Monday Morning

I felt nervous, anxious, uneasy, this morning, I don’t know why? I woke up feeling that way in the night, in the quiet in the dark. I lay awake for a time, rolling over and rolling over. I am not sure why?

I listened for Sam’s snore, but he was silent, strangely for him. I wanted to wake him, but I didn’t. I wanted to talk to him, to make myself feel better, but it wouldn’t have made him feel good, I know that. So I didn’t. I felt fine, I just wanted to talk to him.

I think I was already feeling nervous, last night, before bed, earlier in the afternoon.

My feeling of nervousness seemed to happen as I got closer to returning to work for the week, as I got closer to Monday. Getting nervous around work seems to be happening since I took the summer off. There was a thing at work on Friday afternoon that I didn’t really get, understand, and just the slightest hint of not understanding seems to upset me, seems to take me off down that feeling useless spiral. Anything that possibly proves that I don’t know what I am doing, seems to take me right back to those feelings of incompetence that I have felt concerning work, that I have had in the last few years, thanks to you know where.

Perhaps, I need therapy? We all do... the group who got damaged by the black law firm. Bullying was its modis operandi, its corporate culture. It still is, I would imagine.


Oh, I know that sounds pathetic, but it is the only explanation I can come up with. The only truth I know. That is unless you want to go back to me as a 12 year old boy when I was tortured by my grade 6 teacher, Arthur Batson, a bitter, old, closet homosexual, I am sure, and my poisonous aunt, simultaneously.  They both told me I would never amount to much. Old Batson because I was smarter than him and gave back as good as he gave and Aunty Olive because she was a horrible old woman.


It was dark and overcast as I drove to work today. The streets were clear, sparsely populated, unusually empty. I wondered if everyone had slept in being Monday morning, or if they had got to work early? It is funny how some mornings are completely different to other mornings, so different.

But the slow morning drivers... oh, groan, they were still with us.
There were morons around the Nicholson-Landridge street corner, banking up, banking up, too scared to venture forward. Hesitating, hesitating, even when it was their right of way. There was an idiot in a blue Tarago, who had her fingers up her snatch, clearly and not on the gear stick. "Get out of my way!" 

And of course the bikes, being the new nazi road users - they never follow the road laws but they expect everyone else to follow them to the letter of the law. They are every where, like fleas, just getting in the way. I just want to flip my door open and take them out some days. 

Victoria Street was practically deserted and I was able to sail out of it and around the side streets to Buckingham Street easily.

I resisted the urge to speed down Buckingham through the school crossing. The lollipop lady clung to her stop sign, seemingly nonchalant to my existence. I wondered if she recorded the number plates of the speeding drivers, as I passed through her crossing at 35 kph, reporting back to the vehicle Pollitt bureau? Dob in a speeder! You know they are putting everyone of our lives at risk! If we don't stop the speeding drivers we all will surely die! Think of the children. For goodness sake think of the children.

Ha ha, ho ho! Well, that is the plaintive cry that puts politicians in to office now a days.

Burnley Street was sparse, the grey still coloured each distant end, silvery and blurred in the distance, like Turner paintings, as I looked right and looked left, as I passed through as it was clear without bothering to stop at the stop sign.

Dear Jesus! said the good driving angels. Crossing themselves on my behalf.

So reckless.

Soooo reckless.

Ha ha, ho ho, nobody stops at stop signs, (even if I normally always do), I told myself, as I slid along... um... oh, I don't know the name of the street. The morning drive, not so much the speed but the fluidity of it, had taken away my anxiety. All you need is a little distraction, I guess.

Freeways don't solve traffic congestion, they cause it. People don't seem to grasp this fact

Politicians are idiots? Or do they get political donations for their stupid decisions?

This East West tunnel will be a disaster. The longest tunnel in Australia that is joining the Eastern Freeway to the Western Ring Road that is going to cost 8 billion dollars. The new road will induce even more traffic, it is that simple. The Tullamarine Freeway will become more congested. The Doncaster Freeway will become more congested and, eventually, during peak times it will become an 8 kilometre long car park.

The irony for any major urban road project is that ultimately more road space just generates more traffic. This is the crucial point and is worth repeating, more road space simply generates more traffic.

One of the women I work with drives from Narre Warren to Richmond every day, along the Mulgrave Freeway. She said before EastLink was built, the Mulgrave Freeway used to be busy but it used to flow, now it is congested by the traffic that comes in off EastLink. With EastLink, it takes her fifteen minutes longer to drive each way.

Unsurprising is that the state government has rejected the 2 reports findings, which confirms the fact that the East West tunnel will either do nothing to improve congestion on Hoddle Street and the Eastern Freeway, or will, in fact, make it worse and the Liberal state government wants to push ahead with the new road anyway.

Why is the Liberal party so in thrall of the road transport lobby? Their addiction to creating roads that studies show will not work borders on pathological? They are either idiots, (shrug, if Abbot is any thing to go by) or there is money in play behind the scenes flowing into the Liberals coffers. Has it has been decided upon for political reasons?

If the government wants to fix the congestion problem that plagues Melbourne now a days, and which is rapidly getting worse, it has to reduce the number of cars on the road, not increase the number. 

If we spend 8 billion dollars on public transport, it would go a long way to helping the congestion problems. We need to encourage more people not to use their cars and to use public transport.

And that is before we even start to talk about environmental issues.

WTF!

Sam was mental this morning. We woke early. Sam was chatty. I pretended to be asleep, but he wasn't having any of it.  That is the reverse to what normally happens in bed in the mornings on the weekend.

Last night, coming back from dinner with a friend, Sam decided that we just had to have fabric conditioner. Lovely, sweet, soft fabric conditioner to make our lives better, he's been on about it for the last few days. I don't know why, maybe it is my, as he puts it, "loose" attitude to cleaning.

"You do realise that you are being conned into buying twice as much detergent for you washing." I said, "by the advertising people?"

"Oh no, lovely and soft." He rubbed his hands around his jaw and closed his eyes as if he was smelling some thing beautiful.

"Oh, for goodness sake."

"Okay, it is 9am, now we must wash the bed clothes with the new fabric conditioner."

"Now?"

"Now!"

"No," I protested. "Do it later, why does it have to be done now?"

"No now!" He played, 'The boy does nothing,' as if that built his point. He said it was time to be productive.

"No," I protested again.

"Get out of the bed."

