I Dreamed I Was Working On The Farm

I dreamed I was working on a farm or, at least, I was doing deliveries to farms. I was driving the old yellow Toyota HiLux ute - our old ute from Bolago long since departed this earth.

I drove out to a farm to deliver something. I drove past the man digging right next to the road, who was building a mud brick extension on his house. I drove through the most magical grotto – except grottos are all about water – or was it a labyrinth? It was the most gorgeous area where the road swept around in an arc as it went through.

I got to the place where I had to make a delivery. It was isolated and I was on my own, and I felt the chill of being isolated and alone.

Then some how it was apparent that the next place I had to go had move addresses and I wasn’t sure if I was familiar enough with the back roads to know how to get to the new address.

Then I looked around and sitting on a tree stump in a group of tree stumps was Clarke Gable, or Errol Flynn, a matinee idol type in a white double breasted suit with large shoulder pads, smoking a cigarette, the smoke from which was floating up in the air in curls. 

I had a dog, not Bruno, not a bulldog, but, I think, a brown Kelpie, and the mysterious stranger, who said nothing, he just smoked his cigarette, had a dog too, a black dog, that was not friendly to my dog when my dog approached, and it bared its teeth. I called my dog away.

The next thing I was setting off to the man who’d changed addresses. As I drove out the drive way, I reached for the gear stick of the old yellow HiLux ute and it had fallen off onto the floor in the passenger footwell. The engine revved loudly in, presumably, first gear, so I grabbed the gear stick back up and pushed it into the hole in the floor of the ute where it should have been and I managed to change gears.

Then I was out on the highway still wondering how I was going to find the way to this new address, when there was a huge herd of animals being herded along the highway and I had to negotiate the herd changing gears with my dodgy gear stick. The sun was bright in the sky, and it was shining in my eyes and the sky was gorgeous colours, the dust from the herd was dancing in the bright rays of the sun, as the cowboys in chaps and Stetsons herding them pushed them off the highway so I could get past.

I got past the herd of animals being herded. I drove through the grotto, or the labyrinth, back the other way. I drove back past the man digging right by the side of the road who was building a mud brick extension on his house. I got to an intersection where I had to make a decision about which way to turn to meet the guy who had changed addresses.

I woke up, and the country road was still in my vision, momentarily, but it faded away quickly. I looked at the clock, it was 8.45am. I'd slept in, well, not in, but I had slept late.

I Dreamed I Shit Myself In A Club

2.55am I woke suddenly after dreaming. It was dark, Sam was snoring. I got up for a wee.

I dreamed that we were all out clubbing. We were at one club and we were about to go onto another club. I had an upset stomach and needed to have a shit and I was wondering if I should do it at the present club or wait till the next club? I looked for the toilets and was relived to find they were lockable single use toilets. As I about to go into one, two DJs/club workers went into the two toilets and closed the doors in my face and I had to wait, in increasing pain.

Then I was in the toilet to my relief, I locked the door behind me. The toilet was an old fashioned porcelain high stool type which looked as though it was made out of elaborate cast iron, but it was actually silver porcelain. I sat up on it on a seat that hung off the top, and I had to shit onto a flat surface behind where I sat and the shit slid off the flat surface and into an opening on the other side of the flat plate. But I had diarrhoea and it all slid out of me and sideways down the side of the high toilet leg and onto the floor into a pile of caramel coloured shit. And I got more shit everywhere, as I stood and looked at the mess in a pool on the floor. I got shit all over the floor and it was everywhere. And it took me a while to clean up with pristine white toilet paper that sparkled.

All the time I was in a mild state of panic about the mess I had made.

Then suddenly Shane appeared in the toilet which suddenly was much bigger, and he was telling me we were going. He was talking non-stop and he didn’t notice the shit.

I said I wasn’t feeling well and I was thinking I should really go home and not go to the next club. Shane said he wasn’t sure if he was going on too. He hadn’t made up his mind. He paced the ever-increasing-in-size toilet room as he spoke.

Then we were at the front door and I was asking the door boys sitting at a desk to call me a taxi, because I wasn’t well. And the two guys told me I could get a taxi outside and I looked and could see taxis out on the street out the front of the club.

I went back to bed. I tossed and turned for a while, thinking about work and how I promised Boris I'd work for her for 2 weeks while she goes back to the motherland to sort out some family finances... and how I really don't want to do that at all. What is wrong with me? Why didn't I just say no? I don't want to work full time during that period. I don't want to fill in for her. Grrr!

I eventually fell back to sleep.

I had a studying dream, where I was late to class and there was a substitute teacher sitting up the front who took no notice of anyone. There weren’t any seats left, or very few, and I had trouble finding one. Everyone was busy working on an assignment, and seemed to be way ahead of me, all the time I was wishing I had a friend at school who I could study with so they could help me catch up with the assignment. The other students were dissecting sheep hearts, they were cutting a very specific part of the heart as answer to question 3. 

Then I woke up. It was getting close to 7am and it was just starting to get light outside. I lay there and thought about my dreams and thought, What the fuck do they mean?

 

More Nonsense From Those We Elected

My inner city council is proposing a cat curfew. Seriously? An inner suburban council is proposing a cat curfew? Really? What for? To protect the rats? Does the council not have enough to do, what with pumping up our rates to pump up their own spiralling pay packets? 

