Consult an Expert?

It was a lovely sunny 15 degree morning. It was a great morning to be walking to work, together. I have to push Sam along, he lags behind, as he is still complaining of being tired from last weekend. I call him Nan when he is in that mood, have I mentioned that before? I take him by the arm and keep him next to me, at my pace, other wise he falls behind just a step, which doesn’t sound like much, but it means I am always looking slightly backwards. You know, potentially, running into lamp posts, street furniture, dogs tied up on the edge of the footpath, and occasional, slow moving children with over compensating mums.

8am and I am in my office door. I bend my arm backwards and wave my fingers to my darling. Bye honey, I mouth, as he keeps walking. He purses his lips in a kiss, so subtle that only I pick up on it. Deer’s and rabbits and kittens and puppies, would be able to see it too, of course. Angels and goblins and gypsies and vagabonds, too. Anything so pure and innocent and free of spirit. The lambs, I laugh to myself. In my head, anyway, I like the non-confomists. I turn towards the lift and push the button.

The first person I saw was Mingy Van Wart, with her first lady bouffant hair and her Donna Reed floral chiffon dress, the hem of which was swishing around her knees, as the orchestra fired up with good morning music, as she pulled off her scarf and shook her hair, as though in a shampoo advert. The violins soared with her pursed lips and sensual expression. Then she opened her mouth and spoke and that ugly voice made a sound, and the music stopped, like a stylus being pushed across a vinyl record.

“Good morning,” she said. The “Good” came out all right, but the “morning” kind of like a Texan swallowing their tongue. It is the moment where the deer and bunny scene freezes and then shatters to the ground in a million glass fragments. The angel falls from the sky and the vagabond throws himself under the next fast moving vehicle. It’s a discordant twang in the harmony of my morning. Gang kechang ban!

I shook my head and wanted to laugh. I mumbled something at her like nails and blackboards, or Jesus I forgot that fowl tone of yours, or that’s made me skip my second coffee, or get ye to the speech therapist forth with, or please don't ever speak directly to me, but all she heard was “Good,” croak, clear of the throat, “morning.”

No nonsense Mini Mouse was in, but she takes up so little oxygen.

“Good morning,” said Mini Mouse.

I like Mini Mouse, she is no nonsense, down to earth, no shit, knows her stuff, I’d have her on my team any day, but then, she is a fellow finance person and not a wafly poffly touchy feely HR rabity yabbiter.

“Morning Min,” I said.

“Good morning Christian.”

“Lovely day it is too.”

Mini smiles. I smile. We nod conspiratorially, or maybe it is only me who is be conspiring and Min is just saying good morning and getting her job done? Do you ever wonder if you are nuts and that everybody around you are the sane ones? I know, it is a frightening thought, all those annoying people, who you think are morons, turn out to be the sane ones and it is you who is the person you consider everyone else to be? It is not them, it is you. I know, it is like waking up in the padded room in the straight jacket not remembering what had happened before that point. Sometimes I have mirco flashes of that, it gives me chills, then it makes me laugh. (If only I could be that interesting)

I'm writing my journal, quick as a flash. The sun beyond my office window glows behind the morning blind, in the very essence of lovely, fresh day, where infinite possibilities are on offer. What did I do last night? What happened this morning? And hour on my journal every morning gets it written so easily. No one is here to see me, no one cares what I do, as long as I don't fart, or slag them off, or tell everyone of them they are just sad cows.

There is peace in the gypsy village, the natives are quiet and there is an air of peace and loveliness. I think it is the stillness of the morning that I love so much.

Mr Flatline marches in next. I can, actually, feel all of the beige on our floor do a shimmy in solidarity. Every yawn in the world suddenly feels like it has a purpose and a hero. There is a certain vibrancy in the air that is killed stone dead instantly.

Then the rest of HR turned up like a gaggle of geese. Suddenly, it sounded like a bucket of wheat had been thrown into the middle of the office, rabbit rabbit, rabbit, rabbit. I could hear Mingey Van Wart massacring her vowels over everybody else. She laughs like someone getting a huge fright, or having a nervous breakdown.

“Oh thut really shuts me,” screeches Sibella Nasty. Loud and harsh.

Fran, Andrea R, Grittil, May Pang, Spanky McGee, all chatting away, like year 12 assembly, and almost as smart. Apparently the Ginger Super Model is interstate.

Actually, its May O’Donald, she married an Aussie. She’s my favourite, sparkly-eyed and full of life and doesn’t really give a shit about her fellow HR’ers.

9.01. I’m waiting for the text from F saying she is working from home, as our boss Paddington is somewhere OS. She told me yesterday, about Paddington and not taking the day off, so I knew a day off was on the cards today. When the boss is away and all that.

I thought I heard the Fffff, fffff. Fffff, fffff. Fffff, fffff. Fffff, fffff, but when I looked around there was nobody there. It was, perhaps, the ghost of polyester rubbing future.

The “not coming in” text came at 9.22am, as expected. Sorry, I am not going to make it in today. No reason. No excuse. There’s my girl. (I wondered if she stays home and masturbates? I guess I shouldn’t judge others by myself?)

I slipped my head phones on for a while, but really, I can't hear my phone, or hear the enemy approach, so I slid them off again. It's not what "they'd" call professional, I feel. The noise of the cattle yard is suddenly obvious, but it soon just fades away again into background white noise.

Mid morning, for whatever reason I have no idea, Mingey Van Wart screams out, in a tone that could strip paint from a wall, “That’s a little harsh!” (Look at me Tourettes?)

The irony just keeps coming. The whole world is turning ironic, which wouldn’t be so bad, I don’t think. We just need to get really stoned, or drunk, and then living ironically could be really cool.

She followed this by exclaiming, “There you go, you are poaching everyone.”

Then she laughed as though she was having another breakdown.

(It is funny writing this in real time)

I instantly picture the entire HR team up to their necks in a giant pan of boiling water, and, I have to say, it bought a smile to my face. Neck to knees, I don’t want to see any more flesh than that, hair caps, big glasses, safety goggles, I’m not really sure why. Steam rising up, a froth forming on the surface of the water, bubbles, like fart bubbles, escaping from underneath each and everyone of them.

I’d be on the tiled edge throwing my rope in for May Pang, who’d kick the other’s away from the rope, as they swarmed, with the strength of a kick boxer.

Of course Spanky, Spanky McGee, my newly dedicated HR girl, who is supposed to be performing all of my HR function, to free me up to do other things, has dropped the ball at the last minute and it has all been handed back to me. But of course, first week blues and all that. I should have seen that coming. So, I have been lumbered with a pile of incomplete work, contracts, which, actually, makes her help to me less than useless. In effect, she has caused me more work, as it all needs to be completed now, yesterday.

I just knew the promise of help was too good to be true.

Spanky. What can I say about Spanky? She is the junior member of the team. She’s just learning, wet behind the ears and all, so I go easy on her. There are things I could say about her, but it would be unfair, she needs to be nurtured and encouraged, she’ll spend many years with blood under her fingernails and a bitch stripe on each shoulder, as an HR epaulet. But not yet. Not thus far. She’s just starting out. Her venerability is still obvious, her insecurities not laminated over and protected.

Welcome to the jungle.

10.31. “So Andy?” Nasty suddenly calls out. And I just know her yap is going to progress steadily from there.

Don’t start Nasty, don’t start. You’ve been good thus far this morning. Of course, she may have been in meetings, as I am not sure I have seen her dough face thus far. Nasty ain’t fat, but she is pale, with a complexion the colour of dough.

