What would you do if you had 30 minutes left to live?

What would you do if you found out the world was going to end in half an hour?

This is the sort of silly question Pinky ponders when she’s on school holidays with far too much time on her hands and an idle, adolescent brain firing random electrical impulses at whim.

One thing I’ve always thought I’d do (if I was unable to congregate my loved ones together in time to sit underneath a pyramid holding hands and doggy paws whilst chanting something Gregorian) is to zip up to the nearest Donut King and scoff as many of those cream-filled chocolate éclair things as humanly possible. I’ve never eaten one, only lusted after them from afar, but Armageddon would be a good time to start.

Or maybe raid the closest pizza parlour gluttonously devouring the stringiest, cheesiest most fattening item on the menu until my trackie-dacks split.

Or perhaps bust into the liquor shop, nick a carton of outrageously expensive French Champagne to be taken home and drunk in a fragrant bubble bath with truffles and caviar and make wild passionate love to my husband.

“So… what you’re saying Pinky, is that you’d go on a looting rampage?” I hear you ask in an outraged tone.

I suppose…

Another idea I had was that I’d locate the local drug dealer, buy some smack or crack and go out on a high, stoned to the eyeballs. The only trouble with that is I don’t know any drug dealers and I hate needles (although the house three doors down does have quite a lot of comings and goings if you know what I mean).

I wonder how I would react to the news of impending extermination. Would I go crazy-mental, strip to buck naked except for a pair of Doc Martens and run around the streets ripping up flowering garden beds screaming, ‘Kuckoo! Kuckoooo!’?

Would I jog barefoot to the nearest church, throw myself at the feet of the statue of Jesus and confess all my past sins? That might take longer than the allocated thirty minutes… Besides, I’m sure it would be standing room only.

I suppose the actual form of annihilation would factor into it as well.

If it was an alien invasion I think I’d just walk out with my hands up in the air. I couldn’t stand the suspense of all that ‘hiding in basements and running through dark tunnels evading long, purple tentacles’ business.

An approaching tsunami might motivate me to run for the hills but what would be the point. When the flood dried up there’d only be tinned dog food and rusty cans of soft drink to eat and drink. That’s IF the floods dried up. You could end up stuck on top of a hill for the rest of your life. I think I’d rather go out with a bang than a whimper.

How about a snap Ice Age like in the movie, ‘The Day After Tomorrow’? My fingers turn blue in the freezer section of Coles so I wouldn’t last long in that sort of catastrophic event.

Zombies would be my favourite disaster set-up I suppose. Even though you get bitten and you die, you then ‘come back to life’ and get to travel around with the other zombies eating eyeballs and entertaining stuff like that. Not so bad really.

Now you may think these are the ramblings of an old mad woman but I’ve just done some research on the net about what people would do if the world was about to end and you know what the overwhelming response was.

Eat. Most people said they’d just eat.What about you? What would you do?

If you liked this post here's another one about the apocalypse!

Pinky and her Hallux Valgus

“You need to get that bunion of yours looked at Pinky!” observed Scotto last night. “It looks like you’re growing an extra toe.”

"What? Paul? Paul Bunion?" I queried in puzzlement.

Hmmm… it is growing I agreed when I looked at it closely. I almost need a size larger shoe on my right foot to accommodate the behemoth. 

In actual fact, it's getting to be humongous! 

In fact, it's becoming unbelievably big!

It's so big it almost needs its own postcode.

It's so big it needs its own lawyer. 

It's so big people apologise to it when they bump into it.

It’s so big it shows up on Google Earth! 

It’s so big I’m thinking of having it Christened. 

It’s so big airport security have to x-ray it to make sure I’m not stashing 3kg of hashish.

It’s so big my socks have stretch marks.

It’s so big it has its own shadow.

It’s so big it has its own birthday party.

It's so big I think its first tooth is about to come through.

It’s so big, when I rest my feet on the coffee table Scotto can’t see the TV.

It’s so big this picture took an hour to download.

