And just like that …

… more than a month had passed and I actually did forget that I had set myself this habit. Which is what happens with me all the time, so many plans set up, then I get distracted and then they fall away. But look at me not getting grumpy at myself, and not just throwing it all in. Look at me saying, ‘Okay, well, you’ve missed a lot of days but that’s no excuse to miss a whole lot more.’

I’m on the deck at Clare at the moment, and it’s one of my favourite weather situations, where it’s been hot–so hot–but now the clouds are closing in and there are storms around but they never quite reach here. I’ve done some old-fashioned blogging and taken an untidy picture with my phone and uploaded. Not quite old-fashioned blogging because I had to airdrop it from my phone to my laptop and I never used to that in the noughties. I rarely do it now.

What I love about this weather is the sense of both promise and expectation. This is a feeling that I live with in my chest so often. It’s a wonderful feeling, but equally it is a false friend. Because it gives me the dopamine rush of success, but without putting in the work that’s going to lead to the success. Writing this it has only just made sense to me the impact of what it means, because I have long misinterpreted the sense of anticipation to be a sense of anticipation about the work. But of course the sense of anticipation is about the result. It’s led me to believe that I am looking forward to the work, and then, when the work is hard that makes no sense to me and I stop doing the work. But what it really means is that I’m looking forward to the result.

This probably doesn’t sound like anything to you, but it is actually vaguely profound for me, because it means I immediately see the work in a different light. Something to be endured rather than enjoyed. And if I know it’s to be endured, then I can just remind myself of that while I’m going. The ‘having written’.

One of my favourite Winnie the Pooh things used to be when he was asked what his favourite thing was and he answered, ‘Honey.’ And then he added, but there’s a moment before I eat the honey and that’s possibly just as good. And I think that’s why I’ve always been confused about what my sense of anticipation is focused on. It’s not that hard for Winnie the Pooh to lift the honey to eat it. But it is hard to do the writing that results in the having written.

This is awkwardly written, and to make it a decent piece of writing I would need to go back over it and smooth out the clunkiness, but this is already yesterday’s post posted late, and I’ve got a lot of writing in my heart and my mind waiting to be done.

The End.

A Quick Gen-X Quiz

All right, it’s 1 January 1980, and we are complete. Gen-X Represent!

  1. March 1985. Describe the clothes you’re wearing. What are you having for lunch? What’s your favourite song?
  2. Which one of those bitches is her mother?
  3. Name six of the artists who sang in ‘We are the World’
  4. Name an artist everyone would think sang in ‘We are the World’ but didn’t.
  5. Winona Ryder and Helena Bonham Carter were great in the 80s but are magnificent now. Discuss.
  6. Why did tuna mornay go out of fashion?

That’s all I’ve got for this morning, check back tomorrow for another list of quickly-compiled questions that may or not help you to pass the time.

Yes, I do have better things to be doing

I love the internet so much that if I were less monogomous, I would marry it. Look what I found.

I used to stand in the shadows of my bedroom and look across the hall to watch Dallas. My mum never said a word about it, but a lot of the time, the loungeroom door would gently close just to the point where I could no longer see the televison. Then, me and my friends discovered that you could hear our local television station on the radio. I have no idea how or why this happened, but it did, and I would huddle under my quilt with my radio tuned, lusting after Patrick Duffy’s chest and Victoria Principal’s thighs.

My mum was a very intelligent woman, but it’s her we can thank for my love of trashy television.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got more West Wing to watch. I’m up to the place of the significant death (I’m sure you all already know who and how, but just in case you don’t, I’ll be coy) so I’m going to skip a few episodes.

in need of your assistance

Partly because of this:

ceiling rose

and partly because of this:

splotch painting

but mostly on account of the daily sight of this


and this


and this


I am increasingly desperate for our bedroom (the master bedroom as it would be labelled if we were to have an open inspection) to be painted. I’m sure you can see the problem. And if you can’t, well, I really don’t mean to be rude, but your taste is in your arse, because that paintjob is shit.

Four years we’ve been living here and facing, as I have, the sight of that faux-Michelangelo, I think we should all be thankful that I have retained my good humour to the extent to that I have.