All in black today? Mourning the loss of her credibility, quite possibly? No HR chick has ever been self deprecating.

OMG! The Ginger Super Model was just having a big birthday, fortunately that is not something one tends to comment on. Just as fucking well. I would have said she was turning 50, if not, I would have gone up from there. She just turned 30. 30? She looks like somebodies lovely old aunt, or somebodies grandmother. 30? I don’t believe it.


But what do I care, my favourite is coming over to see me. Ben Cavendish. Sigh. Cutie Pie Ben, with his thick brown hair, his stubble chin and his impish grin. He makes me feel all warm and moist. I’m sure I leak a little precum whenever I see him. He has an audit to collect for and he doesn't want to disturb me, just give him access to my files and he'll be happy to do the searching himself. I told you he was lovely.

And Nasty prattled on all afternoon, I’m sure she would talk in her sleep. I’d put my headphones on, but I was waiting for Ben to call.

Ben arrived around 4pm calling me sir and smiling. He is soooo lovely, he really is. I set him up on his computer without touching him, or anything. It was hard but I managed.

Ben left around 5pm. It crossed my mind to sniff his seat after he'd gone, that made me laugh to myself. I left work after 5.30pm, I took longer than I wanted to balance my reports. I had to take all of the terminations out, (That HR should have, but surprise, surprise didn't. "Oh didn't we do that?") I must have forgotten to send them to (name of person) last fortnight. I had to ascertain who they were first. Damn!

We walked Buddy to the park, but there was some sort of big bbq thing going on in the off-leash clearing of the grounds of the commission flats, there were people, and music, and a stage, and I am sure bands, and bbqs and stalls and did I say lots of people, kind of your Big Day Out meets your festival. Buddy was still keen to be let off his lead and he took some convincing other wise. We headed to Woollies.

It was a sunny afternoon, lovely really.

We ate chicken fillets in some sort of sauce, it was kind of red in colour, but I don’t believe it was tomato based, more your Moroccan spice pallet, if I had to say, at a guess, and zucchinis in another kind of red sauce, which I am pretty sure was tomato based. Nice they both were too.

I cleaned the kitchen, so as not to leave a mess over night. Sam so fulfils his duty at night, every night, cooking us both dinner, but, you know, I let mine slide to the next morning, sometimes to the day after. You can’t just let dinner slide until the next day, now can you? How slack am I? Letting the side down really? I feel bad. I’m trying to reform, I’m trying to complete my chore, using the expression that pads out all of my PDRs, since I stared doing PDRs, in a timely manner. 

I stewed apple, as I’d had the fruit, the raw ingredients, apples and pears, since the weekend and they was starting to go off, the pears, not the apples, and I’d run out a day, or so, a go, of the fruit mush, we call stewed fruit, that I put on my muesli every morning. Muesli full of sugar, they say now. Once muesli was healthy for you, but not, apparently, any more.

We watched The Good Wife. I do love the Good Wife. It finished for the year on an anticlimactic cliffhanger. Alicia closed the door on the investigator who, seemingly, floats her boat, or who she’d, seemingly, let paddle her canoe, if it wasn’t for all of the rest of the fucken baggage she has going on in her life… and we’re supposed to wait until next season to see what happens? Big breath. (Low, serious tone) Don’t you just hate that?

I went to bed at 11pm. Nan Sam went to bed earlier than I. He’s an early off to bed person, I’ve always been a late go to bed person. If   I go to bed when he goes to bed, I wake up at 5am. And now I hear that long sleep shortens your life. What is that? When will they make up their minds on this stuff? The experts. I thought eggs raised you cholesterol, but apparently they don’t now? But what about all the people who didn’t eat eggs, back when they thought they raised your cholesterol? What about them? And what about all the egg farmers who lost money, because so many less people bought their eggs? What about them? And now all the 8 hours a night people, and there are a lot of them, so many of them, we’ve been told since we were kids, they are now all going to die younger because the “experts” told them that 8, 9 hours sleep per night was good for you and now it seems that “they” were wrong, the experts. What can we all believe?

A succulent that is like an explosion of colour in slow motion

The Jacarandas are in bloom again

Gertrude Street, Fitzroy

Like Listening To Two Cats Fighting Under A Blanket

I woke up early, sometime around 5am, worrying about work. It was hot in the bedroom, so I got up and opened the balcony doors and the cool air seeped in. At some time, in the cool and calm of the early morning, Milo began to chew my exposed toe. I moved around under the doona and he played “pounce on it” games for a time. Until I heard his feet go kerthunk on the floorboards and then nothing. I woke up again at 6.30am, I tossed and turned and then I got up.

There was a line in my blog that I had been thinking about when I fell asleep, about smashing Sibella’s face into the desk (has anybody seen Irreversible? I am bad?)(I believe nothing is off limits for humour, it makes every situation better) and dancing around her workspace maniacally chanting, “You deserved that, you deserved that, you so deserved that!” Or did I chant, “That’ll learn ya, that’ll learn ya, that’ll learn ya!” Whichever. Pointing and shrieking and clapping and cheering. The bitch got her face slammed for being annoying. You know the line I am talking about.

Anyway, in this day and age, with the militant FemBots on the rise and anything that is not strictly PC being thoroughly frowned upon, because, you know, we can’t have anybody straying from the strict 21st century script. (It is working well thus far, after all) It is Verboten!

It is either tie a white ribbon around every lamp post in my neighbourhood, or remove the line, the feminist council has met and they are my orders, should I choose to follow them. If I don’t, I will, of course, explode in 10 seconds, as per usual for any man going against the sisterhood.

So, my first task this morning was to edit the said line and make everything right with the world.

I’m not at all sure why Sibella dropping down dead from an unexpected aneurism couldn’t, actually, be the outcome, but it can’t, the three angry lesbians on the council decreed it so.

(It was supposed to be funny, but sometimes such lines don’t read as funny, you know. Some things have to be said, they don’t translate very easily to the written word. They just come of as sounding a little angry. My buddy Antony taught me that. He is hysterically funny in person, but written down he just came off as the angry drunk that he is)

So amend the line I certainly did.

This took longer than the usual, allotted time over breakfast, so I was late getting upstairs and Sam was certainly saying that I am forever pissing around in the mornings.

“What are you pissssssssing around doing?” he said. “That stupid blog that nobody ever reads?” I know, quite hurtful, isn’t it?

It meant that I showered and Sam had to put the bins out, which is, after all, my chore. He was a little mouthy about that, but we met at the front door, me dead locking it and he giving me lip about wasting time at the speed of light, but it was a lovely morning, I noticed as I shut the front gate. It was a crisp 20 degrees and all was well with the world.

The trees, the gardens, the bushes, the flowers, the sun, the breeze, it was a lovely morning. Sam looked at me and said, that he gets to the office before anyone and he has to carry the refill for the water cooler up stairs “Poor, poor me.” He has to throw all the windows open for fresh air. It was what was waiting for him at the end of his morning walk. All the other boys he works with don’t get in until mid morning. My baby likes a little more luxury at work than that. All he gets is a bunch of boys in a start up. Sam is funny, he’d give a lot for some different variety of teas and some espresso coffee, but alas, he gets a keg of beer delivered every week, which just thrills him, let me tell you.

The first person I saw was Alex Clover, oh, other that Fat Guts Carol Brady who is always in trying to score brownie points, or is that fill an empty life, I can’t decide which. Alex was dressed in a tight black Bonds t-shirt and he looked all together all right. Not longer after he’d changed into, what could be best described as, a body shirt and he still looked altogether splendid. I’d like somebody to hold him down so that I could lick him.

