The Things You'd Do for Love . . .

After soap boxing on the morality of infidelity (or lack thereof) I've been pondering (yes I pootle and I ponder) the more positive side of relationships and the 'what would you do for love' question.

I'm not talking about parental love, political love, love of your fellow man - although these are important and Ian, my new guru, postulated in a serious post about a Phillipino priest who made the ultimate sacrifice at the hands of rebels with his own life, and asked who would be prepared to join someone in that gesture. This is love of a different kind.

I mean romantic love. How far would you go to put things right, chase Mr or Mrs right or just 'see' if it's right. I know someone who recently took a trans atlantic trip in the hope of rekindling an old flame - The signs were all there that there was hope. It wasn't a silly whim but a well informed decision based on good information and promises. So, this person sold up, bought a ticket and chased their dream. It had to be done otherwise they would have spent their whole life wondering. OK drastic measure perhaps and it did go pear-shaped. Now they're rethinking the wisdom of the expensive sojourn but at least they know where they stand and the sole motivation - love.

I've known a man donate a kidney to someone he loved. Another give up his ambition for one he loved. I know women who have sacrificed careers for love or taken on known disability and hardship for love. What makes them do it?

I've never had to make a huge sacrifice for love. It's never required moving state or country . . .I've never had to do without or fall out with family for love. I've never had to put myself in danger but I wonder if the moment arrived, how far would I go. What would I be prepared to do to ensure that love survived. What sacrifice would I make for love if put in a position where it was required?

I've written Eulogies for the parents of friends - yes plural - three passings in fact have been marked by incredible stories of love. These parents have left occupied territories or oppressive regimes as young lovers, been split between refugee camps in disparate countries, placed in hostels and eventally reunited in Australia to marry and raise a family. Incredible journey's of love. I've known sweethearts at 17 who married and after 26 years still hold hands when they go bushwalking, testament to the endurance of love . . .I've heard of expensive and extravagant gestures to proclaim love from proposals in Helicopters to romantic escapes to designed to sweep their lover off their feet. I've watched the loss of love and its devastating effects. Then, I've heard of young lovers going their separate ways and at their end of days, rekindling the romance ... strange thing this 'love' business.

Me, I don't know. I've been in love, just twice. I am a firm believer in the unforgettable passion but misguided conceptions of my first love, the wonderful absorption and reality of my great love and if I'm lucky, I'll get to taste the security and serenity of my last love! *ever the optimist*.

Have you ever been in love? What would you be prepared to do for love? How did you propose or commit? What sacrifices do you make for love or have you made for love? What did you do to proclaim your love? C'mon, spill . . it's just between you and me!

What a Difference 5Kms Make

Overheard in Castle Towers this lunchtime . . 40 something mother speaking to a 8-10 year old outside a cafe:

"Darling this one will be fine! Of course they sell double skim chai latte!"

Heard a few weeks prior, same age groups at Blacktown Westfield on escalator:

"Shuttup Kylie and drink yer fuckin' Coke before I belt ya!"

Wish I Had a Fwend In Wome!

I arrived at the office to complaints . . . gentle ones because they knew I was 'easing' back in but Sunday night's storm had triggered the UPS which refused to automatically restart as it should and the network was down. So within minutes of parking my handbag I was prostrate on the floor in the server room, pressing little restart buttons to get the server up and running. Staff are happy, they can access their funny emails. There's nothing like a closed network to give the girls the hump!

I then filtered through 935 emails despite having my Outlook "Out of Office" Assistant on while I was away. She had not properly done her job of deterring people from emailing me so I turned her off, sent her packing. Most of them were trying to sell me watches, software, electronics or viagra or asking me to 'call them' because they were alone and had some nice pictures for me to view. Clearly the spam filter is not working again and pictures of Collosseum Otter Nose vendors filled my head. . Things were getting silly.

Then a brief from TheBoss, predictably telling me how he has looked at himself in a 'roomful of mirrors', 'run a couple of things up the flagpole', 'thrown some ideas on the tarmac to see which would stick'. He was waxing lyrical about how exciting 2008 was going to be with new Debt Installment Warrants, Business Succession planning and could I have the bones of a Marketing Plan together by Thursday. I was beside myself with joy and enthusiasm and thought cynically how fortunate I am to work in such a thrilling industry - Debt Installment Warrants - now it doesn't get more exciting than that! Only Margin Lending could top it!

Then I killed my PC. Don't know how, I just restarted it after a lunchtime freeze and it looped between the Windows login and the startup screen. No amount of cajoling, kicking or profanity would bring it back online. I even got prostrate again and unplugged it. All this lying down was making me feel rather holy and sanctimonious. I twiddled all those little coloured plugs in the back and reconnected the power. The day was moving from slightly ridiculous to properly Pythonesque!

So, logged into the server and called the Helldesk to resolve the issue of clients being unable to get into their logins and view their portfolios on the website. After having a hissy fit, making a few phone calls, feigning tears and pleading with the higher ups, I was able to get hold of a real techie and spent about 4 hours talking to a very nice 'Matt' from our Database suppliers who spoke suggestively and seductively of digital signatures and IP Addresses, remote assistance and "GoTo" meetings. He toyed with my desktop before aknowledging that the issue was 'pointing to the wrong IP address'. I asked him not to talk dirty to me but he couldn't help it. He loves his job. I was now feeling like a song and "Always Look on The Bright Side of Life" came to mind. He was very nice, softly spoken and very funny so I liked him even if he didn't solve the problem and will probably flirt outrageously with him again tomorrow unless he can't fix the problem in which case I'll regard him as the rest of the supergeeks . . . not the Messiah, just a very naughty boy!

By 5:30, I hadn't touched anything other than IT issues. Letters remain untranscribed, redemptions unmailed and followups well . . not followed up. I had my tuna and avocado salad at 4.00pm (no need for tea). I did manage to get to Medicare and HCF and complete my medical claims which put $230 in my purse . . very welcome the day before payday! And I managed to get a quick email off to JD who has been feeling a little low lately. So . . first day back . . . panic attack and it's like no water has passed under the bridge!

The Biatch is Back . . there is once again a driver for the 'he said' 'she said' IT bus and hopefully we'll see some ACTION tomorrow. Poor little IT Dude is pleased to see me back. I think he's been thwown to the gwound Centuwian and tweated vewwy wuffly since my departure and is quite pleased to hear the voice of reason, even if it's not telling him what he wants to know. Charmaine is very happy to see me back . . now she doesn't have to put up with the inane interruptions. Good job I'm less flighty now that I've been desexed!

