Awful People

We go for an early morning walk, me and Bud. He’s in rehab for his leg, which is going well, all better really. And I’ve been feeling really stressed lately, not really sure why, oh you know, life isn’t getting any longer, so a morning stroll in the sunshine seemed like a good thing.

We’re on our way back. And we’re walking down Smith Street crossing over Condell Street with Buddy in front, when a woman in a black BMW 4WD drives up as if she is going to turn into Condell Street. She immediately has a go at me for walking Buddy in front of her car, waving her hands about and pointing from Buddy to me, her mouth yapping, which fortunately I couldn’t hear, quite irrespective of the fact that we were crossing Condell Street before she got there, or that, actually, the road laws are that cars give way to pedestrians.

But really, the main point here is that Condell Street is no entry and one way going the wrong way for what she wanted to do.

Oh, er, I think.

She turns up Condell Street and accelerates up to the car park just up Condell Street a bit and all I can think is, oh bring on climate change. Euw!

Seriously, some people are just too awful.

Then I wonder if it is me, am I the negative one? Do I somehow attract these fuckwits? I seem to be the common denominator in all of my own negative stories, after all. 😬

Buddy trots on oblivious. Oh, to have his simple life.

Still, the sun is shining. 

I must learn to laugh at these people. “Ha ha!”

 

Oh, I should write about nice things, I know. You’ve got to find the drama in it though, I guess, all my writing tutors told me so.

La vie en rose? We're all in the gutter, but some of us are looking to the stars.

Look, Half a Police Car

Don't They Say The Police Have The best Drugs?

Seriously, what would be the reason for a police car to be left like this?

Astonishingly Blue Sky

Perfect blue Sky. I was trying to get the palm trees with that shot... it didn't quite work out how I thought it would, still, it is a lovely shot of the blue sky.

Sunday

5:40am. Mr fuzzy face wakes me up from a deep sleep. I could slap him, seriously. I tried to ignore him, but he gets up on the side of the bed again and whacks me with his paw. Grrrr! I get up. I’d hate for this to be the morning that he really does need to go out for a piss. This morning he did need to go out for a piss, he dashed out the back door and up the back of the yard. I want him to wake me if he really needs to go, of course. But so often he gets down stairs and just sits and looks at me as if to say, it’s nice down here, hey?

We both have a piss and then lie on the couch together. He takes up far more of the couch than I would have given him.

The birds are singing outside, a cacophony of bird sound. 

I watched Turned Out: Sexual Assault Behind Bars on YouTube, as [favourite car YouTuber] hadn’t posted as yet. The boys were very open about their prison sex. I mean, very open. Lock them away with no women and suddenly they fancy each other something chronic.

7.30am. Sam was up.

I start watching [favourite car YouTuber] when Sam reminds me that we have to walk the dogs to Aldi and then get into the city early to get our hair cut hopefully beating the hairdresser queue. (Remembering yesterday)

8.40am. We walk the dogs to Aldi.

The sun is shining down and it is quite hot, bright and summery. The footpath stretches out in front of us, kind of shimmery in the bright morning sun. Morning shadows contrasting sharply with the silvery concrete.

It was Buddy's first walk since his recovery from a sore leg. The vet did say rest Buddy for a week, on Thursday, but it’s a short walk to the supermarket. And he did the injury last Saturday. And he's been wanting to go out the front door for a walk, which is kind of unusual for him to want to do.

Of course, that didn’t stop the two of us suddenly regretting our decision halfway down Smith Street to the shops. We both kind of decided at the same time that perhaps we'd done the wrong thing, and we halved the distance we were gonna walk.

The sun shone brightly it was really warm for 8.30am in the morning, really nice though, actually, summery, blue sky not a cloud in the sky, everybody is out about in shorts and t-shirts.

People are out getting coffee, waiting in groups outside the coffee houses, houses? Cafes. Buddy, of course, wants to say hello to all of them, and generally they’re quite captivated by Buddy being off his lead and all. He just loves people, he loves to say hello and, he just stands next to them and looks up as if to say pat me, I’m cute.

8.58am. We’re at Woolies. The shorter walk. Buddy, Brun and I wait while Sam shops. I watch the world go by from my vantage point.

It never ceases to amaze me how pedestrians won’t claim their right of way to cars when they’re crossing at a side street intersection. I guess it’s all part of the “isn’t life scary” phenomena. Make cars give way to you people, then you’re making it safer for everybody else, in the long run.