"No!"

"You leave me no choice!"

Then he started to rip the bed clothes from the bed while I was still in it, as if I wasn't even there.

"No! Stop!" I hung onto hands full of bed clothes with failing hands. "Noooooo!" He pulled! I pulled! I protested. He ripped the doona and sheets out of my hands. "No!" The cotton pulled through my fingers, my hands ached.

He was tenacious, I lost every thing. "Nooooooooooooo!!!!!!" I gasped for breath.

When you are left clinging to the corner of a doona and nothing else, the morning lie in is, pretty much, over.

"Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!"

I was left sitting on a bare mattress clinging to a bare pillow. Sad Face.

Good fucking morning!

And now I am off to Craigieburn, because my sister is caught up doing stuff and as she said, in the nicest sisterly kind of way, 
"It is, after all, always me making the drive to Fitzroy."

Welcome to the weekend.

At least the sun is shining.

Smoking Outside in the Street

Smoking outside in the street, who'd have thought that would get so PC, hey? Next to my current job there is one of those new, hideous concrete tilt slab - destroy the suburbs and make the property developers rich at everyone else's expense - 21st century blocks of flats. As a part of HR's induction jibber jabber about how the company works, the HR chick in charge of enlightening me gave me a run down on the areas you can, and can't, smoke around the company.

"Please don't smoke over there (pointing out the window to the street between the company building and the before mention block of atrocity) as there are sick children living in the tilt slab fiasco." (okay, I said fiasco, not her)

"Oh, okay," I said. Really? I wouldn't be heading into their lounge room to put my feet up on the coffee table as I light a durry. (The thought almost made me giggle)

All I could think was that I was glad that I had quit smoking, it is really nice not to be bothered about some things any more... but, really, are we going to be that stupid? I ask you?

The anti smoking lobby is really winning now, isn't it. The (idiot) public are really falling for it, now aren't they. You can't have a cigarette out in the fresh air at least 10 metres from any windows because you might affect some sick children. Really? Have we really become that brainwashed?

Oh yes, think of the children.

Don't get me started on modern day mothers, or their children. Inner city cafes seem to be over run by mothers and their noisy infants and, you know, you wouldn't dare suggest that maybe they take the screaming, crying, noisy little treasures home until they are, say, sixteen.

I know what I'd be saying to "the sick-child mother" if she hung out the window, mid puff.

"Excuse me, excuse me! I'm sorry but I have sick children up here."

"Oh really?" Exhale. "Is this just a general announcement? Or have you singled me out for some sort of special treatment? I'm not a doctor."

"No." Laugh. "The cigarette. Could you take it some where else?"

"Where would you suggest?" Holding it up in the air like a finger giving the bird.

"Oh, I don't know, just away from here."

"Oh really, for what reason?"

"I don't want it to affecting my children."

"Oh really." Looking around, as if I had missed someone close by. "Will they ask me for one?"

Modern day mothers, they think the invented the art form. Mothering, not smoking. They give the impression that they, and they alone, are the only ones that have been saddled with the burden of procreation, that it has never been more difficult or a greater responsibility. Children.

I'm not sure how they think the human race got to this point... but there you go.

I'm sure it has something to do with the "have it all" mantra that modern day mums have been saddled with. Super women. They are all super women, or have the potential for it, or should have the potential for it. And when they turn out to be mere mortals after all, they get cranky and stressed and shake and start with the unreasonable requests.

"But I am mother, I've given up my life to be a mother." And there should be this fabulous reward for my selflessness... but, apparently, raising kids is hard work? 

Who'd have thought?

Of course, that is not all woman, and we know how un-PC it is now a days to criticise the sisterhood. But there is a type. And I think the very existence of that type, slowly leaches into all the rest, to a point.

My mum worked full time and raised three kids, so did all of her friends... some of them had four kids, it wasn't uncommon. You never heard any of them complain about hard it was. Actually, never.

I'm glad I don't have them, kids. I, of course, I can stand on the sidelines and point and criticise the people who do have them. Naturally. I don't have to worry about who smokes where, or who is being reasonable. 

What do you call that? In conservative times "safe" is always the default position, reason doesn't have to enter into it. A mother will always trump a smoker, not matter how unreasonable she is being.

I'm glad that I don't smoke any longer, or I might be tempted to go and stand in the street to see if "the mother" really was so stupid as to challenge me. Thank god! Being a nonsmoker, I can just shrug and think, who cares. Being childless, I can point and laugh at how unreasonable people can be.

It's a menu, sweetie

Buddy Sniffs My Arse

Buddy sniffs my arse whenever I fart. He gets his nose right up against my crack and sniffs, cleanly. The unconditional love of a dog. I guess, it means I am part of his dog pack. Well, I think I am a part of his dog pack, but I don't think him sniffing my farts is a sign, he sniffs any dogs arse.

Sam thinks it is disgusting. I tell him it is a bonding moment. Then he just gives me "that" look, the one that says, You are kidding me, aren't you? Tell me you are kidding. I keep a straight face and stare him down.

Buddy and I just look at each other. Then Buddy looks at Sam, his tongue out, oblivious. Buddy, not Sam.

I think it is funny, sure I do. Sam, not so much. I do it on purpose, to get a rise out of Sam, sure I do, but Sam knows that is what I am doing, so it doesn't matter. Ha ha.

My Sore Foot

I've got a sore foot, my left foot, it aches. It has hurt for some time, since I went back to work. The Tuesday after Easter was the first time that I noticed it, as I walked into the city for my first assignment for the year, with Sam. There is a kind of lump in the arch of my foot, more like a swelling than a tumour, more like a strain than cancer, if you know what I mean. It hurts to walk. At first, I thought it was my work shoes, walking into town in them, but it seems to hurt in other shoes too, now.

Sam is big with Deep Heat, he always has a tube handy. I hate the smell of it, quite frankly. Oh yuk. He said I should put some on my foot. "It should make it better."

But the smell? Er! I don't like it. (I could feel my hair go a tinge of red as I said that) So, I got the tube of ointment and thrust it at him and then I gave him my foot. And a pleading look.

"Please, can you rub it on? Please honey, please? You rub it in the best. Better than anyone."

"Really?"

"Please honey, I hate the smell of it on my hands. (And I do) And you do it better than I do." (Puppy dog eyes)

"I do?"

"You do. And you don't seem to mind the smell."