It’s so big... I feel like it needs to be breastfed! (Sorry about that one.)Yeah… it’s soooooo big I’d better see someone about it.

Pinky’s Wonderful Land of Nursery Rhymes

Pinky Poinker walked down the hall,

Pinky Poinker had a great fall.

All the dogs play toys, and all the kids shoes

Inflicted on Pinky a dirty big bruise.

Pinky had a little lamb

She put it on to cook.

When Pinky went to write her blog,

She forgot to go and look.

The lamb was burned and singed a bit.

It was a damn right shame.

Which only goes to prove the point

That Pinky’s cooking’s lame.

Pinky, Pinky likes her drinky,

But how does her garden grow?

The plants are dead, in the garden bed

With noxious weeds all in a row.



Baa Baa Black Dog

Why you lose your hair?

One bag, two bags you’re like a moulting bear.

Underneath the table, underneath the chair.

Floating in the swimming pool

And underneath the stair.

Twinkle, Twinkle formal gown,

Please, dear Lord, don’t let me down.

Elusive diamond in the sky

It’s hard to find the perfect buy.

Twinkle, twinkle formal dress

The quest begins and so the stress.



Hark! Hark!

The dogs do bark,

The council’s coming by.

Some with letters

And some complaints

And one with a great, big fine.

Little Pinky Poinker

Sat in a corner

Drinking her dry white wine.

She gave a small sigh

As she pulled out a fly

And said, “I can still drink it, it’s fine.”

Incy Wincy spider

Climbed up the water spout.

Out came Pinky’s Baygon

And knocked the spider out.

Then Pinky flushed it down the insinkerator and chopped the hairy b#stard into a squillion pieces…

Do you ever feel you're being BURIED ALIVE!!!

                                Pinky: Buried Alive

B – Bed linen… haven’t changed sheets for two weeks... they're sticking to our legs.

U – Underpants… haven’t done washing for ages and have run out. Have to wear ancient G-string. Permanent wedgy.

R – Recipes… went to the Lenard’s Chicken shop on four days this week. Marvellous range there.

I – Irate, complaining teenagers… “Muuuuum! Not bloody chicken AGAIN!”

E – Energy… nowhere to be seen around here, gone AWOL... along with only comfortable bra lost in huge pile of dirty washing.

D – Dusting… can’t turn ceiling fans on because big lumps of fluff keep flying off. I keep thinking there are bats loose in the house.



A – Apathy… Eighteen year old stayed out all night on a school night; didn't bother to get up him. Had to ring the school to ask if my own son had turned up that day. School secretary thinks I'm a weird mother.

L – Lint… someone left tissues in pocket again, spread all over the black pants I was going to wear to work. Wore them anyway.

I – Idiot… guy who yelled at me and gave me the finger for cutting him off on roundabout. Someone needs to go to anger management workshops, methinks.

V – Vacuuming… there is a dead cockroach stuck to the floor that's been there since Monday morning. It'll need a chisel to get it up.

E – Ever hopeful that next week I’ll get my act together whilst also remembering a lot of other people are much worse off than Pinky and I should cease my whinging.

I'm still smiling like a rat with a gold tooth!

                          Every mother's saviour!

                      (Not sponsered but should be; in fact                                             should be CEO)

Image credit: www.lenards.com.au

Hard Boiled Scotto

                           The sexy, but gritty Scotto.

Pinky tries her hand at Gum Shoe...

I dedicate this to the memory of 

Dashiell Hammett. 

Author of The Maltese Falcon.

(There are many of his adapted quotes in this piece of detective genre.)

Scotto walked into the lounge, and observed his surroundings… he saw the stains splattered all over the bare gyprock walls… stained without any indication from where the staining had originated… and there in a dark corner of the room he saw it. 

The scenario laid out before him was one of disgrace… and even though he’d witnessed many crimes before, the body on the couch told him the story of what had occurred in that very room the previous night.