9:20 am. We are walking home.

A boy on a scooter with tiny shorts and great legs with the tiny shorts seemingly ridden all the way up his patootie zips out of the side street with what looks like a food delivery. Do people have breakfast delivered, I think? Of course, it is Sunday.

We drop off the food and the dogs and head back out the door.

9.45am. We walk into the city for haircuts. We are leaving early so there is less of a queue to wait in. Or no queue at all.

The sun is hot, it’s hot walking in it. The sky is a flawless blue.

The jacarandas are out, beautiful blue.

Sam walks 20 metres in front of me like he is ashamed to be seen with me as we walk down a deserted little Burke Street. I shouldn’t feel hurt by it, I know, often he was just walks ahead always somewhere in the distance. He says it’s because I am always typing shit into notes on my phone.

There is a guy nearly on the corner of Russell Street and Little Bourke, who has the reddest face of anyone I’ve ever seen, he is staggering, he can barely stand up, he looks at me and he says, “Keep it moving.”

“You should go home mate,” I say. I don’t stop and wait for his reaction. The state he was in, he really needed a friend to put him in a taxi.

Sam & I catch up at the hairdresser, there is a sign on the door that says, “We are closed Sunday.” Dam it! We both just look at each other, big eyes. We try not to... er... smile. This was the whole point of...

We walk up Bourke Street to JB HiFi. There is nothing I want, (I just want a haircut) and we leave fairly soon.

Sam is hungry wanting breakfast, so we go to Bread Top. “Nothing for you,” says Sam. (I've already had breakfast, of course) I get a pineapple bun, he gets two savoury buns.

10.27am. We sitting at McDonalds cnr Burke Street and Russell Street eating Bread Top at McDonald’s outside tables. Oh, I know, bad us. Oh, who cares it is McDonalds and other than us the tables are empty.

After we have eaten, we head up Bourke Street.

(I was dictating my journal as I followed Sam up Bourke Street, and my dictation picked this up) “Oh that’s nothing but trouble.” A bunch of boys all dressed alike, in white t-shirts and black shorts, on the tram stop in the centre of Bourke Street. They are yahooing and messing about with each other. (At least two of them would be blind drunk by the end of the night and jerking each other off, in my mind. Neh? What can I say?)

 

At the top of Bourke Street there are a handful of protesters staking out parliament house. Apparently, there is another protest today.

Oh wow! The stupid people are gathering together again for another protest, the reason for which nobody really seems to know. (We just don’t lyk it! Somfink? Ah, Freedom! Er! You can’t tell me anyfing!) It is a procession of look-at-us, look-at-us, look how dumb we all really fucken are. 

If you head into the city it is like going for a look at the zoo, although more reminiscent of Mad Brun than Toronga Park. 

They head down Bourke Street a veritable Dumb As A Box Of Rocks bus and truck tour of the CBD, chanting their nonsensical mantras, holding up their meaningless messages, inexplicably holding up political signs relevant to presidents of other countries. (I’m not sure if a lot of them even know who is in power in this country) 

Still, if you have nothing else on today, like you’ve already washed your hair, and made out your Xmas list for 2024, it’s good for a point and a giggle, just to see what the dumbest section of society gets up to on a Sunday.

“We’re sayin’ no!”

“To what?”

“No! We’re sayin’ NO!” AHHH!”

 

We’re home again at 10.55, to two very excited bulldogs.

We’re back on our screens.

It is shocking that we have all sat back and watched Julian Assange get torture by multiple governments for telling the truth about corruption, and now he has had a stroke.

So, what has our bag of wind Prime Minister been doing instead of helping Assange?

 

Morrison’s conduct has been disgraceful. It’s also been insidious. Insidious is a powerful word that should only ever be invoked proportionately, but the charge is warranted on this occasion. Morrison went to war with an institution important to safeguarding trust in democracies in order to serve his immediate political interests. This behaviour can’t be shrugged off. It needs to be called out, and forcefully.

It is insidious.

Gladys for Warringah isn’t just a mildly amusing example of Morrison hatching a cunning plan that ultimately goes to custard. Australia’s prime minister has, for the past few weeks, been publicly at war with a state anti-corruption commission, while at the same time trying to inoculate himself against entirely justifiable criticism that he’s failed to produce a credible body to watch politicians at the federal level despite promising one for three years.

