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Thursday, November 30, 2017

Why I Haven't Been Blogging

Tuna the Dog

Tomorrow is the last day of school.

But guess who has a job again at the same beautiful, little country school next year?

I KNOOOOOOW! I’m ecstatic.

We had our staff Christmas party last Saturday and it was held up on my mountain so two of my teacher buddies had a sleep over and … well… let’s just say we bonded over eighties music and about eighteen bottles of wine.

On Tuesday night, the grade sixes had their graduation so (to avoid driving home at night) I had a sleep over at my teacher buddy, Catherine Mary’s house.

At first she put me in the bedroom next to hers and then she must have remembered that I kept her awake with my gentle snoring on school camp… so she shunted me right to the back of the house.

“I don’t want you to stay awake all night worrying about snoring,” Catherine Mary insisted magnanimously.

The idea had never entered my head. Why would I worry about that? It’s never worried me before. 

She’s such a thoughtful creature.

The last thing Catherine Mary told me about before we retired, was the fact that massive huntsmen spiders liked to run in and out of the open, unscreened windows in her rambling Old Queenslander. 

Needless to say, I had an exceptionally light sleep that night and consequently didn’t snore at all. 

It was nice of her to warn me though.

We went for a lovely walk in the morning before school and this is a photo that Catherine Mary took of the little town I work in.

Catherine Mary's awesome shot

Gorgeous isn’t it?

This is why I haven’t been blogging lately. I’ve been busy.

Today we took the kids to a place near Brisbane for ten pin bowling and laser skirmish. Because there was no room on the bus, I was allowed to drive and meet them all there. Naturally, I became hopelessly lost. I was still earlier to arrive than they were though because the bus driver got lost too.

I’ve just been busy wrapping Christmas presents for our end of year staff lunch tomorrow and I’ve sent Scotto up to the bottlo because I forgot something. He’s also on a mission to buy some chick starter and sawdust because one of the teachers at work is giving me three newborn chicks tomorrow. 

Scotto and I are already bickering over which Game of Thrones characters we’ll name them after.

Apparently these chicks are a cross between Pekins and Modern Game.

This is a picture of a Modern Game chicken.

Ugly, huh? They look like roadrunners. I don’t care though. 

I like ugly animals, in fact, the uglier the better.

I want a pet that can make me some money. It’s about time one of my pets started paying out.

There’s the famous “Tuna the dog”, and “Grumpy Cat”, and a fairly well-known porcupine but I don’t think there are any famous ugly chickens so perhaps mine shall be the first.

Now that the holidays are upon us, you can expect to hear a lot more from Pinky Poinker, but after today I won’t be posting on my own personal timeline (so as not to alienate my friends who hate Pinky’s guts, and believe me, there are some).

However, if you want to torture yourself you had better like Pinky’s Facebook page or you'll never hear from her again.


Love youse all xxx

Saturday, November 18, 2017

Damaged Goods

It was last Sunday morning when I sashayed into the vacuum cleaner selling place bearing a strong resolve NOT to be rude to the salesman. 

I usually find vacuum salesman to be of a highly irritating disposition and considering the fact I was about to purchase one of the most troublesome of household appliances, I knew in my heart that it would take all my strength to keep a civil tongue in my head.

I’d spent Sunday morning violently sneezing and after surmising my aggressive allergic reaction was the result of the twenty million, billion dust mites overrunning every crevice of my house, I’d dragged out my three year old, seventy dollar vacuum cleaner and begun the dreaded task of cleaning.

Naturally, the cheap piece of crap decided to cark it at the crucial moment and I exploded in a violent fury and marched out to Scotto, who was outside building the deck, and emotionally declared that we had to proceed at once to the vacuum cleaner selling place.

“I’m not spending more than two hundred dollars,” I wheezed and snuffled into a tissue on the drive down the mountain. “And I don’t want one with bags or a fudging cord. Don't let them talk me into it!”

How many wasted years of my life I’ve spent untangling cords, tripping over cords and ripping electric sockets out of the wall by cords, I couldn’t tell you.

“I have four dogs,” was my initial petulant reply to Derry (the vacuum cleaner salesman) on Sunday morning when he politely asked if he could ‘help me’.

