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Sunday, October 29, 2017

Who Knocked Over the Water Bowl Again?

Last Sunday, Scotto and I strolled through the aisles of the IGA in a leisurely fashion when I abruptly stopped in front of a stand holding a stuffed, rainbow coloured, unicorn.

“I would buy this for Pablo the Chihuahua, however I know the little b#stard would rip it to pieces and then I’d have to pick up fluff for the next week,” I sighed, picturing in my mind the unfortunate “stuffed reindeer” incident last Christmas.

Pablo destroys every stuffed animal we buy for him. Firstly he blinds the creature by gnawing out its eyes, then he lovingly maims it in a slow, torturous manner, one ear/limb at a time. 

Finally the blameless effigy is disembowelled, beheaded and at last quartered, just as William Wallace was so violently executed by King Edward’s loyal soldiers.

“We should buy this for Celine,” Scotto announced, picking up a quite large rubber ball.

Celine eschews baby toys of the stuffed variety but adores anything bouncy.

I felt a bit guilty arriving home with only one present for one dog, but that’s what happens when you are a brutal, homicidal slayer of innocent, stuffed toys; you miss out.

To mention that Celine has been taking pleasure from her gift would be a gross understatement. I'm beginning to think the unicorn might have been a better option.

This is what we have had to put up with each and every evening…

Sunday, October 22, 2017

Why Jumping Castles should be Banned from Existence

An event took place at school yesterday and I spent my Saturday afternoon and evening on crowd control duty in a rather small room, with 200 buoyant children who were in more than avid attendance. 

After it all finished, I endured a long drive, swerving around indiscriminate marsupials, who appeared to be on a suicidal mission, in the dark and ominous dampness. I recalled Wolf Creek and its antagonist many times during the journey. 

 I arrived home at 10 pm in a quite exhausted state. 

All I wished to do today was to relax… sans over-excited, screaming children. I’d had enough of under elevens.

After much passionate dialogue, Scotto and I eventually resolved we’d give Mel Gibson’s pub another go for lunch because the view is so attractive and we thus set off.

It was pleasing to see that the establishment had removed the offensive smoked chicken from the menu and I hoped my passive protest had not a small influence on that decision and looked forward to a decent meal.

What was not so pleasing, however, was largely influenced by this malevolent, foreboding structure set up in the middle of the fucking beer garden.

Fucking Jumping Castle

Nothing, and I mean NOTHING sets off exuberant shrieks, anguished laments resulting from two toddlers inopportunely smashing their heads together, or outraged tantrums with kids running off bawling in ear-piercing howls that communicate threats such as, ‘I’m telling on you to my mother, Corey!!!’ than a jumping castle.

A jumping castle in a beer garden is an abomination of the highest of highest orders.

Nevertheless, we had a table and we were settled.

Meanwhile, settled at the table beside us, were two mothers and three children who were thoroughly enjoying their plates of chicken nuggets and chips.

The three children, stimulated by the unnatural additives in their soft drinks, began to chant in raucous voices, “Yum, yum, eat my bum!”

I have no answer as to why they began this chant but suspect they liked the sound of the word ‘bum’ as well as the fact that ‘bum’ is rhymed with ‘yum’.

This was at first amusing I suppose but it went on for a quite some time, relentlessly actually, until one of the mothers finally intervened. “That is enough of the ‘bum’ word," she entreated the group gently. "Stop."

Silence ensued for about ten seconds until one of the more creative little boys began to chant, “Yum, yum, eat my doodle!”

Naturally, this threw me into a fit of immature, hysterical laughter. Scotto was dissolved in an infantile paroxysm of giggles. The mother, however, who was understandably mortified, began to scold the small boy who then began to inconsolably bawl his heart out while I was attempting to eat my bruschetta with some semblance of placidity.

I do love children but I also hope my own grown up children are practising safe sex for the time being.

Sunday, October 15, 2017

The Mulberries

My father gave me a large bowl of home grown mulberries last week and I took a handful to school as a snack.

I was thrilled as I haven’t eaten mulberries since I was ten years of age and I love to receive free, organic produce.

I nibbled on them as I strolled around the playground whilst on duty.

“Mrs Poinker, your teeth are pink,” a well-meaning little grade one student, hanging upside down on the monkey bars, stoically informed me.

“Your teeth are blue,” I countered, observing the stain from a blue icy pole encircling the cheeky inverted mouth.

“But your teeth look scary,” the small creature replied, dropping to the soft fall and moving in for a closer inspection.

A collection of inquisitive, tiny children gathered around me, staring at my teeth in horrified fascination.

As soon as the bell went I raced into the bathroom to inspect the damage. All my teeth were indeed heavily stained but one particular tooth, my fake front tooth, looked as if it had been soaking in concentrated, heavy duty Red Dye 40 for at least a few decades.

I was terrified. What if the material the fake tooth was made of had absorbed the juice and I was destined to live the rest of my life with one bright magenta-coloured front tooth.

I swished water in a passionate and relentless manner for the rest of the day and by the time I arrived home it had faded to a rose pink.

By evening it had diminished to a romantic pastel.

Only a vestige of pink tinge remained in the morning.

That is the last time I ever eat mulberries.

But what else can I do with them? Tie dye t-shirts? Batik Printing?