For a range of reasons, many of which will be obvious to the casual observer of our lives, and some of which will not, neither the mister nor I have got around to painting the room ourselves. Nor are we likely to in the foreseeable future. This is not laziness as other unfinished jobs or the unreplaced blown lightglobes are. We both like painting and have done a great deal of it in our lives. Let’s just label it the vicissitudes of life, shall we?

Anyhoo, I have made a momentous decision, and decided that we shall pay someone to do the painting for us. I have obtained a quote of around $1,600.

I know that I should obtain another quote or two, but between you and me and the internet, I couldn’t be fucked. It’s not obtaining the quote that’s the problem so much as the follow up phone calls and the ducking and weaving out of the way of the person or persons whose quote one has rejected.

So, I thought I’d ask you. Does $1,600 sound like a reasonable figure? It’s a largish room, and the quote includes the paint as well as the time to do some minor repairs to the ceiling. It is about $500 more than I was anticipating (and I thought I was being generous), but then, I still think that you can buy a coffee for $1.50 and a bush biscuit for five cents.

No wonder I’m not rich and famous

I know you already know this, but the new 90210 is a bit shit.

I was particularly excited about the promised Linda Gray moment, who, I think we can agree, is about the best thing to come out of the eighties. It was a disappointingly fleeting moment though. Available on youtube here, but not worth embedding, even if you do know how to embed which, we all know, I now do.

Still, I think I’ll watch 90210 until it’s cancelled. Which should mean I only waste another one or two hours of my life.

Anyway, what are you doing reading this rubbish? I’m sure you’ve got dishes to finish.

Luckily, they were very understanding

So, yeah, trip to the day spa cancelled on account of one (very) sick boy and, therefore, high probability of second sick boy (and won’t that be fun, what with the drama queen tendencies and all), so cancelled while there’s still twenty four hours notice.

This being August, we shouldn’t be surprised.

On the upside, it’s been very lovely late-winter weather. The kind of days where, if you get your washing out early enough, you can bring it back inside dry and smelling of the sun.

Sunday night

So I’ve been out and about a teeny, tiny bit looking at possible venues for a Fringe show. I’m looking at intimate venues. By which, of course, I mean small. The one I like best seats 38 (maximum), but because of the way it’s organised, wouldn’t be too bad if there was only 4 or 5 people in it. They could all sit in row about three rows back and they wouldn’t feel bad and neither would I. Of course if there’s none (people – I refuse to use the word persons) it will be pretty empty. And I could just go home.

It’s down what we now call The West End of town which is a fair way from the action. But I’m not really an action girl anyway. Plus, while it’s not free, it’s not toooooo expensive. I mean, I probably won’t lose too much money (losing money being a given).

I think I’ll book it. Unless you’ve got other advice. Which I’d listen to, because let’s be honest, I know fuck all about putting on a Fringe show. I’m aware I will lose money, but then what’s new?

We went to two excellent birthday parties this weekend (it’s the season for birthday parties to be sure). First one was yesterday at the Aquatic Centre. We were in the carpark when I said, really just as an aside, not expecting that anyone but me would care, ‘it’s Denis’s birthday today’ (everyone calls him Denis). Oh my. Littlest boy burst into gut wrenching tears and said ‘that means we shouldn’t celebrate’ and then ‘imagine if we had the funeral on his birthday, how bad would that be’. Still, in truth, it’s good to see him cry. I worry for him, that little boy. He doesn’t cry enough. And after he had cried for a bit he said ‘I need to stop’.

At today’s brilliant birthday (and how good was that sun – please remind me of these days when we’re back to March and its thirty five degrees every day) the mum had arranged for the woman with the animals to come. You know, where all the kids get to hold a bearded dragon and feed rose petals to the ring-tailed possum. There’s a snake too. A carpet python. Woman says ‘if anyone feels scared, you don’t have to touch them, just let me know’. Quick as anything, Littlest boy pipes up ‘actually, I’m allergic to snakes’. Hair-lairy-arse. Though as it turns out, he can pat them, he’s only allergic if he cuddles snakes. Kind of thing I would’ve rung my Dad about, and we would’ve had a good laugh.

But it’s all, as they somewhat annoyingly say, good. Really. It’s good to remember that I had a Dad I would’ve rung.