Mr Flatline was in after that. 8.30am. He didn’t say good morning to me. He never says good morning to me, despite the fact that he and I work within the closest proximity. Do you think he senses my bitch? Do you think he feels the contempt I feel for him? Actually, to tell you the truth, I think he is so self focussed he wouldn’t even know who I was out of the work environment. I don’t know what he does? He is some middle manager of insignificant importance, except in his own mind, of course.

Sam text to say that yesterday was “the boys” gym day and that as per usual they’d left their solid gym clothes lying on the bathroom floor, which always makes the bathroom stink. I told him to grab a pair of their solid jocks to sniff and he told me I was disgusting.

“Grab Lachies (the young, handsome boss boy) I’d like to sniff the boss boy’s crack.”

“What?”

“Run my nose up the back of his nickers.”

“You are disgusting.”

I was only half joking.

Another crime against humanity, black mark against Sibella’s name, is that she calls the girls in HR mate. In her hokey New Zealand accent, what’s more. I hate that, pet hate that. Mates, or people referred to as mate, are always male. Woman can’t be referred to as mate. It's unnatural. I know some women claim the right, but that doesn't make it right. It just sounds odd.

Ironically, as Sibella started up her daily yapfest, Gretel, or as she says, Gritil, said something and Sibella replied back, of course, loudly, “Oh th’t would just shut me. I find thut sort of thung rilly annoys me so much.”

You are annoying, I thought.

She didn’t get the irony, that she was being annoying, being annoyed.

9.15. And no sign of F. I have to be really careful with my back to the walkway, as F moves very quietly, stealthily almost. There is just the almost indiscernible rustle of man made fibre on man made fibre. I can always hear her approaching, if it is quiet around me.

Fffff, fffff. Fffff, fffff. Fffff, fffff. Fffff, fffff.

9.30am. Still no sign of F. I’m sure she is just itching for a day off, but just can’t justify it. She is my kind of girl, sick days are for taking in my book, even if I haven’t taken one sick day. Oh, I don’t know why, clearly I am just not trying hard enough. I’ve had lots of time off in the last few years and now I just get on and get my sorry arse to work. I have spent the last hour writing my journal.

9.30am. Text from F, “same as yesterday, I’ll be in around 10am.” She tells me later in the day that our boss is travelling overseas. I guess that means she’ll be taking time off.

I’m going to get a coffee.

F was in at 10am.

Then she went and had a blood test, not long after she had arrived. I’m leaning towards hypochondria, for F. Don’t think I am criticising, I like people because of their quirks, it makes them interesting. She didn’t say what the blood test was for, but she had a referral.

I said, “Well, enjoy,” as she left, which made her laugh.

I got stuck into my end of month for November and got it done, out of the way, over and done with. No more lying in bed at night thinking about it. I completed it. I went straight into it when it didn’t balance and looked at the usual stuff that was out. Ascertained what they were and added them in and balanced it, without actually fixing any of the consistent problems. Done. I had it finished by 11am. Something I felt was going to be really difficult and something I’d never get done, was done. Yay!

And then, as though to tune right into my intolerance, Sibella Nasty Raspy and Mingey Von Wart, (Mingey is stick thin and has that permanently stressed physical attitude, like she never gets a decent meal. The sinews in her neck and her hands are permanently taught. She pulls her hair up into a tight pony tail, as though she just wasn’t severe looking enough. She has a penchant for cream and coffee coloured clothes, of sack cloth fibres, although today she was in a little black dress and heels, as though she was having breakfast at Tiffany’s) with her harsh Scandinavian tones had a meeting at Nasty’s desk, it was like listening to two cats fighting under a blanket, listening to them speak.

On went the headphones, let me assure you. Rolling Stones, Aftermath. I had a lot of fiddly changes to make across a slew of applications, so it was perfect. Take me away from them, Mick. You can hear the testosterone of a young man in Mick’s voice, the blokeiness, that, perhaps, you don’t hear any more. He sounds like somebody you’d want to have sex with, which I would no longer want to do.


Oh dear, back from lunch, and Mr FlatLine was on one of his epic phones calls, murmuring blandly into his mobile phone. He goes quiet and then he comes back to life, laughing as though he’d said something funny, however nothing he would ever said would be funny.

Oh, he must be talking about something personal, or confidential, as he is suddenly taking quietly and I can barely hear him. See, porridge, you can do it.

While we have an open plan office, we have sound proof booths for people in which to go and have their conversations. And yet, I’d be considered rude, if I ever suggested he go and use one.

He was on the phone for an hour and 25 minutes. How can that be best business practice in anybody’s interpretation?

I tuned out for the rest of the afternoon, listening to Stones records Now and Between the Buttons. It was a bit odd, I guess, but fuck it, I thought.

And then the day was over and I packed my things and said, in my head, if not out loud, I’m out of here, bitches.

I had to walk to Readings in Lygon Street getting there sometime after 5pm and sometime before 11pm to buy Lucy’s birthday present Bake by Alison Thompson, which they’d got for me from another one of their shops. She’s studying to be a pastry chef.    

It was a lovely afternoon, sunny and gorgeous. Sam took Buddy to the dog park. I met them there at the end of my walk and we all walked home together.

Carlton sun

Miss Raspy Nasty and Mr Flatline

I woke up at 6.45. There was an enormous roll of thunder. It was one of those bright, overcast, hot, muggy, wet, warm, tropical mornings with the diffused golden light. You know, the type you most closely associate with the far north, or the deep south, where men, with sticky skin and unbuttoned shirts say, "Oh Blanche, I luvs ya so." Blanche fans herself with a moth-eaten Chinese fan, reclining on a chaise in her faded lingerie.

Buddy went straight upstairs to Sam. I opened the back door and then went to have a pee and he headed off upstairs, which was not my usual morning routine. I made coffee. Ah, morning coffee. Yum. Sam soon came down saying why couldn’t he get any peace and quiet while he slept. I started to explain about Buddy but, of course, Sam wasn’t talking about can-do-no-wrong angel dog, birds cats, thunder, mosquitos buzzing in his ears, everything else…

“I had to get up in the middle of the night and spray myself with Aeroguard. Do you hear me?”

“No.” I love being a heavy sleeper.

Sam wore a sky blue t-shirt and tight grey shorts.

“Those shorts are a little tight, aren’t they, hon?” I said.

“Yes, sexy aren’t they,” said Sam. “I think I want to wear thongs with this outfit.”

“I think you need shoes to walk into town.”

“Why?”

“Won’t it be easier to walk?”

“No, I don’t see why.”

"Surely walking... " I stopped there, I could hear my mother's voice coming out of me. (Even if I sounded nothing like my own mother, somebodies mother is more like it)

Sam wore thongs. I had on a long-sleeved shirt. It started to rain as soon as we left. It was balmy and wild and the wind roared and the rain fell, in that lot of noise, but not so much action kind of way. So we were able to walk through it, eye of the storm and all that, only having to put our umbrellas up at the last minute, well, my last minute, Sam still had a walk in front of him. Walking in the eye of the storm.

It felt like tropical far north Queensland, but without the banjo music and the distinct lack of culture, you understand.

The wind whipped up as we crossed Victoria Parade. My umbrella blew inside out.

There was a cute boy at the lifts, who I couldn’t help but notice how filled he out the front of his jeans. (I'm only human)

We got chatting. He asked me what floor?

I said “I needed a pass for my floor.”

“Oh yeah, so do I.” He laughed.

“This early in the morning,” I said.

“I forgot how early it was,” he said.