Scotto Poinker’s jaw was strong and chunky, his nostrils flared and his black eyes impenetrable; framed by his questioning eyebrows. His greying hairline, rising higher every year, added distinction to his furrowed brow. He looked rather handsomely like a young James Bond.

The air in the lounge room was thick and cloying with the stale stench of tobacco, fast food and hard liquor. The glass window all steamed up and the light streaming through gave the room a jaundiced tinge; like the light streaming through an empty Four X Gold bottle.

Dried out Macca’s fries littered the coffee table like the cold pale fingers of a dead man and the corpse-like body on the couch stirred and groaned with the same timbre of a drunken, seasick pirate.

Scotto’s dame, Pinky, was upstairs still in the land of nod; draped in purple satin sheets and the scent of a woman… he didn’t want to disturb her. She hadn’t had a good life, bad… worse than you could ever know… she deserved a sleep in, damn it.

Then he saw it on the coffee table… his bottle of vodka, empty…as empty as Pinky’s wine glass on a Friday night. It was full the night before. He eyed the snoring carcass lying prone on the red velour sofa.

“Was it you, Thaddeus?” he woke the suspect with a prod from his gum shoe. “Was it you who drank my vodka last night, damn it?”

Thaddeus stared at Scotto through bloodshot eyes… as bloodshot as the eyes of a whacked-out stoner walking the streets of King’s Cross.

“Tell the truth, Thaddeus,” Scotto drawled, tapping his fedora over one eye and grinding his spent cigar into the floor with his heel.

“I distrust a man who lies about his liquor… if he lies about liquor he’s not to be trusted. Listen Thaddeus, it’s a long time since I burst into tears over spilt vodka. Tell me the truth and we’ll call it quits, damn it!”

“Wasn’t me…” stammered the suspect.

“The cheaper the crook, the fancier the patter. You were the only one here last night. You always have a very smooth explanation ready. Don’t be a weak sister, fess up, damn it!”

There was a gloomy silence in the seedy surrounds of the lounge that morning… and no confession.

So the mystery of the misappropriated Vodka remains unsolved… for now...

                                 

An Apology to My Deputy Principal

After my post the other day…A Letter to My Deputy Principal I feel (in the interests of future employment opportunities) it would perhaps be a prudent decision to apologise to my D.P.

Not for the outrageous demands I communicated in my letter mind you; but for the unflattering portrait of Yoda I used to represent our esteemed leader.

I have to say, our D.P. is actually a bit of a good sport (you know… the type that may or may not dance on tables at Christmas parties) and I do have one amusing story I can recap without fear of any damage to my financial security.

A few years ago I was having some difficulty in managing the errant behaviour of a particular student, Aloysius. I’d sent him up to the office to have a quiet conversation with our D.P., the stoic Mrs. G.

An admonished Aloysius indolently wandered back after his meeting with the D.P. while I was with the rest of the class playing sport, so I sent him back to the classroom to retrieve his hat.

After a few minutes, highly suspicious of the tardy return of Aloysius, I darted back to the classroom to check on his activity.

As I opened the classroom door Aloysius swiftly turned around; startled and eyes bulging like a large rabbit caught in the headlights. He was gripping my lolly jar; a myriad of Allen’s Snakes littered the floor around him and his chubby cheeks were swollen with multi-coloured lolly-juice streaming and dribbling out his stained mouth.

“Aloysius!” I gasped… incredulous at his audacity, “You’re really in for it now! We’re going back to see Mrs. G! Come on… spit out those lollies!”

Sensing defeat, he dutifully spat the mushed, gloopy lump of psychedelic moosh into his hands and followed me back up to the office.

“Mrs. G!” I feigned outrage for Aloysius’ benefit, “I just discovered Aloysius raiding my lolly jar when he was supposed to be getting his hat from the classroom.”

“Give those lollies to me!” Mrs. G. demanded, espying the grubby little hands clasped together tightly and encasing the illicit contraband.

