Tuesday In My Brain

We reset the whole year 01st March, so I had a whole lot of work that I had to get completed... which I did. Of course. No choice.

Eickth.

I spent so much time staring at my computer screen over the last week I am pretty sure my eyes are now oblong.

Work hard, they say.

Blah, blah, blah, it is better to have a job than not to have a job.

Who the hell said that?

Work hard. Achieve. Live long and prosper. You know, all that meaningless crap.

Of course, conservative commentators and conservative pollies would have you believe such things? Why? I think it is because they have delusional aspirations to be a part of the ruling class, even if it bears no resemblance to their lives as they are.

I truly think conservatives vote for what they'd like to be, or what they think they should be, not what they are.  Conservative votes are for the most part delusional votes.

Anyway, I have been doing all these extra hours. And I have never been entitled to overtime, I'm not really sure why? Because i am not an award type paid worker is what they have always vaguely claimed. But, you know, I don't earn so much because I don't work that much, only 3 days, which is a very civilised week to work. So, you know, when I start doing full time hours in 3 days, I got to thinking fuck them, fuck the partners, they have a much healthier take home to me. 

And, you know, Sam, always looks at me and says, "Why are you giving very wealthy people all this free work." True enough.

So, I told Boris I'd done 15 hours overtime, not really thinking I'd hear anything about it. And she approved it. I think she gets approval from the Big Boss, before she approves the hours, but whoever, it's kind of nice.

Work hard, get ahead. Or is that, work hard get more bread?

Work hard, before you are dead.

Work hard, that's what is said.

Monday In The Rain

5.45am. I was up. I’m straight in the shower.

I drink coffee and stuff Vegemite toast into my gob in the dark on my own. It is quiet.

6.30am. I leave the house.

There is no 86 tram coming along Gertrude Street as I get to the tram stop, as there so often is. I look up at that point to see a a no 11 tram leaving the Gertrude Street, Brunswick Street intersection heading up Brunswick Street.

I walk to the Gertrude Street Brunswick Street intersection and look north down Brunswick Street to see if any trams are coming, there are not. The cars still have their lights on, and they sparkle in my eyes like diamonds. I turn and walk up Brunswick Street south towards St Vincent’s Plaza.

When I get to St Vincent’s Plaza there is an unusually large number of people waiting for that time of the morning. Then I see Gisborne Street is blocked off because of tram line works. I then see the tram diversion signs plastered all over the stop. A series of realisations so early in the morning when it is still dark. 

The trams were being diverted to Bourke Street.

I think fuck it! If I have to walk to Collins Street from Bourke Street, I might as well just walk down Gisborne Street and catch the no 48 tram down Collins Street. So, I walk to Collins Street from St Vincent’s Plaza. Albert Street is blocked off in both directions for a few hundred metres, so I have to walk all the way around, which displeases me a lot. 

It starts to rain half way down Gisborne Street, and I get wet. I’m really unhappy by now.

6.49am. I catch a no 48 tram at the top of Collins Street. This is ridiculous, the trams aren’t running, I’m now saturated, who the hell wants to come into the office I think sitting on the tram with my wet shirt sticking to me.

The no 48 is packed, of course, it is the only tram running down Collins Street.

It is pouring with rain when I get off the tram at William Street. I shelter under the eaves of 447 Collins Street, as best as I could. And pretty soon, the rain eases off and I make a run for it down Collins Street.

There is a couple running down Collins Street together in front of me. He’s got on tiny black shorts that are soaked and clinging to his sensational arse and muscular legs. I think lucky bitch and I just want to follow them (for the rest of my life) but they are going too slow and I run past them to my building.

In the forecourt of my building, a stranger smiles and says, “Good morning.” I rather snarkily quip back, “Who the hell wants to come into the damn office.”

I look back as I make the quip, our eyes follow one another’s eyes, he laughs.

I look like a wreck in the mirror in the lift at a few minutes passed 7am.

I’m cross that I have to put up with this shit, where if I was working from home I wouldn’t have to put up with any of it. I’d be in front of my computer with a coffee in my track pants dry as a nun’s.

My Big Boss comes in at 7.30ish and I say to him.

“How do I work from home permanently?” I say it too abruptly, too snarky to be taken seriously

“What?” he says.

“The trams weren’t working and I had to walk down Gisborne Street and it started to rain and I got saturated and I am sitting here in wet clothes and if I worked from home I wouldn’t be.”

He didn’t take me seriously and asked, “Where is Gisborne Street.”

Nicely deflected, I think.

I got my roof fixed, well part of it anyway. Josh with the very smackable arse (pattable chest and kissable face... oh... er... sorry... do you think they send the pretty ones to do quotes in gay suburbs? or am I being too cynical?) didn't show up. He sent some workers to do the job, which from all accounts they have done satisfactorily. I don't know, I'm not getting up there to check and what do I know about roofs anyway.

The only disappointing aspect of the whole thing is that what Josh said he would do to the rest of the roof as a part of the initial quote, you know to clinch the sale and get me to agree to the job, or am I just too cynical, has now been rolled into another quote worth quite a lot more. Hmmm? Scowl. 

Still, I'd like to see Josh in his undies... um... er... did I write that? I don't think I'll be using him again, because I have a very slight underlying feeling he is not 100% honest, you know, because of the promises made so easily to get the job, which his didn't come through with.

I need to get the rest of my roof seen to. Maintenance, Josh called it. I'll just have to find someone else to do the job.

Do You Want To Do The Sunday Usual?

“Do you want to do the usual?” asked Sam.

I had a momentary pang. The usual, sounded in my ears. Is that a bad thing? The usual? I shake my head and smile. “The usual?”

“Sure,” said Sam. “The usual?”

A walk in the fresh air by the river. “Sure,” I said.

Funny the things you think.

11.11am. We take Bruno for a walk down the Yarra.

11.21am. We got the first car park near where we want to go, which is always good.

The sun was shining as we headed across the river.

Bruno ran around with Barry the 10 month old Labrador who is chasing a ball. We tell Barry’s owner that Bruno is obsessed with balls. He doubts Bruno will get the ball from Barry. 

“He’s ten months old, the more running around he does the better,” said Barry’s round faced, smiley owner.

“Bruno is stubborn and persistent, like bulldogs are,” I said. Don’t underestimate him, I think.

Bruno ran around with Barry for a while. They seemed to be having a great time. A black kelpie type dog joined in. He is fast like Barry.

Bruno does get the ball. We give it back to Barry and take Bruno away on his lead. It is time for a walk, anyway.

“Good play,” said Barry’s owner.

Then we meet a large cream Oodle, whose owner was not friendly, followed by 2 kelpies, whose owner was very friendly, on the path. All the dogs sniff happily and keep walking. 

It’s overcast, but warm. It is nice in a t-shirt and shorts.

11.40am. A Jack Russell came the other way on the path, ran towards us enthusiastically. He then went for Bruno aggressively. 

“He doesn’t do that very often,” said the middle aged female owner.

“You might like to put your dog on a lead, so it doesn’t attack any other dogs,” I said.

She didn’t like me telling her to put her aggressive little dog on a lead, and she got argumentative, telling me I was judging her dog having seen it for just 30 seconds.

“I just watched your dog attack mine 3 times, in 30 seconds,” I said. “That’s what I saw.”

She accused me of being aggressive with her. She kept trying to talk over me so voices were raised. She clearly was used to talking over people with whom she disagreed, and I wasn’t letting her get away with it.

She continued to talk over me, persistently, telling me I didn’t know what I was talking about, but I wasn’t backing down, not for a second.

“Be a responsible dog owner, and put your aggressive dog on a lead so it doesn’t attack any other dogs.”

She was furious with me, by this stage, accusing me of being aggressive, accusing me of being rude, accusing me of not knowing what I was talking about. Stupid really, as the first words out of her mouth had been ‘my dog doesn’t do that very often.’ Not, my dog has never done that before, but ‘it doesn’t do it very often’, which is an admission that her dog is aggressive.

If she’d simply said she was sorry, after I suggested she put her dog on a lead, we would have all gone our separate ways.

We kept walking for a short while, but then we turned around and headed back to the car. 