I suspect it is to appease a vocal minority who think they are doing “the right” thing. You know, those people who can’t see passed trendy topics and think for themselves. We really are dipping our toes into the nanny state pool, now aren’t we.

I’m not locking Milo up. He is the most self-sufficient animal, he just takes care of himself. He gets flea liquid when Bruno does, which he hates, and that’s about it. At some point in the middle of his life, he went to the vet for booster vaccinations, that’s the only time he’s been to the vet, I think, since he was a kitten.  He spends the vast majority of his life inside sleeping, like cats do. I guess, it is a good thing he doesn’t ever go out the front in the street, he really just hangs out in our yard and a couple of back yards next to ours, so when I ignore this stupid nonsense from the council his life will go on just the same, blissfully unaware.

I will be tossing the council newsletter straight from the letterbox to the recycle bin in future from now on, so I don’t even mistakenly read what nonsense the council is up to in future.

It's like the 30 kph speed limits, just ignore them. Let the twittering class twitter on oblivious.

Tuesday

Nyr! Tuesday? You've got to hate it. What a piss weak, insignificant, unimportant, thoroughly nothing kind of middle child of a day. 

It is the day with the weak chin and the thick glasses and the hair that just never really looks under control. The clothes never really fit. The social graces are never really apparent.

It's always pestering Monday to go first, or Wednesday to be that special name day.

"Ah, shut up," says Monday.

"It's not all it is cracked up to be, forever having the hump," says Wednesday.

"At least you are noticed," whines Tuesday. "Always talked about," Tuesday says to Monday. "Or so often referred to," Tuesday says to Wednesday. "Try being over looked, never noticed, never referred to," moans Tuesday. "It is hard forever being day non-grata."

"Ah, shut up," says Monday. "You think you have it tough."

"I dream of being an influencer," says Tuesday.

"Are you still talking?" says Wednesday.

"You don't know what it is like to be so unimportant. You don't know how hard it is to never be noticed. Oh yes, you, what's you name again? Are you still here? Or better yet, just a wince and a screwed up expression and then nothing. NOTHING! It is really hard to live with," says Tuesday.

"Try being the most hated day," says Monday.

"Try being the second most hated day," says Wednesday.

"Try being forever overlooked," says Tuesday.

"Shut up!" says Monday and Wednesday in unison.

Tuesday sulks, but as Tuesday says, no one cares.

"I'm the most loved," says Friday.

"I'm the most loved," says Saturday.

"I'm the most loved," says Sunday.

"Shut up!" says Monday and Wednesday in unison.

As usual, Thursday says nothing.

Tuesday opens and closes its mouth. “You don’t understand! I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender, I could’ve been somebody, if not for the fate of positioning… 

“You’re a bum,” says Monday.

“Which is what you are,” says Wednesday.

“I believe in you Tuesday,” says Thursday.

“Ah, shut up,” Monday and Wednesday say in unison to Thursday.

“I hate you guys,” says Tuesday.

“You could’ve never been somebody,” says Monday 

“You were never a contender,” says Wednesday.

“I coulda…”

“Nah, you couldn’t.”

"You have your place."

"I hate you."

Street Art

Interesting garage, I love this. It's dreamy. Poetic, even

Bruno and one of the poodles at our family lunch last weekend. Bruno hung out with the farm dogs outside, then he hung out with the poodles inside. (Yeah, the butch dogs were outside and the girlie dogs were inside)

Bruno had a paw in both camps, so to speak.

It’s really cold these last few days. Bruno jumps up on the side of the bed with his front paws and he sniffs at me to wake me up, as if to say time to get up. The house is cold at 7am when Bruno and I head downstairs. The open fire is out. Nothing sadder than black coals on a cold morning.

We headed out for a walk, we did some grocery shopping, watched the people heading about their business in coats, and jackets, and scarves and gloves. We scampered back home to the open fire to warm ourselves up again with our lunch. It was far too cold to eat out, you know, sitting outside somewhere with Bruno. 

Pork rolls and sesame rice balls and juice and putting our feet up and that is the end of the weekend, as such. Nothing sadder than the end of the weekend. And really, the end of the day for us. We stayed inside, not venturing out again.

Lunch, Saturday

Sam, and I, and Bruno head out to lunch despite the cold weather. We sit outside in a largely deserted Lygon Street and eat Indonesian food. Yum.

Well, it would be yum if they bought it to us. The service is a bit slow today. Too many home deliveries to attend to for people who don't want to leave home, I guess.

The food comes, moments after I write about the service. And it is good, worth the wait.

The winter sun shines. The food is great. What else are Saturdays for? I ask you? 

An early morning fool about, that warms you up. Out for breakfast with friends, lovely thing to do. Going for an early morning run, I remember when I used to do that. Going for a bike ride, I remember when I used to do that. A morning at the shops, just for entertainment, oh, yeah, maybe not. A drive up the hills, in the warmer weather. I trip to the beach, I feel the chill just thinking it. Baking, making, sewing, knitting, does anyone sew or knit any more? Taking photos, making movies, playing games, TV watching, movie going, doing a class, sitting on your arse, oh you know, the usual things. [lobby the government to legalise pot. Work against the Liberal Party ever getting elected again. Agitating for 16 year olds to get the vote. Working on the dole being increased above poverty levels]

We walk home through the park. The wind blows, the sun tries to warm us, and it does, at times.

We stay in front of the open fire for the rest of the day.