P.S. Of late I have become utterly obsessed with Jane Austen. I have begun a separate blog site called Jane Aussie Austen where I intend to write Austenesque posts about my every day life. Dear Reader, I would never inflict this on you without your permission, however if you would like to follow it here is the link...

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Happy Birthday Mother!

It’s my mother’s birthday on Tuesday so Scotto and I called in before taking her and Dad out for lunch today.

“Here’s your present,” I announced, handing over a card/voucher with an accompanying scented candle.

“Oh I can’t use scented candles,” she replied. “They aggravate my sinuses, but I’ll put this in the cupboard and you can have the one you gave me for last Christmas back. It’s in the same cupboard.”

“But it’s a special soy candle,” I persevered. “I bought it especially with your sinuses in mind.”

She went off to swap the candles.

So now I have a new candle and it’s not my birthday

We arrived at the café of my dear mother’s choice and I was in a bit of a bad mood because the café was facing a car park and I hate eating in places with no atmosphere. I like a bit of beach… or at least a water feature.

There WAS the atmosphere of hydrocarbons, nitrogen oxide, carbon monoxide, sulphur dioxide and other hazardous greenhouse gases, I suppose, and also Mum insisted the food was top notch so I decided to be accepting of the fact that it was her birthday not mine and to stop being a selfish biartch.

My mother is strange with her choice of eateries. Once, when we were visiting, she suggested Sunday breakfast at a certain café. When we arrived via the GPS we discovered the café was inside a major shopping centre. Nothing else was open; just a sad little café with no other patrons but ourselves and a view of the roller door of a closed Sportsgirl store.

Another time she suggested lunch at a restaurant attached to a theatre in the middle of nowhere. We arrived at the restaurant and as there was no theatrical production going on and it was completely vacated, we were the only ones there. It too, faced a car park.

So, in great disappointment, but with a hopeful demeanour, I walked to the counter to order a calming, alcoholic, revitalising round of drinks in order to save me from this new affront to my sensibilities.

“I’m sorry,” said the lady serving, “you can’t order alcoholic drinks without ordering food.”

I was perplexed in the extreme. “But we ARE going to order food,” I stammered. “We just want a drink while we’re looking at the menu.”

She shook her head gravely. “You have to order the drink WITH the food.”

I felt my blood pressure edge up and I’m sure my ears went red.

I’m ashamed of myself because I’m sorry to say I gave her a decidedly fake smile when I said, “Allllllllrighty then,” and strutted off in a shit.

When we’d finally ordered and had our beverages in front of us, Dad began talking about how they’d had to purchase water for their empty rainwater tanks the previous week. The mountain hadn’t had rain for ages and everyone was running out of water.

“Why didn’t you just fill up the tanks with the hose?” I asked.

Dad just stared at me... then he got the joke. Either that or he was humouring me, I'm not sure.

To tell the truth, my mother has always asserted, most strenuously, that my father is eccentric, but I am now suspecting they are both quite peculiar.

Thank God it doesn’t run in the family.

On a cheerier note, we gave two of our chickens a warm bath today due to their poo-encrusted bottoms.



They are walking with a much easier gait now!

So tell me, do you have any eccentric people in your family?

It was definitely an occasion for surgical gloves.

Monday, October 2, 2017

I Don't Wanna Be a Pirate!

I finally bit the bullet and signed up to Ancestry DNA historical records and wow… just wow.

I traced all my dad’s great grandfathers back to the 1500s and came to a dead end at Nicholas De Venoix, who was born in Normandy, France, so that explains my penchant for cheese and wine and stripey t-shirts.

Scotto has declared since learning of this marital affiliation, 

"I shall be taunting people a second time and I shall cease to take showers and continue to speak in an outraaaageous accent."

My mother’s ancestral side is a much more mysterious and delightfully scandalous story of which I have made a quite insanely titillating and intriguing discovery… but I can’t tell you about it or not only will I be disinherited but I may wake up in my bed with the head of a Chihuahua on my pillow case.

Let’s just say that DNA reveals all.

Speaking of insane things, one of my great, great grannies died in an insane asylum in London, poor thing.

What… ? Runs in the family?

One of my great, great, great grandfathers was sentenced to 6 months hard labour at the Old Bailey for fraud and his name was Silas.

Finally there is someone exciting in the family history.

I’m calling my next pet, Silas.

I also had a great grandfather named, Solomon Catt and naturally my next cat will be called Solomon.

My great, great grandfather, John, was “heavily tattooed, wore an earring and a large beard, had worked on ships sailing the world, was very grumpy and scared all the children silly” and we suspect he was a pirate which, even though it’s no claim to fame, is thrilling all the same.

It was a relief to note that the majority of the grandparents lived to a ripe old age, even though one set spawned twenty children. One grandfather lived to one hundred so the good news is I’ll hopefully be around to annoy you for a little while yet.

 Unless of course, one of my ancestors decides they don't like my blog and tries to kill me from the 'other side' which I fear might be actually happening.

I walked out to feed the chickens today and saw this impaled on the chair I usually sit in.

I know... glamorous photo...

Seems a bit pointed (no pun intended).

So until we meet again… au revoir monsieurs and madames.
But tell me... got any family secrets?