When we got back to the main off-lead area, there was a Wolfhound type dog, a German Shorthaired Pointer and another black Labrador playing roughly. The was humping and tackling going on, so I put Bruno on his lead, just so he wouldn’t get caught up in all of that. The owner of the black Labrador was trying to catch her dog to put her back on her lead. All 3 dogs came over and sniffed Bruno, noses out stretched in investigative sniffs. When the black Lab rolled over in front of Bruno in a submissive way its owner was able to catch her and put her harness back on. 

“If you can just hold your dog there for a minute, that would be helpful.”

We kept walking. It was a lovely morning.

12.06. There was a guy pulling a trailer, full of what may have been, maintenance equipment, I thought he might have been a gardener, but of what, was coming towards us on the bridge as we were walking back to the car. “Look at you, you are nice and slim, and look at him,” he said. He was a very gay, maybe a bit islander, kind of guy.

“Pardon,” I said. I really wasn’t sure what I’d just heard.

“Look at you, you are nice and slim, and look at him.” He was really kind of sweet, I assumed he was trying to be funny, dare I say he was flirting a bit. I think I am out of practise with flirting.

“But, he is supposed to look like that, he is a bulldog,” I said.

“Is he?” He sounded ever so incredulous.

“And thank you for saying I’m slim.”

He laughed.

12.15pm. We got a park in Nicholson Street straight away. Bruno and I are waiting out the front of The Hive while Sam shops. I sit on the tiled floor with my back against the Saigon Village window. Bruno lies out next to me in super dog pose, or as some people like to call it, like a frog, his face between his paws.

A black guy in track pants, with an incredible arse, heads in the complex’s doors.

It was a warm day, so there was any number of guys in shorts strolling by into the complex, their legs and arses at my eye height. Bulges and bums. Blond and dark. Muscular and slim. Tall and short. Hairy and smooth.

‘Soldier on with Codral.’

12.20pm. Sam reappeared with shopping, dropped it off with me, and then headed over to the Asian supermarket.

12.21pm. A have-you-got-any-spare-change lady turned up and sat opposite Bruno and me.

She started to bleat her plaintive call, “Got any spare change.” Repetitively. “Got any spare change.” Like a wounded animal, which I guess she is, in a sense. “Got any spare change.”

I wrote my journal on my phone, as I always do when I am sitting outside a shop waiting for Sam while he shops. It is a good chance to write, time to myself. In plain sight, sure.

Then a strange thing happened, I looked up and a young girl had appeared in front of me and offered me some spare change. My mind raced with a suitable scenario, her mother had sent her back to give the homeless person some money, probably from delayed guilt, and she had got the wrong person. And I had on my good t-shirt too. 

“No, give it to her,” I said. I motioned across the walkway with a glance.

I looked back down to my phone. The little girl returned quickly offering me the change once more.

“From her to you,” she said. What, I think? I took the change, it just seemed easier. I intended to give it to the homeless woman as I left.

12.24pm. Then I heard another voice. “Is that an English bulldog?”

I looked up to see an Asian lady with 3 other young Asian ladies, all with masks on, asked me if Bruno was an English bulldog.

“Yes, he is,” I said. “You can pat him if you want.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I’ve never seen one before, he’s huge.” She turned to her friends. They all shivered with anticipation seemingly at the thought of patting Bruno.

“He’s kind of small for an English bulldog” I said “English bulldogs are often bigger than him.”

“Really,” she said. “How much does he weigh?”

“28 kilos.”

She looked back at her friends and they all giggled. I got the distinct impression they didn’t believe 28 kilos was small for an English bulldog.

12.25pm. Sam reappeared. Then he disappeared again, mumbling something about lunch. I go back to writing my journal.

12.30pm. Sam called to discuss if we wanted BBH or broken rice for lunch. “I don’t mind,” I said. “You choose.”

He says he is getting BBH for me and him and broken rice for Charlie, who was still asleep in bed.

12.35pm. A guy stoppped saying “What’s going on big boy,” talking to Bruno, in that inevitable baby talk.

“He’s a bit pooped from running along the river,” I said.

“He’s a lovely boy. He’s a lovely boy. Oh, he’s a lovely boy.” I thought I was probably seeing what this guy looked like when he spoke to his young grandchildren.

12.40pm. The have-you-got-any-spare-change lady is still bleating away. I can’t help but wonder what happened to people like her for them to end up like this? Life is short? Much too short to have to spend any of it like that? Homeless. No certainty. She had a permanent scowl on her lined face. I wondered how long it had been since she had smiled? It is shameful in Australia, some say the wealthiest country in the world, that some of its people are allowed to slip into poverty. She looked in pain as she got to her feet and straightened up. She walked as though it didn’t come easy.

She walked inside and asked those just inside the door for money. They all shook their heads in the negative. Then she came back and squatted opposite me and I realised she was the woman from the lane next to Minh Phat a few weeks ago who doesn’t wear any knickers. I didn’t know where to look, actually, I did know where to look, but it was an unfortunate turn of events. When I looked up again, I think she had just gone and squatted for a wee on the main nature strip on the main road. Then she was back squatting opposite me.

And if you are, oh, let me see, of the right-wing persuasion and you can’t muster any sympathy for such a woman, as you no doubt think it is her own fault that she has ended up in this situation, just picture your own mother pantieless squatting in a shopping centre doorway begging for money. No matter the circumstances, no woman in Australia should end up like that. I even try to picture Lottie like that even for a millisecond and my eyes begin to tear up.

Then I hear the homeless woman say, “Oh please help me, I am homeless.” When I looked up, a woman, who looked like a stylish Lesbian in black jeans and a black t-shirt and short blond hair gelled flat, was talking to her. The homeless woman said she wanted a donut from BonBons, which I thought was an odd choice.

The stylish lesbian bought the homeless woman a donut and a coke and her plaintive call stopped at least for the time it took her to eat the donut.

12.54pm. Sam reappeared. And we left. I forgot to take the change, the little girl gave me, out of my pocket, and give it to the homeless lady, who had been quiet totally involved in eating her chocolate donut since the handsome lesbian bought it for her.

1.05pm. We’re home again.

The sun was shining.

We ate BBH soup for lunch.

I Swear

I swear I don't intentionally make myself look the ugliest that I can around the house, I just have a couple of old t-shirts that are really comfortable.

I like them, even if they don't like me, when I gaze at myself in the mirror. (which I try not to do) Er! But they are so comfortable.

We watched Kylie Minogue on the opening of World Pride last night. She isn’t really a great singer, and she has that funny nasally voice, but there is something really appealing about her. I think it is because her singing and her songs are joyful.

I stayed up to watch her Golden concert afterwards, and it had the same joyousness about it.

You Are Doing A Great Job, Keep Up The Good Work

I work all day, and half the night. We have American overlords, we are just like The Good Fight, but they aren't just upstairs, they are in Seattle, and because of this everything changes March 01st and it all has to be done and signed off by next Wednesday. 

And those bitches from HR didn't give me their figures until midday today. "Oh sorry, I was in a meeting," they said one after the other. You know, the equivalent of the dog ate my home work last night. Slags everyone of them. 

And they keep getting away with it, because Blue Eyes who is in charge of them, just accepts anything they say. He never delves into any of their outrageous behaviour. He always just wants to keep the peace, have an easy 350K a year job. Read, he is useless, pretty, but useless.

And I say to the grand poohbah of finance. "Can I not be associated so closely with HR."

And he says, "You are doing a great job, don't worry about them. Nobody worries about them."

(I wish I'd recorded that)

Translation, no.

Oh yes, I know, he just likes to complain. (perhaps, I do?) Don't like you job? Get another one. What is that old saying my grandma used to say, Don't like the fire, get out of the damn kitchen.

Well, 3 days a week and working from home, I don't really care. I can put up with anybody. 

(I used to like stirring up the HR slags, but more recently I have learned just keeping my mouth shut, serves me better)

I'm home with my partner and my dogs dog, one day I'll get used to that, so really, what the hell?

Besides, I can write about it, here.

And, really, it is a source of wonder, HR's bitchy behaviour, have you worked that out by now, be it z grade wonder, it is wonder not the less.

