Prim and Improper

This will be one for the Aussies, sorry. This will mean nothing to you forrins.

I have come to an important conclusion about Belinda Neal. I think she comes across as an out-of-touch-with-reality man in a dress because she is Martin Bryant in drag.

Think about it:

* They both lack basic social skills
* They both appear to have a penis
* They both like intimidation, threats and violence, especially when carried out in restaurants
* They are both in dire need of counselling and perhaps being locked up
* They would both rather be at a KFC right now

Though, one thing I will grant you - Martin does come across as more feminine.

Seventeen schoolgirls pregnant after making pact

There is something in me that really wants that headline to be - nay, really thinks it should be "Seventeen schoolgirls pregnant after making whoopee"

Oh, shut up. It's early.

Oh dear.

24 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Poor (Failure) Take the test!

Still, at least I have made the internet happy.

I woke up this morning and my dodgy dye job hadn't magically vanished overnight. Bollocks.

However, I have discovered:

* It does look a bit better when I have makeup on

* It does look a bit better when I style it myself

* Gordon Ramsay has a very similar dye job and nobody calls him Shazza. Perhaps I will be as lucky. Especially if I swear a lot and brandish big fuckoff knives.

Good friend and uber oogedy-boogedy scholar kissedbythemuse puts my hair terror down to my Leo ascendant and something something something.

On the plus side, taking my mind off (many) things by cleaning out the fridge, freezer and fruit bowl resulted in me improvising a quick little recipe for apple turnovers, which have turned out deliciously. They are the very thing for accompanying a cup of tea on a grey Sunday afternoon.

I think it might be time to look for a new hairdresser.

Remember how a couple of months ago he gave me a mohawk? We had a conversation after that about how it was a bit severe, and as a lady approaching a certain age, we need to soften things up a bit. Well, today he went one better than the mohawk.

A couple of haircuts ago, I mentioned that my colour looked dull. I don't customarily colour my hair, but it's getting duller the older I get and it needed a little bit of a lift. We discussed doing a little bit of highlighting here and there (less is more, darling), just to brighten things up a bit and today was the day to do it, ostensibly so I looked a little better for this trip to Brisbane next weekend. Where I will meet tpbrcombo's Mother and many of his friends for the first time, and attend his best friend's wedding.

I thought I was getting a few foils here and there, but he proceeded with a different technique - he smeared the colour potion all over his hands and lightly ran his hands over the top of my hair (which is quite short), so I got just a little light tipping all over. The colour we discussed earlier was a blonde with a little bit of warmth in it. Something that would tone in with what I have. I was hoping to get something like the natural gold highlights I used to have.

I thought it was all going ok until I saw the finished result. He went with a whiter, more icy blonde, which contrasts far too much, I think, with my darker blonde. And it looks like he got a bit more than just the tips. I think he was going for a kind of 'ooh, dramatic, artsy fartsy professional' look. I don't know why. I just wanted a little brightening; I wasn't making a statement about being all edgy and wankerish. I think I look like a big old bogan. I look like I went down to the supermarket and bought a bottle of White King, took it back to my home at the bogan caravan park, went down to the bogan caravan park amenities block and applied it my bogan self to my bogan hair with my bogan toothbrush and smoked Winfield Reds while I waited for it to work. I look like I should be named Shazza. I look like I should be screaming obscenities in a public place at my three smudgy-faced children, all of whom have different fathers, and who are named Schapelle, Mercedes and Braydon.

Maybe it will look better when I have some makeup on.

Maybe it will look better by next weekend.

Maybe I will just wear a hat.

I have been adding to the pool of useless information in my brain. Who knew mortality figures made such interesting reading?

* The top five countries for death by African trypanosomiasis are not in Africa. Well, ok, except for Egypt, which is almost not Africa. Oh come on, you know it.

* Estonia leads the way with death through Assault by Pushing or Placing Victim Before Moving Object. Unsuccessful Estonian Eurovision contestants should be careful when waiting at train stations.

* Death by Rat Bite - America, South Korea, Mexico, Brazil and Colombia in a five-way tie. Viva la plague!

* (Americans, you know I love you.) The U.S. stunningly leads the world in Death by Contact with Powered Lawnmower, and in Death by Falling out of Bed.

* I did not know you could die of anal fissure. Apparently, the U.S. is also full of weak arseholes. Perhaps this is because the U.S. also leads the way with Death by Foreign Body Entering Through Natural Orifice. Yanks - please do not dangerously weaken your sphincters by inserting things in your anuses (anusii?). If the lightbulbs, cucumbers and vacuum cleaners don't get you, the festering flesh wound will.