Stump Spotting

Too hot again. . a day fit for nothing but veging and staying wet, wet, wet . . . or so I thought until BabyBro decided to mow the back paddock. There are stumps and warrens hidden in the metre long grass so it's on with the boots to walk in front of the tractor as snake-bate and stump spotter so that the slasher blades don't get smashed. It is 32 in the shade and it's only 11:30! (Google Weather doesn't know what it's talking about - come and look at MY thermometer!

Boy can he pick his moments!

I'll leave you with my Aussie song pick for today . . .we are all animals after all!

*Some time later* . . .this was one of those days that makes labouring (or rather DrummerBoy's labouring) over your pool water quality worthwhile. Recovery day for the younglings with a chicken wing barbequeur, lots of lounging on pool floats and wallowing in the crystal water, picking on Mitch for getting way too drunk on Passion Pop last night . . .and then . . just when you need it . . a storm to cool things down. A perfect day. At least the 'waves of warmth' made little impact due to the heat! Work tomorrow . . pray for me!

She is My Lily and My Rose (Name that Song?)

It's not long until I surrender my daughter to the world at large. I've encouraged it. I started it. I perpetuated it, she continued it. But now it's getting serious. Paraguayan and Brasilian visas are procured. The inoculations have been completed, the medico letters for her myriad of drugs acquired. The backpack and hiking shoes have been purchased. The entire trip has been planned and booked. The wardrobe has been cleansed and the farewell party planned. It is time she left. And we are both coming to realise it. Our only worry is the troubles on the Ecuadorian and Colombian border at the moment but what can you do?

Frankly . . I see little of her anyway, she's 23, independent, financially secure and leads a life of her own. She costs me little more than a bottle of shampoo and the odd meal so our 'estrangement' has been coming for some time. I find myself increasingly 'teary' about her departure, as I would if it was my best friend and this from the Iron Maiden is rare but I think I'm mourning in advance and at 5:30 am on 31st January, I'll be as cool as a cucumber and ready to let her go. I'll serenely wave goodbye and pop off to work.

It would be easier if she was a horrible person. Sure her bedroom's a mess and she can't cook anything that doesn't involve chocolate and her willingness to chip with household chores can be a bit slack but she's a terrific companion. When we're home alone, we indulge in seafood picnics or go out to dinner or spend a weekend in a posh hotel and shop. There's not a day goes by when we don't email or have some sort of verbal exchange that involves advice or direction. And when I'm irate, she has her father's talent for calming the waters and making things right. She doesn't need me any more. She is fully formed, fully fledged and fully ready to find her way in the world.

When we do get chatting, we're normally like two girlfriends but lately, the signs have been there. She's like a chick who hasn't quite got its flight feathers but wants to take the plunge off that tall cliff and I'm like the hen who has to migrate but doesn't want to leave the chick behind. The timing is right. We're niggling at each other, we're arguing, we're getting into not so deep and meaningful D & M's. Something we've rarely done in the past and both recognise is a natural and obvious way forward. I'm demanding and she's unforgiving . . . but she knows when she's overstepped the mark or more to the point, how to keep the peace. Bless her . . . she turned up with the most beautiful bunch of white lilies (my favourites) as a little apology for a contretemps we had the other night and rarely are they in apology and frankly, she wasn't the only one to blame . . I went off in one of my tyrades! It's not the first time she's done this but the first time she's done it to say she stepped over the line. She is sensitive and sweet and tough and everything I hoped a daughter could become. This old Sansai has trained her pupil well but it's graduation time!

It doesn't stop me wanting to chain her to her doorknob or her wanting to feel the wild wind in her hair but we both recognise that this bickering that's going on is very much like our backyard magpies . . .they have an annoying son who will not leave . . so between feeding him, they bully him . . .a couple of days ago, he left. I don't want it to get to that point with ClareBear. Her leaving home should be a happy new chapter in both our lives. I need some space as well . . I have things to do, plans to fulfill and now that my family are all growed up, it's time to start getting into it. Thanks for the Lillies darling, they're lovely and they smell gorgeous!

Now . . time to focus on DrummerBoy because he's not long for the nest either bless him!

To Hot for Skinks

It's hot as hell here today. Not quite as hot as Melbourne where it was 40 at 7am! Thankfully there's a slight breeze but the computer fan is going ten to the dozen and the router is threatening to boil so it's time to power down until the evening cools things off. Plus, after a nice lunch in the air conditioned comfort of Trellini's with Thommo, Strawberry Girl and TheMerryWidow there's nothing for it but a dangle in the pool with my little lad, a cold beer or in my case an icy Grandin, and watching the birds fall out of the trees. The dogs have been hosed and even the skinks are bad tempered and they usually bask in the heat. There have been donnybrooks under the desk, complaints in the kitchen and now two of them are carrying on under the couch over a Christmas beetle, they're both big boys too but unfortunately, they're both camera shy but this little guy wasn't:



Mind you, there are some who really have the right idea:

High Infidelity

The Kiss - Aguste Rodin

Now let's talk about sex. It's interesting, it's funny, everybody wants it, some are lucky enough to get it, others get too much. Most of us get it for free, some have to pay for it, some are happy to sell it. Some of us aren't getting it but still want it. Others aren't getting it where they should so stray to get it somewhere else. Here is the gist of this post. Infidelity. If you've made a commitment to someone whether through the sanctity of marriage or just a general understanding that you're in a monogamous relationship is cheating morally corrupt, sexy and sophisticated or downright dirty?

A recent conversation with fellow a blogger has raised this issue and stirred my creative juices. (C'mon they're the only ones being stirred at the moment!).

My belief is that cheating on your partner is morally wrong. It's hedging your bets and double dipping. Even if the relationship is poor there are two options . . try harder to make it work or simply call it a day and walk away no matter how painful that might be, at least you're being true to yourself. Staying with someone you don't love, don't want to be with or don't want to sleep with is not a relationship, it's a sentence and in the long run, everyone suffers.

Affairs are a pivotal theme in literature, soap operas, movies whether it's Lady Chatterley's Lover or the Young and The Restless, they're all doing it. In fact who's screwing who in today's dramas is difficult to ascertain if you miss an episode! (Except for the Young and The Restless to which you can return after an entire semester at Uni and still follow the plot).

So why do people have affairs? I simplistically suggested that monogamy is not the natural state of the human male. Why produce sperm your entire life if you are not biologically intended to produce progeny for that same amount of time and since women have a definite 'use-by' date which usually concludes in their late 40's or early 50's a younger 'subject' is required to fulfill the prophecy. I believe Charlie Chaplin was in his 80's when he fathered his last child!