He smiled at me. Cute face. “It was wild outside,” he said. Blonde hair. I think he wore glasses.

“Yeah, but I kind of like it.”

“Yes, so do I.” He seemed very friendly and as though he really liked to talk. Our eyes met. He smiled.

“That was until my umbrella turned inside out.”

“But you managed to save it.” So you noticed, I thought.

The lift got to my floor. I got out.

I looked back “Have a nice day.”

“Yes, you too.” He smiled. Cute boy, I thought.

F wasn’t in. I was hot and sweaty. (The weather, the boy) I turned on my computer, my clothes were sticking to me. I got my jug of water, so then I could sit down and fan myself cool with some serious paper waving. Long slow deliberate strokes. No one was there, no one could see me. The cool wafts of air were exhilarating.

I wondered if F would be away today? She was building up to a sickie yesterday, with the dizzy business. Is she a hypochondriac? Maybe? Or is she just fat? I should say unhealthy. Who knows? She believes cholesterol is a myth. (raised eyebrows)

F text at 9am to say she’d be in at 10am.

I went and got coffee, immediately, not really sure why. The cute boy from earlier was on my mind. I wondered if I’d see him as the lift stopped at my floor. One floor above, you never know.

F got in at 10.30am. You know, I like F, I’m very happy to be working with her, I’d hate to give you the opposite impression. We get on well. She’s nice.

It was one of those thick, muggy, heavy, mornings, grey and plump with moisture, like a fully drenched sponge.

Once HR had all arrived there was a lot of jibber jabber, but it was just lovely for the first hour and a half.

I ate stir fried veg for lunch and read the newspaper online. Joe Hockey said if he’d stayed in politics he would have pursued his enemies who’d bought him down. Really? Angry Joe? I am surprised. What a very little man. Fancy admitting that you are so spiteful and vindictive. Tony Abbott bought a second hand refrigerator from GumTree for $300? Very curious. Tone’s not leaving parliament any time soon, the psychopath is just deluded enough to think he could regain the Prime Minister’ship. Kimy and Kanye named their son Saint West. Oh god out of the way I want to barf! Australian’s are fat and unfit, but at least drink and smoke less. Woo-hoo! Some gorgeous photographed is going blind, all of which proves there is absolutely no god.

Mr Flatline personified and Little Miss Raspy Nasty both got on the phones in the early afternoon and did their worst, just rabbiting on for hour upon hour, upon hour. Mr Flatline’s propensity to talk is enormous, what is it that they say, empty vessels make the most noise.

I popped my headphones on and listened to the Rockmelons. Little Miss Nasty Raspy never, let us stop for a moment and consider this, never, think of this as underlined, I mean never, shuts her mouth. And Mr Flatline is like an incessantly dull conversation that just forgot to stop. He makes the skin on milk look interesting.


I just didn’t have all that much to do for the afternoon.

I started balancing my November monthly figures with my headphones on.

It was hot when I left work, really hot. The sun was blazing down. I didn’t go for a walk after work because it was just too hot. Yesterday, it was raining, today it was blazing. Melbourne weather.

Sam said the grey shorts he wore today nearly strangled him. I tried to tell him this morning. We drank tea.

Then the weather changed and the cool change rolled in. So I headed off with my headphones and the Rockmelons for a walk. The late afternoon sun shone down in long angles.

In Swantson Street near Melbourne University, I started seeing Why not? Bible Studies flyers stuck to light posts, the same that had been under the windscreens wipers of the cars in my street. I took them down. I came home with a pocketful of them.

Sam took Buddy to the dog park and I met them both there. We three walked home together.

We ate stir fried veggies for dinner.

Jesus Freaks and Super Models

I was awake at 6.45am. The balcony doors were open letting in the crisp morning air. Milo wasn’t on the bed, but he soon appeared. Kerthump, even his soft paws could be heard, um, felt, I guess, on the bedclothes. Kerthunk. He just kinds of flops down onto the bed. Pur, pur, pur. He rolled over onto his back and he let me pat his stomach.

I got up pretty soon after that. First day of the week. Monday again. Back onto the mouse wheel again. Here we go!

Buddy had just come in when Sam came down stairs and then Sam was cuddling Buddy and demanding his coffee straight up.

“Where’s my coffee,” he said. “Where is my coffee!”

“Here is you coffee, sir.”

Sam asked me if I’d heard from Luke about changing the Facebook post. I told him about Mini’s troubles, namely, she and her sister having to be protected from their deranged partners/ex-partners. Sam just looked at me like he had no information on what I was telling him. He shook his head.

“What?” he said.

All I could do was raise my eyebrows.

I only had a white work shirt and a pale blue work shirt to wear and Sam told me it was going to be 30 degrees. The pale blue work shirt is the colour that shows up patches of sweat most vividly and it always makes me nervous wearing that colour on a hot day. Sam told me it was going to be 31 degrees on Tuesday, so I’d better wear the white tomorrow.

Sam was hobbling down the stairs. I laughed, “What’s with you?”

“I’m damaged,” he said. He pointed to his thigh. (from Friday night)

“How old did you say you were?”

He laughed as he took one step at a time downstairs. I laughed as he hobbled out of sight.


We left for work together. There were bible studies flyers under the windscreen wipers of the cars parked in the street. Why Not? Bible Studies. Really, I thought, as I pulled them off the windscreens. Not in my neighbourhood, I thought, as I posted the fliers through the slot in the bin on the corner.

Sam looked at me.

“When they can guarantee me that they won’t preacher being gay is wrong, a sin, or intrinsically evil, I can guarantee I won’t remove their fliers, until then they are coming off.”

Stop treating us like second class citizens to up hold the beliefs you chose to believe in.


It was a nice morning, kind of warm.

“I must buy some more shirt sleeve shirts to wear to work…”

“You keep saying that, but you don’t do it,” said Sam.

I reached over to squeeze his sore thigh, but he dodged my grip. “What are you doing that for?”

“You are being mean.”

He laughed. I tired to squeeze it again. He slapped me.

I’m sure I hadn’t mentioned buying short-sleeved shirts before? Oh, maybe I had? Had I? I still don’t have them. I looked over at Sam as we walked down the street to work. He smiled knowingly, as if he knew the conversation I’d been having in my head.

“I only have one short-sleeved shirt.”

“You could go to the city to buy more.”

“Yes, I know.” I was trying to out smart him, but I don’t think I won that round. Grrr! Still, he’s lovely, none the less.


I got to work at 8am. Fat Guts Carol Brady was there, as was Fat Guts 2 and Boss Lady Fran was in too.

Oh yes, Fat Guts 2. I looked over at Nasty Raspy’s desk a few days ago and saw, what looked like a heavily pregnant woman resting her considerable arse on Nasty Raspy’s desk. But it wasn’t a heavily pregnant woman at all, it was Fat Guts 2 in a slinky black sheer halter maxi dress that was clinging to all of her multitudinous curves. The way she was leaning back against Nasty Raspy’s desk her stomach protruded like a whales head breaching the surface of the sea and for a moment she looked 9 months pregnant. However, upon closer look, it was just roll upon roll upon roll of fat cascading down her torso. It was a glorious display of not giving a shit. She will hence forth be known as The Ginger Super Model.

Fatty Cake got in at 9am. She looked pale.

“How was your weekend?” I asked. Sometimes I feel like Sheldon Cooper adhering to social convention with such questions. I, actually, have to remind myself to ask.

The dud car saga continued. She’d been to look at a Golf R32 on the weekend. She liked it, but her boyfriend, Julien, liked it even more, so much so that he bought it out from underneath her. What partner does that?