A bit of Fitzroy style

Bruno and I went for a walk early. It was forecast to be 35 degrees today, so we wanted to go before it got to that. I don't think it’s going to, but we had a nice walk the 2 of us. 

Man and dog. The morning was pleasantly warm, still enough shade on at least one side of the street in which to walk.

The sun is shining and is quite hot when you are in it.

A handsome boy with a beefy arse in soft cotton shorts is moving stuff out of the flats on the corner.

We head down to Smith Street and walk to Johnston Street

Bruno turns into My Pet Warehouse automatically, as he always does. He knows where the doggie treats come from. I get him to drink out of their water bowl, which, I am sure, he thinks is 2nd prize.

When we come out what looks like a mentally disturbed Muslim, all decked out in white, with his hands in the air praying out loud to Allah comes from the other direction. I thought he was talking to me, initially, and I start to engage with him, but he babbles something incoherent, does the twinkle twinkle little star fingers above his head and walks on looking right through me as if I never existed.

As we cross George Street a bike rider crossing Johnston Street doesn’t give way to us, when I tell him to give way to pedestrians he tells me to fuck off. Lovely. Bike riders are the first to whinge if anyone threatens them, but they are the last to stick to the rules that apply to them. (must double check that bike riders must give way to pedestrians)

In Brunswick Street, we stopped to have a coffee, to sit and watch the world go by, but the payment thingy on my watch wouldn't work, so we kept walking. Damn! That’s the first time that hasn’t worked. 

[Later, Sam tells me that email I deleted so confidently as a scam was from the bank which explained why my watch thingy no longer worked, Oh, who can keep up with all that scammer bullshit, I ask you?]

King William Street > we take the walkway up to the dog park. No one is really there. I get pooh bags. Bruno has a drink. Then he starts sniffing for tennis balls, as is his way.

10.35am. We see the cute chow and his owner. We chat about travel and what we are going to do if we get a new puppy. I don’t have an answer for that. If my friend Jill won’t look after them, we’ll just have to put them in a kennel, I guess.

10.40am. We get to Gertrude Street. A guy walks past in pale pink pants, a bright pink crop top and a pale pink shirt open at the front, pink sandals and carrying a pink purse. I really try hard not to think of him as a terrible cliché. I try really hard to embrace his choices.

We see [name] who has [name of dog] and [name of dog]. She asks where Buddy is. She commiserates with me. “I am so sorry.” And that is nice, but it is 5 months later, you know. But, so many people have been genuinely shock about Bud’s death, no matter how long after the fact it is. Everybody loved Buddy.

10.50am. Bruno and I are home, after a bout of lying down at the shops before we got home. He’s funny, he’s always just plopped himself down, even as a puppy. People find it adorable, often when I find it annoying. 

“We’re nearly home, come on.”

“Isn’t he adorable.”

“Oh, so adorable,” often hear myself saying through gritted teeth.

Later, when I was walking back from the shops, I saw a board outside a pharmacy saying 5th Covid shots available, so I went in and asked. Fifteen minutes later, I'd had the shot and was waiting my 15 minutes before it was recommended I leave. 

Apparently, I'm pretty lucky that I have never had covid. Having the vaccinations when they become available might have something to do with it, I suggested to the pharmacist. He laughed, and said yes. It is not really rocket science. I think mostly it was the people who don't listen who got Covid.

Going For A Check Up

I’m up at 7.20am. I get straight in the shower. It’s my follow up for my eye operation, this morning, which I’m pretty sure I don’t even need, but that is the procedure so… I’m just pleased that I remembered.

7.40am. I’m in the kitchen making coffee and contemplating toast. I have to leave at 8 am, fuck it, I have time for toast. I see what is left of David’s cumquat jam and I think I might as well use it up. How long has it been? I wonder about the consequences of having jam on toast with my elevated sugar levels, but what the fuck. The fact that I couldn’t get the lid unscrewed initially David would say was the universe speaking to me. What a load of shit, I think, as I reach for the hand towel to get a better grip.

There is more than anticipated when I pile it onto my toast, but there is no use keeping a little bit of it in the bottom of the jar. I spill some down my t-shirt as I woof down the toast, because suddenly the time has ticked away.

“Damn it.”

I leave the house just after 8am and I just miss a tram. Damn it.

Do I go get my car and drive? Do I go and get my bike and ride?

I put, Stop The World on, Patsy Cline. (I've only just uploaded it to my phone) It amuses me.

The schedule on the post says every 6 to 9 minutes, so I decide to wait for the next tram.

It is overcast and cool. The sky is white grey.

8.12am. Every 6 to 9 minutes? Come on tram? And the tram appears. Lovely. As the tram approaches, I realise what I thought was a mask in my hoodie pocket turns out to be a napkin. Damn it.

A tram coming the other way heading into the city is packed with people I notice. Grrr! Hopefully it won’t be like that when I am returning. This appointment won’t take long, after all.

I stand in the middle of the tram initially. Then I spot one empty double seat, but before I can make up my mind, a chick with dreadlocks and her feral child get on, but they don’t take it, so I do.

There is some chick talking loudly on her phone, but fortunately she gets off at the first stop, before I have to mentally plot her death. Her seat is at the front of the seating section so I change to her seat so then no one is facing me with their potential covid breath blowing out at me. The chick with her books and large box of Ferrero Rocher sitting opposite me with her hooked nose and beady eyes looks definitely suss. Don’t people’s eyes bug out when they are infected?

It is warm on the tram.

The cute boy in work pants now sitting next to me, one seat across, takes his hoodie off. He has nice arms.

I can’t take my hoodie off because of the cumquat jam I dropped down the front of my t-shirt.

I’m there well early – do you like that, thank you Catherine Tate – and, initially, I sit on the seat outside the paint shop enjoying the cool weather. I observe an older woman with the long, white fag hanging from her mouth gather up her stuff from the table on the footpath and hobble to her car. I wonder what time she got up to drive down here for a coffee. 

I watch the cute young painter with his buzz cut hair, fleecy hoodie and tan shorts with a hole in the arse showing off his red undies and those legs, what nice legs, head into the paint shop. 

I don’t sit there too long, however, I have to go in at some point, now don’t I? So, I wander up the footpath away from the old woman and the young painter admiring the heritage shop fronts as I go. 

Please keep your mask on, the sign on the clinic doors says, but I don’t have a mask I only have a napkin, so I push the door open and head in none the less.

I tell the receptionists my mistaking a napkin for a mask story and they laugh politely and do a Sale of the Century hand flourish towards a box of masks at the end of their sterilised counter in their oh so sterilised and perfumed environment.

I sit in the waiting room.

The doc sees me on time.

“How have you been,” he asks.

I tell him about the new bulldog puppy, I can’t think of anything else.

“Everything looks fine,” he says. “How do you feel about it?”

“I feel like everything is fine,” I say.

He’s referring me back to my doctor for ongoing skin checks.

“I think we will take some photos today.”

His PA takes photos. “Stand with your feet either side of 1 and look at 1 on the wall.”

Flash goes the camera.

“I got your blink on that one, one more time.”

Flash goes the camera.

“Stand with your feet either side of 2 and look at 2 on the wall.”

I rotate around. Flash goes the camera.

“Stand with your feet either side of 3 and look at 3 on the wall.”

I rotate around. Flash goes the camera.

“Stand with your feet either side of 4 and look at 4 on the wall.”

I rotate around. Flash goes the camera.

“Okay. All done.”

His PA says, “[name of doctor] says you were happy with the procedure, so if I gave you a card you might like to leave a review.” 

I review, I think?

“Just if you want to,” she says. “It is fine if you don’t.”

She sees me out to reception like it’s a 5 star hotel. “Here’s that card. Thank you, Christian.”

8.55am. I’m out, back on Queens Parade. The cool wind blows.

There is a tram coming, so I run for the tram.

8.59am. I’m back on the tram.

At Alexander Parade I wonder about The Salvos. I do a quick search and they are open. Interesting, I think. And I’m at the stop. I think it is worth it to stay on to cross the large intersection. Does that age me? Either negatively physically, or positively mentally? I don’t know.