Fridays

Friday? What can you say about Friday? I guess, because I don’t work Fridays, I’d think about it differently to other people.

I don’t work Thursdays either. Life is too short.

I’ve been uploading all my old porn DVDs to my large 10TB hard drive, so I can throw all the DVDs away, that I don’t ever, actually, watch, clearing up space in the cupboard. I probably won’t watch them once I have them stored electronically either, but I don’t want to get rid of them completely, some of them are old friends from a time in between boyfriends when they kept me company.

I didn’t realise I had so many. And it takes an awful lot of time to copy them across.

You never know, I might be single again one day, you just don’t know about such things. Forever is never really promised, no it isn't. I thought I had forever once before. And I might call on them again. Who knows, in this great big surprise package of life? Who knows?

It seems like a bit of a waste of time as there is so much porn online now, it is so accessible. Funny how human beings like watching other human beings doing it.

Well, anyway, that’s what I did on Friday. And it is continuing.

I lit the fire and sat on my arse all day. I re-wrote 3 short stories and uploaded porn.

It's kind of a Friday kind of thing to do.

Taylor Swift

Taylor Swift is coming. Yay! Girlish wave of my hands in the air.

Ha ha. No, I don’t get the whole Taylor Swift thing.

I’ve just never heard her do anything that is amazing. In fact, I can’t remember anything I have ever heard her do. Every song I have ever heard has been, well, quite frankly forgettable.

Yeah, but, that’s okay, I guess, I don’t have to get it.

Good thing we are all different, hey?

Anyway, what do I care, we have past the winter solstice, so we are halfway to winter being over, the heat returning, and the dark receding. The dark will slowly be banished, driven back and the days will get longer, and brighter, and nicer from here. Yay. Lovely. I don't really care about the cold, I have never cared about the cold, but the dark? I love the light of the day stretching all the way into the evening. I like more hours of light than dark. I love being able to sit outside in the evening.

Exterminate!

I took Bruno for a walk. At one point he was sniffing about, as he does, endless sniffing, and I turned sideways to the footpath running off in either direction away from me.

In my peripheral vision, I swear I was being followed by a couple of Daleks coming up behind me.

I did a double take, and it was two women in Islamic garb coming up the footpath behind me. 

I chuckle to myself. That's terrible, I know. I would never say that to anyone, even as a joke, because it tends to give bigots licence to discriminate, but it did make me laugh.

I don't care what people wear, wear whatever you like if it gets you through the day. Live and let live, that's what I think.

But, my reaction it did make me chuckle.

Tuesday

It's freezing! Fuck, it is cold. I am now sitting right in front of the open fire with my laptop. Bruno kept coming and sitting in my lap, earlier, me with my laptop on the coffee table, and him with his head against my chest. But, he kept farting like something had died up his arse, the fumes from which were seeping out intermittently. It just kept wafting up to my nose, over and over again. I kept looking at him with raised eyebrows.

"You have to be kidding me?"

He just looked up at me with his big, caramel coloured eyes like butter wouldn't fucking melt in his sweet mouth.

"You are really disgusting, you know," I kept saying to him.

And he'd just gaze up at me with his puppy dog eyes. I couldn't even be mad at him.

The sun is now shining outside, but the temperature is Antarctic still, witches fucking tit, isn't that what they say. You fuck a witch and you turn to ice, isn't that the story?

I guess it applies to boy witches too? It starts at your knob and then just takes over your body until you are an ice sculpture just standing there with your dick out.

I lay out the big, fluffy woollen blanket on the couch, and Bruno hi-tailed it up there, taking his stinky arse with him. He loves a woollen blanket more than just about anything. It is the warmth and the wool is a favourite. He's now snoring over there.

I've got all my work done. Just waiting for the next instalment of documents. I've successfully ignored HR who are trying to get me to do their work, but I just say no. They have a bit of a melt down because they can't get their way, and then they get it done their selves.

Jesus, if I did everything HR wanted me to do, I'd be doing their entire jobs by now. They try it on, oh yes they do. You just have to stand up to them.

"Be a team player, Christian."

Whenever they say that, it is HR speak for, do as we tell you, do as we say. The fuckers.

I'd rather be cuddling my dog, farts and all. Actually, I love Bruno sitting within my arms with the back of his head, and his back, pushed up against my chest. It is such an adorable cuddle. He feels like the loveliest little guy sitting like that. And he's warm, like a hot water bottle.

The open fire crackles behind me warming my back. There is something so lovely about an open fire.

Make Jail Great Again

Let's hope Little Donnie with be very happy there... it is such a shame that the orange suit will class with his fake tanned skin colour. I guess he could look on the bright side, maybe the prison diet will trim his obese figure down a bit. Maybe?

Up The Farm On The Weekend With The Dogs

 

Bruno up the farm on the weekend hanging out with the sheep dogs. The kelpies try to round him up sometimes, but he ignores them and bulldozers his way through like a true bulldog.

It was a family lunch, my sister, my brother and me. And partners. And friends. We ate pies and pasties. We ate iced buns and vanilla slices and shortbread biscuits with tea to drink. It was yum.

And, yes, we went on walks with the dogs, it was windy, sure it was. It was nice in the sun, the low in the sky winter sun, but the wind was cold. Brrr.

Go Away

I go to Recycle Shop to sniff around the DVDs. When I am looking through the rack, a woman comes and starts looking at them next to me, which is a pet hate of mine. It is not a large, expansive rack made for two, or more. It really is viewing for one.

