Dealing With The Kids

In our Zoom Meeting, (we, actually, use a different meeting app, but never the less) one of the girls in my team said she was having trouble working from home because the kids over the road are playing ball outside all day, and they are really noisy.

My boss said to open the windows and play some music they wouldn't like.

I said, bake some muffins with sedatives in them and go over and hand them out.

My boss turned into someone's gran repeating, "Oh, no, no, no no, no, no."

Seriously? I thought. They’d have a sleep, and everyone wins.

My first thought was to say, get in touch with the guy who ran down those four kids from the same family and get him to do a couple of laps of your street, but I checked myself as I opened my mouth. Instantly, I settled on the muffins and the sedatives. Imagine, if I'd said get the killer driver, my boss would have shit his pants.

Sense of humour, anyone?

Oh yes, I got into trouble for this one on Facebook. My ex, Mark, loves to message me and tell me the things I can’t say. I don’t know why, he never used to be like that. Perhaps, he has lived in the country for too long.

“Those poor little kids, how can you make fun of them?”

I’m not making fun of those children, I am laughing at my boss’s reaction to the censored version of my comment.

Fine Mess

We ate Japanese curry for dinner.

We watched MasterChef.

 

4am. I woke up on the couch. My mouth had lost all of its moisture, I must have been sleeping breathing through my mouth, it took seconds for the dry skin on the top of my mouth and down the back of my throat to find some moisture allowing the skin to, actually, crease.

Well? I rubbed my throat. This is a fine mess, I think. I’m trying to think?  On the couch, in the dark, alone, it took me a moment, I am not ashamed to say.

“Where am…”

Oh yes, my first memory. I seem to remember some trouble at the end of the night, there were words, I have no idea what they are now, but there were definitely words. It seemed like like Sam was having trouble waking me up.

He’s even gone on strike, refusing to smoke it.

“I hate it when… when you are… like… this.” Maybe, I heard those. They came back to me in fragments

I wince.

I am sure Sam will have plenty to say about that, at a future date.

I sat outside and smoked a j. It was cold.

4.30am. I am sitting on the couch shaking it is so cold.

Time to build a fire.

“It’s the steps to the jet, Harvey, come on, one foot in front of the other.”

5pm. I smoked my second j, as the fire heated the lounge room.

I was hoping for more Harry’s Garage and the XJC restoration, but settled for Ricky Gervais at the Golden Globes.

5.20am. Milo cuddles up with me on the couch.

6am. I’ve done the dishes, crash bang, Japanese Curry pot, suds galore, and a wok to boot, I couldn’t have left that lot. The fire is roaring. Another j outside in the cold.

Back to the couch.

I want ice cream.

Don't look at me like that, it's the weekend.

A Little Patti Labelle in the Morning

Because I got up early again, and have carefully got everything done, I just have to wait for one more piece of data at midday, most of the morning has involved lying on the couch with Bruno listening to Patti Labelle.

11.11am. I am standing over the coffee table over four our laptops, as it turned out, back to back, with a glass of water in my hands, stoned, swaying just a bit, when it occurs to me what I am doing. Oh, could you imagine? My sweet Sam would be incandescent with rage if I did that.

I chuckle to myself as I head out into the garden. Nervously.

I just paid $750 to get my MacBook Pro fixed. No, I didn’t win the fight with Apple, they won’t acknowledge the 2016/2017 has a fault with its screen. Wear and tear, the genius said.

“Wear and tear from doing what exactly?” I asked.

“Oh, from opening and closing the screen.”

“What would you say the number one function of a laptop is?”

“Oh… um… opening and closing the screen.”

“There’s well documented evidence this model has a repetition of the same screen problem on multiple devices, there is a 35 thousand petition for Apple to fix what is obviously a fault, there has been a court case in America about this problem.”

Our handsome genius smiled, cleared his throat and said, “It’s wear and tear, sorry.”