And... before I could prevent it, the now confused Aloysius, plonked the seeping mass of gelatinous spit and confectionery into Mrs. G’s open hands.

The look on her face was priceless.

A Letter to my Deputy Principal

A couple of weeks ago my Deputy Principal walked past me in the staffroom, punched me in the arm and groused under her breath, “Read your blog, Pinky!”

Oh crap! I thought scanning my brain in panic as to which particular rubbish I’d written about the night before.

Oh, that’s right… it was the post about playground duty... 

“I didn’t think particular duties were so critical in the well-being of teachers!” she commented drily.

Yesterday a survey arrived via email from the Deputy, requesting that we teachers submit a form nominating which duties we find more palatable e.g.; after school, before school, first break, second break etc.

Who’d have dreamt in a million years that the largely ignored and pooh-poohed Pinky, could have so much influence over the boss? So… if you are reading this post tonight oh 'Mistress Yoda', I’ve a few other things you may like to look into.

Dear Deputy Principal,
# If you could source rose petals for the staff toilet, peach-coloured tissues, and designer bath towels in peach too…(because they match my complexion) that would be well… just peachy!

# Could each classroom be equipped with bottled Evian, vanilla room spray and a dozen white roses please?

# If I happen to be late for work I’d like you to overlook it as ‘creative idiosyncrasy’.

# I request that before 8:00 am no one looks at me (especially the students), walks near me, or takes my picture.

# I would like all the doorknobs in the school disinfected and the air-conditioning filters cleaned daily.

# In staff meetings I would like a large bowl of M&Ms (but make sure you remove all of the brown ones).

# I’d like “Do Not Disturb !!!!!!!!!” signs to be put up on our classroom doors at 2:50pm every afternoon.

# A chauffeur to drive me home after happy hour in the staffroom on Friday afternoons per favore. The chauffeur must have strict instructions not to talk to me or stare at me in the rear vision mirror. (A police escort is optional)

# I’d like a special room assigned to me in which to store my wigs.

# I request that any ‘distinct’ smells be kept well away from me at all times…including those emanating from the boys’ toilet.

And finally…

# A supply of Moet Chandon champagne, a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, and some condoms in our pigeon holes every Monday morning sil vous plait (I’ll use the condoms as water bombs to throw at O’Reilly when he makes bad jokes in the staff room).

Have I gone too far this time????

The Secret Lives of Grandparents

                                      

Today a special assembly was held at school where we joyously celebrated the role of grandparents in our community. Hundreds of the students’ devoted grandparents turned up for the festivities (as well as three or four ambulances on standby in case something disagreeable occurred; for example someone breaking a hip or something). 

No they didn’t.

 I just made that up and I’ve a bit of gall to joke about it because it probably won’t be all that long before I’m a granny myself.

In order to decorate our massive shelter shed where the assembly was to be held, one of our crazy deputy principals came up with the unusual idea of assigning each teacher with the task of having their class create 'effigies' in the shape and style of grandparents.

When I think of effigies I think of sticking needles into voodoo dolls made of clothes pegs or straw representations of men being chucked into a bonfire and other such malevolent and pagan practices. There was none of that though. 

Our effigies were strung up on lengths of rope.

I must admit when first informed of this concept, the mental picture I formed in my head was on the macabre side. 

'What is the deputy thinking?' I thought. Has she finally done one too many after-school bus duties in the blistering sun and cracked it?

The end result however, was surprisingly colourful and novel.

What I found to be truly amusing though were two things; the different takes on how the old and wrinklies appear to the kids and how committed to the task each individual teacher had been.

Some teachers went all out and frankly their competitiveness is to be praised. What greater opportunity to display their artistic talent and leave the rest of us looking like we’d held the paintbrush between our toes? Bloody exhibitionists.

Body Building Grandma. 

Also visits the solarium way too often and drinks a lot of protein shakes.

Trendy Granddad. 

Belongs to the golf club, the wine and cheese club, the model train club and writes a lot of letters to the editor.