Perhaps infidelity begins before a life long commitment in the pre-marital stage where partners have already engaged in sex with others. Maybe it's a result of childbirth, reduced female urge and the distraction of youngsters. Maybe it happens in early middle-age when the pressures of mortgages and work and neglect come into play or in later years where an affair might add some spice to an 'empty' marriage or help people 'redefine' themselves through intimacy. Perhaps it's just overactive glands and too much testosterone. Perhaps it's realising that the person you married is actually very boring in bed and you fancy some acrobatics or a swing from a chandelier as suggested in research recently completed on the 'affairs' of the Northern Irish population. Perhaps it's the risk factor - the thrill of the chase and the possibility of getting caught.

According to The State of Affairs: Explorations in Infidelity and Commitment By Jean Duncombe, one of the few academic studies on infidelity, men are more likely to have affairs which cut across age, class and marital status whereas women have fewer relationships with single younger men and tend to stick to their age group and social status when looking for a bit of hanky panky. This the researchers assume, is probably due to women's social depreciation with age. Sorry Grannymar but the concept of ToyBoys is largely that - a concept and not often a reality. And, whilst most men and women agree that infidelity is inherently wrong, more evidence points to the fact that many men and women have affairs during their first marriages.

Basically society relies on monogamy and fidelity as affairs represent a threat to normal principles of behaviour and cohesion. Generally, we're afraid of changing societal boundaries that have existed for years. Is that it? We're worried about the breakdown of society, the family et al? So we pretend that all these extra marital affairs are not happening?

What about the moral dilemma . . is it right? Personally . . although I've never had an extra marital affair (one bloke was quite enough thank you and I'm such a terrible liar I could never carry it off) I don't think it's morally right. At my age, I know a lot of particularly men, in their late 40's and 50's who have gone down that path and are now desperately unhappy because their marriage has failed, their children won't speak to them and the other person in the affair has cut and run I know a couple of women who have been 'the other woman' but not as many seem to have regretted their decision. Two in fact, married the menwith whom they had the affair. The excuse "It was an unhappy marriage anyway . . " sufficing as reason enough to stray.

If you're unhappy . . . difficult as it may be . . the right thing to do is to work on improving the situation and when all else fails leave the relationship. If you're tempted . . . well "A Cat Can Look At a King" my mother used to tell me - face it - looks can't kill but following through has consequences. My take on it all is that a commitment is a commitment, be true to your word. Don't take that step towards commitment if you're not ready but when you do, it is for life so be prepared to put your pencil in your pocket and work at it. Do not have sexual relations with that woman! And ladies . . . look but don't touch if he belongs to someone else.

And a short post script for those who are teetering on the brink of temptation (not that they read this blog!): I married a good and gentle man. Our relationship went through all the ups and downs that relationships suffer but I always thought I'd spend my entire life with him. I had a 2 year old and a 4 year old, I hadn't yet gone back to work and my life was unfulfilled. Domesticity bored me, his shift work left me alone too long and life was a financial struggle - and all the temptation in the world was put at my feet. At 32 years of age, I found myself a widow. I often wonder would I have stayed had he lived but that decision was taken out of my hands. So have a think about what life might be like without your partner . . . seriously . . write a list of pros and cons if you must. Unlike life's misfortunes, building a good relationship is something that you can control if you are prepared for open discussion and compromise. Take it from me, it's better than the alternative!

Just Chill!

It's muggy in Sydney this week. Not that hot, about 27 and my iGoogle weather says it's only 57% humidity but they must be sitting on top of an inland mountain cos it's sweaty conditions out there. I am being aided and abetted I might add by the odd 'waves of warmth' that seem to have kicked in now that my pituitary has actually realised my ovaries are long gone. Interesting sensation that . . .I'm hoping a combination of herbals, Red Clover and Black Cohosh will stem the flushes otherwise I'm going to have to move to a cold country before the motor on my standard fan burns out!

That reminds me. Thommo is packing her backs on Friday and heading off to Japan for the second time in as many years. She's a serious skier, hampered only by the odd rickety knee which she's planning to have fixed upon her return. Her theory is that she might as well make the surgery worthwhile by smashing it to bits on mount 非常に高い山. It's the newest skiing sensation apparently. Ian is popping off to Austria to indulge his habit and whilst I envy them both a few weeks in the chill, I don't care much for skiing . . .or snowboarding . . .or tobogganing.

I took DrummerBoy with me for a snowy weekend when he was about 8. He'd never seen snow, let alone tried skiing so I booked him into 'Kindy Ski School' and myself in for a half day lesson thinking that at least I'd be proficient enough to tackle front valley at Perisher or Friday Flat at Thredbo if I could manage to hang onto the T bar without doing the splits sideways.

He took to it like a duck to water. Mind you the centre of gravity for an 8 year old is like that of a Chinese acrobat. Perfectly proportioned with the middle in the middle. As we grow we seem to get longer in the leg or torso and that means balance isn't as easy. Within four hours, the kid's got no stocks, a crash helmet the size of a watermelon and is competently scooting down the slopes and managing to get on a chair lift, TBar and even a pommer by himself.

Meanwhile, fat biatch is walking like a cripple across the car park in unbendy ski boots (nobody told me to not to put them on until you're actually in the snowy bit). I met up with a charming instructor, all dressed in conspicuous red. She was young, European - probably German or Austrian. In our group were also 8 Japanese, non English speaking tourists. Before we even started the lesson, she took one look at my very expensive shades and asked if I'd bought them in a $2 shop. . . I mean . . .crikey . . they were $250 Raybans! I was determined to look good even if I couldn't ski! So whilst my hackles took their time laying back down on my neck we commenced the lesson and I'd already made up my mind that this girl was going to be a cow of gargantuan proportions.

First thing: learn how to snowplough - that's 'stop' for the uninitiated. Tackled quite well for a beginner I thought until I finally planted myself firmly in the snow. I started to undo my bindings to get the skis off so I could stand up and she shrieked, "Leave you're bindings on. You can't be taking them off every time you fall over!" As if I'm going to ski to Blue Cow unless I can avoid falling over! I'm talking about the front valley, about 1km of gentle slope here! So, I was taught to plant one stock in the snow and get up without removing the bindings. This my friends involves the use of stomach muscles . . .WHAAAT! Besides the enormous embarrassment of admitting that since having children, my belly was less than a six pack - every almost success was flouted by some cocky snowboarder either spraying me with slush or attempting to run me over. Meanwhile, children as young as 3 were careening past me with a "check the retard!" look on their face. I spent the next 40 minutes trying to get myself upright while she diverted her attention and yelled at Japanese tourists. Apparently, if you shout at someone who doesn't understand the language, their powers of comprehension improve tenfold -the hypothesis was not born out. They looked even more confused and became quite animated. They were wandering all over the place, ignoring instructions, trying to translate - meanwhile, our little Germanic guide was visibly losing the plot. She shouted at everyone. Berated us on being the most hopeless and hapless group she had ever had the misfortune to earn $500 from and stormed off about 15 minutes before the lesson was to end. I secretly hoped that her visa was revoked or that she fell off the T Bar 60 feet above the ground.