It's A Monday Morning

I love working from home. 

I'm up at 5am. I sign into work at 5.45am. I work steadily until 9am, stopping for an hourly joint.

I have an online department meeting, soon, and Boris has today off, so where I wouldn't usually talk, with Boris being away, I'm sure I'd be asked to. I know not to go to that. It's the first one I've missed.

"Oh, sorry, I always get a reminder, I don't know what happened to that." Keep it simply, stupid, only if asked. No-one will ask.

I concentrate, and get my focus up, and get everything done.

There Goes The Weekend

Guido dropped over Sunday, unexpectedly, monged as you like. He'd forgotten his phone and he was going over to see Julien, he had wine bottles dropping out of his jacket, but couldn't remember the apartment number.

So, he dropped into my place. "Going old school," he said. "Back to where it all began."

He had some stories to tell. Macrobiotic diets, and the like. What’s killing us. Which big pharmaceuticals companies are to blame. 

"In the future we won’t own anything, it will all be worked out on monthly subscription schemes."

He espoused a mushroom diet, to rest set your body. “We were all microbes once.”

"I've never been so healthy," he said looking bleary-eyed at me.

But, as you guessed, I got some pot, “Oh, I know, piss weak.” And there goes the weekend.

Up Early

I was up early, even when I have nothing to get up for… perhaps, that was badly worded… no work to get up to, the rain was falling. Sam, Buddy and Bruno were having a snoring contest as I left the bedroom, not that any of them were conscious. (I sleep soundly with 3 snorers, never sure what people complain about)

It was still dark when I go up, which wasn’t so early at 7am, but its winter, you know.

It Is The Weekend, well, My Weekend

My weekend starts at 5pm, it is one of the perks of working 3 days. Well, it started at 4pm, because I start early. (It was a hell of a week, ha ha)

So, you know, Thursdays are always a delight, Saturday but without the party clothes.

I’m not sure that they even get it in my office, that I don’t care about a career and a future, or all the corporate stuff, you know, all the piff paff – Better Email Communication skills, You and Your fellow Office Workers, 10 Steps to Career Progression, Self Assessment Performance Reviews (kill me now) yap, yap, yap, yap and fucken yap. I just want to write… yes, I want to write (lately, it would seem I only want to watch YouTube, which could be interpreted as aspiring to do nothing, but be that as it may…) and losing my job would, actually, be the best thing for me. (nervous smile) I’m leaning more towards poet lately, but whichever.

I’m supposed to be writing for two days, and here I am hardly able to keep up my blog writing.

So, Thursday tomorrow. I’m ready, quill sharpened…

Tuesday

Tuesday, loser day. It's not the dreaded Monday, with its bad reputation, and not a day with a hump, which always seems far more easy going than Monday. It is the middle child, but worst as it's not even, as it doesn't even have the middle spot. 

At least it is a day in, we all say. A day into what? It's like treading water without a plan, it's nowhere in a kaftan, its purgatory, before you see the Friday weekend door, it's many days before you are at Sunday night feeling like a whore.

Then it is a slap in the face, a huge about face, a flannel up your crack, and then we're back, head spinning, a face pulled and grinning, 

"Yes, yes, good morning world, happy Monday to you all."

And then it's Tuesday again. And, where are we? Blink and it is June. And half the new year has gone, disappeared.

Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday. It is the beige sibling of all the rest. It’s Thursday in a plain dress. 

It’s Wednesday without the gleam.

It’s Friday without the dream.

You Gotta Think?

Sometimes I wonder if I am stupid, with some of the things I do. I look back on decisions I’ve made, and courses of action I have taken and I so often think, what was I thinking? I have little confidence in my own abilities and I so often procrastinate rather than act, and I am supposed to be smart, high IQ even. I normally step back, rather than step forward, just naturally, it is my default position.

Then I think, maybe I am one of the stupid people, pretending to be smart, which just makes me think I am more stupid than most, not knowing that I am stupid. 