People are on their phones on the tram, I wonder how many are writing their journal like I am?

I get off and go to the Salvos. I get a John Mayer single with alternative tracks to what is on the album, and Mad Max Fury Road. I now have all the Mad Max films and Sam and I can have our own Mad Max festival.

9.30am. I’m out of the Salvos. I’m loving the cool weather. It’s good for walking.

The old white Mercedes and the green Renault 16 are still at, what is it, 384 Smith Street, the back of the kebab shop. The old car geek comes out in me whenever I am passing and I like to check.

I cross Johnson Street.

The old guy in the walker smoking a cigarette sitting out on the footpath, as though he has been deserted there by his carer, looks bitter as I eyeball him and his bald head, and he eye-balls me back, I can almost hear his thoughts, if I was 20 years younger I’d get out of this chair and I’d smash you faggot.

Yeah, well, Blanch good luck with that.

Fuck off.

Yeah, well mate, you’ve got nothing to worry about, but I might like to fuck your son.

You leave my son out of this...

You know he’s a fag...

Shut up! Shut up!

He likes getting his big fat cock sucked by blokes.

I’ll kill you, god help me I’ll kill you.

I look up and a leather skinned, peroxide blonde hag in leopard skin singlet is about to yelp at me for not looking where I was going, but I look up in time, and disaster is averted, well, in her mind anyway.

A handsome 20 year old lost in his phone call walks towards me in tiny shorts and clearly no undies. The boy has a shaft on him clear as day.

A chick with wild blond/grey hair and an oversized shoulder bag struggles down the Condell Street hill, like it is the morning after the night before, like some budget priced hooker who has to work week nights to make ends meet.

A morbidly obese boy stands at the pedestrian crossing in an XXXXXXL white T grimacing looking like he’s about to take his last breath.

I’m still loving the cool weather when I get home despite the sweat starting to creep in from the walk.

It’s 9.52am.

The house is quiet. Nothing. I have to whistle before Bruno comes wriggling towards me from the loungeroom

So, it doesn’t look like Josh is turning up today to fix the roof. I’m going to have to slap his arse.

“You said you’d be here yesterday.”

“I know, I…” I’d grab him, he’d go over my knee, “Hey what?” All of him, solid and floppy.

“There are consequences.”

“I’m sorry,” he’d say.

I’d grab the back of his thick cotton shorts and pull them down over the big hump of his arse, to show red cotton jocks, the smooth curve of the small of his back and the tops of his thick hairy thighs.

“I said Monday, or Tuesday…”

“It’s Wednesday.”

I’d grab the back of his thin cotton jocks and slide the slightly stretchy cotton over the curved mound of his big beefy arse. Nice, round full cheeks. A stripe of black hair gathering at the very top of his muscular thighs before it narrows into a black strip sliding up through the crack in his arse just making it to the start of the concave curve of his torso where it disperses into very fine hair on the tops of each cheek before it fades away all together.

“I meant…”

I’d lie my hand across his firm round mounds, definite feeling where each falls away in the middle.

“I’m sure I said…”

“Monday, or Tuesday.”

I’d pick my hand up and then I’d bring it down fairly gently the first time with a very faint thwack of skin hitting skin.

“Oh… but I’ve been a good boy…”

I’d pick my hand up… “I promise…” and then bring it down firmer. “Thwack.”

“Oh.” Josh would say with a thick tone. “But I have…”

I’d bring my hand down firmer.

“Oh!” Josh would almost moan, but not quite. “But…”

I’d bring my hand down harder again. There would be a definite crack of skin hitting skin.

“Oh!” Josh would exhale with a rush of air. “Ohhhh.” His voice thick by now.

Then I would slap his arse harder again.

“Oh, Jesus!” Josh would squirm just a little. “Please.” 

I’d smack him harder.

“Oooooohhh!” Josh would squirm some more. “Oh… yes.”

I’d feel him starting to go hard on my thigh. I’d bring my hand down hard. “Thwack!”

“Oh, fuck me Jesus.”

I’d hold my hand on his arse, rubbing my palm around on his cheeks, letting my fingers slide into his arse crack. He’d squirm around under the pressure of my hand. He’d be thick and hard on my thigh. He’d rub his hardon into my leg as he writhed about.

“Oh please, I HAVE been a very naughty boy…”

Working From Home Is Sweet

I didn't go into the office. I messaged Boris early that I was working from home. They want me to go to the office every Monday, and so far I have gone in every second Monday.

Fuck them, life is too short and we've discovered a new way to work.

Boris just messages me back, Okay. She doesn't say anything other than that.

I want to work permanently from home. I was thinking I need to say this to my (big, one more up the chain of command,) boss last Monday when I was in the office, but he came over and talked to me about my pay rise and bonus, and it took whatever little wind I had in my sails about it right out.

I'm piss weak when it comes to this kind of thing, more is the pity. I think it is long held conditioning that the bosses have all the power and we, the workers, do not.

I need to go and do assertiveness classes. But, I'm a writer, not a fighter.

Grr!

Oh, I'm supposed to go into the office tomorrow.

Kill me now.

Mondays are always a disappointment after the weekend, if I have to go into the office. 

Mondays are infinitely better if I can just stumble downstairs and switch on my laptop. Rub my eyes and switch on the coffee machine.

Why would anyone want to commute to the office after working from home? Why? I ask you?

I guess it is probably hard for some after all those years of work being at a work place.

Some people need the company of their work colleagues, which always makes me laugh. I like my work colleagues, well enough, but I don't like them enough to battle peak hour commuting for them.

It's A Forever Thing

We kind of looked for bulldog puppies today. Sam just started looking. Neither of us need all that much encouragement. 

You know, I miss having two bulldogs.

I miss them walking single file out the back for a wee together after their breakfast.

I miss them both trying to get into the car at the same time.

I miss them trying to drink out of the water bowl at the same time.

I miss them standing at the front gate side by side as if they are commenting on the neighbourhood.

I miss them both standing at the kitchen door waiting for food.

I miss them cuddled up somewhere side by side. Asleep somewhere touching, so often with a body part touching the other one.

I miss them sitting on the couch together viewing the world.

I miss them sitting together in one of their beds at night.

We even contacted a breeder making enquiries. She didn't have any, but she put us onto someone who does.

Then we think about it. Sam promised his parents he'd take them to Tokyo.

"We can't go away anywhere with a puppy," says Sam

"But," I say. "Am I coming on that trip?"

"Yes, I hope so," Sam says.

"Wouldn't it be nice for you to spend time with you parents, just the 3 of you?"

"Don't you want to come?"

"It's not that I don't want to come," I say.

"That's what it sounds like," says Sam.

"You know, it’s just the language thing," I say. (Sam's parents don't speak English) "Otherwise..."

"Stuff the language thing," says Sam. "They will go and do their thing, and then you and I can do our thing."

"But, if I stay home I could look after the puppy."

Sam didn't seem nearly as keen on the puppy after that. 

Oh, that’s not true, he’s still keen, but it’s a big deal getting a new puppy, not something to be done lightly, or on a whim. 

It is forever after all, no excuses, and anything forever needs to be thought about seriously.

But, I reckon I can hear the pitter pat of little paws not that far off in the future. The idea keeps buzzing around in our brains.

I love the colour of these red geraniums, talk about fire engine red.

It is dazzling.

Something Crossed Off The 5 year List

I finally got someone to come and look at my leaking roof. It has only been leaking for, well, for years now. I haven’t known who to get to fix it. I mean, how do you know what tradie you can trust? I’d continually asked friends for a recommendation, but nothing. I googled it, but couldn’t find any recommendations. 

So, recently, I did it the logical way.

A few days ago, when we were walking Bruno, I saw two guys on top of a house in Carlton clearly fixing the tin roof. After some hesitation, and with Sam and Bruno walking on ahead while I stressed, I crossed the road and called up to them with the obvious question. “Hey, do you guys fix roofs.”

One of the guys, who was the boss guy, as it turned out, said they did. He said, “Take the number off my ute, message me, and I’ll organise to come over and look at your job, probably tomorrow.”

I stressed about sending that message all night, how can I trust this guy? I stressed and stressed until I thought to myself, it is better than continually doing nothing. So, I hit send on the message I’d written but not sent.