Sibella Nasty Raspy’s voice burbled on in the back ground like a halfwit. Yabber, yabber, yabber. Never stops. No, I am not exaggerating, she never stops fucken talking. I want to go down there and slam her face into her desk. “There, that’ll fucken learn ya.” Oh, um, did I, actually, write that? Oh, yes, ah. (white ribbons and all of that, now is not the time to be making such jokes, now is it? The militant feminists would get their flannel shirts in a twist over that hey? I guess that isn't helping either) [Think of Mini and what she is going through. I guess I never elaborated on that, now did I. Fen lost his job because he is basically a disagreeable sod and he got so mental that Mini found herself in a position with Fen's hands around her neck choking her. I wanted to know why she didn't leave then and there, but, as I wrote, the next time he made her feel scared, she left him. And is now in hiding} Of course, kids, what I was trying to say was that Sibella and I should meet to discus our differences until a mutually agreeable resolution is agreed upon. Big smile.

Apparently, now that we have lost a project, the office is going to be rearranged so that Finance and HR share the space more closely, so the empty section of the floor can be given over to a new department. If I said, "I'm not sitting next to Sibella as she talks too much, Sibella would be would feel aggrieved. And I would be seen as unreasonable and maybe even bullying, you know, in the current climate. Oh dear universe, don't let that happen. I would have no alternative but to resign. I mean, who do I go and speak to? HR?

The two things that get Fatty Cake animated are discussions about food, or illness. She went to her parents on the weekend and he father always cooks her stodgy carbohydrate laden meals, which she just couldn’t face, so she offered to cook. So she cooked salad for them, but they were Spanish influenced with guacamole and lots of lovely fatty treat additions. She ran through her menu enthusiastically.

I went home at lunchtime to eat my cauliflower soup with my olive bread toast.

I got back from lunch and thought Fatty Cake was out at lunch. I’d been back for quite a while when I heard Fatty Cake cough. I jumped, well, not so much jumped as rotated my head instinctively in the direction from which the sound came and looked quizzical. Apparently, she had put her head down on her desk because she felt dizzy.

She put her head down on the desk because she felt dizzy for about half an hour? Really? That is odd behaviour, don't you think? She didn’t say much for the rest of the afternoon, very quiet she was.


Fatty Cake left at 4pm, now that was a surprise. I don't care, not at all. People should take their sick leave, as far as I am concerned. We all do so many extra hours which means us the right to take mental health days. I'm just surprised that Fatty Cake isn't accruing them before she takes them I put my headphones on immediately, as Sibella Nasty Raspy was still talking incessantly, of course. She just keeps babbling on. Her ability to talk is surprising, shocking. I'm sure if I talked that much I'd get sick of the sound of my own voice. I would. Some days, I sit back and watch her, over the tops of my glasses and once she has stopped talking to one person, she looks around to find another person to talk to, or breaks into an existing conversation. It is mind boggling, I tell you. Oh, I so would. Still, the last hour cocooned in my own music sphere is quite lovely, really.

It was raining as I left work. I walked home with my headphones on. It was nice feeling the spots of rain hit me, like tiny tablets of life falling from the sky. I made hand umbrellas over my head phones, naturally. I didn’t go for a walk as it was raining, the drops had increase from tiny tablets of life to the universe crying down upon us. I stood in my atrium and watched the rain fall on the glass roof. I couldn't walk in that rain and keep my head phones safe.

We ate stir fried veggies for dinner.

I caught up on my blogs. I’m trying to make them interesting. I am still trying to make my journal and my blog one and the same. It is hard to do, as my journal is too rambling. But, I am giving it a go.

We sleep with our balcony doors open, it is the only way to sleep in the summer. The hot air of the day slowly seeps away into the cooled air of the night. It is fresh, it is clean, it is cleansing.

Cabbages

Sam loves it when he is doing the food shopping, you know, buying the veggies and I am, ah, photographing them. He gives me one of his looks.

Sunday Shopping

I woke at 6.30am with a headache. Milo was lying next to me, against my leg. His cute little face looking at me with big eyes. He starts licking me, seemingly, as soon as my eyes open. I try to keep him from waking Sam, who is only just getting used to the cat sleeping on the bed. Where else would a cat sleep, I ask?

It was quiet downstairs, the early morning was grey. I had drunk a few coffees by the time Sam arrived downstairs. And he made me one as he always does.

We drove to Victoria Street, as we didn’t feel like carrying the groceries on the long walk home, which would have been a longer walk today, no doubt. (It is amazing how the distance walked is in direct correlation with the exhaustion felt) We parked in the usual place, Park Street, there were any number of car parks there, for any number of cars, who says the inner suburbs are hard to park in, thankfully we only had one car, and most other people seemingly had none.

It was an overcast muggy kind of day. I wore jeans and wished I’d worn shorts. Sam wore shorts, he beamed with an air of superiority. I regretted my choice.

We ate Vietnamese spicy soup. The door to the restaurant was propped open, as the day was muggy and airless and when the rather handsome waiter guy pointed at a table in the middle of the room, I asked for the table by the open door. When he pointed at the table in the middle of the room, I asked for the table by the door again. If he’d pointed at the table in the middle of the room again, I would have insisted on being seated at the table by the door, but he relented and pointed at the table by the door. There was a breeze blowing and it blew against my back and was the perfect place to be seated on a muggy day. We ate spring rolls and spicy soup.

I bought Granny Smith apples and pears from plastic surgery’s grocery shop.  (We have nick names for the shops so we know what the other one is talking about when we give directions, or say we'll meet there) Then we went to Saigon Village in The Hive and bought the rest of the fruit and veg. Sam went into the shop, I sat on the chairs outside.

I started to write my journal on my phone, as the world passed me by, when suddenly a guy came running out of Aldi with a backpack in his hands, in hot pursuit was one of the Aldi boys. The backpack boy dropped the contents of his backpack onto the floor, a carton of toothpaste, it looked like the whitening variety from where I was sitting, which slid across the floor in all directions. The Aldi Boy stopped to pick up the stolen lute and backpack boy made his escape. The girl’s from Saigon Village pitched in and helped pick up the stolen merchandise. Who steals a box of toothpaste? A robber with a penchant for white teeth?

I had to shop in Woollies upstairs, as Nan (Sam's name when he's acting older than his years) was damaged, as he kept insisting. He sat on the bench at the front of the shop, “I am too exhausted,” and gave orders. He called me tree times while I was inside the shop. I bought bread, two loaves of sliced wholemeal to replenish the freezer, a sour dough and olive loaf and a fruit loaf. Cream. Milk. Chicken Stock. But not bacon, I forgot the bacon. Probably best.


We took Buddy to the dog park at 5pm, which, as it turned out, was the hottest part of the day at 29.5 degrees, or something like that. There were a number of short-legged dogs, Jack Russell types and 2 shaggy mutt types, and Buddy was the king of the little guys, being taller than the rest. He personally greets them all, and there is bum sniffing for ages.

We ate cauliflower soup for dinner. I stirred the beginning of it, the onion and the potato. I was stirring as the cauliflower when it was first put in, as the multitude of green caterpillars appeared out of their nooks and cranny’s due to the heat of the flame. Sam didn’t seem to think it was any great problem, none the less he didn’t like me calling it caterpillar soup.

I couldn’t help think of those guys in northern NSW and Queensland who’d eaten a certain type of slug on a dare, I know, who does that, who ended up brain damaged, as I pulled the chunks of cauliflower out of which green slugs crawling and handed them to Sam to de-bug. Euw!