Why did I? I don’t know.

What made me do…? Really, no idea.

What on earth made me come to the conclusion? It is a mystery to me?

Why didn’t I?

Logically stupid people don’t know they are stupid, because they are stupid. Maybe, I am one of those people? And I don’t even know it.

Why do we do the things we do? I guess that has filled philosophy books through the ages, by the less stupid. Started religions, certainly maintained them, between the gullible and the power crazed. Caused wars, with the more stupid than most.

I can’t even remember now what I did to start this whole stream of consciousness? (read puddle of waffle) What does that say?

Oh, I don’t really think I am stupid, of course. I keep my mouth closed for far too long. But when I look back on some of my decisions, it is hard not to think it.

Talking… er… Breathing Through Your Arse

My favourite news story of the day, pigs can breathe through their arses. I’m not too fussed about reading the detail, I just love the idea. It makes me love pigs even more.

There have been some men who’d I’d label as such who I was sure had this skill. I’d put my mouth to their arses and I often thought it was like a conch shell and I could hear the sea, but perhaps it was breath. Maybe?

It would be like being ambidextrous, or double jointed, I guess. Imagine the party tricks?

Winter

First open fire of the year. It's always nice to get back to open fires, even if you have to endure winter to have them. 

It's one of the good things about winter, like vegetable soup, and boots and thick coats pulled tight around your neck, and a low slung sun, with long afternoon shadows. Unblocking gutters with big sticks, or standing under an umbrella in the dripping day. Watching the rain through the window with a mug of hot chocolate in your hands. Cuddling up. Sleeping late. Staying in and watching old movies.

In My Big Fat Gob

My periodontist, Brendan Maxado, is off sick, apparently, for a number of months. That seemed like an awfully long time, I thought as the nice receptionist explained it to me, and my mind quickly reeled through all the reasons he could be off.

He wants me to see his hygienist instead. “Okay, sure,” I said. I guess. Why not? (Got to protect your market share, I guess?)

I see Brandan for roughly 15 minutes and he charges me $250, which is approx. $1000 per hour. (You know, if you do the maths) I wonder how much the hygienist will charge me next week?

The first periodontist I saw was a humourless woman in East Melbourne. She had some kind of nerve damage accident and retired immediately after the incident.

The second periodontist I saw was a big, fat jolly fellow, still kind of no nonsense, though, he dropped dead of a heart attack, somewhere between his practise in Melbourne and his practice on the Gold Coast.

And now Brendan is off sick. I’m hard on my periodontists.

Well, I hope Brendo (not that I call him that to his face) is okay. He’s kind of sexy (nose twitch) in a straight, conservative, tall and blond, uni-nerd, kind of way. He wears a V-necked, pale blue, jump suit, and I get a glimpse of his hairy chest and wiry frame, when we stand at the computer after the consultation to discuss my progress.

David's Addictions

4pm. David called. We’re going to Friends the musical parody in June, he has organised it. Now that David has given up his meth addiction, which he replaced with a food addiction until he weighed in over just over 100 kilos, and he had to give that up. Now he is addicted to musical theatre.

What he has seen recently, I got him to write them down, after he did my head in giving me of what he'd seen lately.

Muriel’s wedding (2x) (I think this is meant to mean for the second time)

The Producers

Come From Away (3x) (I think this is meant to mean for the third time)

Tina Arena (concert, not so much musical theatre)

Reuben Kay Cabaret

Fun Home 

Frozen 

Wedding Singer 

Friends the Musical Parody (next month)

Hamilton (coming up)

Moulin Rouge (coming up)

Of course, he can’t seem to find himself a boyfriend, so he has to fill his life in with other things. So, he does. I mean, he has had boyfriends, but they are always a disaster. I think, he kind of wants them too much, you know, when someone tries too hard and they end up with nothing.

I Quit Smoking

I quit smoking.