That my friends, was my first and last foray into the world of the white. Fortunately, our snowfields are littered with cafes and bars. I spend a lot of time in most of them acquiring a taste for butterscotch schnapps whilst DrummerBoy tagged along with competent skiing friends and conquered Mount Perisher. The rest of the long weekend, I resolved to cook and housekeep for the exhausted snowboarders and skiers rather than venture back for more public humiliation. I did do something I'm reasonably good at and went for a wonderful Snowy River trail ride with a guy called Jacko and a horse called Chocolate. I watched a little telly, did a little souvenir shopping, walked around the shores of Lake Jindabyne and generally enjoyed the cold and the solitude.

DrummerBoy still enjoys his skiing although our season is short and he didn't make it this year. He's now no stranger to black runs and talking about trying the slopes of New Zealand, Canada or Switzerland sometime. ClareBear has taken to snowboarding and handles herself admirably if the videos from the Dubai Snow Dome are to be believed. Me? . . .I avoid it like the plague but I do miss those chilly walks around Lake Jindabyne . . . especially now as another wave of warmth makes my hands clammy and my brow sweat!

Why I Didn't Get Out of My Pyjamas and Swore A Lot

Language Warning

I have spent the whole day in my fucking pyjamas. No not the ones that I wear during romantic interludes and not because I'm that attached to them, despite the fact that they are very comfy and cool but because it was apparent, the Dell wasn't well. My morning habit is to wake very early - make a cuppa, crank up the old battleaxe, check the blogs and emails, then shower, dress and get on with the day. Only if I'm happily distracted by some overseas Skype pal am I ever in me jimmy jams after 7:00am.

After a few spits and squeaks and numerous restarts, Ctrl Alt Deletes, Task Manager manipulations, Disk Cleanups and Defrags and even a half hour cooling off period and some serious power point poker, the bitch decided to give up the ghost for about half an hour hastening panic among the humans in the house, "Shit, shit, shit, shit . . motherfucking PC. I only wanted you to last until the end of January . . fuck! fuck!" from me (practising my best Four Weddings and a Funeral 'fuck') to accusatory "What the fuck did you do mum? If I can't get my photos on a disc, I'm fucked! I need them for Fringelet's birthday present!" from the normally quite politely spoken DrummerBoy who's romance collage for the Fringelet's birthday relied on him downloading a disk of carefully chosen snooxy photos.

I managed to get the old girl resurected but with a few provisos:

• She started slower than frozen treacle
• She refused to let me load a new version of Nero
• Simply wouldn't allow Quicktime
• Stalled every 3 CD's due to exhaustion
• Positively went into a spin over MSN and Hotmail
• Made a totally inappropriate buzzy/farty noise if I moved the mouse too fast
• Will not open Word most times and when she does, all the drop down menus appear to jump all over the screen
  
• Simply turned off the screen ad hoc if I swore at her

Biatch!

I wouldn't mind in a month or so . . . I know I need a new PC and this six year old Trojan doesn't really owe me anything but after a $470 ignition replacement in the Hoonda and $270 of new brakes on top of the Christmas spendfest and exorbitant council rates, the last thing I can afford is $2000 for a decent PC. She has to last until 31st January when I can clean out the iMac of ClareBear's images and optimise the whole shebang. Lets face it, I only use my home PC for Internet and Skype so the Mac should do me for a few more months.

The rest of the day was spent 'nursing' files onto a CD so that when the old crone finally carks it, I have my photos and files intact. (For God's sake don't tell her I called her a Crone . . she already takes half an hour to download a You Tube vid!). The big problem besides a cancerous processor and 512 RAM is hard drive memory. DrummerBoy has so many narcissistic Aktor jpegs, iTunes, Winamp and band (not banned- although I didn't watch them all!) video files that even copying them to disk took veritable hours while he plonked along with his gesture of romance for the girlf! (which looked very pretty when he'd finished with it by the by!)

So for those of you on dial up . . .trust me . . your PC's are faster than mine!

Maybe Ms Dell has been talking to this guy . . .

The Invisibles

How can something that comes out of this:

Turn into this:



And make so much noise that it drowns out your "Shoot em Up" action DVD but you can't bloody find it in the tree!

"And How Are You Today?"

I have a policy, I rarely speak about my health problems unless solicited. I don't mean by a sleezy stranger on a street corner "Psst, hey you . . .how much for you to tell me how sick you feel?" but normally, and daily when people say "How are you?", the natural response is "I'm good thanks" or "fine" by which time the person who has asked is either engaged in another conversation or happily scanning your purchases or packing your KFC into a paper bag. It's become a rhetorical question. You might feel emotionally or physically awful but they don't really care . . so why bother asking?

There are so many people with so many ailments that just soldier on and do it cheerfully. I can't stand complainers when the complaint can be fixed with a Panadol or Neurofen. If DrummerBoy has a sore knee because he's been pushing the base and hi hat pedal a little too vigorously, he's into the Panadol and daubing himself with Voltarin, a hangover always warrants medication rather than rehydraton and a good night's sleep. Having said that, when he's really ill, there is little to be said. He's quiet, contemplative, grateful and sleepy. He doesn't complain, he just tries to get over it.

ClareBear has had allergies and asthma all her life. She inherited the entire allergic gene pool of two families. We thought she'd grow out of it but she hasn't. Probably not helped by a mother who smoked, living in a country with the highest incidence of allergies and asthma and the propensity of animals around the house but . . rarely does she complain. Atrovent, Ventolin, Pulmacort, Diprosone, Prednisolone and Telfast have become her friends.