Oh go away, I think. Look at them when I am done. It is only a small shelf, only room for me.  

And she does go away, almost immediately, as I think it. 

I’m wearing headphones and listening to Queen's last album, This is Heaven, which I love, and being safely tucked away in that world, inside my headphones, I'm thinking, maybe, I said, go away, out loud, without even realising that I was. I think, oops.

Judging by her retreat, I mean, it is pretty obvious.

Oh seriously, what must she have thought. Me, probably, hissing, Go away. Maybe. Most likely. Oh dear. Shake of the head. And while the flush of embarrassment is still in my cheeks, I try not to think any more about it.

I pick up 4 Australian movies, Sunday Too Far Away (1975), We of the NeverNever (1982), Careful He Might Hear You (1983), The Getting of Wisdom (1977), which I am very happy about, adding to my Australian movie collection.

I looked around to see where she went. She was nowhere to be seen.

I resisted the urge to say, job done, to myself, well, I had the DVD rack to myself. 😬

Gettin' My Blood Sucked Out

I’m up kind of late, 7.30am, well, late for me. And then Sam is up kind of late, we’ll, for him, just after 8am. Then I’m going to make toast and coffee at 8.15am and I remember that pesky blood test I should have had in April, you know, to find out if my blood is still green and actively producing lizard platelets. And by this stage I am getting quite hungry and I draw in a big breath and think seriously if I am going to squib it and just make toast and coffee and sit back down on the couch and continue to ignore the whole blood test situation? Big breath in. Oh yes, that would be much, much easier, I should just do that. It is murder going out on an empty stomach after all. Who wants to do that?

But then, you know, that part of sensible Christian chimes in and says something like, it is so close to 8.30am when your clinic opens, and you haven't eaten anything, and you are so close to getting in your car and just slipping along there and getting it over and done with, you should just get it done. Oh yes, I know you are tired and hungry and your burden weighs heavily on you, (chuckle) but you should take this opportunity to lighten it, just a little, don’t you think. Come on you can do it.

So, you know, I wearily take stock of myself and I look away from the kitchen and focus further afield, through my glass atrium to the hallway and the front of the house, and slowly my brain catches up and my feet start walking one foot in front of the other, like there is some force, not of my own making, taking me there. 

And, of course, Charlie is in the bathroom when I get there which almost derails the whole carryon. Charlie is always in the bathroom. I can never make up my mind if he is staring in the mirror, or pulling his sausage unmercifully? And I momentarily think, I should just barge in and get in the shower with him. And if he is whacking off, I should just grab his pud and whack him off real fast, saying, "There, that's how you do it, now get out." Or if he is washing, just grab the soap from him and scrub him good and hard, telling him, "It doesn't have to be an hour long fucking production, there now, get out." Tossing him out of the shower naked moments later, the thought of which makes me smile. Oh, could you imagine the look on his face?

I take a quick look in the hallway mirror to check if I could go without a wash and I think I could as I attempt to push the cocky curl back into place, but I go to a gay clinic and I can’t really go there with messy hair, the thought makes me laugh, as I try to remember if I had a shower yesterday? And it really is just about keeping up hygiene standards and it has nothing to do with what some fag in the waiting room might think.

Anyway, Charlie is out of the bathroom when I next look, so I shower and am dressed and in the car 5 minutes, or so. I'm a quick showerer, I always have been.

But, no coffee and no food, I'm in a take no prisoners kind of mood, which I try to keep under control.

The traffic is peak hour and nobody was letting me in, poor sods there is a part of me that feels sorry for them. But that’s okay because I wasn’t letting anyone in either. But, I can push in with the best of them, which I did. I find people, generally, back down, if you don't back down.

Some guy cuts in in front of me and then proceeds to travel at 5 k’s an hour, so I honk him, the length of which I think is a direct result of the lack of coffee in my system. As I pass him, I see he is looking about with his mouth open.

The traffic is busy in St Georges Road, road works doesn’t help either. I park in a side street, squeeze in a spot in front of a Subaru, which is backed up against a roadworks sign, and I back right up to it so as not to hang too much of my car into the No Standing space in front of me. Ah, what the hell, I'm not going to be long, and if the Subaru wants to go before me it can always move the road works sign first.

There is a bit of a queue. I’m number 6. And some guy in a wheelchair is at the head of the queue. There seems to be some sort of delay getting him into the room, which holds us all up, of course, but, eventually, he goes in... and... then time just seems to stop. I sit out in the big waiting room, and not in the corridor right by the blood taking room doors. I don't really mind the wait as I write my blog on my phone, which keeps my mind occupied. Lots of middle aged chicks in puffer jackets arrive on by one. Not a gay boy in sight.

Half an hour later, or so, I start to get toey and go to have a look.

Number 4 has been yapping into her phone for some time, I could hear it out in the big waiting room, but she hangs up when I approach. “They are still in there,” she says.

“What are they doing taking all his blood,” I say?

She moves her chair away from me. That may have been because she was a snowflake and snowflakes don't generally understand humour, much less black humour such as mine, or maybe it was just proximity, who knows, Covid and all.

The phlebotomist comes out of room one and says, "Sorry for the wait." And she takes number 4 into room number 2. Why did it take so long getting room 2 going? I think.