I smoked for a week after our dinner out with mates last Saturday. Sam was furious. Every time, without fail, I went out for a smoke, he would tell me off.

All my buddies have quit smoking, but when we all get together we all puff away. I haven't smoked since the last time I saw them all.

I could have stopped the day after, but Julien gave me some pot to take home, so I bought a packet of smokes on the Sunday to make a joint, and then the packet of smokes was on the coffee table, what can I say, I was weak.

Anyway, I couldn't smoke again, not with the price of cigarettes now. Fuck me. I bought a few packets during the week but at $45 a packet who wants to blow that kind of money? I guess the government strategy is working. Not that I want to smoke any more, and I find I can just stop again.

So, there you go, a week on the fags and now I'm done with it.

What Is She Like?

We were walking along the Yarra Saturday morning with Buddy and Bruno when a woman and her husband and their small terrier dog came towards us. 

Bruno and Sam were walking ahead of me and Buddy.

As the woman approached Bruno she visibly shook and she asked, "Is he friendly," as her dog had a go at Bruno.

"Yes," we said.

She smiled and said, "He's scary looking," as her rotten little dog bit Bruno on the face.

She kept walking without batting and eyelid.

I looked at Sam and he looked at me. "What is she like?" I asked.

Sam shrugged.

Flu Shot

I'm going into the office this morning to have a flu shot. Every year my company offers flu shots and it is always on one of the two days that I am not working, so I don't usually take advantage of the work based scheme. But this year, I guess, because I am not in the office at all, one day seems as good as another, so I am heading in to get my free jab. (call me cheap, if you like)

I have a flu shot every year, for years now, and I haven't had the flu forever, touch wood, just not the free company injection. This year I thought bugger it, get the free one, as it probably takes me the same time to get to the office as it does to get to my doctor. Of course, that is true of any year, but it just seems more palatable when I am not going in on my day off. I'm sure there is some logic in that somewhere?

This is the first time I have been into the office for over a year. Actually, that's not quite true, I did go in one other time, but I went in early and nobody was there, oh, except for the one other early starter like me, Big Ange, but she is not really in my team, so I don't count her. We had a brief chat, she said it was nice to see me, and then I left before anyone else arrived.

I have a friend, Jeff Titan, who is now a magistrate, continually over the years he has said to me, "Don't ever talk about me in the office." Me working in law firms, you understand. My thoughts on the subject have always been, who am I going to talk to about you? But Jeff continues to make the request. Oh, you know, drug taking fags, I'm guessing he thinks it wouldn't do his reputation any good. Not that any of us are drug taking poofs now, but back in the day, Jeff and I have danced at Mardi Gras off our faces, on more than one occasion. I mean, truthfully, I'm not about to make those sorts of admissions about myself, anyway. Not that I am ashamed, or anything, we had more fun than anyone was supposed to have, but its work and I don't have those sorts of conversations at work.

It was Jeff who told me the story about when he was a relatively junior barista... oops (that made me giggle) barrister (you'd have to know Jeff), having dinner with very senior legal people and after the meal was finished a silver tray of syringes came around full of speed of which everyone was to partake (amongst other stories he has told me)... but I'm not allowed to mention him.

In all my years of working in law firms, and I have worked in three of the biggest, Big Ange, is the only person who has bought up Jeff Titan in conversation. It was some Xmas party and she and Jeff and some partner had a drunken night, all staggering back into the office to continue their drinking until late, apparently, all of them need help getting themselves home. I have never mentioned this anecdote to Jeff, I've never thought to, actually, but he can rest assured, he clearly doesn't need me to tarnish his precious reputation.

Oh, um, not that that really has anything to do with anything, it just came to mind.

I have a mid-morning appointment with the nurse, so, I am guessing, everyone will be in, so I will get to see the whole team. Yay. Fists shaken in the air.

If Only We Were All As Sweet As Dogs

If only we were as sweet as dogs, with such simple needs.