Then there are the hypochondriacs who think a haemorrhoid is a medical emergency or an ear infection a severe disability.I've worked with folk who take days off at the hint of an itchy eye or because they strained a calf muscle playing netball. One even rang in to say he had a haemorrhoid that miraculously disappeared within 24 hours and a severe back injury that simply wasn't apparent when he returned to work the next morning. These are the ones who as small children needed a splosh of Mercurochrome on their graze to form a red badge of courage or a band aid with Pooh Bear or Bart Simpson on it to make them feel better. The ones that take days off while their sunburn heals because they were stupid enough to think that they couldn't get burned on a cloudy day.

Then there are the chronic complainers who really have little to complain about. The ones who clog up our emergency hospital areas with sniffles and scratches whilst those in real need sit waiting for hours for treatment or miscarrying in the women's loo. I was watching one of those Medical Emergency shows not so long ago and some twit in New Zealand called an ambulance to fix a tiny tin cut on his finger - they administered a band aid! Having recently been in hospital, I noticed many rather pathetic ones who'd had the same surgery as me, failing to comply with post operative instructions. They wouldn't get mobile then complained bitterly about pain and the lousy food.

The real sufferers rarely complain. They take it in their stride, reluctantly but acceptingly I know teenagers with chronic back problems due to sporting injuries, people with clinical depression, 40 somethings who have had multiple organs removed. Car crash survivors undergoing rigorous physio and occupational thereapy with smiles on their faces as eachmilestone is reached. Women of all ages with various gynecological and obstetric disorders. Friends who live with hearing impairment or are barely sighted. Others with diabetes, injecting themselves four or five times a day or coping with epliepsy and hoping their medication will prevent some awful embarrassment. Or some who have as yet undiagnosed conditions that leave them listless for days on end, with chronic pain and no apparent cause or treatment. Friends with sticky tickers and degenerative diseases. And close to my heart, the cancer sufferers who put up with the indignity of drug induced mental vagueness, medical probing and often dispassionate staff while their hair falls out and they face their demons.

It just goes to show that there's always someone worse off than you. Always someone who deserves your empathy (note I do not say sympathy for most of these people lead active lives and would hate to be pitied). So kudos to my friends and family who remain happy and work on their fitness tirelessly despite the nasty conditions they have to endure. I feel very fortunate to have had only one serious operation and such an easy recovery.

I'm sure they all have their desperate moments. Those quiet painful times where only their partners and family see their desperation. But all have a zest for life that I find in too few able-bodied, fit and healthy adults.

So next time you get a cold, don't call it the flu . . take a Sudafed, wash your hands, (colds are transmitted via contact, not getting a chill!). Dispose of your snotty tissues, take 4 days of work, (don't spread it about!). Eat well and drink lots of fluids. And if you're one of those who delights in the Great Australian 'sickie' remember, you too could need six weeks off to recover from surgery or to support a family member through paid personal leave . . .that's what personal leave is for and that's why it's accumulative. I'd have been completely stuffed this past six sweeks without paid leave. And for God's sake come up with a better excuse than those I've heard over past years - 19 year olds with one-day haemorrhoid's, pelease! Grab a tube of Anusol and get on with it. If it's good enough for a supermodel's face, it's good enough for your chocolate starfish!!

Domestic Bliss is an Oxymoron

Recently Kate wrote about giving up her doctorate and some of the guilt she felt as well as the relief of having less pressure on her already busy career and family life. Whilst for her, giving up this lengthy academic course brought relief. For others, plodding through it whilst also coping with everyday issues causes great stress - a male friend of hers in particular was feeling the pressure of full time work and completing his post grad to the point where his marriage was suffering because of it. A commenter on her blog mentioned that the stress was probably due to the fact that he is a man and living up to the expectation to 'provide' and that 'women have it easy' and whilst she admitted that it was a sexist approach, she felt it was an unspoken truth. I took umbridge (now there's a word you don't hear very often) in a light kind of way because I think women's work at home has never been fully recognised, valued or appreciated. Let alone the ability to juggle home, children, education and paid work, whatever it is.

For centuries, women have been the lynchpin of family life. Pre 20th Century, they were the domestic workers, educators, cooks, cleaners and bottlewashers. And don't think for a minute that the woman in 'paid' work was a rarity in the past. Quite the contrary, women worked in all kinds of situations and still provided the nurturing and domestic support for their families but it was their unpaid contribution as wives, mothers and carers that remained unvalued.

With the post war baby boom came the age of convenience. Automatic washing machines, microwaves, electric ovens and irons. Gadgets and appliances to make life easier for the 'little woman' at home. Traditionally, as was the case with my mother in 1952, women ceased paid work, in her case as a nurse, when they married. The intention being to start a family. For 18 years, she stayed at home. Worked with us on our homework projects, washed, cooked, cleaned, shopped, gardened. She darned socks (today we just buy a new pair), she sewed carpets and she made curtains. She was there with freshly baked cakes or cookies when we came home from school and whipped up breakfast when we rose bog-eyed in the morning. She was a very 'typical' lower middle class mother. At 45 she decided that she wanted to add a Midwifery qualification to her Registered Nursing quals and went back to study. It was hard. We chipped in with basic chores but I never changed my bed linen or did a load of washing until I moved out at 22 years of age! That just miraculously happened every week. My Dad worked full time in a macho executive position full of office politics which often led to after work drinks with the CEO and would come home lubricated and be waited on hand and foot. On the weekends he'd mow the lawn and spend all day Saturday playing golf. He provided a good income but that was it . . what 'pressure'?

When she went back to nursing and even whilst studying and working shifts, the pantry was always full, dinner often made in advance. Washing and ironing done and the house maintained in impeccable condition. We just had to keep it that way, put out the milk bottles, prepare the odd meal, feed the dog, run a vaccuum around when she worked weekends, wash up etc.

It was postulated some time ago that to 'replace' a non paid, stay at home housewife/mother would cost $250,000 a year and that doesn't include paying for sexual favours. That would be a further $100 an hour (an hour? Go figure!) . . you do the maths!

My point . . . I am waffling of course . . . is that from the 70s women went back into the workforce either part time or full time, en masse AND maintained the level of care, work and nurturing that they had prior to being 'gainfully' employed (What, being a wife and mother isn't 'gainful'). Interestingly, there were no day care centres or subsidies for day care . . .we were 'babysat' by school or Kindergarten and latchkey kids from 3:30 but we survived. My sister, 9 years my junior, and about 7 at the time, spent after school with neighbours until I came home.

Being a housewife wasn't enough. Women had to re-educate themselves . . go back to college or university . . they had to fight for jobs with equal pay to their male counterparts . . . something in which there is still great disparity despite equal opportunity laws. They had to have opinions as feminism was on the rise and a higher level of intellectualism was required of them. They had to deal with 'non family friendly workplaces'. One of my previous employers, a large multi national, was so anti family that I used to claim I was sick if one of my children needed me home to care for them. The guilt I carried lying about my health was awesome in a bad way and I had an awful attendance record as a result of repeated child ear infections, asthma and allergy attacks..

