged, so a run to the country was just the ticket.

Lunch was nice. I think Gill and Grant went to the least amount of trouble in the years they have been doing Xmas lunch. Gill said she had had four Xmas lunches, which may explain it, she said she had enjoyed Xmas a lot. But, maybe, that was the booze. I can’t help but think ours got the last priority, hence the date.

My brother and his wife were there. Xmas is the only time I see them. They bought presents for everyone, apparently, they didn’t get the memo. My sister in law lives to shop.

Two of the four nieces were there, my sister’s kids. I don’t know where the other two were, I didn’t ask, I guess I should have. Nyr!

It was… um… interchangeable with other years, but, Xmas is a bit like that, now isn’t it. I didn’t give presents, I adopted a koala instead. [Well, that was what I said I did, and I have every intension, I just haven’t done it yet]

It was certainly hot.

We were home early in the afternoon and I slept on my own couch.

Out For Lunch With Clean Pups

We washed the dogs and then went out to find an outdoor café at which to have lunch, where they could air dry and we could eat. We went to a place just around the corner for the first time, as it is very popular, always busy. We were going to walk further, but they had a free table, and we thought why not? We squeezed into a table in amongst their crush of small tables, which I thought was too small for us, but Sam was keen and nobody said they minded when I asked before we sat down. The café staff said how pleased they were that we were there. They see us and the bulldogs walk past every day, and this was the first time we stopped to eat. 

“Is this your first time?”

“Yes,” we said.

“Lovely,” said the waiter.

The sniffy French woman, eating with her handsome husband and child in a high chair, at the next table, got all cat’s bum when one of the dogs got too near to her. I know I should care, but really, Buddy and Brun were pretty quiet, so she had little reason to complain. (not that she did complain, actually, she said nothing, but she drew in breath and gave it big eyes, we got looks, sweetie. Not too hard to decipher) We kept the dogs away from her in the cramped small space as best we could. 

People continually stopped to say hello. Our neighbours, dog people from the park stopped by addressing Buddy and Brun by their names. 

“Which one is the baby, I can’t tell anymore.”

Everybody seems to know the names of our bulldogs. It left the sniffy French lady with little room to complain, frown, whatever. Brun and Buddy were well behaved, just pimping for pats from each passer-by, otherwise lying out on the footpath.

She had a husband worth looking at, though.

The coffee was terrible.

The food was average. Mine was a bit weird. Salmon, potato, cabbage, dry wafer, beetroot. Sam had a burger, with chips inside it. Why do they do that now? It’s a ‘thing.’

I was never really sure why they were instantly popular, as they were and I am still none the wiser. Apparently, they had another popular eatery someplace else, and the reputation just transferred.

Then we came home.

Sam kicked me off the PlayStation VR telling me I was hopeless, after encouraging me to use it, talking me into it, even.

Buddy lay at my feet.

We ate curry leftovers for dinner.

We watched Kevin Hart series documentary, Kevin Hart: Don't Fk This Up.

Holidays. 😬

Karma

Karma doesn't exist, not because bad things don't happen to bad people, but because not enough bad things happen, and too many bad things happen to good people.

I mean, look at the world.

Karma implies there is an order to this thing, there is not.

And, of course, too many "bad" people – not, generally, my judgement – who get away with "it". Just look at it, as they say, ad infinitum, in these troubled times, (no, I don't have a news service to sell) the troubled times in which we live, all the people who are doing bad shit...

There is no logic to Karma, it may make some people feel better, and that's okay, but call it that. A panacea for our fear. A placebo for the masses.

It really is just a hangover from all the religious nonsense, we haven't quite shaken off the coat of Christianity, or whatever hand-me-down fairy tale your parents have lumbered you with, which you have to unlearn.

The Day After Xmas

Boxing Day, the bridesmaid's day. Never the main event. Always the afterthought. Forever the exhale. The loosening of the belt. The sit down. The sigh. The step back. The stop.

The day the present givers get to reward themselves for presents well bought during the December present giving festival, the modern meaning of Xmas.

Another present festival completed for another year. It is what we all live for now-a-days; presents, food, and then holidays until the new year starts again. And we can repeat it all again, reboot, as this is the day it all, really, starts again – officially January 1st.