* The Netherlands takes gold for Death by Discharge of Firework.

* YOU CAN DIE BY EXCESSIVE FARTING! The perilously flatulent Egyptians show us how.

* And in case you were wondering, Australia is the world's top country for Death by Torsion of Testis, or twisted balls, if you will. Funnily enough though, I have never seen anyone fall to the floor clutching their knackers and screaming "AAAAAARRGH!! ME NUTS!!!!" before drawing their final breath.

Though wouldn't it be fun to watch Sam Newman do that?

Facts verifiable at Nationmaster.com if you can be arsed.

* Headaches

* Nausea

* Having a head full of snot. It's been nearly three weeks now.

* Someone at work. They should really shut the fuck up. Remember, as Mark Twain said, "It's better to stay silent and look a fool, rather than speak and remove all doubt." Hn. I guess it's too late for that now.

* Being broke

* Hearing about this fucking movie

Having been mildly mocked here, I would just like to make it known that it was He, and not I, that pumped a fist into the air and shouted "YEAH!" when Croatia made it into the Eurovision finals.

The Semi Final telecast tonight was followed by ABBA, The Movie, which we are watching at The Bloke's suggestion. I'm not sure why, exactly. He mumbled something about Frida, Agnetha and some kind of sandwich.

I am enjoying the nostalgia trip - I was about seven years old when they were really big here and have spotted merchandise I owned back in the day. However, something I am noticing now that I did not notice then: Björn's white satin jumpsuit is giving me far more information than I require.

Also enjoying the hilarious attempts at dialogue in the brief moments ABBA participated in the filming of the movie. (Ja. A møøse once bit my sister... Mynd you, møøse bites can be pretti nasti...)

This morning I needed extra function so my coffee could brain, so I toddles off to the local caffeine dealers.

There's a new girl working there, and she's Irish. I know many people love hearing an Irish brogue (it's lovely, why not?), and hers is laid on thicker than the head on a Guinness. It's the real 'hur tuturr tuturr pertaters' kind of accent, almost a silly voice cliché.

I love it that I have to pay her tree terty for my cup of coffee.

That is all.

I have been playing with a random proverb generator. It splits a whole bunch of common proverbs into two parts (a lead into a noun, and a noun) and then mashes two together at random to create a whole new proverb.

Some of my favourites:

It takes two to make love and war
A bad workman blames good neighbours
Love is in the bush
Don't put all your eggs in a vacuum

Yes. Wise words indeed.

Well, damn. It seems I have embarrassed myself again doing the old "falling over in the street" trick.

I just went downstairs to the coffee shop. It's been raining here; the footpaths are slippery and I'm wearing leather soled shoes. Of course, one of my dainty little trotters slipped right out from under me.

You know how Charlie Brown used to try and kick that football but Lucy would pull it away, he'd be airborne and land flat on his back with a big WUMP? That's exactly what I did. But with a twist (literally, apparently). Please to imagine: I'm walking along, and to my left is a sandwich board outside the cafe. It's the classic ^ shaped thing. I am looking directly at one of its flat sides with the specials written on it.

Then, slippy slippy erggh WUMP! Flat on my back, rather heavily.

Aaaannnd I think I may have been out cold for just a second, because when I came to, the view was the inside of the sandwich board. I have no idea how I did that, but I somehow executed a mid-air twist and went from being parallel to the gap in the board to being perpendicular to it. If by perpendicular you mean inside. I did it rather neatly, too. I was on the perfect angle that my head at no point touched the sandwich board. If sandwich board diving were an Olympic sport, I think the judges would be calling that a perfect entry.

A couple of people came and helped me up. I was a bit stunned and it took me a few minutes to properly regain my senses, which I did while waiting for my coffee.

A little sobby kind of thing rose up from my diaphragm and came out in a sort of a "whuff". "God, I hope I'm not going to cry, or go into some sort of shock," I thought. That would be stupid. Another sob rose up, but it was more of a half giggle. Which developed into a full giggle once I stopped and thought for a second how it all must have looked. Before I knew it, I was trying really hard to not look like one of the local loonies, sitting there and cackling to myself.

I left the shop and once I got back to the site of my amazing flight I couldn't stifle the giggles any longer. Hopefully most people who noticed me laughing at nothing had seen me recently hit my head on the pavement and put it down to that. But I laughed all the way back to my office. Couldn't help it.