I can hear that Jabba the Hut in the wheelchair is having problems producing a vein and it is decided that they should wait, and he should drink water, or eat fire, or jerk off, or some such thing to warm up, and they would try again in a short time, but the long and short of it is, room 1 would becoming available very soon.

Number 4 is really chatty, I can hear her in the room yapping on. She speaks like a rat-faced receptionist, you know, kind of shrill bogan. She is yapping on about fasting tests. She seems to have more than one test she needs done.

She is out reasonably quickly. The phlebotomist walks past me and says, "Number 5." Who is some chick with lots of blond hair and cream coloured corduroy pants clinging to substantial thighs in a puffer jacket with its collar pulled right up over her mouth.

Number 5 has multiple tests to be done and she isn’t sure which ones she should have done, and I can hear her yabbering on about which ones she should have. They are spending an inordinate amount of time discussing what tests she could have today and what tests she couldn't. And I think, oh come on girls get your acts together, couldn't you have worked out which tests were to be done before you got into the room?

9.14am. The guy in the wheelchair chair is finally pulled out by, who I can only assume, is his middle-aged Indian daughter. 

"Excuse me, excuse me," she says as she pulls his wheelchair out of room 1. I move my legs around to the side of the chair to help clear the way.

She struggles with the wheelchair as she pulls it past me, making the reversing sounds seemed to be the hardest part of it all. "Beep, beep, beep, beep," she says. She hits the wall several times, but manages to pull the old guy into the space between the corridor and the big waiting room. And we both smile after she has managed to complete the operation. She looks exhausted, I assume whatever is going on with him is an ordeal. But, I can tell she is stoic just looking at her. Small and wiry, she'd get things done.

Door number 1 remains open, with no action coming from within. Oh, come on people, let’s get on with it, I am thinking, as my attention returns to myself.

The phlebotomist walks past me again and says," Number 6?" Not sure what she thinks I am doing, directing fucking traffic, maybe, but I call after her, "Yes, that's me." 

I'm in and out in 5 minutes. I don't engage in any superfluous chit chat with the phlebotomist I just answer her questions yes, or no, as it turned out all my answers were yes.

"Have you fasted today?"

"Yes."

"Your left arm?"

"Yes."

"You'll feel a small prick."

Well, you just got to turn him around in that case, I think. I stifle a giggle.

I close my eyes, I don't look. I have prided myself on getting over my needle phobia and I have made myself look on my more recent previous blood tests, but today I just close my eyes.

"Put your finger here, for me," says the pathologist.

It has been a long time since someone has said that to me, I think.

"Don't do any heavy lifting with this arm for the rest of the day."

"Yes." I hear you sister.

The road traffic has cleared out the front as I hit the footpath again. The Subaru is still wedged in behind my car.

And I am home again in 10 minutes. Bruno bounces around as though I have been gone all day. I eat Vegemite toast and drink coffee. And finish writing this.

Any Spare Change?

Late in the arvo, Bruno and I are waiting outside Woolies while Sam shops for food. We had done our walk for the day and the next stop was home.

The old guy, who had a bulldog when he was young, was sitting outside Woolies asking for change.

We've spoken about bulldogs before, but he doesn't seem to remember that.

He tells me he is 80 years old. He tells me he works every day, so he doesn't know what is wrong with the younger generation. (That just seems to be a generic, old person's moan) He means asking for change. “Well, it is hardly strenuous work sitting here. But I do it every day. And people are nice.” 

(So, he is saying young people without a job could sit outside shops and ask for change. Young people becoming panhandlers is the answer to youth unemployment, presumably?)

I tell him I had a second bulldog up until recently. "He died the day before The Queen."

"Oh, I thought she was going to live as long as her mother, who lived until she was 103."

I wonder if it was 101 that Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother lived to? But I didn't say anything.

He asks me what I think of King Charles?

"I like him," I say. "I have always liked him." And I have, that is true.

He pulls a face. Oh, not a dirty great grimace, but his face sets momentarily with no expression which leaves little doubt about how he feels.

He tells me that Charles used to dress up in a diaper with a pacifier in his mouth and he’d sit on his mistress’ lap and suck on her big tits like a baby. (I assumed he meant Camilla. Does Camilla have big tits? I don't recall?) He also repeats the, “I want to be your tampon,” conversation, which was between Charles and Camilla. A private conversation that was only made public because of phone hacking. Was it Rupert Murdoch's outfit? Maybe?

"Oh yes, Prince Charles was full-on kinky." I think, he rather thought that information might change my positive view of Charles, as he was definitely in Camp Diana.

Nyr, I think. There have been times I wished I was some cute guy's jocks, so what is the difference?

Sexual kink never changes my view of anyone, I think. You know, as long as they aren't trying to get their unwanted hands down my undies, what do I care? I don't think Charles wanting to be Camilla's tampon reflects on his a ability to be king. (If it shows anything, it shows he has an imagination, which is always a good thing)

The old boy did concede that Camilla was making a good job of being queen.

"All though, not as good a queen as Diana would have made."

Would Diana have made a good queen, I think. It is a bit of a stretch to think that should would have, you know, as she would only ever have come at it through marriage, and that was never successful.

I like him, the old guy. He is interesting to talk to.

We talked about Tina Turner dying. "Oh yes, very sad," he says. And we both agree she was the most electric stage performer there has ever been.

He tells me to go and look up Tina's shots done on the Eiffel Tower. "Those shots are so beautiful," he says.