Let’s hope brain damage doesn’t happen. I don’t fancy spending the rest of my days with brain damage. I’m not that convinced of life being able bodied and smart, to be in any way diminished would be unbearable.

This relentlessly awful world that we live in, where the most wealthy amongst us are happy to see the poorest of us being treated appallingly, squashed, maimed and killed, just so that the wealthy can enjoy pretty carrots in the supermarket, you know, some days I almost find it too much to bare. The most affluent members of the world’s society destroy approx. 30% of their fruit and veg because it isn’t attractive to look at, is really just one fact too many against the survival of the human race.

And the list of atrocities perpetrated by civilised society against each other to maintain their selfish, greed ridden, increasingly shallow lifestyles just spirals out of control from there really. Collectively, we should all hang our heads in shame.

It stayed warm for the night. The fan whirred in the corner.


I put up a photo of Buddy looking excited standing up looking over the back of the couch with the caption, Just told Buddy that Mark and Luke will be here in two weeks.

Luke sent me a message asking me to change the post, deleting his and Mark’s time table of being in Melbourne. I asked him why, but he didn’t answer, so I called him before I went to bed.

He didn’t want Fen getting wind of them being in Melbourne. There are still one, or two, people Fen is friends with on Facebook, and it was still possible he could see my Facebook post.

Apparently, Mini hasn’t heard from him and the police went around to talk to him, as he has breeched Mini's AVO again, and he wasn’t at their house in Point Cook. Apparently, nobody knows where he currently is. It gave me a bad feeling. I hope he is not on his way to Marshall (Mark and Luke's place). It is not that much of a stretch to think Mini and April would be with Mark and Luke.

As it turns out, Mini’s sister’s house was broken into by Mini’s sister’s ex-boyfriend high on Ice and he stabbed some other guy who was staying in the arm. Then he escaped to parts unknown. So Mini, April, her sister and whoever else have been moved to a motel until the deranged male ex-partners can be located.

What kinds of lives do these people live?

I headed to bed at midnight, after trying to make my journal entry for 3rd December interesting enough for my blog. Yes, I am still wasting my time on my blog. (Oh, I guess I should have taken that out for my, actual, blog entry?) I guess I need to make it worthwhile if I am spending a lot of work time on it. It was stuffy in the bedroom from the warm day. Sam was snoring, as you would expect.

Cool Mercedes 4WD, I prefer it in black

Lovely Saturday

I stopped around 9am. I came downstairs and ate muesli and drank coffee.

I sat in the lounge room buzzing, I could certainly still feel it.

Sam came downstairs not long after.

We both fell asleep on the couches and went back to bed around 10.30am.

It was hot upstairs in our room.

Sam woke me at 2pm saying he was hungry and he wanted to cook and he wanted me to come downstairs.

Sam cooked schnitzels. He fell back to sleep on the couch.

The sun shone brightly.

I felt out of it, buzzing, disjointed, calm and tired all at the same time. It was busy and quiet and fast and silent and fast and slow, all at the same time.

The music played. The day was hot. The sun shone. The day hummed. The day drifted along. It was another gorgeous day in Melbourne town.

It was a quiet, lazy day here at ChristianSamBuddy Central.

We imbibed last night, so we are taking it slow today, you know, as you do.

We seem to be now into the ghastly season of mirth, being December and all. I think once when the world was more progressive, we all used to have a healthy cynicism re Xmas, but now we are more conservative, we seem to take it more seriously, now that children and money are the new gods. I make a joke, but eventually I'll throw a peace of red tinsel over something and we'll get into the spirit.

But the sun is shining today, so what do I care. A few more weeks to the end of the year, and all the nonsense will be over, just like that, it came quick. Or, did I do lots of things, like get a new job, and it went slow? I dunno, I can't remember now.

My nieces 21st birthday, Luke's 40th birthday, at my place, what's more, Xmas with the ex-inlaw family, followed by a week at the beach with the usual suspects, after that. So much to do, so few weeks to do it in. And then it is 2016. Is this decade flying passed, or what? Is it just me? Or is it flying by?

We headed out for dinner, we went to MaMaNee. It was hot. Nobody was there when we got there, but that changed before we left. Some annoying Y gen bitch arrived and talked loudly so we could hear her across the other side of the restaurant. Sam told me I was just being whinny.

“Do you think she can here what we are saying?”

“No.”

“So why do we have to hear what she is saying.”

“Just relax.”

“If there was a knife on this table I’d go over and knife her.”

“I thought I told you to calm down.”

“I could probably do damage with this fork,” I said. I picked the fork up off the white plates.

We walked back slowly, we were going to go to the supermarket, but decided we didn’t need to stress ourselves so, and we headed straight home.

We watched Sybil in the evening. Two of my favourite actress’, Joanna Woodward and Sally Field. I didn’t really know that it was a true story, until I googled it. Sam usually hates my old movies, all my black and white movies, but he liked Sybil.

“This wasn’t like those terrible old black and white things you like,” he said.

“No, this is a 70’s movie,” I said. “There are plenty of great movies from the 70s.”

We went to bed later than we intended too, the previous night being what it was, as Sybil was quite a long movie. It was after 11pm, by the time we headed upstairs, nan was getting anxious.

Luke Turns Thirty

Luke turns thirty today. Thirty. 3, 0. Not 20, anymore, but 30, 3, 0.

He was a fresh faced 18 year old, newly minted from his 18 year old birthday party, when we first pulled his pants off and fucked him in the arse. It wasn’t long after that that he was talking both our dicks inside him at once like a fucken porn star. It seems like another life time ago now. 

Milo was very keen for some loving at 6.50am. Sam mumble something about him being heavy, which I think translates to annoying, except the next minute Sam is saying, “Milo, Milo, Milo,” and patting Milo too.

It was a typical morning. I looked at my laptop, Sam ate crumpets and strawberries and Buddy lay between us. Sam headed upstairs. Buddy headed upstairs with me. He lay on the bed while we showered. He went back downstairs when Sam did. Sam got my apples for me. No lunch today as we ate wraps last night. Sam watered the front garden as I got my shit together. We both walked to work in the glorious morning sun.

I was in at 8am, nobody else was in.

The sun blared in my office window, I had to close the blind again.

Pretty soon the most boring man in the world and the harping woman were assaulting me with their hideousness. He’d crinkled his breakfast food bag, talked on the phone, with the silky tone of beige and then continued to eat noisily. She just squawked away at the end of the walkway that joins her desk to mine. If I could wish them both dead, I’d rise to my feet and clap when their lifeless corpses hit the floor.

I was so going to pack my journal away at 9am and do some work, but F went to a meeting for 2 hours at 10am and I couldn’t resist.

This job is too much for one person? This job is too much for one person to handle, it sent Mazz running, Kerin screaming and caused Rita to be walked out. You know, I’ve spent so many days writing my journal and generally pissing around, that I am not so sure about that any longer. Touch wood, I seem to be doing it with ease. I always speed up or slow down to just enough effort to get the job done. No more, no less. I guess I should have been more ambitious, but I wasn’t, and that is that.

I went over to the other building and posted mum’s bills. I bought a coffee at the café downstairs.


I had to call Luke. I’d sent him a message on Facebook this morning, about him falling down drunk in the gutter after his 21st and chipping his tooth, but was that enough? No, I had to call. I didn’t want to call too early, Luke is not an early riser. I waited till 10.20am. The phone rang for a while before a croaky voice answered. He was clearly just waking up, drinking his first coffee.

“Yeah thanks… you…” he used his nickname for me, which I don’t share here.