So, for the last two nights Sam has massaged my poor sore foot for me. I think the pain below his fingertips is all the therapy I need. It hurts to make it better. It feels nice, of course, who'd say the opposite. Nobody, I don't reckon.

He's lovely, my boyfriend.

He irons my shirts. Big smile. I said tonight that I had to go and iron a shirt for tomorrow night. 

"I've ironed them for you, for the rest of the week. The shirts are in the cupboard with mine."

He cooks dinner most nights, he makes the food. You may think this is a pretty sweet deal, however, I do the cleaning up afterwards. This, of course, gives him licence to use every dish, plate and implement in the kitchen. I, of course, taught him everything he knows. Oh, except for the stir-fried noodles and the curries.

We both head to the supermarket daily. We never seem to be able to buy for more than one day's meals, we can't make that many food decisions. One night’s dinner is the most I can decide on. We need to develop a menu, a style, a house cuisine.

Still, that means the dogs gets walked every day.

Sam puts the leftovers in my red lunch box for me to take to work. I haven't had to buy lunch for the last two weeks. You've got to luv that, I luv that.

He's lovely, really. Lucky me. Count my blessings? Every day.

Shake of the Head

It is funny the things we do and we don’t notice. I headed into the kitchen, at work today, and I noticed that the, otherwise, silver coffee machine has a pooh brown stripe right down the middle. My first thought was that a service guy had been in and for some reason he’d changed the fascia of the machine. Really?

I wondered why he would do that? I thought, as I placed my mug under the spout and pushed the appropriate buttons. 3 cups nice and strong. Not too much extra water.

Fffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff.

I pictured the service guy, with his blue canvass work pants and his   coloured briefs around his ankles as he held his arse cheeks, pulling them apart, as slid his crack up and down the facia of the coffee machine. His dark blue cotton work shirt would have been unbuttoned exposing his hairy chest as he tweaked his strawberry red nipples. In a world where everything was fair and equal, he'd be sniffing nitrous... but, that just may be my residual Blue Velvet fantasies coming to the fore, and it may not have anything to do with the real world. Because everybody knows that the workman who rub their warm arse cracks over kitchen appliances usually sniff amyl nitrate.

Shake of the head. The morning come back into focus.

Oh, of course he didn’t do that, was my second thought, amused as I was with my 8.25am mind, just as strapping Karesh entered the kitchen stage right, and smiled, as he turned to me. "Hi,"he said.

Karesh wears his pants tight, so yes, I'd already noticed him.

"Hi," I said. Karesh filled his glass with water and headed back out the door. I watched him go.

Fff... fff... fff... fff...

I looked back at the coffee machine and wondered how I had missed the pooh brown stripe for the last week? Nobody has replaced the facia of the coffee machine. Ha, ha, ho, ho.

We so often look at things and don't see the details. We so often don't see the things that are right in front of our eyes. We so often don't see what is right in front of us.

It's a funny thing.

I drink my coffee as a double shot. I think about those girls in coffee shops who had dizzy turns from drinking double shots of espresso and think, amateurs. The coffee is bitter and full flavoured on my lips - just how I like my workmen - just as I like my coffee.

The morning slid towards lunch rapidly. You've got to luv that. It was midday when the head of HR came out and said that the system I was using was going to be shut down at 2pm, and he'd just remembered that I would be a problem. Did they have anything else for me to do? 

Apparently, not. 

Yes! wailed my still small voice.

I offered to head home early if they had nothing else for me to do for the afternoon. I tried not to offer too quickly, you know, not to be too keen to get out of the place. That never looks good. But, I was gagging to go, me, me, me, before he'd even stopped talking.

"Okay, work through to 2pm and then head home."

You've got to fucken luv that.

So my day finished at 2pm. Yay! The system I am using to update the org structure was changing over to internet based and it had to be shut down at 2pm so that the finer details could be checked before it went live. 

Ha ha, ho ho. 

I had to try very hard not to jump in the air and click my heals  together as I walked out the door. I'm sure I whistled.

Outside it was wet and grey.

Okay. Sometimes you just need a nice piece of arse. True of life, really. It's good for you

Cleaning Up, Living Life

OMG! Clean this. Mop that. Scrub it. Tidy over here. Dust over there. Do this! Do that! Wash the dog. Sweep the back yard. 

("I did not say..." He is reading over my shoulder, as I type, denying some of my claims. "Oh, maybe I did say that," he changes his mind)

It is Sunday.

Sam says we have to clean every week, scheduled, you know. It is something that has to be done routinely, or the world will cease to function as we know it. We will lose our home, jobs, and, no doubt, we will end up on the street. (I can only assume)

Really? All of that to be done on a Sunday morning. I took another spoonful of my Crunchy Nuts and returned my gaze to The Age (Australian newspaper) online.

Then he started singing that song, "The boy does nothing"... with very, very gay hand gestures. 

I objected and pointed at my laptop and I heard, "Does he clean up, no he never cleans up."

I tried to discuss this cleaning nonsense with him, and I heard, "Does he wash up, never wash up." Waggling his finger at me.

"Oh come on," I protested.

"He does nothing, the boy does nothing."

I'm more in the Quentin Crisp school of house keeping. You know, the dust doesn't get any thicker after 7 years. Well, I'm not quite as laid back about the cleaning as that, admittedly. If it looks dirty, give it a clean, that is my philosophy. I am definitely not in the school of everything must be cleaned every week to keep everything clean and tidy. No, I am not. And I can tell you, my Sunday morning will never be given over to house work... willingly.

But, Sam just started cleaning around me, giving me orders as he did so. Cleaning up around me. So, beaten down, guilted into it, I did clean the kitchen, washed up the saucepans, etc. Sam cooks and I clean, which has its downside, Sam is never backwards in using more dishes. I mopped the floors, put on some washing, cleaned up the dog shit in the back yard and hung out the clean clothes. 

And quite frankly, that was enough. Grrr!

But quietly, behind my hand, while Sam is looking the other way, the house is quite nice when it is clean, I have to admit. Oh fuck, it is such a drain to have to get up and do it, but it is nice when it is done. No, really. The problem is that as soon as we'd finished, we cooked rice and heated up the red curry left over from last night and the sink was covered in dirty dishes, yet again.

The cycle starts all over, and I never really know if having a spotless house is really worth it. Maybe, putting all that effort into finding the cure for cancer would be more worth while.