Bogan Grandad- wearing thongs.

Gives the grandkids Wet Willies, drinks beer, thinks Russell Crowe is a pansy and won't let anyone talk when the footy is on the telly.

Divorced Granddad. 

Has gone back to Uni to do an arts degree and hangs around with the young folk.

Recently began to grow his own vegetables. 

Glamorous Divorcee Grandma 

Uses Botox and fillers, goes to nightclubs and refuses to babysit the grandkids.

Fave movie, "Shirley Valentine".

Wants to meet a young Greek spunk.  

Fabulous! Granddad.

Fave movie, "The Birdcage"... uses jazz hands when excited.

Living in the Past Grandma

Doesn't leave the house without a full face of make-up and support hose stockings. Fave movie; "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" (loves Elizabeth Taylor).

Conservative Grandma

Off to Bingo followed by Morning Melodies.

Plays lawn bowls with the girls every Tuesday.

Daggy Granddad

Smells like mothballs and old farts.

Makes lame jokes at Christmas dinner too.

War Veteran Granddad.

(Note: only has one arm)

Stays on the back veranda listening to the wireless and never comes out to talk to anyone.

Grey Nomad Grandparents

I wouldn't be taking candy from these two. They look a bit too nice. I bet they drive an unmarked camper van.

Ex-Used Car Salesman Granddad

Takes his false teeth out and tries to bite you with them. Favourite joke... "Pull my finger".

Slutty Grandma! 

Mutton dressed as lamb (she even has a camel toe!)

Smokes outside the school gate, drinks rum and cokes and 

tells the grandkids to call her Debbie.

Freakin Scary Grandma!!!

Has four daughters-in-law and hates all of them. 

No-one visits her on account of her three Rottweilers.

This is what the 'gallows' looked like.

Two of them were so excited they lost their heads so we brought them into the staff room for a nice cup of tea.

And that was my day :)

PS: Guess which one belonged to Pinky's class?

Thank Goodness it's Friday

Speed reading my Facebook feed this afternoon before picking up Lulu from her job at the donut shop, I spotted this tremendously jubilant image of hubby Scotto, taking delivery of his brand new car. He does appear to be a mite jolly doesn’t he? Cool number plate! 

Scotto flew down South this morning and will drive the steely beast back to North Queensland later in the week. Meanwhile, Pinky has been left to her own dodgy devices for a few days.

Yes… I’m all alone and “While the cat’s away the mice will play”… (or maybe I should be saying, “While the cat’s away the lunatics will be running the asylum”).

Tomorrow, my exciting plans include attending the Ladies’ Day (sponsored by Tackleworld, the fishing mob, which is ironic) at the horsey races. 

A ticket was purchased at a cost which I believe could support a large family in the Democratic Republic of the Congo for an entire year. This gold-plated, exclusive ticket means Pinky is authorised to sit in a very exclusive marquee with a couple of hundred other excitable but extorted fillies (apparently the cost of the ticket doesn’t include alcohol????).

When I say ‘other fillies’, I don’t actually consider myself to be included in that metaphorical description. Sadly I am fully aware that I am no longer a filly… not even a mare really; an old nag ready for the glue factory is probably closer to the mark.

Arrangements have been made for my fun-loving but slightly nefarious friend Dolly, to pick me up on her way and to then meet up with the ‘Dolly Birds’ for an outing which could possibly degenerate into a group of (very attractive) middle-aged women atrociously disgracing themselves.

Dolly, you see, is a wicked influence and if you remember this post…click here has led me astray more than once at the gee-gees.

These are the items I will be packing in my clutch bag to insure the best possible outcome in any situation.