I mean, come on. I'd just spontaneously fallen down and wedged my head inside a sandwich board. Even just seeing it in a sentence makes me laugh.

It must be a slow news day today. It actually made the news on the radio this morning that there is "a wave of offensive t-shirts being sold in Sydney". They cited two examples - one, in the manner of a warning sign, said "Kings Cross Police now targeting fat chicks"; the other had a picture of Princess Diana with the caption "She's dead, get over it". While I agree they're tasteless, they're hardly so offensive as to be newsworthy. And I can't hep but agree with the sentiments of the latter, even if I wouldn't wear it stretched across my ladybreasts.

I started my day today with an encounter with one of the local Glebe identities. These are mostly beggars of varying levels of aggression, ranging from the benign Twenty Cent (who's really just a confused old lady), through to Mumbles, Rags To Riches, James, Better Dressed Than Me, and right on up to Fuck Off You Fat Cunt, who is a woman in her early 20's and the most aggressive and intimidating of the lot. (Unless you count Crazy Eyes Man and Enforcer Dog, but you really only see him from time to time when they let him out of Rozelle Hospital and he goes off his medication.)

I don't know the name of the guy on the bus this morning, we just call him "Friendly Guy". He's not a beggar, he's just happy and friendly. He's an odd one - he goes from being so out there and ebullient when talking to the world at large as to give the impression he's a bit unhinged and off his meds, but in a one on one conversation he calms down and seems quite lucid. He says hello to everybody. The first time I saw him I thought he had a lot of friends, but it's kind of more the case that instead of burying your head in the paper to escape the weirdo, most people can't help but smile and say hello back.

He almost never sits on the bus. He stands and makes announcements to all the commuters. The spiel usually goes something like:

"THE WOMEN ARE BEAUTIFUL AND THE MEN ARE HANDSOME!"

"YOU'RE IN GOOD HANDS, YOU'VE GOT A WONDERFUL DRIVER, SO SIT BACK AND ENJOY THE JOURNEY TO YOUR DESTINATION."

"TEMPERATURE AT YOUR DESTINATION IS SEVENTEEN DEGREES. THIS IS YOUR VICE CAPTAIN SPEAKING."

"SWEET JESUS LOVES YOU!"

All the while saying hello to people getting on the bus and telling the odd woman that she is beautiful. That would be kinda creepy coming from most strangers, but he seems so earnest and artless about it that he never puts people off, saying things like that.

A pretty girl sitting in front of me invited him to sit down. He initially refused, saying it was against his religion, and also saying, "You know, the only guy more handsome than your boyfriend is SWEET JESUS!" He then caved, and sat down to have a chat, with the girl looking a little like she wished she hadn't said anything after the Jesus thing. But they then seemed to have a quite friendly, engaging conversation about their jobs, the local area, etc. When he got off, he very sweetly thanked her for the chat and said that she'd made his day. And then merrily went on his way, bellowing

"WE LOVE YOU, SWEET JESUS!"

"THE WOMEN ARE BEAUTIFUL AND THE MEN ARE HANDSOME!"

Etc.

Despite all the references to Sweet Jesus, he's not actually proselytising or pushing anything. He just seems like a simple, joyful bloke who wants to spread a bit of happiness around and likes a nice chat. Kind of a shame that seems so odd.

Man raped by wombat?

Teenager assaulted with hedgehog?

What are you people doing over there?

I am having a splendid Easter, thanks very much.

With the madness of the last few weeks, it's nice to have five days off to sit on my lardy arse and do nothing. It was to have only been four days, but I unexpectedly had Thursday off as well. I had to go and have three hours worth of blood tests done on Thursday morning (yes, I've been to the Endocrinologist) and had been fasting for them. By the time I'd had two lots of blood taken (with a third to go) I wasn't feeling terribly compus and figured it was wiser to go home rather than go into the office and sit in front of my computer going "uurrrrgghh", or perhaps even "eeeaaaarrrggh", if somebody asked me a question. Alex was on leave, so I had to answer to the Finance Director. She at least knew where I was going to be, and laughed when I told her I wasn't being dodgy by calling in sick the day before a long weekend. She was cool with it, and just in case I needed a further alibi, one of my ABC colleagues happened upon me while I was sitting in a coffee shop when it was all over, ingesting coffee and a bun and trying not to pass out. Plus, I have a rather showy bruise on my arm where all the action was, so if asked I think I really can prove I wasn't out shoe shopping.