So, we pimp it out and pump it up and give everyone an excuse to spend more, what else could say Xmas so precisely, than an orgy of spending and consumerism?

Spend up people, it is the new normal.

The Princess Margaret of days, always the consolation prize. Never the real thing. Enjoy. Like Margaret did. She got to take pills, and drink booze and fuck Mick Jagger, because she meant nothing.

Happy Xmas

Cancer, Sweetie.

Our friend David (David M. Pretentious David, not lovely David, David C) has had a long time boyfriend, Harry de Wit, who is just so full of himself, so opinionated and really just rude to people. He is obnoxious. Yes, that is a good description of him, loud and obnoxious. He took a dislike to me, I have no idea why? (smiley emoji) And he blanked Jill out very early on due to some imagined slight about not being invited to some party at some stage early in the relationship. 

So, as you can guess, we have never really liked him that much. We refer to him as the poisonous one.

Sam and I went to visit our friend Rachel, who has remained friends with David & Harry de Wit, yesterday at her place in the country. We drank tea we ate chocolate chip biscuits and had a look at how her renovations are coming along.

As we were leaving, Rachel told us that Harry had been unwell. My ears pricked up.

"Really?" Do tell. I hoped it was serious.

So, I thought to myself, the poisonous one is finally being poisoned by "her" own poison, now there’s a surprise. "She" holds grudges so tightly, and hate so fondly, there is a palpable bitterness about "her", so it is no surprise to me "she" has broken out somewhere giving "herself" “the boils.”

I sent a message to Jill today.

Good news about the poisonous one, cancer.

Rachel told me he's had bladder cancer.

"Oh, really, that's a tough one to survive," I say. I wondered what the survival rate is?

"He's just got his 12 month results, so hopefully…"

"Hopefully," I repeat, not daring to have anything but a straight face. And I thought to myself, funny, your hopefully and my hopefully are hopeful for different outcomes.

I think Rachel said he was sharing his results with her at afternoon tea.

Cross your fingers, I thought.

You are terrible, replied Jill.

* usual disclaimer applies, nothing I say, or think, will affect the poisonous bitch's health outcome in any way.

Eating Themselves

Apparently, people across the world are voting conservative possibly due to three things, 9/11, the world financial crisis, and the wave of refugees across Europe, all things, arguably, cause by conservative politics.

No Meaning, No Boundaries

Existence is meaningless, moral codes worthless, and grandma's God is as dead as Grandma. And it is liberating.

Concentrate on the now, because nothing else matters, and enjoy what you are doing.

The only thing that is true is that you are skidding towards death, so lighten the fuck up and have a look around as you slide.

There is no ever after, this is it.

All that is required is that you try your best. Be true to yourself. That one may take a life time, and maybe that is the point. Probably being kind will go a long way to happiness. Enjoy the ride, because the ride is the meaning. It’s the doing that is the reward. 

Otherwise, life is pointless, so let go and enjoy.

The (dyslexic) nazis are coming, er, too late they are already here (running the joint, Heir Scumo and his lying Storm Troupers, criminalising journalists, and shutting down opposing voices). 

The Buddhists are coming, and they are drunk.

Lovely Red Flowers, just look at that red

The Stupid Will Inherit the Earth

So, the British just voted overwhelmingly for the conservative politicians who caused the whole damn political mess in the first place, arguably for their, and the wealthy's, benefit.

The stupid really are inheriting the earth.

Religious Nonsense

Speaking of the stupid inheriting the earth, the Morrison Government's religious discrimination laws will allow, amongst other things, 

On Social media - An office worker could declare on social media that a fellow employee is in a wheelchair because they are sinful and urge them to attend a faith healer. The workplace inclusion policy would be overridden by such a “statement of belief” and any action taken against the offender could be appealed to the Human Rights Commission as “religious discrimination” (Just Equal).

This is the contemptible insanity the Morrison Government is proposing to make lawful.

Fluff On The Dog

You know your cleaning skills are questionable when you see bits of debris from your life stuck to the dog, as he walks passed.