Just let those basic facts settle on you for a few minutes, really think about what’s just happened. Process this case study, in all its dimensions.

You’ll get to insidious pretty quickly.

 - Katherine Murphy

 

I watch the rest of [favourite car YouTuber] on YouTube.

Midday the bulldogs get a wash. It is a lovely sunny day. They are good with a wash, no freaking out. They just get into the shower themselves. Brun first, as he is the more excitable of the two, then Buddy who is very relaxed about the whole thing. They look adorable wrapped up in towels afterwards.

We ate hamburgers for lunch.

We’re on the couches on our screens with the fan blowing for the rest of the afternoon.

I read about Instagramer cakeontherun and look at her fabulous recipes.

Late afternoon, I water all my plants.

The sun still shines.

Anne Rice has died, she was a bloody good writer.

Into The City For Lunch

We went to look at a house for sale, but, you know, the dishonest camera work by real estate agents, all wide angle so the house was 20% smaller all over when you got to see it in person. Still, it is in a great position.

I had some vague idea about moving there but, you know, It would involve selling our house and buying this house, which needs a total renovation. If only I was a bit more of a go-getter, you know, some people would just do all of that without breaking a sweat. I don’t know, too comfortable. It’s a bit further away from the shops and the bars and the loudmouth tourists, and all the awful people who just don’t give a shit about anyone else.

But, it was still much smaller than the Real Estate agent photos suggested. But, there’s no denying it would make a great house once it was completely renovated, just smaller than the house we presently have. (I don't care so much about the house being smaller, as such, but the rooms were all smaller)

Then it was lunch in the city, Korean. Very en trend. Everything is Korean at the moment, from Squid Game to Parasite to BTS. Tattasalls Lane. Love a laneway eatery. I ate fried chicken, Sam ate bibimbap.

We were going to get our hair cut, but there was a whole bunch of people waiting, so we didn't wait.

Of course, Sam had games to pick up at Harvey Norman, before we headed home.

There were a lot of fat people in track suits in the CBD, the footpaths were chock a block with them, as their tracksuits were. I just put that down to Xmas shopping. All the excess of this time of year on display for all to see. 

Do the smart people get themselves into a shopping fury over Xmas? I don't know? It is just a frenzy accumulating as much landfill as you possibly can to give to people you supposedly love, who most likely don't want any of it anyway, leaving many people with a credit card bill that a lot of them won’t pay off completely before they do it all again next year. (I've got a family Xmas, but we have all agreed no presents, just a get together)

Going For A Walk, Chatting To David

I head out the door at 9:30 for a walk. I haven’t been walking for a week. Oh, I don’t know why, I’ve been busy with Buddy’s sore leg and the work Xmas party, and my busy work week in between.

The sun is shining.

I go back and take my hoody off, as the sun is hot. I go to leave again, and I turn back and get a mask out of the pocket of my hoody, I don’t know why, better to have one or not. I wonder if I'll have a 3rd false start. I mentally check everything as I close the front gate again. (Do I really want to go for a walk, I think?)

I’m listening to the Rolling Stones, my new CD 50 completely finished outtakes, it’s really fucking cool. 

I head up Gertrude Street.

I really must learn to check my appearance  before I leave the house, I just caught sight of myself in a shop window, my hair is standing on end and I look like Phyllis Diller 😮 I message David and tell him.

David’s been watching Sex and the City reboot, And Just Like That and he says it’s disturbing. There is some twist. He didn't want to give it away, but sheesh!

He’s passing the time watching re-runs of Friends, they make him feel good. He said he thought And Just Like That would be a good distraction.

I said to David that when we were young, we used to go and do a little retail therapy when you were in the department store change room in a new outfit you'd look in the mirror and think, yeah, I feel good, check from another angle, yeah, I look good. Now if I go into the department store change room and look in the mirror I just feel like bursting into tears.

We laughed. He is in Byron Bay in front of the TV, me walking in the park.

Day Off

My weekend starts.

I sit on the couch all day with Brun and my laptop.

I do fuck all, all day. Sometimes you just have too.

(Do you like that? I make it sound like it is a rare occurrence for me. But, I am good at it, as we all know. Not said as a bad thing, you understand.)

Street Art. There is such a difference between street art and graffiti.