# Aspirin, for the headache I will develop from the feathery Fascinator I’ll be wearing.

# Bandaids, for raw blistered heels resulting from the ridiculously high shoes I’ll be wearing.

# A pen, so we can circle the hot, sure-thing tips we acquire into our betting guide.

# My lucky pebble.

# Sunglasses, so I can stare at and secretly mock people in strange outfits without them cottoning on to it.

# A camera to make sure we get a photo of at least one of the Dolly Birds falling over (probably me).

# Safety pins, in case someone rips their dress when they take a tumble (possibly me).

# Bribe money, for when we need to get one of the Dolly Birds out of the Paddy Wagon.

# A spare pair of knickers (I’m not really sure why, but it always makes me feel more secure to know they’re in my bag).

And finally…

# A phone, so I can call one of my judgemental children at the end of the day and slur, 

“Thaddeushhh, itsh ya Mummy, come and take me home pleashh. Mummy ish a bit pished!”

                      I was a filly once you know!

What would happen if teachers started acting like the kids?

                                  Kyles the music teacher.

Watching the school children cavorting in the playground today started me thinking about what it would be like if we teachers began acting like kids.

Cue dream sequence music…

Kyles, our music teacher would play imaginary hop-scotch on her way to the classroom whilst Rach would gallop like a My Little Pony, whinnying and neighing with conviction. 

                                            Rach

J.B would artfully sneak up behind Greggles, slap him vigorously on the back and yell ‘Tagged ya!’ then tear off down the path with Greggles madly in pursuit, pushing all the small teachers over in the process.

Greggles

                                            J.B.

None of us would walk sanely anywhere; we’d skip, hop, walk sideways or backwards. There’d be no treading carefully around flower beds but instead we’d use every obstacle as a Jana Pittman-type challenge meant to be hurdled with great aplomb then spin around to our colleagues and shout,

“Did ya see that??? Suck it up, loser!”

In the staffroom at lunch time, Emmsie would remove the surplus tomato from her salad roll and flick it at unsuspecting colleagues.

                                   Emmsie

 Kaz would throw her empty juice popper on the ground, jump on it forcefully and create a resounding explosion startling everyone in the vicinity and causing them to scatter the contents of their chip packets all over the ground. These would be jumped on and trodden into smithereens by all of the other teachers.

                                         Kaz

Some teachers would throw entire, meticulously packed and untouched lunches in the bin and drip chocolate ice blocks all over the front of their shirts. All of us would have the outline of whatever food we’d been eating staining the outside of our lips, like Bozo the clown, for the rest of the day.

In staff meetings, after delivering crucial information regarding the new Literacy Program, our Principal would ask a question, anxiously hoping that someone…anyone… had been paying attention.

O’Reilly would be the first to raise his hand. Pleased to see such a prompt and eager response she would excitedly ask,

“Yes, O’Reilly, what question do you have about our literacy program?”

“Can I please go to the toilet, Miss?” he’d answer.

(O’Reilly would be allowed to go to the toilet but he’d become distracted and not return for half an hour; deciding it was more fun to spread toilet paper all over the floor of the boys’ dunny.)

                                         O'Reilly

Pinky would slowly raise her hand looking very self-assured.

“Yes Pinky… what do you think?” the Principal would enquire.

Pinky’s eyes would glaze over, “I forgot...” She’d say after a confused thirty seconds.

                                           Pinky

From the corner of her eye the Principal would finally spot Emmsie with both hands up in the air.

“Emmsie! What’s your answer?” she’d ask optimistically.

“I was just stretching, Miss.” Emmsie would reply scratching her head.

Kyles wouldn’t have heard any of it because she would have been braiding Kaz’s hair and Greggles would have been surreptitiously whistling under his breath just to annoy everyone.

Rach would suddenly burst in to tears. “What’s the matter, Rach?” The principal would ask in alarm.

“My chicken died last year, Miss… I just remembered,” she’d sob while Greggles sniggered at her, making her cry even louder.

O’Reilly would let off a ‘silent but deadly’ and the entire group would start groaning, covering their noses and shuffling away in feigned panic.

The principal would be trying to restore calm when JB would shout out brazenly,

“Miss! I just found a funny jumping ant in my hair.”

That’s what would happen if teachers started acting like the kids.