Now, if only I could stop worrying about the phone call from another ABC colleague I refused to take that day. Poor bastard, he was trying to get in touch with me the day I had my wisdom teeth out, too. Bad timing.

The weather has been very pleasant, it's been lovely to spend some quality time with The Bloke and I haven't set foot outside my front door since Thursday. Much sleeping and eating has been done. We started on our Godfather marathon today. Geez, that's a great movie. I love that you can simply watch it for itself, or if you want to get all technical, you can revel in everybody being at the top of their game - actors, director, cinematographer, editor... everyone. Except the chick who played Apollonia (Michael Corleone's first wife in Sicily). I want to know which Coppola she's related to, or if not, which Coppola's dick she sucked to get that part.

It's nearly 2am and we're sitting outside on the balcony in the cool with a light rain falling and a bottle of whisky. Very, very pleasant indeed. And I can't quite believe we don't have to go to work tomorrow.

And now, apropos of nothing, a little something for frozenrhino - because it's time I rickrolled you.

Dear Heather Mills,

Shut the fuck up now. Ok?

Please.

Look, I'm no McCartney apologist. I'm sure he's not stainless in all this. Yes, I know he's been worth 800 mil for the last fif....

Uh huh. Well yes, true, people are enjoying sticking the boo....

Yes, it's perhaps a bit unfa....

Ok, especially when you have a child to consid....

Mmmm. You've done nothing but charity and getting worse press than a pedoph....

Look sweetie, thing is, nobody gives a shit. You're not as big a celebrity as you think you are. We're all hoping you'll just fuck off and crawl in a hole or something. OK?

Darling, it's not that everybody loves Paul because he was a Beatle. It's because you're an unmitigated, loudmouthed, hot stabbing pain in the arse. Do you see?

I know, you mean well. But seriously, it's time to cock off and shut that fucking yap of yours, you peg-legged bint. (Oh, how I wish I didn't know of your stumpy erogenous zone. The mindbleach, it does nothing.) You're richer than god now, so just shut the fuck up and accept and enjoy it graciously.

Really, try a dignified silence. Less is mor....

No?

Ooook, then. It's up you. I look forward to seeing you on I'm a Z grade celebrity, bury me in concrete. No, really.

Toodle pip,

HC

I unexpectedly went to Melbourne today for a meeting. I was there for a grand total of about four hours. I wreaked havoc before I even left Sydney.

Consider: I am carrying my work accoutrements:
* Big fuckoff laptop bag, containing:
* Laptop computer
* Compendium
* Big fuckoff notebook
* A year's worth of technical schedules (the size of a large A4 book)
* A year's worth of rehearsal schedules (also the size of a book)
* Another book, for my own amusement
* iPod
* Sundry bits of crap including wallet, phone, etc
* And also carrying another bag containing the conductor's score of Carmen, which is in two volumes, and roughly the size required to land a 747 on, or perhaps to build a shelter out of when marooned on a desert island.

Consider too that the laptop bag alone weighs a ton and widens me by about a foot, maybe a foot and a half.

My shoes were slicing my feet up a bit by the time I got to the airport, so I toddled off to the airport chemist to buy some band-aids. I made my selection and made my way to the register. Whereupon the pharmacist tried to charge me over $16 for a packet of band-aids.

"Uh... what?" I said.

"Sixteen dollars blahdeblah", said the chemist.

"Um. It said eight dollars something on the shelf".

"Show me where. You're probably looking at the wrong thing."

BAH! A POX ON THEE!

(I didn't say that.)

He started making his way to the rear of the shop where the band-aids live, all the while going on about how I'm a mong and must have got it wrong.

I didn't - the band-aids had been shelved in the wrong place. But little did he know that I am indeed a mong, but for entirely different reasons.

For you see, when following him to the rear of the store, I completely forgot that my breadth had increased by a foot, maybe a foot and a half, due to my big fuckoff bag of accoutrements.

I misjudged an aisle, and my enhanced width caught a large tray of lip glosses. Many, many lip glosses.

Dooosh. Multicoloured carnage all over the floor, accompanied by a loud, attention gathering clatter.

"Oh. Sorry."

The chemist then proceeded to haul a bored looking girl out from the back of the shop, saying he needed her to pick something up. She wasn't impressed when she saw it was many somethings.

I bought a much cheaper packet of band-aids.

And that is the story of how Aunty Sam unwittingly exacted her revenge when some price gouging fucker tried to charge her over sixteen dollars for a packet of band-aids. Sixteen fucking dollars! The cheek!