He messaged me early the next day to say he’d be there around midday. And in true tradie fashion, he didn’t turn up. I wondered if I should message him all afternoon, but thought if he couldn’t be bothered turning up, I didn’t need him either.

He called last thing in the day, apologised for not turning up, something about a mad day and emergencies having come up, so we organised for first thing the following day.

8.11am. Josh, the plumber calls to say he’ll be here withing the hour.

Bruno and I go for a walk down [our] Street. It is a lovely morning. It's Bruno's morning constitutional after breakfast. What the fuck, it’s not promised the plumber guy was going to turn up. We are back by 9am. 

Josh came right on 9.11am, right within the hour, as promised. 

He tried to see how he’d get up to the 2nd story roof. It’s not easy. He tried from several of my neighbours. (You know, terrace houses are joined)

He got his ladder and went up to the kitchen roof from the lane side of the hosue. He stood at the top of the ladder and surveyed the roofs. I could see up his shorts, to the hint of a bulge in his undies. Josh wasn’t a bad sort.

The problem is getting up onto that second story roof. Maybe, we’d have to hire a scissor lift.

The flashing was the problem, on either side of the roof. So, 2 lots of flashing and the hire of a scissor lift for them to get up there, plus GST took it to a figure that was more than I had anticipated it costing. Don’t ask me how much I thought it was going to cost?

“Okay, let me think about that.”

Josh stands next to me in the lounge showing me photos of the roof explaining the job. I sneak sideways looks at him, as he looks at his phone, his thick short hair, his handsome face, his chest though his open shirt, as he did the calculations. He is a cute guy.

Then Josh called his boss and they decided to buy the 3 story ladder they had always needed, so that got rid of the need for the scissor lift. Then his boss recalculated the cost of the flashing down and the quote dropped by around $1000, so, fuck it, I accepted.

Josh said it was a good deal. He said he didn’t think I would get it done cheaper by anyone, but then it is his quote.

I want it done. It has needed to be done for quite a number of years. I know I probably should have got a second quote, but I didn’t, I just went for it. Oh, it is time to stop pissing around about it and just get it done.

Josh said they’d check over the front roof and seal any part of it that needed sealing.

I notice Josh has a big, beefy butt as he walks to the front door as he is leaving. “So, we’ll get it done early next week,” he says.

Yay. Something crossed off the 5 year list.

Midday it is hot. It is going to be 35 degrees today.

OsmosisSmith

In the office yesterday, OsmosisSmith, my dedicated IT guy, is walking out of the kitchen and walks away from me down the hallway, as I approach the kitchen. He looks back over his shoulder and says hello, and asks me how I am and then smiles, all looking over his left shoulder. It is a sexy pose, with his gorgeous big arse in his snug grey trousers. All he needed to do was pout his lips.

Moments later he comes back into the kitchen, opening the door and bending down to put something in the door shelf, as if to give me another look. 

"Nice to see you in the flesh," he says.

“Yes, you too,” I say. I’m sure he is not thinking what I am thinking.

He is none the wiser, as I get a closer look at his snug trousers hugging his well defined arse cheeks and the indentation up the middle. I imagine it in the flesh, and momentarily consider heading to the toilet to think about it more carefully as my lunch heats in the microwave. Ha ha, not really, but I do gaze after him as he heads back to his office.

Licking that, I think, would give me my umami taste hit for the day. I chuckle to myself.

After Street Party

We walked up and down. The streets were not so packed at the beginning, but soon got pretty packed by the time we left by mid afternoon. 

We saw a few friends, but generally not so many of our friends seemed to be there. I like walking up and down and watching the parade of people more than Sam does, he’s more practical in that sense and just wandering up and down aimlessly without a goal, as such, isn’t really his thing, but I kept him at it as long as I could. He’s funny, he’s lovely. And I just like hanging out with him, which is just as well, hey 😬

Bruno only seemed to want to say hello to all the bulldogs, all French Bulldogs. He got over it in bulldog fashion and just started lying down in the shade when he’d had enough. We dragged him a long a bit further until we packed it in.

I didn’t see a lot of the Melbourne legendary fashion sense, quite the opposite really. Do you think that is because we are all inclusive now and a lot of straight people attend watering down the style of the whole thing?

I saw more cartoonish outfits than stylish ones.

The weather was nice, even if it did rain early on.

I bough a $7 box of hot chips that really was minuscule for $7 but what do I know, I so rarely buy hot chips. The chips were good, what there was of them.

Street Party

Off to the gay street party, it is literally in the next street. Bruno is in his outfit ready to go. Oh, just his black harness and lead, but that's pretty gay, hey? 

He's not in some fancy costume, apart from the fact he hates such things, I think people who dress their dogs up really should get therapy.

Anyway, time to go...

Woke

You do realise that ‘woke’ is just conservative commentator’s talking point, progressive people really have little understanding as to what it is.

The conservative commentators had to give the ‘thing’ they are railing against a name, so when they are frothing on about all the things they are against, which is essentially any change in society, it is so much easier if they can call it something.

They can’t keep saying, ‘the thing we’re against”, as it just makes it too hard, as conservatives are essentially against everything that is new, unless, of course, it is going to make them money, and then they are all for it, it doesn’t matter what.

For the longest time, I had trouble identifying what conservatives are for, then I realised, anything that was around in their parent’s, or grandparent’s day, they are for, anything that deviates from that they are against, unless, of course, as I have already mention, it is going to make them money, then any moral outrage is instantly dropped.

And ‘woke’ is genius, as it essentially means nothing, and it gives the conservatives every one of their petty wants, and long held bigotries, a name that is short and easily said. It gives all of their prejudices a nice name to go by. They are not against policies that curtail racism, they are not against policies that curtail sexism, they are not against policies that curtail homophobia, they are not against policies against anti-transism – oh, no, they still feel safe enough to be against that one – they are simply against all this ‘woke’ nonsense, they just can’t abide that.

A.I.

I don't know why the world is developing all of this AI?

Why aren't we putting all that development into making humans better?

Imagine if all that money was put towards solving world poverty?

Or climate change? 

I guess AI could help solve climate change, although we know how to solve climate change, it's just that the human race isn't listening.

Won't it be a sad irony if just as AI reaches its full potential, Earth's climate kills us all.

Are we developing a species in AI that will take over when we are poisoned by the atmosphere we have created?

Eventually, Earth will be populated by machines all clacking away.

First Day Of My Weekend

I bought a Suzannah Espie CD in the Salvos for $1, (I'd been to get a quote on my car because of the girl who backed into the front of it, and the salvos was near by) which is stupid really as I have apple music, but for $1, I thought why not

Then I went shopping listening to it on my headphones. Lovely. She's good.

Message From Shane

Shane wrote… (He is still in London and has been relatively quiet of late)

Film 80 for Brady

I don’t care what the fuckers say.  I am looking forward to seeing it.  Funny that when I need to comment on a movie about old hoofers I message you and Jules! Haha love you.  Cxx

Christian wrote…

(After getting over my surprise at the actual message) Jane Fonda really needs to quit the plastic surgery, other than that, they are four grand old dames and I’d give it a watch.

Even if it does really look terrible.

Rita Moreno, Sally Field, Lilly Tomlin and Jane Fonda, there is some talent amongst that lot, for sure.

Jane Fonda just looks bizarre, she looks like she has lost her grip on reality.

America really does make some shit.

And, it is about... foot... ball. Seriously?

Inequality

If the world is becoming less and less fair, and inequality is becoming greater and greater, and fewer people are enjoying the wealth of the planet, who are we, actually, trying to save the planet from climate change for? The few wealthy people who get to enjoy it?

You have to wonder?

Walking Along The River

7.15am. Bruno and I head downstairs. I hadn’t cleaned the kitchen last night, bad me, I always try to do it, if Sam can cook, I can clean, I feel as though it is a failure if I don’t do it.

7.23am. I have finished cleaning the kitchen. I sit on the couch, Bruno joins me.

9am. Sam got up.

I make coffee and Vegemite toast.