“I need something cheap but effective,” I ranted. “I want something strong enough to suck a German Shepherd through a straw.”

I emphasised the word ‘cheap’.

I must admit, he was not at all pushy. He informed us that bags were preferable to bagless because of the ‘cleaning of the filter’ issue and that cordless vacuum cleaners only hold their charge for EIGHT MINUTES.

It takes me at least an hour to vacuum my house. Can you imagine the frustration, the utter rage, the bitter hostility which would arise if I was forced to stop proceedings every eight minutes in order to recharge the useless machine.

I walked out of there $500 poorer with a vacuum cleaner that had a very long cord and needed a constant supply of bags.

After I finished cleaning the house, my cautious review of the said appliance was a cool 6/10.

It was acceptable. I won’t say I liked it, but I didn’t hate its guts. I didn’t feel the need to bash it against the wall or fling it down the driveway and that’s quite promising.

You’re not allowed to use it,” I said to Scotto pointedly, suspecting the last vacuum had died because of his rampant use of it when vacuuming up bits of plaster.

He assumed a downcast expression.

“What about if I just want to vacuum my office?” he enquired pitifully.

“I suppose that will be alright,” I agreed reluctantly, knowing in my heart he NEVER vacuumed his office, “as long as you don’t go vacuuming up all your little screws with it.”

Someone else using my brand new vacuum cleaner would defile it. It would be rendered corrupt, tarnished, sullied.

I just couldn’t bear the thought.

As I drove home on Monday afternoon, I suddenly had a horrible premonition that Scotto had used my new vacuum cleaner while I was at work... but I brushed the menacing vision away. Surely he wouldn’t have dared to use it so soon… surely?

Well… he had used it.

Of course.

Scotto can’t resist using anything new.

And now I feel as though my beautiful, new vacuum cleaner has been besmirched, its virginity has been spoiled, it’s a ruined woman.

I don’t think I like it at all now.

Sunday, November 12, 2017

Pinky Goes Outlander Style

Dad on his steed

Scotto and I like to do something novel on weekends, apart from drinking, so lately we’ve been going horse riding.

This silly idea was entirely inspired by watching ‘War Horse’ one night (when we were drinking) and I lavishly pronounced that we should go and ride horses at once.

“That horse is so lovely.” I exclaimed to Scotto whilst observing the handsome and gallant War Horse. “I want to ride a horse just like him and have my hair flying in the wind with the rain on my face.”

Scotto never needs a second hint and before I knew it, we were booked for a two hour trail ride in the Gold Coast hinterland.

It was all right. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I enjoyed it… but it was all right.

Unfortunately, about four weeks later, we (were again drinking) watching Outlander on the telly, where there are quite a lot of very good looking, heroic people riding valiant horses...

 and I once again made the mistake of mentioning to Scotto that I should like a bit of equine activity.

“We should take Dad!” I enthused. “He loves horses.”

Dad is eighty two years of age and even though he is very fit and still has a four pack (which is quite extraordinary for a man his age), his usually dutiful daughter should not encourage him to put himself in treacherous and uncertain circumstances.

I sort of forgot about this whole discussion, but Scotto remembered (most inconveniently) and brought the subject up at our regular Sunday get together with my parents.

My mother was against my father’s engagement in this reckless scheme from the start, but after some earnest assurances to her that the horses were extremely gentle and that we barely get beyond a trot, she eventually acquiesced to the adventure.

I still felt a great deal of guilt however and hovered around my father like a bird over a chick until I saw him (dressed in his drizabone and proper riding boots) hoik himself onto the horse with all the physical fitness of the Man from Snowy River. He rode like the old school horseman he is and suffered no ill effects.

In the meantime, it took me three goes at mounting my flea-bitten nag even though I was standing on a milk crate.

However, apart from my horse scratching its entire body against a tree forcing me to lift my foot out of the stirrup and elevate my leg up in the air, most unbecomingly, in order to prevent its instant pulverisation, I suppose the ride was… all right.

One thing is certain however, Scotto and I really MUST stop watching movies starring horses.