Street art is clever people with something to say. Graffiti is talentless hacks scribbling on things.

Off To The Vet

7.20am. I get up and hop straight into the shower to get ready to leave for our 9am vet appointment. It, actually, feels weird getting out of bed and getting straight into the shower, as I haven’t done it for so long, well, since 18^th March 2020.

I make porridge and coffee. I sign into work to see if there was a pile on of work yesterday afternoon while I was at the Xmas party? There wasn’t.

8am. I get ready to go to the vet. Sam does too. After the worry of Buddy’s injury, and the problem of scheduling, and the problem of, actually, getting an appointment with the vet now a days, here we were, ready to go. 

8.20am. We leave for [name of suburb where the vet is]. (We travel a fair way to the vet) Brun comes too, because he doesn’t want to miss out. 

You going out in the car? His face says.

“Yes, we are,” I say.

I’m coming too then, say his widening eyes.

“You think so, do you?”

Him heading straight out to the car speaks volumes.

We buy petrol on the way at the cheap servo cnr Alexander Parade and Nicholson Street. We don’t really need it, I’m hardly driving anywhere these days, but when you are passing the cheapest servo in the area, it seems stupid not to. We have plenty of time. I think I put $40 in the car, but when I go to pay it was 40 litres @ $65. Stupid me. That is like a rookie mistake. I wonder what the attendant thought as I stood looking at him open mouthed. momentarily?

9am. We’re at the vet. Right on time. (Why is it the client must arrive on time, but the professional can be as late as they like? I have never understood that? There is that Seinfeld episode, of course.)

9.25am. We’re still sitting in the waiting room, waiting. Grrrrr! You’d think I’d be far more concerned that the lateness of the vet could potentially derail my well timed plans, and while I am a little anxious, I am not really. Fuck it. You’ve got to love working from home, remembering I have already done 3 ½ hours. (Oh, yesterday, I have 3 ½ hours in the bank from yesterday)

Finally, they call Buddy Fletcher, but they say they can only have one person in with the vet at one time, so Brun and I wait in the waiting room. (Not sure why when all the restrictions are off on all other aspects of life, but who am I to argue?) 

I don’t get to see our handsome vet. (It is not the reason we come to this vet, it’s not, just a happy circumstance)

Brun sits in the middle of the walkway gazing intently toward the door through which Sam and Buddy had disappeared. He looks adorable with his wrinkles of concern across his forehead, so much so that one of the vet nurses comments, something about an adorable face.

There is a growly Jack Russell whose owner, with thick legs in tiny black running shorts, is trying to keep quiet. A black lab. Two people with identical dogs which they confer about. “Shih tzu Pomeranian cross?” the fat, hard faced Greek woman in a tight black track suit and an ill fitting wig (clearly) asks the other owner. (you might want to ease up on the cannoli’s is all I can think) A lesbian with a greyhound. And an old bloke with an equally ancient cocker spaniel, clearly, they were pups together.

A woman comes in to a waiting room of dogs with her cat. She says to the receptionist. “My son has my other cat in the car, can he bring it in now?”

The receptionist agrees.

“Can we take them in together?”

The receptionist agrees.

“I’ll call my son to bring the cat in.”

The receptionist agrees.

The woman sits at the far end of the waiting room and calls her son.

A few moments later the most handsome 20 something year old comes in carrying a cat box. Long hair in a pony tail, t-shirt and shorts, with the most gorgeous legs. I naturally go to turn for my eyes to follow him, but I stop myself. Don’t turn and look, I tell myself.

So, Buddy doesn’t have a major kneecap malfunction, or a torn ACL, for that matter, probably just a minor torn/strained muscle, nothing major because our handsome vet can’t feel any looseness, although he does say Buddy’s knee is swollen, but nothing to really worry about. Here are some pills, don’t take him for a walk for a week.