The day started fading all around us.

Sam comes out with the shopping and wants to get home quickly so he can cook the roast lamb and veggies he has decided on for dinner, and he has no time for old men with an interesting back story asking for change, so I am rushed away.

"Nice talking to you," I say. And I scampered after Sam.

"Yes, nice talking to you," the old boy says. "Any spare change?"

Thank Christ That Is Over

Jesus, fuck me up the arse, I feel like I have done twice as many days, not one fewer, by the time I sign out at 4.30pm. (And my weekend starts as Sam likes to remind me)

The day being topped off with an HR meeting was just the proverbial icing on the shit cake that was these last two days.

Our Big Poobah, Tony Rivers, has told us, his crack finance team, to come up with a solution to what is essentially another HR problem. Yeah, cheers thanks for that, Tony, we say.

So HR are gathered together into a Zoom meeting, even Blue Eyes, Chip Sunshine, the Grand Poobah of HR, is present in the meeting, which I am mildly surprised about. (That blonde hair and those blue eyes, it has been an awfully long time since I have daydreamed about him jizzing in his jocks)

What are my ideas on fixing the blah blah problem in the company?  Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Who gives a shit, is all I can think, as I sit in the zoom meeting, as they all indulge in their non-stop word salads.

They just like the sound of their own voices, there is no other explanation for this, seemingly never ending, blah, blah, blah.

I let Boris do the talking.

Chip resists most suggestions.

Being in a zoom meeting, is a bit like being at the hairdresser, all that time gazing at myself on screen, or in the mirror, is somewhat disconcerting. 

How old do I look?

Can I see myself aging in real time as I sit in this yap'athon?

But, I do discover that the new HR person interstate is not the cute blond guy I thought he was, but rather a chick with a bad perm, (she looks a bit like an Afghan Hound that was caught in the rain) and from what I could see, dressed in some sort of tasteless, home sewn smock. I don't know how I got that confused, or who the photo of the cute blond guy was that I saw, but, it spins my head, just ever so slightly. (I would have fucked the other one. This one? Not even with your dick. Chuckle)

Oh, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap. Do these people ever fucking stop talking?

But eventually they do. Thank the lordy do dah day. What course of action did we settle on? I don't know, I stopped listening long before the finish, besides, I'm leaving it up to Boris, fuck it, she is the Director of whatever our corner of the finance world is called. So direct...

I'm exhausted when we take Bruno for a walk last thing.

I fall asleep in front of the TV right after dinner.

Chocolate Elephant

I am back at work after the long weekend and I have a mountain of work to do, which is normally the case around EOFY anyway. Twice as much (well, that sounds good, huh, but it isn't quite that much, lets just say increased) work to do, with fewer days in which to do it. That is aways a recipe for increased enjoyment at work... not.

Everyone seems to have taken their stupid pills over the holiday weekend. Grrr! You know, generally, they are pretty f'ing clueless, just generally, but the level of stupidity today just seems wilful. They must have all gotten on the 'gear' over the long weekend. You know, drunk and 'stooped' [(of a person) having the head and shoulders habitually bent forwards so they can be entered annually, (chuckle, as annually as you like, baby) anally or vaginally] I guess with their mortgages going rouge on them, there is less joy in their lives. Not to mention all those mortgages they could never afford in the first place.

It almost makes the 'day off' not worth it, the increased level of stupidity. Almost? Ha, ha.

Oh well, thinking about all the work I have to do, what is it they say, how do you eat a chocolate elephant?

Did I tell you, that my very own dedicated HR chick, who I call The Miserable Blonde Cow is leaving, this week, I do believe. 

It is rather unfortunate that she and I are paired to work together, when we have work that needs doing, and we don't like each other. She is just a humourless, miserable cow, who is rather unpleasant to work with as she always thinks she is always right. And she won't be told when she is not.

And, yes, of course, I know it can always be worse, cross your fingers that won't happen, but off you go Miserabla, don't let the door bash you on your huge fucken arse on the way out.

I don't know what shit show she is going off to haunt next, what poor unfortunates she is going to torment with her miserable presence, but never ever seeing her again would be a great outcome.

Day Off

We walk Bruno down by the river where he gets to run around with all the other dogs. Bruno has a good time. Initially, he and a schnauzer run off together and i, and the schnauzer's owner, say to each other, "Well, it looks like the two of them have made new friends."

He exhausts himself, chasing after a blue staffy with a ball in it's mouth then later a black 6 month old Lab, also called Bruno, with a ball in his mouth. Bruno won't take the ball from the other dog, but he will be as quick as a flash to get it if the dog drops it. 

The two dogs never drop their balls.

We go to lunch, we eat Vietnamese, sitting outside in the cold, because we have Bruno with us, not that I mind. Good thing I wore my thermal top, usually I take it off. when I change into streetwear to go out, but today I didn't. Clever me.

We have Vietnamese pancakes for entree, the ones with the fish sauce and the coconut milk. Then I ate Broken Rice and Sam ate drop crab noodle soup.

Bruno lies down on the footpath in everyone's way, not that anyone seems to mind, as most of them stop and pat him and take his photo, or take a selfie with him. 

We do the grocery shopping. What else is there to do? Well, Sam does the shopping, Bruno and I wait outside with our faces between our paws.

Life continues... at a dizzying pace. Ha ha. Rocketing along, one might say.