I watch a South African car YouTuber who specialises in Alfas and who has a collection of Alfas. He has his own workshop, he’s handsome, which doesn’t hurt, from all accounts is successful. He has a great name. I wonder what I have done with my life?

I make more coffee.

I’m so disappointed with my lack of achievement in my life, I shut off the screen, I get up and organise my plants. Then I make a banana cake.

I follow this with vacuuming the house, but then it is Sunday and our usual house cleaning morning.

I’m finished at 10.20am

11am. I have a shower.

11.20am. We take Bruno to the Yarra for a walk. Then we’ll do some shopping.

11.25am. I drop Sam and Bruno off at the bridge when there are no car spots in the dead end street next to the big Salvos building, the preferred place to park, just by the bridge that crosses the river. I wait a few minutes and a Mazda 4WD comes and goes, an Audi 4WD comes and goes, and an Alfa 4WD comes, just as an Audi 4WD is getting ready to back out of one of the car spots, so I turn my car around before the Alfa 4WD turns around and comes back and attempts some funny business, and just like that, I’m parked.

I head across the bridge. Some woman had just asked Sam to hold onto Bruno because her Jack Russell was scared because it had been attacked before...in an off-lead dog park? Sam is much nicer about such things than me, he’d just do it with a smile, where I’d have to make a comment. I’d hang onto Bruno, but I’d have to say something. “You do know this is an off-lead dog area, don’t you?”

11.35am. We walking along the Yarra. It is overcast but still quite warm. It seems like the path has got narrower, or have the weeds got longer. I think the weeds have got longer.

We meet two German Short-Haired Pointers at the turn around spot, where the path narrows and heads up the cliff of an embankment where my problem with heights becomes a problem. The short-haired pointers are on leads but that doesn’t stop them wanting to play with Bruno, or Bruno with them.

We head to The Hive. All the streets are blocked off. We head around to the next street, Charles Street, where there is a steady stream of cars looking for car parks. A Land Cruiser turns into Charles Street in front of us and gets the one vacant carpark we would have got.

Sam leaves us while Bruno and I find a car park.

12.10pm. Bruno and I find a car spot and park the car. Sam has already messaged from the shops. The Nasi Lemak shop isn't open.

Victoria Street is blocked off all the way along. Is it the Chinese New Year festival? It’s pretty quiet, well, there are plenty of people, but it is not packed like other years.

I like walking down the middle of Victoria Street when it is in carnival mode. So many people’s faces light up, and so many people make comments, when they see Bruno. So many people say, What a beautiful dog.

I’m so henpecked I ask Sam for permission to buy hot chips for $8 at the first stall I come to. I’m not even really hungry, just as well as Sam says no.

There are plenty of blue staffys walking up and down.

Bruno has just finished saying hello to a geriatric pug when he gets bitten by a sausage dog. The female owner apologises, you know, which is nice, but seriously do you expect me to believe that Bruno is the first dog you dog has bitten? How about this, you do whatever it takes to stop your dog biting other dogs.

Bruno makes a bee-line for one of the carnival guys who is throwing tennis balls. “Oh, sorry, he is tennis ball mad,” I say.

 “Will he not give up until I give him a ball?” he says. His rather handsome face breaks into a smile.

“Um… er,” I stumble. I could take him away, I think. What?

He smiles and gives Bruno a tennis ball 🎾 

I thank him. 

Once Bruno has a tennis ball, he has no interest in other dogs.

There is a group of young teenagers on stage murdering Bowie’s Starman, but good on them for getting up on stage and giving it a go. They say their next song is Creep, as I walk away. Then, not for the first time today I wonder what I have done with my life? Why wasn’t I in a teenage band?

I meet up with Sam, who is perusing a big stall of food. We buy really expensive take away Asian food for $32. Sam tells me to pay.

We head over to The Hive to shop for food. Bruno and I wait out the front while Sam shops. Bruno is completely preoccupied with the tennis ball. Many people walking into the shopping complex comment on how cute Bruno is, lying out on the tilted floor with the tennis ball between his paws.

We’re home by 1.15pm.

We eat the take away food first, something like crunchy roast potatoes and something like gnocchi, and then the Vietnamese savoury crepes (banh xeo).

Then we eat broken rice, which is what we really bought for lunch.

I still haven't sprayed my maidenhair ferns with white oil. I must do that.

I catch up my blog in the afternoon. I re-write all of February.

Classic Peugeot time, 5.04pm Sam feeds Bruno.

All The Wrong Choices?

Is it just me who looks back on his life and thinks he screwed it up, always making all the wrong decisions? You know, almost to the point of thinking I have wasted my whole life?

Or is that a fairly universal reaction when people look back?

I make a decision about this blog. I write a daily journal and I write this blog. They have never been the same thing. Well, it's time to rationalise and instead of writing them separately, I am no longer going to try and write a separate blog, my daily journal is going to become my blog.

Not really sure why it was separate in the first place. I think it was some kind of sense of privacy. You know, the private me and the public me. It still kind of feels like I am giving too much away, but now I want to get back to writing fiction too, something I have neglected for too long.

Yay! The Bakery Is Open Again

7am. I was up. It was raining.

I ran across to the bakery, early, in the not inconsequential rain, it is a skill in crocs. Bloody rain. I’m sick of the rain already. What’s it been? 2 days. This is the first week the bakery has been open since its Xmas/New Year shut down.

8am. Charlie was up, made breakfast and went to work. He’s doing a double shift, what is that, leaving the house at 9am getting home at midnight. The things you can do when you are 19.

8.30am. Sam gets up.

I made coffee.

9am. I made toast and more coffee. One of the problems we have is that I eat breakfast and on my own I would only eat a small lunch, where Sam doesn’t eat breakfast and always wants to eat a big lunch. It's kind of why I end up eating more.

Then it was screens all morning, me on my laptop, Sam on his iPad. JunkYardDigs and the one about Reviving Nolan's 1952 Imperial – On Road After 40 YEARS! Nolan is kind of cute, ugly, cute, glasses and a great smile.

And the morning slipped away. I remember wondering if we were being too boring for our own good? Or are we chilled out in such a way that we simply enjoy our own company? Which we do.

12.30pm. We ate oyakodon for lunch.

I watch the 1954 plan for Melbourne. You know the one when the boffins set in motion the destruction of Melbourne. This is the plan from which the commission towers come. It was great footage of Melbourne for 1952, but too quick to recognise the parts of the CBD that don’t exist any longer, which is really what I want to see, the streetscapes that have been demolished.

2pm. I have a shower.

2.35pm. We walk Bruno to Bunnings. I want White Oil and terracotta sealer, the pump pack type, not the aerosol. The pump pack type goes twice as far and cover twice as many pots, but it has been out of stock for months. Sam wants an outdoor power board.

It’s warm as we step out on to [our] Street and I take my hoodie off and take it back inside. Then, as soon as we get walking down Gertrude Street the wind picks up and it is cool enough for a hoodie all over again, but I presume, through walking, we will warm up, be warm, you know what I mean.

Langridge Street > Cromwell Street > Victoria Parade.

2.55pm. Sam, Bruno and I are at Bunnings. Sam heads upstairs to look for his power board. Bruno is scared of the escalator, so he and I go look for white oil, for the mealy bugs on my maidenhair ferns and terracotta pot sealer. People gaze at him and smile all the way. I get the white oil pretty quickly, but they still only have the aerosol terracotta sealer. The pump pack was still out of stock. Grr!

I line up to pay for our goods, but it is only the self service machines and therefore card payment that is on offer. I want to pay cash. When I see a Bunnings worker walk to the ‘cash’ cash register, I start walking towards him, but he keeps walking, so I back track back to where I was in the line. There is this old guy who was standing behind me who moved forward when I vacated my spot for, oh I don’t know, 10 seconds and was now, clearly, not going to relinquish his newly gained position in the queue for me. He has balding red hair, an overbite, a weak chin, and a jumper which looked like his long suffering wife of 50 years may have knitted for him in the last century. So, I stand next to him. And as soon as we get to the front of the line, when one of the machines becomes vacant, he makes a point of pushing past me to use it before me. Small, little minds, I think. I looked on the bright side, he’d be dead soon

We walk back up Victoria Parade. It’s a nice walk, passed the Porsche dealership.  “We should do some shopping in Coles,” Sam says. I was hoping he'd say the Porsche show room. We turn down Smith Street.