Kudos went to the provider who basically worked full time, mowed the lawn and put out the garbage. In my case, my father would occasionally spit and polish school shoes or iron our jeans with military precision including a nice crease down the centre (Now who wants centre creases in their jeans I ask you . . .?)

Now that my family are grown and in many ways less demanding, I can reflect on how bloody awesome I was, along with 3 million other Australian women, who worked five days a week, raised children (in my case alone but often with the help of their wonderful Grandpa on occasion), kept a clean and tidy house, had a meal on the table at 6:30 every evening, attended to their studies and general wellbeing. So, if you're a working mother, that's no mean feat. If you're re-educating and caring for a family well done. If you're working, caring and re-educating then you're probably superwoman. But if you're just at home, keeping house and caring for children - well that's OK as well. You have great value, you save the economy a small fortune, you free up places in child care centres, you have the blessing of being fully involved in the lives of your children as they grow and if you're lucky, you might be able to squeeze in the odd day of tennis! Just don't expect to have your daily drudgery appreciated by anyone until they have to pay for it!

Drop Bears

Recently there have been a number of shark sightings off the northern NSW coast. Apparently packs of the suckers are moving north, following large schools of pilchards and nibbling at surfer's toes and bums as an appetiser. Summer is a dangerous time in Australia. We locals are used to the perils of the wild and the ravages of the sun but the unsuspecting traveller often mistakes the shark alarm for an ice cream van, doesn't know his Taipan from his trouser snake and has absolutely no idea about the danger of drop bears.

Whilst apart from a nasty scratch and the propensity to wee all over your Armani, Koala's are relatively harmless, very secretive and well disguised in the foliage of Australian Eucalypts. A variation on the Koala is the colloquially named "Drop Bear". Drop bears are similar to Koalas. They live in trees, dropping to the ground only when it is necessary to feed. It comes as little surprise that such a strange animal exists amongs the other unique fauna in Australia such as Echidnas, wombats, koalas, kangaroos, wallabies, platypus, bandicoots and potoroos. The Common Drop Bear is found in forested areas across the continent and is thought to in fact venture as far north as Papua New Guinea and Indonesia.

Whilst Drop Bear's are arboreal they are able to walk on two legs, but are much faster on all four, being capable of bursts of speed approaching 60 km/h over short distances.. They posess enlarged canine teeth and upper incisors but unlike their Koala cousins are carnivorous marsupials. They can grow up to a metre and a half in height in the right habitat. Unlike the slow moving, energy conserving Koala, they are extremely strong and due to their largely carniverous diet, far more active.

Because tourism is a booming industry in Austarlia, little is published on the Drop Bear for fear it would deter internationals from visiting and specifically taking advantage of our national parks and coastal hinterlands. German and Swedish tourists, Australian naturalists and vegetarians are particularly fond of hiking in the Australian bush and provide a welcome injecton of tourist dollars to the economy.

There are however, incidences of Drop Bear involvement in various attacks from the disappearance of Azaria Chamberlain, to the disappearance of a group of cross-country skiers in the Victorian Alps, and the deaths of a number of hikers, canoeists, 4WDrivers, campers, sunbathers on the Northern NSW and Gold Coast hinterlands.

These 'accidents' are often reported as crocodile attacks, falls from cliffs, exposure, and in the Chamberlain case, dingos were blamed to dispel rumours of Drop Bear attacks and hide the truth from the public.And the notorious disappearance of Peter Falconio . . his fiance Joanne Lees inventing a tale of abduction rather than face the ridicule she might receive had she told the truth about a central Australian Drop Bear attack.

Their hunting technique is simple and effective. They drop from their arboreal nest and wrap themselves around the body of their unsuspecting prey using asphyxiation as the most efficient method of rendering their subject lifeless.

If seen, Drop Bears should NOT be approached, as they are easily frightened and likely to attack.. Food should not be left in vehicles as they may attempt to retrieve it and camping in Drop Bear areas is not recommended.

There, you've been warned:

A feral goat succumbs to the predatory drop bear

Old Bag!

Years ago, my mother in law bought me a handbag. It's an ugly, shoulder strapped thing made out of rough leather but it has useful bits. A mobile phone pocket, zippy compartments, it's a good size, totally functional but like most things practical, rather ugly. It's my 'work' bag. The bag you take when you know nobody is going to remark on it's plainness or lack of designer frippery. Flickr are running a 'handbag' competition at the moment, inviting all and sundry to 'expose' the contents of their handbags and make notes on their various sites about the contents. After looking at some of the efforts, I thought it slightly blogworthy if not a bit self indulgent (Ok it's very self-indulgent so indulge me!). Hey, it's my blog!

It's not easy photographing the contents of your bag 'o bones . . but they can be quite revealing. This could become a tag or a meme of sorts if you're so inclined - go on . .you know you want to!

The competition has some requirements which I will pass on here to those of you who accept the dare. It must be an honest representation of your bag's contents, no cute pets sitting in bags Paris Hilton style, no 'planted' bits, no camera bags (apparently they have a separate category for that - mmm . . can't wait for that one!). The bag itself must also feature in the photograph and notes should describe the contents.

Now, for the competition, I'll get a whole lot more creative, like hang my lippy's from a gum tree or throw the lot in the pool and see if it floats, or stash it in a glass bowl and get all sorts of arty farty reflections but for now, here 'tis. For the sensitive, I've removed the squashed tissues and paperclips but this is pretty much what fell out of the old gal this afternoon:

Ok . .there's a glimpse of the ugly satchell. Work your way down. Some antibiotics that I had prescribed for an ear infection and never finished. An empty bottle of 'Angel' that I've been meaning to refill for over 2 years. My favourite earrings that make my ears itch so they often are discarded into the recesses of said bag and considered lost . . I found them again when I tipped the bag out. A sun and a moon bought at an arty farty market somewhere years ago. I love them. A postcard from the Merry Widow's travels - Marstrand to be exact (that's in Sweden), another postcard from Blarney (that's in Ireland) an invitation to a client's art exhibition on all things equine. I never went. An Aktor badge of course, so small you can hardly see it but DrummerBoy thought it a good marketing tool - why he doesn't ask his mother do do a Marketing and Business Plan for him is beyond me. My father's passport - I have no idea how long that's been there, probably for the past five years, I must have souvenired it after he died. Four cigarette lighters . . none bought by me! My favourite Estee Lauder lipsticks, I wondered where they'd got to and a wand lip gloss for mid-day top ups. How much lippy does a woman need? (Hey! I live in hope that pucker lips might land me a bloke yet!) A packet of Extra sugar-free chewing gum . . fresh is best and it helps with the smoking and apparently has a laxative effect although I hadn't noticed. A dental bill, paid but not claimed. My ex-Gyneocologist's business Card. I love you Norman but I never want to feel/see you again! Unless it's socially of course and then maybe the lip gloss will pay off? A Shuttle ticket to Melbourne Airport which I never redeemed because Arky gave me a lift in the Merc. Two cheque books . . interesting . . they automatically issue a new one when there are only five cheques left in the old. Obviously, I never wrote the five old cheques. In fact the only cheques I write these days are for my farrier who is a complete technophobe and doesn't believe in internet banking. A book mark from the Snowy Mountains bought by DrummerBoy on his last ski trip 3 years ago! My leather purse and the plethora of credit cards that carry enough debt to qualify me as a third world country as well as my Fly Buys and store cards that keep enticing me on the promise of huge discounts if I spend $100 or more on scented candles or girly stuff. The flip top Samsung mobile phone that I can never get open in time to answer calls and the keypad is ridiculously small but it has groovy ring tones and stuff. A birthday card from BabySis that's been in the bag since October (that's October folks, the 16th to be precise you have a few months to get your act together so put it in your diary and save for presents!). A scratchie I bought in June with a $5 win on it that I never redeemed and a voucher for a free cup of coffee at a local coffee shop.

What's interesting is what's absent. No keys. That's because I don't have any and the ones I have I leave in the car. Please come and steal it, its worth more to me wrecked than sitting in the garage. No tissues . . I HATE snotty tissues being put back into a bag or pocket even more than I hate fabric hankies. No mirror . . . 'nuf said. No comb or hairbrush . . I don't brush my hair - seriously I never brush my hair, there's absolutely no point. Most importantly NO NAPROGESIC and NO TAMPONS! Too much information? Maybe so but that's one of the positive by products of being neutered! To steal a phrase from a young friend "Yayaya!" However they will soon be replaced with Black Cohosh and Red Clover tablets to control the 'waves of warmth'.

So, the challenge is out there . . get yer little digital numbers out, tip up the old ruck sack and show us yer stuff! Now fellas, don't be shy, I know there's a load of interesting stuff in your wallets and pockets so turn 'em out, take a photo and let us learn a little about you. C'mon . . don't keep me waiting!

Last person to play is an old bag!

A Sign of the Times

We love our signage in Australia. To the point where everything available is plastered with a billboard or advertisement, it's one thing I noticed when I first came to Australia as a child was the inordinate amount of advertising on shop fronts. This was in the day of the 'main street' when shops aligned the main road disecting the town. Each had a canopy or verandah to shade the shop from the searing heat, something which you don't see in England. Adorning these overhanging canopies were and indeed still are a barage of advertisements. Outside, the shops there would are sandwich boards, the windows are littered with advertisements for the goods inside.

Then there are the warning signs, everything from girls riding horses, to children crossing, flashing school zone lights and of course the animal warnings on freeways (as if you're going to slow from 110 when a wombat crosses the road - splat!).


I dread driving into Sydney. Small city as it is, it's now littered with tollways and road closures which force you into tunnels where you have to pay a toll. And since I don't have an electronic tag on my windscreen and cash tolls are few and far between, I'm forever being fined for taking the wrong route. And with signage like this how the hell am I supposed to take the right lane?


Our little enclave is a bit Brigadoonish. We live in a single street of five acre blocks. It's a dead end and whilst it's surrounded by a golf course on one side and new suburbs on the others, there is no street lighting, no lanes marked, so the law permits us to drive 100kms - although only the bitch across the road seems to want to do that on a regular basis! Ah, but you know that suburbia is encroaching and changes are on the way when you're woken by the clang of a mattock and two men dressed conspicuously like council workers begin having an erection!


Yep. Obviously takes two - one to pour the cement, the other to hold the pole! Snapped yesterday. Right at the bottom of our driveway now stand two speed warning signs. Well that will keep 'her across the road' from peering over her four wheel drive dashboard as she belts along the middle at 100! Or will it? It's just a matter of time before they paint double yellow lines and put the speed humps in!

Little Red Chair

I once had a little wooden red table and two tiny chairs. Actually it was a gift to my kids when they were toddlers from HippyBro and the perfect play size for small people. Now the red table is on the verandah supporting a range of unused pots and petrol cannisters and the chairs have gone missing! I suspect BabyBro in a fit of tidyness has taken them to the tip unless we've been surveyed by dwarves who have souvernired them and whilst I find that scenario quite amusing, it is highly unlikely. There used to be one in the shed and one on my end of the verandah but they are there no more.

So why do we lament their passing. They were the perfect size to sit on when wanting to get down low to fiddle with motor bike or pocket bike parts. They were the perfect height to stand on to change light bulbs and dust cobwebs behind the kitchen cupboards. They were the perfect height so sit on whilst sorting through the Tipperary midden that is my bathroom cupboard without having to get on my knees or suffer back strain. They were the perfect height for someone to sit on whilst I coloured or trimmed their hair. They were the perfect height for cleaning my under-bench oven (although why I didn't get a wall oven I dunno . . . not the smartest move I ever made). They were the perfect height to stand on for painting cornices and celings. Now, because I'm passed as fit, I want to start painting and freshen up the place a bit. Partly because it's grimy and needs it and partly because I feel as soon as I'm finished, a bulldozer will be imminent . . . isn't that the way it goes?

So, in the absence of a little red chair, I now have to go to Bunnings (Ooooh Bunnings . . .) and buy a small step ladder which is much less stable and more cumbersome. And of course, I'll get trapped as usual by the discounted fairy lights or the bargain bin located conveniently at the checkout queue. Or I could go to Toys R Us and buy another little red table set . . .

Oh I'm Just an Old Judgemental Extrovert!

According to the Myers Briggs scale of things, I'm incredibly rare. . . part of only 3% of the population so I'm feeling quite special today. Thanks to Emporer Ropi for the link (I love this quiz stuff).