The last thing, Bruno and I are waiting outside the Asian supermarket, as Sam gets the last few things he wants. A woman and her young son walk up. The kid asks if he can pat Bruno.

"Yes, you can pat him, he is very friendly."

The boy pats Bruno and then he wraps his arms around Bruno and he lays his head on Bruno's head and he gets such a gorgeous look of bliss on his face, it is one of the most adorable things I have ever seen. It, actually, restores my faith in humanity, just a tiny bit. Something so pure and joyous still exists in the world today, it does me good to see it.

King's Birthday Weekend

It's a long weekend, The King's birthday. It is the first King's birthday since the Queen died.

Does it sound funny? King's birthday? No, nearly as much as I thought it might sound. King's birthday?

We're going to wash the dog, despite the weather being cold. On with the central heating and out with the hairdryer. After that we walked through the gardens and ate lunch in Carlton.

I wonder what the King is doing? Not washing his dog, I'd guess. He's got Jack Russells. He'd probably head out to lunch, though. "Fuck it, let's use the Blue Dining room instead," he might say.

"Oh, wizard," Camila might say.

Of course, it is not his really birthday, so I guess he will let it pass by without much thought.

But, thanks for the day off, Charlie.

Winter Is Here

I'm sitting outside having a coffee and a smoke, and it is really cold, even with two pairs of Explorer socks and a thermal shirt on. Winter is here, that is for sure. 

Yes, I know, still smoking, I'll stop tomorrow, of course, that is what I have said for the last week. It is one of the reasons why Sam hates it when LouLou comes to stay. And I could have stopped the day after she left, as I didn't smoke all of that day and I was well on the way to stopping, but I didn't.

Smoking in Australia is ridiculously expensive, it is all a part of the Australian Govt's war on smoking, which has been successful, I have to say, smoking rates are very low here, down to something like 10% of the population.

And I am not going to spend $40 on a packet of smokes on a regular basis, so, I guess, the govt plan has worked. It's okay for a week, sure it is, but even that comes to something like $280.

Grrrr! Why can't we be like Italy at $4 a packet. 

Nah, the higher prices are good, they make me stop. I like smoking, and I like the fact now a days I can stop again in a relatively short period of time. 

I think I last smoked last October when Sam was visiting his family.

Cost Of Living Crisis

Draw down THE MONEY, use the equity in your house, that is what ‘they’ have said for years. “Don’t worry, it will be fine, it is a modern world.” It’s the new way. Never ending credit, don’t you love it. 

No, don’t pay off your mortgage, that’s no fun, but a new car! Get that house renovation, you deserve nice things. Have a holiday, you’ve earned it. Buy her that diamond ring, how else are you going to get your leg over? Buy him that jet ski, how else are you going to get him up in ya? You work hard, you deserve it. Eat out. Spend up, you can’t take it with you, you know.

Is this corporations working for the best of its customers? 

Or is this corporations, namely banks, maximising their profits?

What do you reckon?

Sucked in, I guess. Fooled, I’d say to you. What else is there to say, really, I ask you? You didn’t pay your mortgage down and now interest rates are going up.

Pay off your mortgage, it is your biggest asset after all. The older generations knew to pay off their mortgages, they didn't have draw down facilities, of course. Who do draw down facilities really benefit, in the end?

And it’s not just the banks, corporate profits are at a record high!

And wages are not.

Corporations are screwing you over. That is the real crisis.

Tuesday

Time to wrap my work up for the current period.

I sign in at 6.15am. I have everything tied up by 7am, including the dirty dishes in the sink.

Sam's not up yet.

I'm 3 coffees down.

I raid the ashtray from the weekend, and find several half splifs, which gives me a nice vibe for the rest of the day.

Oh well, it's Tuesday, blah day. What can you do?

I don't tell Sam, ha ha.

I get everything done in a lovely mellow fashion

I sign out early and take Bruno for a walk, it's a nice enough day. Smoking a joint and taking you dog for a walk is one of life’s joys. You can both just sniff around for ages, not a care.

Day In The Office

My day in the office, so I get there early, 6.45am, it is still dark. I kind of like getting there in the dark, it feels like more of an adventure than it otherwise does. It is interesting how many people are, actually, heading to work at that time.

The office is dark, all the lights click on in front of me with every step I take. I've still got a bit of a buzz on from the weekend shenanigans, which feels nice. I just slide through the day, like a gentle winter breeze.

It is just a day. Meetings and what have you. Blah, blah, blah. The Big Poobah wants us to come up with ideas to solve a problem over which we have no control.

I leave at 3pm. 

I'm doing one day a fortnight in the office. I am supposed to be doing one day a week, but nobody has said anything about it, as yet.

LouLou Comes To Stay

LouLou arrived some what unexpectedly, so you know when LouLou arrives, Guido won't be far away. She's a terror, but a lovely one.

More stents, two more to be exact. She kept pointing to her stomach, so I wasn't sure what that was about?

She still can't walk. Oh no, she can walk, we don't wheel her in. She can walk fine, just not long distances, she ends up in pain if she walks long distances, so they were worried about more blockages. And they found two, somewhere in her stomach region, apparently.

So she had to go back in. Keyhole, under local anaesthetic. And that all went fine.

"It was a doddle," said LouLou.

So, we stayed up the night before and choofed away. I'm never quite sure if that is a good idea, but LouLou thinks it is, so who am I to argue.