Feed me good food,

Give me a ball to play with (retrieve it for me when it rolls under something where I can't get it)

Let me sleep comfortably.

And, of course, love me.

Bruno is now careering around my home office chasing his favourite yellow ball. It's the routine now, after he has eaten breakfast, he requests his ball with which to play. Then he barrels around the house chasing it until he is exhausted, then he takes it to his bed with him.

They are pretty loveable.

If I am the only one home, my two furry boys will often lie at my feet. If Sam is home too they may be with him.

The two of them are adorable together, people often stop us on walks to tell us, I just agree.

Everyone should have a dog. Man's best friend.

Good Melancholy

There is always something romantic about standing under an umbrella in the rain.

Its melancholy, as if the world is crying, but they are tears that are enriching, they embrace you in the very place you are standing and hold you tight.

It is a warm jacket in your cone of stillness, allowing the whole world to glisten before your very eyes.

Sprinkle of dew from the clouds. Life dripping from the sky above.

Submarines

Saturday Night With The Old Gang

We headed to Sebastian’s, in Kew, by uber. It is the first time we have all caught up in months. We arrived at 7.40pm at the same time as two other guests, Damian and someone, clearly boyfriends, we introduced ourselves as we walk in.

Matt was in the kitchen rolling joints, he handed me a joint as soon as I walked in. 

Julien and Miss Chris were in the kitchen. We all smoked joints.

We sat in the lounge room and chatted. 

Adriana was the last to arrive. In a lull in the conversation, she said she had some news. She told us that she left Jimmy just recently. She said it had got bad during lock down being home together all the time. (I knew of one incident, which was really unpleasant, but I didn’t know there had been any others)

She had secretly packed all her stuff up over the preceding weeks, and was ready to do a runner. She waited until Jimmy got home from being out all night, early Sunday morning. He came home as the sun came up and went to bed. Adriana waited a short time and then got a bag with the last of her things in it. They have been sleeping in separate bedrooms lately which made it easier. Jimmy got up for a piss just as she was getting ready to leave. Adriana hoped he wouldn’t stay up. Sometimes he did stay up and smoke bongs, sometimes he didn’t. He went back to bed. She waited half an hour, or so, then got her stuff and left. On the way out, of course, something dropped on to the wooden floorboards, and she froze, but it didn’t wake him.

Jimmy thought she’d gone to her parent’s place down the beach for the weekend. Sunday night he called to ask her when she was coming home.

“I’m not coming home, Jimmy.”

“When are you coming home then?”

“I’m not coming home, Jimmy.”

“Yeah, okay, I get it,” he said. “But when are you coming home?”

“I’m not coming home, Jimmy.”

“What?”

“I’ve left you Jimmy,” she said. “I’m never coming home.”

He searched her wardrobe with her still on the phone. “No clothes,” he said.

“I’ve left Jimmy.”

First, she copped abuse.

Then she copped remorse, him apologising and saying he needs her.

He thinks she's down the beach with her folks, but she is in St Kilda, with her friend Dale.

Wow! I didn’t really know what to say. (I was a couple of joins in by that stage)

I sat next to Sam and Julien at the dinner table. We all chatted.

We ate gnocchi and slow cooked beef, and a cauliflower salad with cranberries in it.

Sebastian had just sold the house, his parent’s house. They are both now in care. It was just Sebastian and his brother. Sebastian asked if he should buy in the city, or the country. He said he worked from home now, so that didn't really matter. I said, in that case, I’d look in Daylesford, Woodened, Mount Macedon, that depended how much he got for the Kew house? He didn't say, but Kew is right up in the expensive suburbs.

There was lemon curd and chocolate mousse with cream.

We had coffee and some delicious rich walnut cake one of the other guys bought. He said he was a wog and had to bring food on the walk in at the very beginning.

I ate far too much chocolate mouse and walnut cake.

We smoked more pot.