“I was going to call an hour ago, but I thought that may have been too early.”

Luke laughed. “Yeah, that may have been too early.”

"Happy birthday."

"Yeah, thanks," said Luke. He sounded bemused. Maybe, just delirious from early morning.

"Did you feel the fortiness creeping up on you in the night?"

"Yeah, good on ya," said Luke. "It is a lovely morning, now that I look around."

"A lovely morning on which to turn forty."

"As good a day as any."



Mark arrived back with Sebastian, who had just returned from Japan, consequently he was speaking Japanese down the phone.

“Kon'nichiwa” came Sebastian's voice suddenly on the phone.

“So you can speak Japanese now?”

“Gomen'nasai, which is sorry, ” said Sebastian.

“What did you do to have to say sorry?”

“No nothing, you know how people say sorry all the time. Sorry for anything.”

“I do, for no reason too,” I said. “I always want to ask them why they are saying sorry.”

“Me too, me too,” said Sebastian. “We just need to tell them Fuck off.”

So it is not just me who notices the addiction to saying sorry. I’m still not exactly sure why?

“When my father comes to stay,” said Sebastian, “It is too much for you…”

“I don’t mind…”

“No, it is too much to ask…”

“No, I really don’t mind…”

“But, I do,” said Sebastian. “I do.”

“I see…”

“Can we find a hotel close by?”

“Yes, we can.”

“Oh good,” said Sebastian. “I just want o enjoy my time with everyone.”

“Sure,” I said. There were two I had in mind.

“I don’t need to be sharing my toilet with him.” I guessed that was an Italian expression. Sebastian’s father doesn’t speak English either.

Everyone is gathering at my place in a few weeks for a big birthday for Luke. Everyone is coming together for that coming event. Sebastian has come from Tokyo.



Sam text me and told me that I should have a big lunch. I knew what that meant. I told him he was naughty. He said we had a small amount to use up.

I went to the latest interns farewell lunch at in Brunswick Street, as I had to buy lunch anyway. F didn’t go, she had too much work to do.

I worked away all day, doing what I choose. My mind was now distracted.

I left work at 4.30pm.

We had our first pipe at 5pm.

I remember 6pm, 9pm, 10.45. It getting dark. We smoked the rest at midnight. I remember it getting light again seemingly moments after it got dark.

The Talkers

I got up at 6.30am.

I dreamt of us all milling around the doorway to an apartment block, maybe a block of holiday apartments. Dad and Uncle Al sat by the doorway, Uncle Al smoking a cigarette.

I made coffee for both Sam and me, as it was nearly 7am by the time I’d finished making mine.

Sam and I walked to work together at 7.50am, down Gertrude Street, it was one of those lovely crisp grey, overcast mornings.

I have stopped paying mum’s bills as I have run out of envelops in which to send the payments. However, as it is the 1st of the month, I need to pay mum’s twilight home bill, so I need to buy envelopes. I can buy them from the post office, however, the post office doesn’t open until 8am. What was I to do? Wait outside the post office for 10 minutes.

“Go to work and then walk to the post office,” said Sam. “Duh!” He put his fingers to his forehead, then raised them to the sky.

Yes, of course, I could do that. Go to work, set myself up, then head to the post office. Fatty Cake won’t be in, if she is in at all – she must be due to be working from home – I should be able to head to the post office and back without anybody knowing that I left work at all, so that is what I did.

The workmen working on the 4th floor were again trying to stuff some large sheets of wood grain panelling into the small lift and I had to stand there waiting for them to get it done. TUM DI DUM! Strum the fingers. Get on with it you blokes. Not a pretty one amongst you. Not even a butch glimpse of bum crack to make the wait worthwhile.

Ah finally.

Fatguts Carol Brady, naturally, (I’m sure she doesn’t have a life) and, soon to be retrenched, Jackie, were in. Turn everything on and then out the door again. The workers were still faffing about.

I raced across Victoria Parade dodging the traffic heading to the post office. I should have bought the new card for mum’s bank account, I’d only just looked at it this morning when I was writing the cheque for mum’s monthly accommodation. I need to pay all her bills, I’ll need stamps and envelopes, which I wouldn’t have to pay for if I had the card. I could always take money out and repay myself, but I wouldn’t have to do that if I had the card. I should go and get the card. It was 8.10am, Fatty Cake is probably not likely to be in in the next 20 minutes, I should go and get the card. So I did, I changed directions and headed off towards home.

The card was on the coffee table where I left it.

The post office didn’t have the large packet of envelopes which is what I wanted, only the small packet.

I got back to the office at 8.40am, riding up in the elevator with Andrea R, sensible Andrea.

I was sweaty from all the walking. Fanning is good after that. Sitting at my desk fanning myself with cardboard or paper. Shoes off.

Fatty Cake got in five minutes later.


I had Talk-Like-A-Demented-Parrot-Sibella squawking away at her pod nonstop with her nails down a black board tone. There is something wrong with her, she never stops talking, never. It is more than a double X. Either she is no good at her job, and she is faking it, or she has an inferiority complex a mile wide.

I had Jay-Austin-the-most-boring-man-in-the-world talking with his nonstop monotonous, incessant phone speak hum grinding away nonstop to my left. The man could replace sedatives. He is the embodiment of flat line. He paces backwards and forwards speaking on the phone, as if standing still just wasn’t annoying enough.

The two most boring voices met at my desk in a harmonic that could melt toxic waste, so thanks to lovely Sam, I had my head phones to pop on.



Some people really like to talk,

They must think

they are interesting,

Or important, or something.

Sadly the incessant talkers are

Rarely any of those things,

And deep down, I think,

They know it.

So do the rest of us a favour

And get therapy,

Stop making us all pay

For the infrequency

of you mother’s touch,

or the absence

of your father’s love.

Heal yourselves,

And Stop taking us all daily

On your mindless journey.


I worked away on stuff, autonomously. I do what I like, Fatty Cake never questions me. I finally got my super balanced and up to pay. Oh the pain. I never thought I’d get it finished.

If I didn’t have that, I’d probably have Novembers one done today, instead of having to do it tomorrow.


Mark called to say Mini had left Fen (Mark's son) and that Fen was now raging against the world.

“Be careful if he turns up at your place,” said Mark.

“I doubt that.”

“I know,” said Mark. “But it is good to know.”

I agreed.

Apparently, Mini told herself that if Fen made her feel scared again she’d leave. Last night he did, so she left, when he was dosing on the couch. She said to April,

“Mummy left something in the car, come out and get it with me.” April fortunately followed. Mini got in the car and drove off.

Soon enough, Fen started texting asking where they were. Then he called and started abusing her over the phone, screaming at her threatening her. As it turned out, Mini was at the police station and she handed the phone to the Sergeant and Fen continued to scream at him, thinking he was still talking to Mini. When he was done, the sergeant told Fen either he comes down to the police station, or they would come and get him. Fen went down to the police station where he was told that Mini had taken out an AVO on him. Fen broke the AVO by texting Mini telling her he was going to kill her, consequently he had to go to court today and they let him off with a warning. Apparently, with AVOs they let you off with warnings for the first few breaches. Meanwhile Mini lives in fear. She has gone to stay with her sister, who has just moved and Fen doesn’t know where the sister has moved to.

The saga of the mental stepson continues. Apparently, he has been importing steroids from Thailand and injecting his own special mix in the ten years I have been estranged from him, so nothing has changed.

I’m glad Mark and Luke live so far away while this is happening.