The Teskey Brothers sing.

Pour Cousin

Hip Hop is for those who can't cut it in R&B circles 

It is the opportunity for the less talented. Just as Rap is an opportunity for the non-talented.

Friday Morning

I was up early, 7am, so not so early, but to be truthful, I am always up early, now a days. Morning seems to have become my thing.

7.30am. Joint and coffee, it is freezing outside.

8am. Joint and coffee, it is freezing outside.

You know, just to ease me into my morning off.

8.38am. Sam saunters on to set like Gina Lollobrigida, (not at all sure where that analogy came from) throwing orders and sweeping down to pick up Bruno’s bowl, before sweeping back inside.

“Honey, honey, honey,” I say. 

“Don’t you honey me. Look at you! First thing in the morning. Look at you! First... thing... in... the... morning."

What gave it away, I think? Was it the eyes? I almost giggle at that thought, but I don’t. Not now. I laugh on the inside.

He's working from home until further notice. (Asbestos scare at work. Hip inner city warehouse conversion. "Everybody get out." That was the answer they got to the investigation of the white dust falling from the ceiling)

So, I have to share my days off. Hopefully he heads upstairs, so I can get back out to the table on the back veranda. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

Reflection

The end of the parliamentary year is a moment of reflection, and there is not much to show for six years of Coalition government. With drought and wildfire ushering in a frightening summer, the economy floundering and banks gone rogue, something near panic about China, schools going backwards, and sorry revelations from royal commissions underway into aged care and disability (and possibly a inquiry into veterans’ suicides inquiry)

The Morrison government was “working to make this future even better”. These words, the siren song of conservative optimism, but are without a good news story to back it up. Deny, deny, deny seemingly the order of the day. So Morrison falls back on his trademark bluster.

Morrison axes departments. The Canberra Bubble eating itself.

Just Rearranging My Days

I kidded myself there for a moment, that I would go into work tomorrow, but that is now looking highly unlikely.

Don't worry, I am essentially just changing my days. Just one  day  sick, I made up a day. Nah. Bullshit.

Yeah... nah. I can't see it.

I hope not much work pilled up while I have been away.

I had it organised since last week when Sam let it slip that he was going away this week, when he was making a doctor's appointment, and he was struggling to find a date.

Still Sick

Email to my boss, I'm still sick, banged out and fired off without a seconds hesitation, not a care in the world. Unashamed.

I'm lying on the couch, when I can wrestle it away from Buddy, watching Netflix and YouTube on the teev, drinking coffee and eating far too much bread.

Cuddling up with Brun, he is a cuddly pup, a good time being had by all.

3 Days Away

Sam goes to Sydney to work for 3 days. Christian is on the phone to Guido, literally, before the Holden Captiva carrying my honey away, had turned out of our street. Before the red tail lights had averted their steely red gaze back. "I know what you  are doing."

Writing an Eemail to my boss, I'm sick not coming in.

Margaret XXXXX Nobody

She gave her opinion, and the rest of the world gave their opinion, and she whinged that people weren't respecting her greatness, and the rest of the world responded that they didn't think great people had to denigrate other people to prove they were great, and she continued to waffle on about what an out of date book, that most people don't read now a days, claimed and her imaginary friends and what they said and the rest of the world said, "Oh Margaret, we moved on from that idea at least fifty years ago," and she responded by saying you should damn well respect what I say because I am a great tennis player, and people said we don't respect you because you say things with which we don't agree, great tennis player, or not, and then she claimed that the people shouldn't bring her tennis into it. And the people said, "Oh Margaret go away." And now she is saying, "Hello, I'm still a great tennis player, you should respect me." And most of the people said, "Oh Margaret, will you please just shut up."

You know what. Margaret who?

Mayhem at work. Idiot in Sydney HR got it wrong, and so as to not have to admit her mistake, she chooses to change the whole system to accommodate herself. Apart from anything else, it puts NSW at odds with all the other states. Apparently, it was pandemonium on Friday, from all accounts. "She is a dope," I hear myself saying in one of the meetings, a thinly veiled swipe at everyone for not knowing their jobs.

I can feel the vapours coming on.