I've been psychometrically tested many times, usually for various employment opportunities, and each time they come up trumps. That's when I answer honestly of course. The thing is, I've even tried to cook the books so to say and they still come up with the same stuff. So, apparently, I'm an ENFJ . . . we are externally focused, introspective, altruistic, positive and have excellent people skills. We place utmost importance on helping others grow. We are warm and have a natural desire to be supportive and encouraging. Being charismatic and possessing excellent language skills, we do well in leadership roles. ENFJs strive to enhance the lives of their human brethren.

We are the benevolent 'pedagogues' of humanity. We have tremendous charisma by which many are drawn into their nurturant tutelage (ooh sounds like something JD would say!) and/or grand schemes. Many of us have tremendous power to manipulate others with their phenomenal interpersonal skills and unique salesmanship (umm that could be a bad thing right?)

ENFJs are people-focused individuals. We live in the world of people possibilities. We understand and care about people, and have a special talent for bringing out the best in others. Apparently, our main interest in life is giving love, support, and a good time to other people. We're focused on understanding, supporting, and encouraging others. We make things happen for people, and get our best personal satisfaction from this.

Success for us, and this is particularly true in my case, comes through involvement in the process of making things happen and through finding that our efforts on behalf of others have fulfilled our own lives as well.

We also focus on how organizations should treat people and communicate these values to others. We enjoy leading and facilitating teams, (aka being the boss) and like to bring matters to mutually beneficial conclusions.

In short: A mentoring, altruistic, easily hurt, religious, neat, content, positive, affectionate, image conscious, bossy biatch with absolutely no attention to detail (I've just realised that Blogger has a friggin' spell checker!) and little patience for fools.

As for multiple intelligences, I'm a lazy, un-musical, linguistically challenged yet a personable, visual naturalist! I can live with that. Now tell me something I don't know . . .

Take the Test

And You Thought You Had a Year to Recover?

So the festivities are all over then? Shit no . . . there's one more before Easter and that's on the 26 January - arguably in the middle of one of the hottest month's of the year . . it's Australia day! The idea is to celebrate the British establishment of a penal colony at Botany Bay but many regard it as a shameful day of invasion and exploitation. More about that in another post. Today, the sun is shining, the world is at peace and everyone's nursing their New Year's Eve hangovers so here are some useful facts, hints and tips, should you choose to venture down under for Australia Day celebrations, which I might add, are well worth the trip!











Whatever you do, never, never, never wear one of these
Or be caught alive in a pair of these:

More travel tips available on request including Barbie Ettiquette, How to Treat a Sheila, Footy Tips and how to avoid Drop Bears.

It is 2008

Happy New Year everyone!

Athbhliain faoi Mhaise Duit
Voorspoedige nuwe jaar
Feliz año nuevo
Blwyddyn Newydd Dda
Kia orana e kia manuia rava i teia kiritimeti e te mataiti ou
A blithe Yule an a Guid New Year
Boldog uj evet
Среќен Божик и среќна Нова година (thought yo might like that one Damian!)

Now, back to my Bailey's on ice! Cheers!

Going Off With a Bang Or Just a Quiet Thud?

I'm not going to write a 2007 retrospective because very little of any significance happened in the Baino household throughout 2007 and all the important events have been reviewed and reviled by the media or posted here throughout the year. Plus I'm one for looking forward rather than back! For us, 'little significance' means no major disasters or family issues, no huge financial setbacks or poor health. But today, I'm at a loose end. ClareBear is in Nambucca Heads with friends enjoying the shark infested waters and will no doubt imbibe tonight to welcome in 2008. DrummerBoy is at work then off to Lemmermans for a party so it's unlikely he and the Fringelet will surface before lunchtime tomorrow. Even then there will be a brief encounter while I drive them to a recovery party at The Mean Fiddler on New Year's Day. BabyBro and Stressany rarely do much on NYE and I for one, don't really see what all the fuss is about but haven't received any invitations to do anything anyway so I'm pretending I don't give a shit.

So, I'm being pathetic, sitting in front of my PC talking people I've never met (not that that's a bad thing mind you), taking my dog for a walk, watching the odd DVD, staring at the three books I should be reading and contemplating tidying my wardrobe or the dreaded bathroom cupboard.

I've had massive New Year celebrations in the past but they've all involved eating a lot, drinking a lot, kissing people I don't really care about at midnight, singing Auld Lang Syne which bores me to tears, then coming home and wondering why we blew so much dosh on a new frock and a date change.

When the kids were smaller, we used to go into the city, picnic at Lady Macquarie's Chair and watch the 9.00pm and midnight fireworks then queue with the other 2 million Sydneysiders to get back home. It was fun and there's no doubt that Sydney puts on a NYE night like no other. A couple of times, a veritable crowd of us booked hotel rooms and had a leisurely walk too and from our viewing vantage point, wading through the drunks and the rubbish left by so many people and telling the kids that 'that nice man is just having a little snooze before the big fireworks go off." All in all, it's a lot of expense and exertion for 15 minutes of fabulous pyrotechnics.We've done the NYE at home thing and that was OK apart from the cleaning up the next day and regular body removal but nothing special about that. It happens whenever the kids have an event! We've done the dinner out thing but it's rather forced and you're usually unceremoniously tossed out at 12:30 just when the party's getting started. I've even done the quiet dinner at home thing with BabyBro and Stressany or Thommo, TheBoss and The Merry Widow and watched the fireworks on telly which is civilised and pleasant but hardly celebratory.

I'm toying with the idea of going into the city alone. We have buses running all day every half hour for the special event. I could take the camera and snap some shots but since I lost a pair of $250 Raybans on NYE once, I'm a bit reluctant to take a $1500 worth of camera equipment. Still, I could go and 'oooh' and 'aaaah' with the rest of Sydney but it's not the same on your own. I'd feel a bit like that sad little Leunig cartoon that contemplates loneliness, the univers and his diminutive place within it.

So, I'm on my tod. On my lonesome. Flying solo. It's off to Costi's for a nice little lobster methinks, a bottle of something delish like Verve Cliquot and a disgustingly fattening tub of Norgen Vaas or Grand Marnier, coffee and Chocolate Covered Almond Conoisseur Ice Cream. I might even blow dry the frizz, put on a dress and lay a table for one plus dog. I'll have a very nice little dinner, watch the fireworks on telly and pop my fat ass into bed at 12:05! What a saddo! (now stop feeling sorry for me, I didn't try very hard to get a gig tonight!)

At least I know of one person who's working all night and another who's researching migration to Australia rather than partying hard so I don't feel totally left out. For the rest of you revellers - go hard or go home - well done - enjoy your night, I hope it goes of with a bang (metaphorically speaking) and I'll talk to you all next year.



Happy New Year . . .Crikey . . it's just a number!