3.30pm. Bruno and I are waiting out the front of Coles on Smith Street while Sam shops.

The posh-talking, who I always think is talking elegantly pissed, woman, of less than posh means, shall we say, who always wants to talk endlessly about Bruno, comes out the door with her trolley and starts saying, with a dramatic flair, “Oh… how… beautiful… is… he…” She clearly wants to engage, but I am writing ‘this’ so it is easy to ignore her today. Usually I talk to her, despite her going on, and on, but today I just wasn’t in the mood. She hangs around the have-you-got-any-change chick, the one who sits on her own stool which she provides for herself.

Bruno, of course, continually lies right in the door way of Coles, as he likes doing that. I don’t know if it is the aircon, or the view, or just habit. But generally, people are charmed by it.

3.42pm. Sam reappears. The posh-talking chick is still yapping on to the have-you-got-any-change chick.

We head across Smith Street. We head home with Sam leading the way.

3.48pm. We’re home again.

I called the chick who backed into the front of my car, the one the police have chased up for two weeks, but she didn’t answer. I left a message.

We ate chicken schnitzel and salad for dinner. It was really nice.

We watched Big Red Dog. It is one of the stupidest movies I have ever seen, but despite this when David makes his daily call during the climax, I have to get rid of him. Jack Whitehall’s American accent is abysmal. 

We watched OddBall. The film set in Warrnambool where the Maremma Sheepdogs guards a colony of penguins and saves the penguin colony.

11.15pm. We went to bed.

I watched The Craig and his Lexus. He cleaned the inside of it and it was unbelievable how dirty it was.

12.20am. Lights out. Sam ordered me to stop watching TheCraig and turn out the light and go to sleep. Charlie came home at that moment from his double shift at [name of restaurant in which Charlie works]. Thats a long day, I think.

Lying Around

I rediscover the joy of the band Racing Cars, a band I loved as a teenager. I buy their 30th Anniversary live album on eBay.

I'm sad that the lead singer Morty died of cancer a few years ago.

Otherwise, I lay around saving old photographs from favourite photographers of the 20th Century.

I like modern art, so, of course, I like modern photography. I could have been a photographer, it was just laziness that got in the way.

Lots Of Rain

7am. Bruno and I head downstairs.

Sam, the handsome policeman, has sent me the details of the person who backed into my car. I must call her up. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, blah, blah, blah.”

Excuse me if I’m not all that forgiving. I have to go and get 2 quotes and then I have to take my car to be repaired and be without out it while that happens. 

Be more careful in future.

7.45am. Sam was up.

I read the news. 

Victorian Powerball winner $40 million richer. I read all about her reaction, and think she is sowing the seeds to the destruction of her life and she has no idea she is doing it.

An Echuca woman confessed her whole body went numb at the revelation she’d become $40 million richer after winning division one in last night’s Powerball draw.

The victorious Victorian winner held the only division one winning entry nationally in Powerball draw 1394 on Thursday, 2 February, and took home the entire $40 million jackpot.

The $40 million win is also the largest division one prize won across any Australian lotteries game in 2023.

When confirming her incredible win with an official from The Lott, the winning player confessed she was completely shocked by her new multi-millionaire status.

“Oh my god! Oh my god! I can’t believe it. I thought it was a scam!” she exclaimed.

“This just doesn’t feel real. How do I know if this is real?!

“I’m so nervous, I feel really bizarre. My whole body has gone numb!

“My husband and I couldn’t sleep at all last night. We were pacing back and forth.

“I’m at work right now, and that’s why it took a little longer for me to answer my phone.

“This is really going to take some time to sink in. It won’t feel real until the money is in my bank account.

“My husband and I have these goals in place and were wondering how we were going to achieve them, but now we don’t have to worry anymore!

“I can’t believe this is happening!”

The Victorian might be spending her last days at work after announcing the windfall will allow her to quit her job and spend more time with her family.

“My god, I can quit my job!” she joyfully yelled.

“I can take some time off to spend with my family.

“We will be able to pay off the mortgage completely and set ourselves up for the future.

“We want this win to go a long way. We want to leave a legacy for our family for years to come!

“This means everything to me. Thank you so much.”

The winning PowerHit entry was purchased online at thelott.com - the official home of Australia’s lotteries.

The winning numbers in Powerball draw 1394 on Thursday, 2 February 2023 were 7, 35, 31, 2, 24, 21 and 15. The all-important Powerball number was 18.

All I could think was, stop talking, luv. The only way you are going to survive this win is to keep it to yourself. Don’t tell anyone.

And, I’d be good with it, I’d have the ability to tell no one. I would. I have an amazing ability to keep my mouth shut, when I need to.

February 3, 1959, the plane crashed shortly after takeoff, killing 22-year-old Holly, the Big Bopper, Richie Valens and the pilot Roger Peterson.

Porn actor John Holmes was ordered to stand trial for the so-called Wonderland murders on February 3, 1982. He was later acquitted.

Is Putin’s grip on Russia starting to slip? Some US experts thinks so.

That right wing Canadian deluded, Jesus lover, Jordan Peterson, is spreading climate denying propaganda.

How London got its first LGBTQ+ retirement community.

8am. I made coffee and porridge with fresh peaches. Sam bought, hard peaches not long ago, that have ripened into the most gorgeous fruit.

8.15am. Charlie was up. He made himself breakfast. Bacon and cheese covered rolls. He turned down the offer of leftover risotto for lunch. “I don’t think he likes risotto,” said Sam.

“Oh well, all the more for us.”

“I think he thinks it is too much like porridge.”

8.30am. I made more coffee.

Bruno was fed. He went out for a wee.

I fed the gold fish in the pond.

10am. It rained. Bruno stayed cuddled up next to me on the couch.

10.15am. I wasn’t going to waste the day, but I started to collected more Peter Hujar, Jim French and Christopher Marcos images. And once I start, I find it is really addictive. And suddenly the morning just drifts away. I really love brutal modern images of life all around us.

The sun tried to shine again. It came out, but it disappeared and it rained again really quickly. That was the morning on repeat.

Then it was11.11am, my hour of the day. And the sun came out brightly. And the morning had nearly disappeared. I got up. Shook my head. I should do something, I really should. I ran outside to gage what I should put on? Shorts. I charged upstairs and changed to take Bruno for a walk. I came back downstairs, I grabbed my shoes and socks, sliding them on quickly.  I got my head phones and my phone. I grabbed Bruno’s lead and harness and… and… and... I looked to see the rain started to fall again on the glass roof. 

I stopped in my tracks. “Damn,” I said out loud.

“Oh?”

Defeated.

I got back on the couch, threw the blanket over my bare legs, and Bruno lay down again on the part of the woollen blanket draped over my feet and the floor.

Sam was in a meeting and didn’t want to be disturbed.

I continued collecting George Platt Lynes and Leon Levinstein photos and Frederick Mershimer art works. Images I like, which I mostly use as wallpaper on my laptop.

All morning I have sat on my arse collecting antique photos. Yes, indeed, a productive use of my morning.

It really poured with rain a couple of times, really heavily.

12.20pm. We walk Bruno to the ramen shop for lunch. The rain had stopped, the sun had come out. I anticipated that the rain might stop long enough for us to eat lunch. Sam wanted to leave Bruno at home. I always want to take him to lunch.

Smith Street is wet, the rain falls softly.

12.43pm. We’re at the ramen shop sitting outside in the cold with Bruno, hoping it’s not going to rain too heavily in the foreseeable future.

The rain has now stopped. Lovely.

A black lab comes along sniffing Bruno’s arse in a stealth act before Bruno sees the Lab. Bruno jumps around.

12.47pm. The rain starts falling again. It’s really now too wet to sit outside as the rain splashes in on us under the awning.

12.50pm. The rain stops again.

1.05pm. We’ve finished lunch.

Sam walks ahead.

1.11pm. Bruno and I are waiting out the front of Woolies while Sam shops.