Then we took Buddy, and ourselves, for a walk in the Fitzroy Gardens. It was a fragile sunny day, where the sun shone crisply down, but with very little heat in it. Everybody wore jackets and scarves. The colours of the day sparkled.

The Fitzroy Gardens are beautiful in Autumn, I think it is my very favourite time for them. So majestic, so gorgeous, with a delicate multi-coloured carpet covering the rich green grass. Every tree seems to have its own rug below it. Every sharp edge is softened with a small patch of loveliness, with many, many "squares" of colour, like a magical quilt.

I felt like this beautiful tree was reaching out to me for a hug

A Magical Tree

Eating and Shopping and Walking and Perving

We were up to the cold and the rain dribbling from the sky, like wet sprinkles, a giant shaking his wet hands over the city, as I headed out first up to get wood for the open fire this morning. The chill had to be taken out of the air, you know. Lately, I have begun to think that it is an expensive way to heat the house. Usually, I use nearly 2 tons of wood for the cold six months in the middle of the year, which costs $600. My gas - running the central heating - bill is never that much, even for the whole year. But an open fire is always nice.

I forgot to put the dishwasher on last night and there are no clean bowls, so I put the dishwasher on first thing. And I have to wait to eat cereal.

Sam’s mum called, she had a girl from a wealthy family who is in Melbourne for Sam to call.

She said she will disown Sam if he doesn’t make contact with this girl. I think she is getting a little desperate now that Sam is in his 30's.

Sam called Charlie (who comes from Sams home town) to ask him what he does? I shrug and tell him I can't help him. 

"We had to tell our mothers when they lived down the road. You guys don't even live in the same country."

I was getting hungry by the time Sam was talking to Charlie. I say to Sam when he gets off the phone, “do you realise that we are not eating breakfast because we are waiting for a machine to finish washing the 2 bowls that we need for our cereal.” We both laugh… nervously.

I wondered what my grandmother would have said.

Not long after, Sam decided that he has to achieve something clearly. He started tiding and he started telling me to clean up too. He was ironing as he repeatedly yelled out tasks for me to do. But, you know, I was happy on my laptop and I respond by putting on Aretha Franklin and headphones.

At 11.30am, Sam announced, “See, it isn’t that hard.” I looked around the room and I had to admit that the place looked really tidy. I guess, it took less than an hour. It smelt good too, as Sam used oxygen bleach wipes - I quite like that smell. It is kind of baking powder, wholesome and organic. Even if it isn't, it smelt like it is.

We decided that it was too late for breakfast by the time the dishwasher clicked over to its drying cycle and the clock’s hands were bending towards midday.

We headed out the door for Pho in Victoria Street. Gertrude Street and Smith Street have be come foodies destinations in the last few years, sure, but who would eat around here with the prices the eateries charge when Victoria Street is within walking distance. Gertrude Street is the place to be seen eating, but sadly none of the restaurants are as amazing as the hype that surrounds them.

It rained as soon as we left the house. We headed back to the house and got umbrellas. You know that Sam has an aversion to getting his hair wet... like a curly-haired chick who has used a hair straightener. Of course, it didn’t rain again and we had to carry umbrellas around for no reason. I hate that. It proves there is no god, because if there was a good that wouldn’t happen, obviously. Well, it was either umbrellas, or drive? And I need all the exercise I can get. I need to walk everywhere I need to go for the rest of my life.

We shopped in the Asian Grocery shops after we ate. I stood on the footpath and listened to the druggies chatting to each other.

“When did you get out?” asked the Asian girl with the very shiny skin.

“I made bail on Monday,” said the toothless, olive skinned lad in the red shirt.

A second guy, a tall Aussie guy pulled something from his pocket, I think it was money. The shiny-faced Asian girl seemingly dropped something out of her mouth and handed it to the second guy.

“Are you going to be here?” asked the second guy, as he walked away.

The shiny-faced Asian girl nodded.

“Because I don’t want to look for you later.”

We bought Buddy his weekly pork bone. He loves them. I noticed the shiny-faced Asian girl had left when we head home not long after. How is that tall Aussie guy going to find you for his drugs later, I thought. Now that is just rude. It is just annoying when a drug dealer doesn’t deliver as promised.

We loaded up the fire in the lounge room when we got home and drove Buddy to the dog park.

There were some young Sudanese kids playing football. As we walked passed, at one point, one of the kids turned to me and asked, “Can he walk on a lead yet?”

Fancy him remembering that, I thought. “Yes, he can, he has got used to it.” Once when we first started going to the dog park, Buddy wouldn’t walk on a lead at all when we were trying to leave. On that occasion, a large group of black kids surrounded us and wanted to know what was up with him. This kid obviously was one of those kids that day.

I was kind of delighted that the kid remembered Buddy and I was delighted on another level that he was interested enough to ask.

I didn’t remember him, though.

It is football season, for sure. There were plenty of boys kicking the football around.

He played football with his mate all afternoon

sexy boy

Those sports pants fitted him really well

Good legs

nice arse

You can see buddy in the back ground

kick it to me

kick it to me

Oops, I think he is onto me

Happy Working

The people at my new job are nice, despite what I said about how sad it is to work in the suburbs. Okay, so Richmond isn't exactly the burbs, but some mornings it feels like it when I am trickling down Victoria Street behind some sodding tram... and all those useless cunts who stick to the ridiculous 40 kph speed limits like the life of their first born depends on it. 

"Move along you dopey twat," I often hear myself saying out loud as I am up their arse gunning my engine. "Get out of my way!"

However...

My colleagues in the office think I am smart and switched on and that I am helping them splendidly. It is kind of nice to be thought of in that way, I am not used to it. It has been a long time. Maybe in the first years of the black law firm, but certainly not in the final 5, or so, years was I ever thought of as anything special.

Of course, in the last two years Jack has said that all of the companies, except one - and quite possibly Stupidity & Co before the present one, with that incompetent, stupid Elaine running the show - have all give me good reviews. But, I don't know, it doesn't seem the same as a permanent role.

So why does the current role impress with it's favourable assessment? I don't know. Maybe it is for the simple fact that they said it out loud to me. We all respond to a little praise, we all perk up with some favourable light being shone upon us, hey.