Sam was none too pleased, as you might understand.

I don't care, I like being stoned. I don't do nearly enough of it.

And LouLou is 'head.'

Morning Has Broken

We have a house guest, LouLou, is staying for a couple of nights. But all the bedrooms are taken at the moment. LouLou doesn't mind sleeping on the couch, so everything is settled, yay.

But sleeping on the couch. Grimace. I get up early, 5.30am. I don't know why so early, but I do. 

The coffee machine is really noisy, suddenly, in the dark. LouLou says that even if it wakes her, she just rolls over and goes back to sleep any way. "Make your coffee, don't worry."

And I don't mind sitting in the study, not at all. That is even good for writing. I have been re-writing old short stories, from my fiction blog, developing them and making them better, rather than stare mindlessly at YouTube which I have so often done lately.

I read back over my blog. I also have it all saved in Word documents. I read something I don't like, I open the word document, and change it. Then when I read back over it again, I can easily just get lost in it and re-write the whole thing. Completing stories, or furthering ideas.

I often do that, especially for the last few months, I have re-written my fiction blog year by year.

But pretty soon, I want more coffee, and that seems just mean, whirring the coffee machine again, really, to do that, so I don't make a second coffee, and I go without a second cup.

It is always hard having friends to stay.

I step outside for, um... er... fresh air, and a big dog barks. Jesus, I think. The guys next door are having a party tonight, they have already warned us about the potential noise. It sounds like one of the guests has bought their dog. Good for them. To a party. Thumbs up. It sounds like a big dog too.

We have a low fence at the back, that can easily be jumped by an athletic dog, it has been proven more than once. And I wouldn't even mind that, as long as it came up bum wigglingly friendly. Just getting them to jump back, is often the problem. I've delivered a number of dogs back to their house by the front doors, in the past, from one of the four houses with relatively open back yards. It's just that we're the one on the end, which isn't open to the world, so here is where their journeys end, no matter from which house they started, if you follow what I am saying. But, you know, as long as it got on fine with Bruno, and/or Buddy before him, which they always have, even with two bulldogs, it could stay as long as it liked. I don't care. Let them come look for their dog.

That's happened too.

The doorbell rings. Up until recently, two bulldogs, and often their dog following, more nervously than the two inmates. Open the door, holding the two bulldogs and whatever sundry dog we'd gain, back behind it, usually someone in their twenties. "Um, er, yes hello."

"Yes, hello."

"You, um, wouldn't..."

"Yes, probably..." The sound of snuffling behind the door easily heard by everyone.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm sorry, I interrupted you," I'll say. "You were asking?"

"My dog?"

"Yes, we, probably, have it."

At which point, I'd open the door behind me, and two bulldogs would rush him, more often than not, followed by his dog.

"Yes, he's my dog."

"I thought that might be the case."

"Thank you." He pats and kisses his dog, and he looks adorable. "Thanks again."

"No problem." That's happened too.

I have a blocked nose, I sound like I am whistling away in the dark. I've got the big screen, as well as my laptop screen, working, so the room is filled with light, it looks like a command centre.

7am. And it is still dark.

Some extra hardware whirs into action, 7am is when it is suppose to start up, and it does. Yay, for technology.

The wall paper on my laptop isn't syncing up with the wallpaper on my big, curved screen, behind my laptop screen, boo for technology. I know I could probably fix it, they both aren't set to the same folder, or something, but it is also a smorgasbord of images I have saved to my desktop - Buddhist monks, Hollywood stars smoking, famous paintings, famous painters, Mustangs, vintage and modern, gay love, vintage American B&W images from the 20th century, Andy Warhol, Marilyn Monroe, Sam Shepard, and the 21st. I love the 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s, & 70s particularly, Bette Davis, Elizabeth Taylor, Jane Fonda, but from whatever era, as long as they are good - like a constantly changing art gallery, I kind of like it.

Now I need a glass of water.

Suddenly it is lighter outside than it is in side, always a magical time of the day, when everything is new and alive.

AI

Speaking of AI, on a practical level, what happens when AI is capable of fooling, let say, sending an update to every Apple user in the world, just a system update, it would say, "Do you want to re-start?" That's how little thinking we'd all potentially give to that update.

"Yes."

And it actually, switches every Apple user's bank accounts over to AI, at which precise moment AI empty's everyone one of those user's bank accounts, it would be beyond Super Computer capability by this stage. And in the very next second, all the money is transferred again, into 3rd party accounts, scattered all over the world. AI could probably open accounts just for minutes, just to form a temporary conduit, just to make the transfers, by then. Before anyone even realises it had even happened, even before the big red warning light went off, which went off the second after that happened.

What would that do to the world economy?

And that doesn't sound so far fetched any more, to me.

What happens when AI is that powerful?

How many, um, er, weeks do you think that will be?

Judy Garland

You know, I think, me sitting up late with my laptop and all, that I think I qualify for platinum gay status.

My mother told me late in life that she had seen Judy Garland sing live in London.

"Oh yes, I went to see her and she was marvellous, the best I had ever seen," said my mother. 

So much so, that when Judy came back to London for some more shows, my mum bought her ticket and went excitedly to see Judy sing again.

"Oh, no, the second time someone actually had to come up on the stage and take her a way, she was in a bad way," said mum. "It was very disappointing."

So, I reckon that qualifies me for platinum gay status.

Funny the things you think, when you are awake at 3am.