One good thing that came out of our garage being broken into recently was a modicum of labour saving. By tearing open the boxes of my crap, the burglars saved me the trouble and I could see what was in a few of them. I noticed that I got custody of the breadmaker.

I was musing with The Bloke on the weekend whether to keep it or stick it on eBay. He thought to give it a go and requested to awake to hot, fresh bread on the weekend. Having not touched the thing in years, I decided to try a reacquainting myself loaf this evening.

The first error was the choice of bread mix. For some reason, I chose a Barossa Sourdough. I don't know why. I have made proper sourdough by hand, fermenting a starter and everything. I know fake sourdoughs are shit. I know. I exercised poor judgment here and blame nobody but myself.

Subsequent errors I don't know about. I followed the directions and quantities exactly for my machine.

When it came to the cooking cycle, we started to smell burning. I gingerly lifted the lid, only to discover that the dough had overprooved and gone plllllfffffffffttttttttt, oozing out over the sides of the tin and onto the element. A lot. I had to dig it out lest it catch fire, and in doing so (obvs) I knocked the dough back accidentally at the top. I watched it continue to deflate and sag through the little round window. Like some strange hybrid of Play School and National Geographic.

I let it finish cooking, and after burning my finger in the attempt, turned out my loaf of flump to see if any of it was salvageable.

The top was concave. The bottom was cooked properly, but still a little bit too moist and tasted completely vile.

Hot, crusty flump. Straight into the bin.

Notes to self:

* You know you're not supposed to eat bread. Stop it.
* The joy of making bread is in the hand making of it, remember? Idiot.
* Sourdough mix? What the hell were you thinking?
* "Barossa" doesn't fill it with Maggie Beer goodness. Twit.
* Caution! Breadmaker is hot!
* Put breadmaker on eBay, the sooner the better
* Comes with free sourdough bread mix!

And that is the story of Aunty Sam's hot, fresh, crusty flump.

The haircut today? I seem to have accidentally wound up with a mohawk.

Seriously. Ask tpbrcombo if you don't believe me.

No, I'm not taking photos.

The post production place I've been working at for the last couple of days is right on the other side of town and then some, so getting to and from has involved a fair bit of driving. I'm going through a bit of a 'bored with everything on my iPod' phase, so have had the radio on.

Yesterday afternoon they played Rhianna's Please Don't Stop the Music.

This morning they played Please Don't Stop the Music and that Akon cover of Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'.

When I got to the place, they were playing Please Don't Stop the Music on the TVs around the place, which are permanently on Channel V.

I popped out in the car for a break at about 11.30am and on the radio they played Please Don't Stop the Music.

There was more of Please Don't Stop the Music on the TVs a little later.

On the radio on the way home they played Please Don't Stop the Music and Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'.

Conclusion: If I hear the ridiculous phrase "mama say mama sa ma ma-pu-sa" again, I fear I am going to get a bit poke punch stabbity stabbity ambulance come now.

I bet you're the wacky guy in the office, aren't you? The one quoting annoying sayings from Little Britain. Oooh, computer says no! Hi-larious!! It's a wonder you don't wear a tie that looks like a fish, or has a naked girlie on it with little flashing lights for nipples.

On its own, that fact that you are in your late 30s/early 40s does not make you a cock.

On its own, that fact that you must weigh about 120 kilos certainly does not make you a twunt. Oh no. I've been there too.

And the fact that you have to traverse the Devonshire Street tunnel of a morning does not, on its own, make you a total wankspanner. There are many of us who do. As you well know.

But the fact that you are that size, age and traversing the overcrowded Devonshire Street tunnel in the morning peak hour on one of those fucking stupid little Razr scooters makes you an uber cocking wankspanner twunt.

Has nobody told you how utterly ridiculous you look on that thing? Good lord, an eight year old girl can get away with it, maybe the odd teenager, but certainly not you, you arseclown. But hey, if you want to look like a complete moron, that's up to you. What I object to is being practically run down in a crowded thoroughfare by something with the bulk and agility of a runaway fridge. You don't know how to manouvre that stupid little piece of arse-wipery on wheels at all, let alone in a subway full of people. And none of us have the room to get out of your selfish, fucktarded way. It's like coming face to face with that big rolling rock in that Indiana Jones movie.

In summation: Please learn to walk like a normal person. If not, cock off, you utter ribbed for her pleasure shiny pink bell end. You and your ride-on idiot mobile.

Love and kisses,
HC