Am I making any sense? I am sitting up in bed with Sam, it is midnight and he has a sore throat and despite it being a Friday night, insisted on going to bed. Of course, Nana Sam is always in bed early. If he doesn't get his 8 hours sleep, he thinks his head will explode, or his bum will drop off, or something. I don't know. The piano music is already playing, like the wind up music for acceptance speeches at an awards ceremony.

So...

I am rewriting the companies Org Chart, at the moment. There have been many changes and they haven't had the time to rewrite it. It is a multi national company, with branches all over the place. They are impressed that I could just pick up the Org Chart and rearrange the departments and job positions and management structures and do it with minimal instruction, or some such thing. I mean, it is just lines and boxes, after all. It is just essentially this one goes with this one goes with that, let's face it.

So that is me done for the week. I'm not finding full time work too taxing, in fact, it has been quite a breeze. The week has just flown by.

I think the manager was intimating that they may have a role for me when she gets back... which would be great, however... I just don't want to drive to work, even if it is only a 10 minute drive. I want to walk into the CBD at my leisure, not having to battle the peak hour traffic. 

When you walk your whole life exists at such a different pace to the pace it accelerates to when you have to get behind the wheel.  The roads and the traffic and the cars are still around you, but it is as if you exist on another plane altogether.

Am I being too fussy?

Jill thinks I am.

Sam hasn't commented, yet.

I don't know?

Sam's doodle, which, of course, I think is lovely. But, I love everything he does. He could shit on the floor and I would find it adorable. (He wouldn't, actually, feel the same way about the shit on the floor)

The Stupid Fat Cow Also Stank

Did I tell you that fat Elaine at Stupidity & Co has breath that stinks real bad? I think I forgot to mention that. So not only was she impossible to deal with, not only did she resist the good advice I was trying to impart with the intensity of a belligerent retarded child, she also smelt bad.

She wears those stretch nylon pants. And she has one of those arses that is big and round with the tinniest hint of a crack right at the bottom. You know the type, like a big circle with the tinniest line right at the bottom.

And halitosis.

Did you know the word halitosis, the name for the condition, was invented by Listerine. Actually, I just googled and it wasn't coined by Listerine, however the term was made popular by them.

I should take Elaine a bottle of Listerine in on June 12th when I am there next. What do you reckon?

Can you tell that I don't like her? Personal attacks are not beyond me when I don't like someone. I know, not very PC of me, bad Christian.

Nice Shorts, Now Can You Just Move That Water Bottle

Which one would you like to give a rub down?

Travelling to Work

I live on the edge of the CBD, so where I want to work is a no brainer.

Driving through the suburbs in the morning to a suburban office seems so low rent, seems so sad, in a sense. There you are amongst the surfs, the drones, the industry fodder. It seems so middle income, middle class, old fashioned. So unsophisticated.

Where walking to work seems so up to date, so 21st century, so stylish, so up market, so sophisticated, so cool. Meditative. Modern.

Driving in the peak hour traffic, at the mercy of the traffic flow, the trucks, the trains, the idiots driving slow, the morons who can't get out of their own way, seems tantamount to failure. Rush, rush. Stress, stress. "Get out of my way idiot!" A punishment. (torture) Assault.

And I only have to travel fifteen minutes to my current assignment. Imagine travelling 2 hours out to the boonies every night... and back again in the morning. "Sorry, sorry, there was a truck tipped over on the freeway. It was raining really heavily. Someone's head exploded." Oh, thank god that isn't me. Kill me, I'd ask. Beg. (Drive into the path of a train)

It is a mad scramble, driving, dependant on any number of things, effected by so many people, at the mercy of so many elements beyond one's control. It brings the rat race into your face, smash, wham. THERE, HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT? Arrrrr!

Walking is so fluid, nothing to really stop you, or to get in the way, or to impede your journey. It is a nice way to start the day, a gentle build up to full concentration. It does seem so sophisticated, now. Funny how things change. I'm sure the car was once the most modern thing. But now, to me, it seems like a necessary evil to be bought out only when it is absolutely needed. To have your working life dependant on it, just seems like the middle of the 20th century.

I hate working in the suburbs. (even if it is the inner suburbs)

The suburbs are a poor substitute for a city job.

What a spectacular yellow

Baby it is Cold Outside

Bloody hell, it is cold outside. Brrr! Summer is over, winter is here, for sure, I can feel it up my back as my t-shirt comes untucked. I have the open fire stoked up with wood and it is burning beautifully. The flames are orange and red as they lick around the lumps of jarrah, as they slowly crumble into red coals and then black ash. Hot. Bright. Colourful. We are in our warm bubble, inflated around us against the cold. The bulldog rolls over and stretches so I can pat his tummy.

The wind blows. 

The night is dark.

Buddy hears a siren in the distance and leaps to his feet and runs to the back door wanting to go outside. It is his thing, he has a delight for sirens, he loves them. I push the door open and he steps over the threshold to bark in the back yard. I was encouraging him to bark, to show the bitch up the back that dogs are allowed to be dogs, but the truth is even if Buddy runs up the back yard excitedly he very rarely barks. The cold wind hits him and he hesitates and then changes his mind and returns in doors... if he had a tail, it would have been between his legs.

It's cold outside.

Scarves and mittens cold.

Icy cold. It cuts through me as I head up to the back of the back yard to collect some more pieces of wood. Brrr! The rats still scurry about in the under growth, the fading yellow leaves still fall from the golden elm. The drunken suburban tourists still hoot and holler in the distance, in our streets in away they would never accept in their own neighbourhood, hopefully just before they step drunkenly in front of speeding traffic, as retribution. Clunk. Thud. To be returned cold and stiff to outer suburban funeral homes where they belong.

You know the types, who live in the outer suburbs, who come to the inner suburbs to party and to yahoo and to scream and fall about drunk and make the kind of noise they would never accept in their own suburbs.

We need to send them back to the end of the train line in body bags.

That's what I say.

It's cold.

I am on day 3 of quitting smoking and it makes me mean.

I came out of my office to this. Hey mate, nice look, I wanted to say

Some People Just Can't be Helped

The last day at Stupidity & Co for a month. The last day with brainless Elaine, fat dope, thank god! Until June. Jesus! Until June. Just four weeks respite.

She nearly drove me nuts, today. OMG! She is a complete idiot, she knows nothing… and sadly, she seems to think she knows what she is doing. She seems to think her way is the right way… and it just isn't. And she won’t be told, on nearly everything. And that is the crux of the problem. If she knew nothing and was willing to learn and was open to instruction, it wouldn't be so bad, but no. She is too busy saving face, herself, she is too busy trying to prove she knows what she is doing.