Pinky finds her Evil Twin

Once upon a time in the Land of the Long White Cloud (Kiwi-land) a young lady gave birth to a tiny, beautiful baby girl.

 On the other side of the Tasman Sea (where there flourished a much better Rugby Union team called the Wallabies) another young woman also gave birth to a tiny, beautiful baby girl on exactly the same day.

As she grew older the little Kiwi girl followed her sisters and moved to Australia where she met a handsome young man at a nightclub and decided to stay (mainly because she was sick of the way the All Blacks kept losing the Rugby and because everyone in Australia loved the way she said, “Fesh and Chups”).

Both young ladies married and had seven children between them (one of them was a bit flighty and actually married twice but we won’t go into that).

When the girls reached a certain age and their children were older, they suddenly realised they were both inclined to be domineering, bossy creatures and for this reason decided to become school teachers. For a couple of years they attended the same university… but still they never met.

Destiny, however, had other ideas and somehow they were employed by the same school principal -who was a fanatical Rugby Union man and loved the Wallabies- at the same school. 

Unfortunately, one of the girls was a bit cleverer than the other and worked at the Senior school so technically their paths rarely crossed.

One day the less-bright girl resolved to enter the world of blogging and having heard of the clever girl’s reputation for savvy with computers and literature, she contacted the clever girl for some much needed advice.

Months went by and after much cyber banter and on-line laughter, the less-bright girl thought that since they seemed to have an awful lot in common (the clever girl had made several references to a liking for the odd drop of plonk), it was imperative that they both get together and have a few wines; and what do you think happened?
When two women get together it is a mandatory requirement to determine each other’s age sooner rather than later. 

Before the night was over and after putting away more than their fair share of Chardonnay the women were finally alerted to the astonishing and unexpected fact that they were the two little girls at the beginning of the story! 

Both born on exactly the same day in the same year!

(But the less-bright girl says it was in ‘Nineteen-Sixty’ and the clever girl says it was in ‘Nineteen-Sexty’)

This is my friend Jo and I last night comparing driver’s licences after we discovered our birthdays were the same and didn’t believe each other.

If you figure that the average person lives to be 80 years old, if you assume they're distributed across all possible birthdays evenly, then if you pick one of them at random, the odds that they were born on any one particular day are one in 80 years times 365 days/year (ignoring leap years), or 1 in 29,200.

This is fun link to twenty bizarre coincidences if you're bored...here

Ten Things That Truly Warm My Heart!

Things that truly warm my heart:

# When I panic thinking I’ve run out of wine and I’m going to have to drive up to the bloody bottle shop… and then I find a spare bottle in the pantry I’d forgotten about.

# When I’m yelling at one of my teenagers and one of the other four turncoats stick up for them and yells back at me. It’s nice to see them defending each other for a change.

# When one of my nine year old students ask me how old I am, I reply without blinking, “Twenty-one”, and they just nod acceptingly.

# When my dogs growl possessively every time the teenagers kiss me goodbye. It makes me feel especially loved.

# When I turn to the obituaries in the newspaper and I notice my name is still not on the list yet.

# When my baby Chihuahua Pablo has an ‘accident’ on the tiles instead of the carpet.

# When my sixteen year old daughter, Lulu, asks me for advice about life. Well… it will warm my heart when it eventually happens.

# When they bring out those stories in magazines about celebrities with no makeup on and showing cellulite so I have something reassuring to read when I’m waiting at the checkout.

# When I wake up and wonder how long until the alarm goes off at 6:15am then I look at the clock and it’s only 11:00pm.

# When I have an argument with Scotto and I bet him one million dollars that I’m right; and when I lose he doesn’t make me pay up.

# When it’s the end of the financial year but I don’t care because I’ve meticulously catalogued and filed every receipt over the last twelve months. (I really, really wish I had.)

And finally…

# When I walk in to the kid’s toilet and I see this;

Not this;

Or this;

Not this;

Please leave a comment about what warms your heart. 

Pretty please?