10.30am. We’re heading down busy Sydney Road to Barclay Square to pick up a game for Sam. There is heavy traffic. Oh, you know, some dweeb going slow, scared of a tram, or some such fucking thing, and all the rest of the morons just gather behind like so much drift wood. I zip around a truck that has pulled out of a side street in front of me because I can’t see what is going on from behind it and then I slide passed a bunch of cars in front of it, but one of the losers speeds up and won’t let me back in, keeps right next to me so I can’t possible join the queue. So, I slipped further down the left lane I carved out and I thwacked my left hand mirror on some poor saps parked car’s mirror. Oops. My poor left hand rear vision mirror, how many times have banged it on another rear vison mirror when I have been slipping through? Three? Four? Click. Click. Click. (They are hinged though, so there would be no damage done) (Grimace. I think)

We park around the back of Barclay Square. Some chick, all decked out in black active wear, is packing stuff into the back of her Mercedes, while talking on the phone. Sam asks her if she is going, but she just turns her back on him, as though he doesn’t exist. I back up to ask again, but she has finished packing her car and she closes the hatch and walks away still talking on the phone. She walks to the end of the isle and stands there talking on her phone. (I get the distinct impressing she is avoiding us. Some people, who knows?) (“Like seriously, there are these people who are like trying to get me to move, like, who do some people think they are?”) 

But immediately a woman in a nurse’s uniform comes across the road way and indicates immediately she is going, 4 cars down from Miss Chatty on the phone. She pulls out a short time later in her Subaru.

Buddy and Brun and I stand in the doorway to the shopping centre while Sam is inside.

A disabled boy reaches out slowly and attempts to pat Brun. I push Brun closer to the guy so he can touch Brun’s fur. The boy smiles. Buddy moves in for a pat also. The boy smiles ever more. It is adorable.

We’re home at 11.11am. Boris had messaged me at 10.10am. to say she had finished going through everything. I get straight into finishing everything off.

Buddy heads to his bed and lies down.

The Work Xmas Party

5:40 am. I’m up because I have to get everything done today. Get my work done, go to the Xmas party, take Buddy to the vet, all timed perfectly like a Swiss watch. It's go to be.

(And Brun woke me up with his fuzzy face shoved into mine as he jumps up on the side of the bed. “Hey, wake up.”)

We took Bud and Brun for a walk along the Yarra on the weekend and Buddy came up lame, for no apparent reason, and has been barely able to walk ever since.

He’ll be 11 years old next week. When he was 5 he was diagnosed with a luxating patella, a slipping knee cap, which there is an operation for, but the vet told us he wasn’t really lame enough back then – it was just when he first got up from sleeping – and his lameness stopped not long after that and he hasn’t shown any signs of it since, until now. The problem being, at 5 years old an anaesthetic isn’t a problem, but when he gets to 11, particularly for a flat faced dog, it becomes quite dangerous for him. So, you can understand, when I say I was hoping it wasn’t that.

The vet has him on an emergency cancellation list (actual appointments were some like January 20^th) so he could go at any time, which is really inconvenient today which is my second busiest day. And then if he doesn’t go today he could go tomorrow, which is my busiest day with deadlines. I don’t know how I’m gonna get this all done, complete all the work I have, and do the rest. Hopefully it all just works out and that they will want to see him at, well, I guess 5 pm would be the best time. Then I could get my work done, go to Xmas lunch, then go to the vet. Or right now. “Can you come now?” The worst possible time would be lunch time today.

It’s all well and good that Sam swans about with no driving license, but today is when it comes into sharp focus that it’s really fucking inconvenient.

7.30am. Sam got up.

I’m finished most of my work by 8am. I made porridge and coffee.

I had to get everything done before the Xmas Party lunch. Then hand it all over to Boris.

11.11am. It started raining. I was going to ride my bike to the [name of lunch place] for stupid buggery Xmas lunch. Oh, fuck the rain. 

Could I be a no show? “Oh no, we miss you so, it will be so lovely to see you, Christian, after all this time working from home, say the girls in the office. We miss your funny stories.” (Don’t get me wrong, I genuinely like the members of my team, but miss them? Nah)

12.15pm. I’m ready to leave for the Xmas party on my bike, I’ve got all the gear on ready to leave, helmet, stupid Kris Kringle present in a back pack, and the rain starts to fall. Grrrr! Damn you to hell rain!

So, I have to find an alternative way of getting there? Do I drive? No fun driving to a Xmas party, even if I don’t end up drinking. (It is one of the rules 101, I think it is rule number 82, don’t drive to a work Xmas party. You may think it is going to be ticketyboo, but there may also be a very valid argument for getting tanked. Don’t drive)

Sam springs into action. He finds what public transport I should be catching.