Sam bought my lunch to me, heated up by his fair hands, and then he took me to a secret place to eat it, so he said. In truth, it turned out to be a small square in Little Collins Street, just down from Queen Street. We sat on a seat in the sun and ate our noodles. He's lovely, my boyfriend.

I instructed Elaine on what to do, and how to do it… but she kind of argued the point, resisted what I was telling her. I helped her with processes, but she wanted to continue doing it her way, the wrong way and she didn’t seem to want to listen.

She is the type to blame me when I am gone. I know that, I can see it in her, I can hear it even before I have left the building.

“Oh, he wasn’t much.” Laugh. “And they called him an expert.” Another laugh, big eyes. She would be reassured by her ignorance, comforted that she was building herself up.

I ran for my life at 5pm, which probably won’t go well for me, for my assessment, even if I am considering asking Jack to replace me in the role. 3 more days in June, I can live without them. It would be the first time I have ever asked to be replaced in an assignment, but, Jack loves me, so I reckon I can risk it, maybe once.

Elaine just doesn’t have a clue.

Gay Derwood, the financial director, asked me to report on the company systems and to suggest where they might improve their processes, where they may be lacking.

Derwood Baby, the problem you have is Elaine. She is the problem, she is a complete dickwad. How you can't see that speaks volumes about you, buddy.

It was quite dark and felt like winter, as Sam and I walked along Gertrude Street towards home. I was exhausted, practically dragging my feet. Actually, quite the opposite was true. Yes, I was mentally exhausted, but the relief of getting out of that office put a spring in my step. I was scampering away from them with gusto.

Gay Relationships

It is funny that gay people, renowned for their cutting edge likes, beliefs and style, are now so completely tied to marriage, an old crumbling institution that even heterosexual people don't want to be involved in any longer, that it appears we are now in a race to be just like everyone else.

What is this saying to future generations of gay boys and girls? The only form of relationship is that of the monogamous heterosexual, the one that has serve heterosexuals so well. The only way to live your life is to conform to an archaic institution, which, if it works, is a great thing, but that is a big if. That the way to be accepted is to live your life exactly the same way as everyone else. The only acceptable relationship is an old fashioned coupling.

Are we becoming just like heterosexuals so as to be accepted by them?

 

Blowing smoke into the sun, I have always found that enchanting

Does Anybody Like the Job They do?

Back to work, tum di dah. It is such a waste of time, bum di dum. Working for the man, working for the machine, er, ah, oh.

Does anybody like the job they do? I know that I don't, not really. And it is not that I hate it, as such, it is just that it means nothing, achieves nothing, advances the world not a whit. It just makes a few high up execs rich, nothing much else.

I'm spending the next is 3 weeks in Richmond, helping out an existing finance team... Tuesday, once my few days in the CBD are finished.

Thank you Jack.
Kill me now.

Still, I guess, it puts food in red dog's bowl, (okay, technically, he is a red and white dog) gets me new knickers to wear and allows me the odd BreadTop bun, (odd bun, ha ha) (green tea cream buns, I recommend them) there is no denying. So, I guess, I shouldn't complain.

Sam calls me a big whiny pants... quiet often. Very often. I object to the slur, naturally. Who does he think he is? The other thing he says is, you must follow my orders. He says that a lot. He justifies it by saying he is the wise one and that I am the lazy self indulgent arse. Me? I tell him that I am lovely but, of course, he is much lovelier than I will ever be. We both know that. Sam is just naturally sweet. Handsome and sweet.

Now Sam in his undies eating green tea buns, with cream dripping down his chin and onto his chest, patting red dog... that's what I like to see.

Anyway... shake of the head...

... it is back to work tomorrow, yay.

The Loves of My Life

Alex, Leah, Anthony, Mark, Lauri, Luke, Josh, Manny, Sam.

My significant partners in life. Have I forgotten anyone? No, that's it. I'm good with my ex's, unlike people I hear about. I wonder what it would be like to line them all up in a room, in police-line-up style and see what they all have to say about me?

Alex is dead, I don't know how he died? The vice captain of the school and the captain of the footy team who hit on me in year 11. It was quite a cliche really. He went off and got married and I lost contact with him. One day, I am sure, I will find out what happened to him. I often find, those sorts of things come to me, often in the most unsuspected ways. Sexy Alex, lovely Alex. I would guess his death had something to do with the stress of living a double life, as that boy was very keen on gay sex, let me tell you.

I have a half planned out, somewhat written novel about our school boy love. I guess I should pull it out and dust it off and write some more.

I'm not speaking to Leah, she turned into a judgemental bitch and a pain in the arse, more recently, and I just decided that I just didn't have to listen to her any longer. I think that's what moving to Sydney to mix with the corporate elite does for you. I never told her that I was walking away, I just stopped talking to her. Last year she sent me a birthday card saying it felt funny that we were, seemingly, no longer speaking. But, even then, she couldn't help herself and in her closing, again, she cast judgement on my life. I am sure she doesn't even realise. Of course, I'll talk to her again, we were teenage sweethearts, we will patch things up and we will be fine. She is scheduled, at a date yet to be decided, to cop a mouthful from me, I can assure you. (as I probably will from her) I was a little beaten down by her constant criticism, I'm not really sure why now, but now I am not, both barrels are loaded and ready.

I'm tempted to get the Alex issue out of the way with Leah, while we are somewhat estranged. She was okay with me being gay as long as she knew that the men came after her and not before and I lied and assured her that it was true. But, it is essentially true, as my big gay sensibility certainly didn't happen until after she and I had split up. However, it has been a guilty secret for me, as we developed into great friends over the years and I thought it was something that I should own up to... on many occasions.

Lauri moved overseas and we don't talk much anymore, but we are still friends... I guess. The two of us have grown apart and he has a new boyfriend who I have always got along with on a personal level, but he bought that all undone with some rather unwarranted and mean criticism of Mark, someone who he has never met. As all of my friends know... well, not so much close friends, you understand, as they all love Mark... but the rest, if you criticise Mark around me, it will not go well for you. Clearly, laugh, it was a memo Leroy didn't get.

Oh... I'm not talking to Josh either. Actually, I'm not talking to Manny, either. Oh, and I thought I was so good with all of my ex's.