I went for a walk for an hour after work. I made sure the back door was locked before I left. I started to feel a bit hungry by the time I was three quarters of the way around. My bladder began to speak to me as I neared home. Sam called me again from the dog park as I was coming up my street to home.

“Come to the dog park,” he said.

“I really need a piss though.”

“Find somewhere,” Sam said.

I cut through down Greaves Street and found a lane, off which I found another lane. There are always obscured lanes in Fitzroy if you hunt them out and swinging my other face around, I took a piss. They are always the longest pisses in the world, those nervous pisses, in laneway up against a wall. I felt better, as I crossed over George Street and headed down Charles Street to the dog park.

There was a Pug and a Pekinese, with a crew cut called Theo, harassing dogs like a little team of thugs. Too cute they were, as they jumped all over the bugger dogs. The white Border Collie was there. And everybody loves Junior.

“Bulldogs are so charismatic,” said the overly friendly chatty lady.. I know, I thought. It brings a small smile to my mouth when I hear it though.

We ate chicken wraps for dinner.

Sam had been to the Dick Smith Sale. He’d bought 2 tablets, of varying sizes, another phone, I have no idea why and a small Cannon camera. He really needs to be supervised when there is a gadget sale. The camera was for me, $99. It is 12 megapixels and can down load images wirelessly to my laptop. I thought it would be a waste, as I only ever use my phone, but maybe not.

Jack Comes Out To His Dad David

Jack thought it was good to be home. He needed time to think. He needed time to debrief. He was hoping his mum was home, she and he have always been able to talk about anything.

The house was quiet. The front door slammed behind him, it just slipped out of his hand, maybe he wasn't concentrating. It mad him jump.

"Hon, is that you," said David, Jack's father.

"No dad, it is me."

"In here," said David. "I'm in the family room."

Jack found his father sitting in a chair reading. His father looked up.

"How are you?"

"Yeah... good." Jack wasn't sure how he felt. Amazing. Sore. Incredible. Tired. He hadn't slept.

David got out of his chair. "You sure?"

"Yes." He tried to look normal, however that looked.

"You're okay?"

Did it show, Jack thought. He hesitated. "Yes... sure." His voice squeaking on yes didn't help.

His dad reached out and tousled his hair. "What's up?"

Jack dodged his father's hand. "What do you mean?"

"You stay out last night."

"I was at a friend's"

"You look... ?" His father looked him in the eye. "Have you slept?"

"Huh?" What did his father see?

His father shrugged. "If you don't want to tell me."

"What?"

"Since you were a little boy, Jack, I know..."


"Dad, I had sex for the first time." It just came out. Jack wasn't at all sure he meant to say it.

"Well... well done, son... isn't... it... amazing." David smiled at his son, as if to say that is my boy.

Jack felt nervous. "Yes, dad it was amazing."

"Come and sit next to me, Jack, and we can talk about it."

Jack grimmaced, even he could feel it, his face crease in the wrong direction. 

"What?" asked his dad. 

"What?" Jack could feel his face flush bright red.

"Somethings up?"

"What?" Was it written across his face, thought Jack.

"Tell me." His dad looked hurt by his son's clear omission.

"I'm having trouble sitting at the moment, dad, my arse hurts." 

"Oh?" His father's eyes widened. He was clearly take a back. "Oh!" He stammered. He opened and closed his mouth. Jack thought his father was doing a very good impression of a fish. "Well?"... "Oh? I see. How was that, um, for you?"

Jack thought his dad was doing well. "Do you really want to know?"

"Well... yeeessss. Yes, I do."

"It hurt like hell, to start with," said Jack. "But... then... you know, it was good. It was great." Jack could feel his face crease into a broad smile. "You know, really great."

"And who was the..." His dad blushed.

"The boy?"

"Yes, the... young... man?" asked David. "Was it Blake?"

"Blake?" Jack's best mate. "No!"

"What's wrong with Blake?

"Blake's my buddy."

"I always thought..."

"Me and Blake?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Do I know him?"

"No, dad, you don't know him?"

"Are we going to get to meet him, your mother and I?"

Jack couldn't stifle the laugh he was now feeling. How far away from where he'd just come was he now. Doof, doof, doof, the music was still in his ears. The taxi ride. The snatched glimpses. The hand holding, for the first time. The joint to calm both their nerves.

"What?" His dad sounded hurt.

"Nothing..."

"Don't say nothing?"

"Everything..."

"I'm not really following?"

"You're great... dad?"

David smiled.

"Thanks."

"Thanks?"

"For being so understanding."

"I'm not sure I was..."

"You were..."

"Jack, you are my son, I love you no matter what you do."

Jack could feel tears coming to his eyes, and he didn't want to cry. "Is there anything you want to know?" he said, more as a distraction that anything else.

"Um... were you safe?"

"Yes, dad."

"And... so, you like... it... um..."

"What?" What was he talking about?

"You know."

"No, I don't." Do I like boys, clearly I do.

"Your sore arse, Jack."

"Do I like it?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

There was silence.

"Well, you know," said Jack, filling the silence. "You've got to try everything."

David grabbed Jack in his arms. He patted his son's hair. "I love you mate."

Jack always felt safe in his father's arms, even still, even at this age. He thought he was going to cry, again, but he didn't.

I Shouldn't Say This.... Somewhere Off Screen a Disgruntled Voice Calls, Well Don't!

Milo was cuddled up to me as I lay awake in bed. It was 6.45am. A good time to wake up.

It was a sunny morning, the birds chirped, screeched, in the gum tree in the back yard.

Sam is working from home today, he tells me.

“Why are you working from home today?”

“To do work for [name of private client].”

“See, it just proves my point that people working from home are not working.”

Sam gave me a coy look. I went to kiss him goodbye, but Buddy, who was between us, jumped up and got in the way, as he is want to do.

First day of summer, I can already feel the dreaded heat. The sun is hot behind my office window again. Ah summer, be kind, not too hot. I love a mild summer, yes I do.

F was in just before 9am.

She told a racially charged joke about Aboriginals, I would never say something like that. One of our Aboriginal staff with who we have had trouble regarding their pay details, who has consequently over paid, mostly because useless managers couldn’t get their details correct.

F said, “I shouldn’t say this, however, (laugh) [usually when somebody starts off what they are saying with, I shouldn’t say this, I want to say, well don’t] Being overpaid would make him a hero in his community.”

I was taken aback. Oh? I thought. I had no reply. I couldn’t even laugh away our collective embarrassment on that one.

It may appear that I am blunt and loose with what I say, but I am not bigoted in what I say. Sure, I might criticise the stupid people, but they come in all shapes and colours and there are so many of them. It may appear that I say sexist things about woman, but that’s because I work with women, and I am just talking about the people I work with. I don’t tend to talk about the smart ones, I guess I should. I would never tell a racist joke, I just don’t really think that way. I’d tell a gay joke, if it was funny, but then, I am allowed to tell them.

I came home at lunchtime and had Thai Red Curry with Sam. He text me when it was ready. It was lovely. He cooks good food, my boyfriend. I walked back to work with a full tummy.

We got everything done, naturally and I left at 5.45pm.

I went for a walk for an hour after work. It was cold and threatened to rain the whole time. I text Sam to tell him. He replied, Walk Faster. Sam took Buddy to the dog park. He text me that it was cold. I don’t think he believes me when I text him the same thing when I am out walking, I think that he thinks I am making excuses not to walk.

We ate fried rice for dinner. Yum, yum. Two great meals today from chef Sam. He’s funny, he always says to me when Mark and Luke are here, What should I cook? He needn’t worry, he can cook anything out of his repertoire, it is all pretty good.