I catch an 86 tram and then connect with a 546 bus. Sam brings up a schedule on my phone and a map. (seemingly out of no where) 

The bus was due 5 minutes after I get off the tram, however, I wait, and I wait, and I wait, and I wait in the rain, that really annoying rain that kind of falls sideways. Half an hour later the bus finally arrives. I am the only person on the bus.

I ask the bus driver to tell me where to get off.

Just as the bus driver is giving me the instructions to get off the bus, the vet calls. I am listening to the bus driver and I don’t answer the phone. What would be the point of answering the phone now? I can’t take Buddy now. As I cross Lower Heidelberg Road contemplating calling the vet back, I get a message from them, Can’t see Buddy, sorry. 

I call Sam and get him to call the vet and discuss it with them. I’m still worried Buddy has some major damage, even if he is getting better every day. Sam gets an appointment for 9am in the morning. That’s not bad. (How the hell did he do that?) I have all my work done and Boris isn’t usually done with her side of it until mid to late morning, so not bad, all doable.

I head down the embankment to the boat house.

I head into the bar, my boss Tony Rivers is there organising drinks for everyone. I ask for shiraz, always the safest bet. He tells me everyone is downstairs. I head down to the plastic bubble in which we’d been deposited out of the light rain that was still falling.

I sit next to Jason Jones, who I note is in a pair of black track pants that fit him tantalisingly well. (Way to go Jase) I sit opposite Big Ange and (Theyappybogan, renamed) mum. (I do enjoy making up names for my work colleagues and sometimes when my opinion of them changes then too must the pseudonym). (Theyappybogan, renamed) mum holds court. (I guess someone has to. Ha ha) Big Ange does ‘the chatty chat chat’ too. They make a good pair.

Bowls of sweet potato chips and dipping sauces are lined up down the middle of the table.

Tony Rivers comes and sits with us too, and he also likes a chat. 

(Theyappybogan, renamed) mum talked (nonstop) about her kids. (roll of the eyes) She is quite the extrovert, picking up on every little thing everyone had said, all the way down the table. (good ears, if nothing else) Her kids call her 10 times during the lunch. She says she should teach them to be more independent, but she likes being depended upon. (Yeah, good onya, I think, for putting those sorts of kids out into the world. Mother of the year?) (Do you think there is any truth in the idea that helicopter mums are, actually, destroying civilisation as we know it? The jury is still out?)

Big Ange talks about her kids, but, you know, sprinkled with other topics. Work anecdotes. We’ve all worked for multiple law firms, myself included, so we do who’s who of the legal profession. I’m the only one who’s worked for the black law firm, which gets denigrated by all present, but the other law firms for which I’ve work most present have had a stint at.

Tony Rivers talks about his running, all around the world. His next run is across England. He is quite a go getter. Super busy, an over achiever, and yet, pretty much, always happy, always has time for his staff.

Boris comes and chats, I tell her about Buddy’s leg, she tells me about her dogs’ sore paw, most likely infected with a grass seed.

We had a big table, everyone was there. Oh, except Mia Papas, I don’t know where she was. I missed Mia… you know, when I realised she wasn’t there much later.

I ate fish & chips.

I had flourless chocolate cake and coffee for dessert.

Goong Chung gave out the Kris Kringle presents. Everyone’s presents seem to be in substantial brown paper bags all sitting next to one another just behind us on a bench. Mine was in a single use plastic bag, being used for a second time, and Goong Chung missed it. I have to tell him there is a present in the sad little white plastic bag. It’s okay, he gets it and Betty Boo gets her present. I only vaguely look at her reaction, it could have been positive, perhaps. (Oh I know, I should care, but seriously, I fulfilled the brief, a present for $20 to $30, anything beyond that was way out of my interest zone) 

I get some bit of landfill which I’m sure I pull convincing faces of appreciation over. (You know, being a secret Santa, you never know who was responsible for your bit of tat so you have to smile convincingly for all present just in case)

Tony Rivers wanted to go and play on the boats on the river, which was part of the promised experience, but most of us believed it was too cold. I certainly felt the fact I had got my fat arse there and on time was about as much as I was prepared to endure.

Once the presents were given out, and the coffee was drunk, we all got up and headed back up to the carpark like Brown’s Cows. (Whoever Brown was?) They were all organised into lifts, with the rest being rounded up by Tony Rivers to be whisked back to our CBD office.

I’d said I was fine, that I’d organise my own way, I didn’t want to go to the office, after all, after I had done so, I realised I could well have been dropped part of the way.