Josh tried to use me, bot off me once too often and we cut ties. Sadly, the final time, he probably really needed my help. But, he'd made a habit of it and that final time I said no. It was a classic case of the boy who cried wolf once too often. I only realise that now, as at the time I was very disappointed in him and angry that he would try it yet again. Pity, really. He lives in Germany now, so shrug. I expect we will never reconcile.

But, I will always be grateful to Josh, for coming into my life like a whirling, spinning mass of colour and movement and picking me up and taking me out of my long, far too long, sadness about splitting up with Mark.

Manny dumped me over the phone for Vinnie... as I watched an Anna Nicole Smith Special on TV, as it turned out. He called just as it started and I was a little distracted as he gave me the news... and I was slow on the uptake of what he was saying. I, rather unbelievably, asked him to repeat what he had just said, as I wasn't, exactly listening.
He called me recently, saying he and Vinnie had split up wanting he and I to get back together again. He called three times, I didn't reply to his calls. Ah, Manny, I thought. Sweet Manny, have a good life, won't you, as I deleted the messages from my answering machine.

Okay, well, that is less than a 50% success rate, in a sense. Anthony, Mark and Luke are fine. Anthony struggles a little with life, after having mental health issues for most of the 2000's, a direct result of the drug taking we all indulged in in the 1990's, but essentially, he is good, even if now he struggles with alcohol. 

Funny, now that I think about them all, they have all been beautiful, handsome, from Alex to Sam. I have always had attractive partners. I guess, Josh, maybe the exception, but, maybe, I am just being a bitch. He was, is, one of the smartest people I have ever known, though.

And, of course, Sam is the loveliest, naturally.

Cobwebs and sea horses

I've got to get my duster to this more often otherwise the cobwebs stop it from chunking in the breeze

Visiting Mum

I could hardly keep my eyes open as Sam woke me before he left for work to say goodbye, as he does every morning. He tucked the doona in all around me asking if I was warm.

“Can’t have you getting cold,” he said.

Kiss kiss.

I was so lovely and toasty and warm, but I was awake after that.

I came downstairs and had a cigarette (yes, still,  head hung in shame) and sat outside on the doormat and called Buddy out of his kennel, but he wouldn’t come. It was ice cold this morning and no matter how I tried I couldn’t coax him out of his house, he wouldn't come. He was buried deep down in his layers of bedding, with big eyes gazing back at me as I looked in.

9am. I thought about going and seeing my mum. I haven't seen her for a couple of weeks. I should, I thought. No, I really should, I told myself when it just seemed too hard.

Buddy wandered in at around 9.45. Not an early riser is our bulldog. I have been wanting to take him to visit my mum, but I just don't know if he would be calm enough for that.

The internet stopped working fairly early into the morning. Bugger! I've been copying my Bette Midler cds into itunes for the last day, but without the internet, it doesn't work properly, it can't get the track listings or something. Maybe the universe was telling me to get off my arse and go see my mum, I thought, again. Actually, I have just changed internet providers and it was clear that the change over had finally happened. 10 to 20 days they said the change over would take. I have no idea why that is in this age of instant change.

So, I headed off to visit mum. She was quite good today, chatty, alert and able to ask questions. We sat out in the garden in the sun. Of course, I did most of the talking. I stayed longer than I intended, into her lunch time. So I fed her her lunch, so as to let the staff attend to the others. I’m sure I could smell baby food as I spooned her food into her mouth. I kid you not, it was kind of nice. I have vague memories about her feeding me as a small child; vague memories, just snippets, rather than complete memories. The smells, the feeling, fleeting though, I’m not really able to grab onto them completely.

I feel a kind of sadness about my parents that I don't feel about anything else. (I have tears in my eyes just writing that) I fought back tears a couple of times as I fed her, looking at her, a woman who was once so full of life, who studied at university, who travelled the world.

The other day, I was talking to someone about my dad, and the tears welled in my eyes, so easily. My dad was a great guy, the only man who will ever really love me unconditionally.

There is a deep sadness I feel about the two of them. I realise that they hold a place in my heart that nobody else can ever occupy...
...and when they are gone, there is an emptiness that nobody else can ever fill.

I guess that sounds obvious, but I feel it now.

At least Lottie seems to be happy and cheerful and is not the one grunting, or talking to herself, or scratching, or catatonic, or calling out constantly, or finger painting with her shit.

It is, of course, nice that she still knows who I am when I say hello. "Oh hello, um, Will (my brother's name)... er... Christian." That's okay she has called me Will, um, Christian for years.

It is funny, but being called William... er, Christian was, actually, just the nicest thing.

Fun at the Pet Shop

We went to High Street to buy dog food for Buddy. We bought the twenty kilo bag of chow, with an image of a bulldog on the outside almost the spitting image of Buddy, and some red meat. The cute, smiley wog boy, I presume, son of the owners was there. Damn he’s cute. Great, Tom Cruise kinda, (okay, some people may be squeamish about the Tom Cruise reference, but I mean it in a good way and not a creepy way) smile, beefy build, good legs. Sam commented on the roundness of his great arse pushing out the back of his shorts. And quite apart from his objectification potential, he seems to be a nice guy, friendly and cheerful but, of course he works in a business so, of course, it is a part of his job. He offered to carry the bag of dog chow out to the car, which I almost accepted just to look at him for a little longer, you know, follow him out to the car. Ha ha. But I declined. It was an offer, I presume, men are supposed to turn down.

We bought take away Gr’lled on the way home. There is nothing like some meat when you have been eyeing off a piece of beef. Ha ha, ho, ho. We were hungry by then and it was simply on the way home.

Straight Boys

What is he thinking when he makes a pose like that?
It says to me, 'stick it up my arse, please.'
It looks like there is already a boy contemplating it.

The Sun Shines Down in Sparkling Pools

I’ve said, "Good morning honey" to my lovely boyfriend... by instant message. Keep chipping away at the walls of the salt mine, baby, I told him. 

I've just made coffee, cleaned the kitchen, filled the dishwasher and put it on, and patted red dog. It’s 9.30. 

I smoked j’s and rewrote my latest blog entries. There were some points that I’d made, but hadn’t expanded, although I had published. Too many, it was quite astonishing, the power of the reread. I expected my readers (hello to both of you) to have good imaginations, clearly. Ha ha. They extended out well, the points, not the readers. But, points are good, they lead to a whole lot of remembering, as you expand them. 