11.11pm. I finally went to the toilet at the end of the night, after trying to go all night. It was always occupied. It was the longest wee in history, it was interminable.

I came back out and lay on the couch and immediately began to drift off to sleep, which made me realise it was time to go home. Truthfully, I was just too stoned, what a fucken amateur. I got up and staggered back to the dining room table and whispered in Sam’s ear, time to go.

Julien wrapped a bud up to go.

Sam called an Uber, and we said our good byes.

All the way down the freeway I sat in the back and thought, I am really very stoned, and I feel uncomfortable in the stomach from eating too much.

I crashed into bed.

Drunk Boys

The boys next door were chatting outside in their back yard.

We ate chicken and egg rice for dinner.

The boys next door were getting noisy.

We watched MasterChef. Oh, I don't know, I still like it.

The boys next door played music and got louder. Should I say something to the boys next door? I thought.

8pm. All the noise stopped, they had clearly gone out. Lovely.

We watched Trueblood. Season 2 the last episode. Eric has handcuffed himself to Russell Edgington as the sun comes up.

10.30pm. Time for bed. Take the bulldogs out for a wee, Buddy usually lets us know when it is 10.30pm and time for bed, and to head upstairs.

11.20pm. Lights out.

 

2.30am. I woke to banging that seemed to be off somewhere in the distance. There was intermittent, but continual banging. I thought I heard Shirtless Jose, (the one our security cameras* catches running around his back yard with his rather pert butt in his jocks), next door, yell out “Robbo!” (That should have been a clue)

* don't ask me why we have security cameras, Sam is a techno nerd, is why

I got up and had a wee. 

Even though, I thought the banging was somewhere else, off in the distance, I thought I might as well go downstairs and check on the house anyway.

There seemed to be some sort of commotion on our back veranda roof, but I thought maybe, it could have been, possums, possibly scared by the banging. I was just wondering if that would even be a thing, when Sam appeared.

“There is someone on our roof.”

“What?”

“I was going to the bathroom, and I saw someone on our roof, call the police.”

Then there were legs dangling over our veranda. Long, slim legs.

I called the police. 000 asked me all sorts of questions about if the person had fallen?”

“I don’t think so.” 

“Do you think they are injured?”

“Um, no. I don’t know.” 

“Do you think an ambulance will be required?”

“I… er… wouldn’t think so.”

“Do they have a weapon.”

“What? Um… no. I don’t know.”

As I talked, I came to the realisation that it was probably one of the boys from next door climbing on our roof, the reason yet to be determined, but I was pretty confident there was alcohol involved. They had clearly gone out earlier. It was transporting me back to the days of my stepson Jay and his alcohol fuelled carry on, often early Sunday morning.

“Do you want to speak directly to the police officers, or are you happy for them to patrol?” 

“Er, um…” What do I think? It was the boys next door, it had to be, any concern I had was over. “I’m happy for them to patrol,” I guess. 

I went out the back, I could hear someone next door possibly talking on his phone, as there was nobody answering him, something about if there was a spare key he could use. He was slurring, I could hear that.

Sam reappeared and said the police were here. “They are out the front.”

The police were standing at our front gate, three of them. We told the police we thought it was the boys next door drunkenly locked out and climbing over our house to their house. The police said they would go and talk to them.

Sam and I stood in the front room. We could hear shirtless Jose say, “It is the fucking police.” (That pleased me)

We peeked out the venetian blinds of the front bedroom in the dark. The two boy coppers stood in the middle of the road, presumably the female copper was still chatting to the boys next door.

Then the cops got in the cop car and drove away.

It was 3am, or thereabouts, by then.

We went back to bed.

“I think I heard the police say something about them coming in and apologising,” said Sam.

“Oh, good, I’ll be expecting chocolates.”

“And flowers.”

“Yes, flowers too,” I said. “It has been some time since I have got chocolates and flowers from a 21 year old boy.”

We both chuckled.