Then I was racked with indecision. Stupid me. I know I said, but… oh, the uncertainty to go with who? To do what? They were getting Ubers back to the CBD. Who paired up with who? What to do? Don’t you hate being the odd one out even if it is by your own doing? Speak up? Why don’t you speak up? Then don’t wonder why you have been left out? So uncertain of who you are? So unsure. Grrr.

I trudge off to the bus stop, before I am thought of as a voyeur… that is looking upon those who have much better organisational skills than yourself.

4.43pm. I’m sitting at the bus stop heading home. 

I wonder if people think I’m strange? (I’m sure no one else picked up on my moment of indecision, let’s face, people only care about themselves)

The bus just never seems to be coming? Same problem I had with the buss getting here. It is as if they are only running on the hour and not ever half an hour. (Who’d have thought?)

5.15pm. The stupid bus finally comes.

I pull long grey hairs out of my nose, as the bus does its best attempt to inflict motion sickness on those that travel within, and wonder if anyone noticed at the lunch? Too much time spent in lock down, I think? (I must have a word to Sam when I get home)

I swap over to the tram at the Queens Parade shops.

5.45pm. I’m home.

Ordeal over and done with for another year, and everyone came out unscathed. I only had two glasses of red wine, makes quite a change to Xmas parties passed.

 

Shopping Early. That boy had good legs, and in those shorty shorts they were shown off well. Not the reason I took the photo, well, maybe it had something to do with taking the photo. I guess, you should never believe a gay guy when he says exposed flesh wasn't the reason for him doing something 😬

Watching Gay Movies

I've only been watching gay movies lately, I know I probably shouldn't. I mean, it's not that I shouldn't, gay movies are great, but at the expense of otherly orientated movies, I am sure I am missing out on other good things.

Good Bye Mother, a Vietnamese love story, comedy really. Esteros, an Argentinian, straight gay tension love story, a favourite theme of mine. Taboos of a sort, I love taboos. It makes you wish you were their age again. Get Real, an English school boy drama/comedy, almost a bit too twinky for me, but I enjoyed it anyway. Cut Snake, Australian, full on, drama, captivating. 

The league of nations of movies. 

I'd just have to throw in an Italian movie and I'd have my favourite countries. Well, kind of. (I must do some research for a gay Italian movie, something set in Tuscany with grape vines and Fiat 500s, and sunshine, of course.)

So, I watched Euphoria about two Italian brothers Matteo, gay, successful entrepreneur, open-minded, charming and dynamic and his brother Ettore, straight, who still lives in the small provincial town where they were born. Ettore’s negative medical diagnosis gives the two distant brothers the opportunity to get to know each other better.

 

You know, they are kind of comforting, gay movies. You’d think I’d have grown passed wanting to see people like me, but do we ever? I don't know if it is familiar territory, or that sense of identity, maybe a shared identity, it doesn't really matter. It is nice, though.

You know, this is the best era, despite the proliferation of stupid people, and the politically corrupt, and the religiously handicapped, trying to stop it, becoming freer and more progressive as the years pass. You wouldn’t want to have grown up gay in any other era, seriously

 

I've also been watching The Power Of The Dog? Five stars. Best thing Benedict Cumberbatch has done, so they say. Well? Grimace. I’m waiting for it to get good? I have watched it late and have turned it off several times and gone to bed. David says I needed to watch it right the way through without breaking the tension. Maybe, I need to start again from the beginning. It won awards at Cannes. I don’t see it as award winning. Perhaps for cinematography, I could see that.

It doesn’t help that Sam declared it a piece of shit not long into it and put his head phones in his ears and started looking at stuff on his iPad, you know, as far as starting it again, that is.

 

There Is Always One, Isn't There?

We’re down the Yarra taking the dogs for a walk along the river.

There is no one down here, the place is deserted. Lovely and quiet and serene, except for a helicopter somewhere in the distance clearly keeping track on stupid people protesting wherever they are. (Just get vaccinated and stop your nonsense)

A couple of walkers approach just as I write this. (Ha ha, always the way) A girl with a lovely Lab pup called Buddy.

It is warm enough for a t-shirt, but only just. The sky is grey overcast, the is a cool breeze.

There is an old chick with a couple of ugly poodle types, who had been up the track and was on the way back just behind us.