This last week, it’s like being on school camp, except I never smoked pot on school camps, that didn’t come until later. We didn’t have music, either. Actually, we did. I remember driving to central Australia once with only 2 cds, The Bee Gees greatest hits and the original American Pie, Don McLean. They were old cds even then, they are 2 of my favourite albums today. 

I had a shower and took Buddy to the park… Sam reminded, good thing that he did. Then I just finish the thing I am doing, and I take him straight to the park. Otherwise, I'd forget. I'd be saying, "oops," to Sam in no time flat.

…It is a blue sky, sunny day. I took my camera and a j. Buddy was off and running right from the gate.  I can just walk into the middle of the oval and pretend that I am taking photos. And sometimes I do. But, there was a Pomeranian, this morning, that just fell in love with Buddy, and wouldn’t leave him alone… so as to distract him. Fluffies owner seemed concern to start with, but he saw soon that Buddy does retaliate. He will retaliate in play if pushed, but never through aggression, that I have seen. (except at me) 

“Buddy, come on. Buddy! Now! Come here!” He didn’t listen to one of my commands. 

Finally, he broke away, and fell into his familiar gallop across the oval. 

It was a breezy, sunny, wild day. 

I took my camera. I missed the best shot of the footballer training. He turned towards me, lifted hid shirt up to his face and wiped it. I had my camera in my hand. I could have just taken it, if I had acted immediately, but I hesitated and lost the shot. He had been running, he was sweating, the sun was shinning down on him making him sparkle. Buddy was even running up in the back ground. 

“I was taking a photo of my dog, mate?” If I’d been questioned. 

To be so intrusive, it takes guts. So, I’ve only got a couple of him bending over. Nice shorts, mate. 

Um... ?

Er...?

Oh... ah... what was I doing?

I toddled home at 40kph. Straight, I rail against them, the 40 speed limits, but stoned they make perfect sense. Perfectly calm. I shift between second and third gears, synced with heavier and lighter foot on the accelerator, I never have to break. It is smooth, calm, sail all the way home I’m envisaging a Nina Simone sound track.


The sun shines down in sparkling pools in the back yard, as if indicating my path across the paving to the door, as the roller doors whirs shut.

2 blog days to write, good thing I have them mostly written.

Etta James sings Billy Holliday.

The sun shines in through the back windows. The day sparkles. I try intermittently to keep the mornings fire burning, it is nice with the cool air drifting in threw the back doors.

George Michael sings songs from the last century.

The birds cheep in the trees. I am currently losing the battle with the open fire.

Still no photos, but apparently the Air does have a card reader, upon further questioning, so we'll be able to fix that tonight.

The Longest Weekend

I had j's rolled, fires lit and music on, pretty soon after Sam left the house, at 7.45. It was one of those mornings where I am awake, bing, just like that.

I’m now bringing my blog up to date. Oh, do I keep writing it? Does anybody read it? Am I doing this for any reason? Should I bother? Is any thing I say the least bit interesting? Yes, at least it keeps me writing, it makes me write stuff. I'm aiming for a new blog regime of writing every day.

I have finished photos for now. Restoring the collection, but I have just completed one set of holiday photos. I still want to get all of the photos restored so that I can present them to my brother and sister and have them be impressed with my work. Our entire family photo collection spanning one hundred years. Well, they have to insert their lives for the past 20, or so, years. It is just on hold while I do some writing.

10:45. Sam messages and suggests I should take the dog to the park. So, I do. The crones are there, I see, as we stride through the gate. Buddy runs around the perimeter, his usual demeanour. It was good, I got the opportunity to smoke the j I rolled. There was a break in the inclement weather, I had to grab it while I could. If it had to be as soon as I got there, so be it. That does not show any signs of piggery, it is just good time management.

Buddy shits twice, just as I ready myself, both times. It is as if he is doing it out of spite… maybe, it is his silent protest against the new military regime of rules for him.

He barks like ScoobyDo, he just did the best impression.

I wander around behind the play, doggy owner play, (which most entails crossed arms and an agreeable look on your face) nearly with my left hand over my mouth. It is a fresh windy day, so the telltale odourless smoke isn't evident. Deed done, every last morsel sucked in, I head to the middle and ask the crones what they though the best pet insurance is?

“Pet Plan,” says the throw-to-the-fifties. “I don’t have it myself.” I love her style, she is like some fashionista lesbian golf play from the 50’s, she never fails to impress me. Dame Edna sunnies, a bouffant and a bonnet, that takes a true eye.

Who does have it, I think? Rachel said she didn’t have it either.

“Pam?”

“Yes?”

“The best pet insurance. Pet Plan?”

“Oh yes, Pet Plan. They say it is good. Medibank private is notoriously bad at making refunds. I’m with Medibank Private, I meant to change. I must change.”

She was such a Pam, non-descript mouse-coloured hair, mission brown jumper, beige slacks.


The rain started to fall heavier and we all decided that it was time to leave. It was a washout. I needn’t have been, but none of us had umbrellas, we conceded to the elements.


I make jam toast. I make jam toast with ridiculous amounts of butter and obscene amounts of jam, thick whole meal toast bread. Yum.


I get my blog right up to date, I even publish a picture for today. Something stupid I snapped, just right at them, as they walked towards me, just like that. I had the balls to pull it off.

I go to the supermarket, under sufferance, to get potatoes. Potatoes? I ask you? The humble spud, I need 2?

“You are just lying on the couch. You are doing nothing. I am work. I want to retire too.”

That is the major drawn back of being a stay at home pot smoking boyfriend, you have no comeback and you are, practically, open to any abuse the alleged, slighted boy friend can throw at you. It is hardly fair, I tell you. The average partner becomes a tyrant, power hungry with the free points they automatically clock up every time their partner lights up.

We had hashbrowns and salad for dinner. Sam cooked. I collected the 2 potatoes. Later, I get chocolate paddle pops from the shop. He tells me I am fat.


I smoked pot until 1am. Buddy sat on his mat all night.

Mark even asked, “How is my dog?” On skype. Cute, huh? They got home safely.

I can't down load any photos, Sam admitted that he broke the card reader.

Hitting On The Groom, As The "Happy" Couple Leave The Priest

Hey boy, you sure are good looking. How about ditching her and coming with me