The black Lab comes out of Woolies and again stealthily sniffs Bruno’s arse again. Bruno jumps to his feet, but the Lab is gone.

Two super cute, blemish free, baby tradies, in shorts, and smooth, tanned legs, come out of Woolies. They’d cum as soon as you touched them, I think. They stand and chat with their smiley faces. I bet they’d both jerked off already today, I think.

A bleach blonde middle aged woman in a red puffer jacket, or was it leather, with a fake tan complexion who looked like she had smoked too many cigarettes in her day, stops and says how beautiful Bruno is. She must be a bit deaf, as she asks me Bruno’s name straight after I have told her. Then she asks me what kind of dog he is, again, directly after I have told her. It is a very odd kind of reverse echo.

A chick stands next to me and yaps into her phone and I am tempted to point out she is speaking on a mobile phone and that she could continue her conversation anywhere but next to me, but she finishes her conversation and heads into Woolies as I am contemplating what I might say to her.

Sam reappears at 1.18pm.

A German Short-haired Pointer and Bruno sniff arses outside Massina. Both us owners fain embarrassment as the dogs sniff each other’s dicks.

The fliers are starting to reappear taped to the power poles, I pull them all down again. Oh yes, mean old me. But I hate all those tatty flyers hanging off power poles en mass. On my kinder days, I look to see if we’d past the advertised date, just to be nice, you understand, but today I just pull them all down, fuck the dates. They are visual pollution, wrapped around ever pole in sight if I just leave them up, especially since the people who put them up, are never as diligent pulling them down as they are papering the poles in the suburb.

We’re home at 1.40pm.

The rain came down heavily. Then stopped again.

2.10pm. The sun shines brightly.

There are so many things I should be doing. House insurance. Call the chick who baked into my car. Quotes to get it fixed. Roof guy. Heating guy.

I think about all those things I should be doing for a minute, or two, and then, honestly, I get distracted again. Oh, fuck it, its nearly the weekend, nothing is going to get done now.

I was going to write stuff today, poetry, I was going to work on my poems, and I wasn’t going to save any more antique B&W images, but I saved the images and wrote nothing.

We ate leftover risotto.

We watched some kind of stupid American animated piece of shit called. Sing 2. Oh dear. It had good songs in it. It clearly had Bono on board to write music for it. But it was formulaic shit, really.

11.11pm. We go to bed.

I watched WatchJRGo and his S type Jag.

I watched Coldwarmotors and his 37 Chevy.

Lights out at 12.10am.

Energy Prices

We shouldn't forget, the current gas crisis, in fact the whole energy price problem, is a result of privatisation. There was a reason why essential services were owned and run by the government.

What was it again that, mostly conservative, governments said when they privatised the energy industry. Private enterprise can deliver cheaper prices because of increased competition. 

And now we are all enjoying the cheaper energy prices of privatisation.

Pissing My Life Away

I dreamt that Scott Morrison was my boss. He kept ringing me but wouldn’t speak when I answered the phone. Just silence. Welcome to my nightmare. Was that the dream before my 3am piss, or after it? I can’t remember. I’ve been having full on dreams lately, more fullon than normal. I always try to remember them when I wake up, but it is like trying to catch water in your hands.

8am. Bruno and I head downstairs. Moments later Sam joins us.

8.30am. I make coffee. Sam feeds Bruno.

9am. I make apple and cinnamon hot cross buns, thanks to David, and more coffee.

9.30am. I message Mark.

I had a chest xray last week because I keep getting pains in my chest, but it is nothing new, as I have had 2 gastroscopies in the last few years and this is just to rule out anything else. And since the doctor hasn’t rung this week, I think I can assume there is nothing wrong. It’s just middle aged man sore chest syndrome, apparently. Did you know there was such a thing? Probably what you had? David has just been staying in his all consuming jabba the hut kind of way. She left yesterday. My next door neighbours have a new puppy and they have gone and left it in its incessant I-don’t-like-this all day barking. And my maidenhair ferns have sooty mould. How are you?

Mark said…

Haha...nicely encapsulated...

I was only thinking about you an hour ago when I was out potting up some more lettuce and using Eskimo's (Eskimo is their Mastiff dog) fur as possum deterring mulch, and wondering how you are, so spooky.

I have my good days and bad days, depending how hard I work, still getting intermittent nerve pains in different parts of my torso, my right arm went numb and tingly for 5 minutes yesterday and that's always a bit disconcerting, but I did spend 3 hours shovelling mulch yesterday at Jane’s place, so a pinched nerve is probably the culprit, I think once you’ve had a major operation when something goes wrong with your body, it’s hard not to worry that something else is going on, but I press on regardless, pushing myself to the limits of my endurance, just to prove to myself that I'm still functioning as a 35 year old, if that takes me out, so be it...

We’re having a normal summer now, sunny days with high humidity and afternoon storms, quite pleasant really, and the garden and lawns are looking quite spectacular, so that's pleasing, especially when I can escape into the air-conditioned house for a break, knowing our solar panels are providing free electricity, so life is ticking along quite nicely.

Looking forward to returning to Hanoi home in March, will be so lovely to be back with the extended family, I’ve really missed the life that we have there.

I said…

I wish you didn’t live so far away

I’d pop over for a visit

Mark said…

Yes, that would be lovely, but there is always da plane da plane....

I said…

Mr. Roarke

The sad queen’s new dog, my neighbours 3 doors down, whined and yapped and complained all morning. Bruno kept stepping out onto the back veranda and looking in the whining direction with a head tilt, or two. That was until about 11am when it stopped. It was as though someone came home around that time. Maybe they did? Do I say something to them, I wonder? Well, they won’t know the dog’s an auditory menace if nobody tells them, I think. But I risk sounding like the complaining neighbour if I do. Nyr! What can you do?

11.30am. I stopped soaking my finger in warm salt water and put betadine on it. Eventually it gets really tiring doing everything one handed, infection, or not.

I started saving Will McBride images. They are just for me to have and enjoy. I’m never going to reproduce them anywhere, so I don’t give a toss about copywrite.

Sam went to the supermarket, he was back at midday with lunch stuff. I am spoilt getting my lunch cooked for me every day. Why would I want to go back to the office?

I pissed my day off away again. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t do that, but the only thing promises are good for is breaking. I so told myself I would be productive and that I would get all those things I had to do, done. Re negotiate the house insurance, but I still have until 7th. Find a roof plumber, oh, who can you trust? Get a quote to repair the car, oh, bored already. Repaint the toilet where that water damage occurred. Get the glass roof panel replaced. Learn a language. Ha ha. Sweep up the back courtyard, now, that at least is slightly therapeutic, put on your headphones with some music.

I was going to write one short story a month, that was my new year’s ish , kind of, if I made new year’s resolutions, resolution, that seemed immanently doable, but no, I haven’t done that. I haven’t written any fiction recently. Just Youtube.

I’ve been collecting old B&W photos of my favourite photographers of the 20th Century. That’s all I have been doing. Grrr. Still, they are nice too.

3.45pm. I go have a shower. It has been a couple of days. The joys of working from home, hey? Track suit pants and greasy hair until I can’t stand myself any longer.

It started to rain. It rained a lot. Summer has slipped away again and we are back to wet weather. I was going to take Bruno for a walk, but it rained.

We ate risotto for dinner. I started it, but Sam finished it. I made some excuse about my infected finger being too sore for all that stirring, which Sam bought. He seemed to have it made quicker than it ever takes me anyway.

It continued to rain.

We watched TaskMasters. Nyr? Ah? Really? Just another vehicle for our so called television celebrities. Yawn. Just another type of reality TV show.

8ish. Sam took Bruno for a walk. Taskmasters whitters on as I collect more antique B&W photographs.

Sam watched Philomena Cunk. I’m not really so keen on her, sometimes she makes me laugh, sometimes she doesn’t so I put in my headphones and watch YouTube. I watched WatchJRGo and his S type Jaguar.

I bought a Racing Cars CD 30th anniversary. I listen to it on YouTube, as I watch some time elapse weight loss journeys of some young guys.

10.45pm. We went to bed.

It was cold like winter suddenly in Melbourne.

Lights out at 11.11pm.