Brun is running around with a black Labrador Buddy when the old chick appears with her cream mutts. Both Brun and Buddy – there are two Buddy’s don’t get confused. Our Buddy is standing by me watching on – approach her two dogs for a sniff, as dogs do.

The next thing the old chick is wetting her pants demanding we take our dogs away. “Oh, oh, oh, come and take your dog’s away. Oh! Oh! Oh!”

“Don’t worry, my dog won’t hurt your dog,” I say. “He’s friendly.”

“That’s your story,” she says. 

Oh, you are one of those, I think. “No, it’s the truth,” I say. “He’s just saying hello.”

“My dog was attacked by a dog like that and he’s scared. Take him away.”

“Okay, sure,” I say. “But, if your dogs are scared of other dogs you shouldn’t bring them to an off-lead dog park.”

“It said on-lead,” she says defiantly.

“No, not here. This is all off-lead.”

“Well, I’m not going to be read the riot act by someone who can’t control their dogs,” she says.

“Control my dogs?” I question.

“My dog is scared. Your dogs are scaring him.”

Okay lady, I have been nice enough, I think. “Don’t bring your dogs to an off-lead dog park, luv, and then wet your pants when dogs approach you dog.”

“He was attacked only two weeks ago, that’s why he’s so scared.”

“All the more reason not to bring him to an off-lead area,” I say.

“You people have some strange ideas, that’s all I can say,” she says.

You people? I decide to ignore what that might mean. “Bringing a dog scared of other dogs to an off-lead dog park and then shitting your pants when other dogs approach it to say hello is an even stranger idea,” I say.

Sam had put Brun on his lead by this stage, which I found disappointing. I wouldn’t have put Brun on his lead in an off lead dogs park, just because some senile old bitch craps her incontinence pads.

By this stage, the old girl is steaming her way straight out of the park towards the bridge without looking back.

I contemplate running up behind her and whooping a “boo!” in her ear. The thought is as good as actually doing it. I chuckle to myself. (Oh, come on. Are you on her side?)

Young Buddy’s owner has put him on his lead by this stage also.

Modifying our behaviour for the stupid people, seriously, I think. I tune back into the sound of the helicopter patrolling the protests where ever they are.

My Bud is standing next to me. “Come on, let’s go.” He trots along next to me on my suggestion. Who’s not in control their dog, I think.

 

Big Monster picks a flower and gives little monster a piggyback

Pinch, Punch First Of The Month

Pinch, punch first of the month. 

I used to work with a guy who used to pinch, punch me really hard, always unexpectedly (what does that say about me?) on my upper arm, every 1^st of the month. It used to hurt so much that I used to draw breath right down deep in my throat, get that metallic taste at the back of my tongue. I can still taste it when I think about it.  He used to laugh. I used to laugh it off. 

He had a girlfriend, but I always wondered? He used to get this look in his eyes after he’d pinch, punched me where his eyeballs used to go black – or was that the serial killer I used to know – his pupils used to burn brightly, and he’d kind of dance around excited/nervously, with his tongue over his bottom lip, with a huge smile, like it turned him on just a bit. (But, I am willing to except that was my gay imagination)

He was very needy of my attention at other times…

Anyway, I often think about him on the first of the month.

We’re having 30 degree days this week, it’s nice. Thirty degrees is a great temperature, heralding the arrival of summer. It’s great as for a while there, not that long ago, it seemed as though we were going to have a non stop winter.

Got to remember to water the garden.

We were out walking at 7am. You’ve just got to love that fresh morning air. It really is a lovely way to start the day.

Got to remember to go and have a shower.

Ha ha, when the benefits and the drawbacks of working from home are exactly the same thing. Getting up in your tracky pants and working without really having to, well, let’s not sugar coat it, wash.

Sam reminds me, it’s okay. He thinks some of my personal habits are, shall we say, questionable.

Actually, I might go and do it now, before the day gets away from me. 😀

 

I got to swatting flies in the stairwell, with a pair of Sam’s undies. One of the few drawbacks with summer, the return of the fly. Speaking of questionable habits, Sam came to the bottom of the stairs and looked at me, then looked at the undies in my hand, then looked back at me. Then he just kind of raised his eyebrows. He doesn’t need to say anything, his looks speak volumes. The look said, ‘seriously?’ Well, he did leave the undies on the bedroom floor, so I assumed they were going into the wash before he wore them again. 😬