Story Time

While I concentrate on de-funking, here are some random stories from my childhood.

Like the best stories, they all have a little moral at the end.


1. Bee Up Nose Incident

Until I was about 13 my family lived in a little valley about 20 minutes drive out of Blenheim. We had a big country property with two paddocks divided by a 6-metre scrubby sort of bush-covered cliff. The bottom paddock had a river running through it, and the top paddock had our house, garden, orchard, chickens etc. It also, from time to time, had little colonies of bees and wasps, and it was into one of these that I was trying to convince my cousin to poke a stick. She said no, but luckily I was determined and poked the hive myself. Why? I don't know why. I knew what happens when you poke a hive (bees fly out and attack you) but for some reason this didn't change my mind. I think it's most likely that I either thought this was an urban myth (or perhaps a rural myth?), or that I was smarter than bees. Maybe both. Anyway, I poked the hive, out came the bees, and my cousin and I ran away. I took one of the bees with me. In my nose.

We ran back to the house, where my cousin explained in fascinated horror that I had somehow snorted a bee into my nostril. Dad put his thumb over the other nostril and said "Blow!" and I blew and out came the bee! It was dead. Which is lucky, really, otherwise it would probably have needed therapy forever.

Thee bee had the last laugh though, because before its nasal ascent it had stung me on the face. I spent the next few days off school, with one half of my face completely normal and the other half swollen to Michelin-man proportions. I refused to let anyone take a photo of this, which is kind of a shame when you think about it.

Moral: do not poke sticks into beehives; you are not cleverer than bees.


2. Death of Gerry

This story takes place on what was to be - for reasons which will become obvious - our last holiday as a family. I would've been about 11 or 12, and my younger sister Kate about 9. We had been fighting like cat & dog for the entire holiday and Mum & Dad were completely sick of us. As a means of getting Kate & I to stop shouting at each other during car trips, Dad had implemented a system where he gave Kate and I a little notebook (carefully constructed from stapled-together bits of copy paper) and a pen. Not one each, which would have made a lot more sense, but one notebook between us. The notebook was officially called the Complaints Book, and the theory was that whenever a grievance arose the injured party would write it down in the notebook instead of having a shout about it, and then either Mum or Dad would arbitrate later. Neither of them ever showed the slightest interest in reading it, which I guess is fair enough.

Here is what happened when Gerry the Heinous Driftwood Giraffe met the Complaints Book.

The first few pages of the Complaints Book were filled with fairly standard stuff ("Ally won't keep on her side of the car," "Kate pinched me," "Ally won't give me the GameBoy.") Have just mentioned this to Kate, who is playing fact-checker. She claims that I kept ripping out her complaints and throwing them out the window, but I totally don't remember this happening. She also says that I kept hiding the Complaints Book from her but I'm pretty sure that didn't happen either and that she has a false memory, poor duck.

Anyway, eventually Kate got bored with her usual methods of irritation and brought out Gerry the Giraffe.

Gerry was a thoroughly malicious piece of faintly giraffe-shaped driftwood that Kate had found on a beach and felt some sort of weird kinship with. She had picked him up - he was only small, just the right size to poke in someone's ear - and had been carrying him about since. Gerry the Giraffe had a notably short attention span and was a real pain in the arse when he was bored. As you read further through, the notebook starts to feature more and more entries of "Gerry poked me in the arm" and "Gerry hit me," alternated with "Ally hit Gerry" and "Gerry was just being friendly."

Eventually, in a burst of temper brought on by a stretch of particularly insistent 'friendly overtures' from the savage Gerry, I snatched him from his mistress' loving arms and chucked him out the window. Kate instantly demanded that we stop the car but our parents refused (what savages! poor Gerry!) and carried on. Then Kate wouldn't give me the notebook, or maybe I would't give it to her, then we stopped somewhere and I pushed her out of the car and we all shouted a lot and it was all Gerry's fault.

Moral: Is difficult to choose between 'just let the children shout' and 'don't hit people with your stupid wooden giraffe who doesn't even really look like a giraffe anyway,' but I think the second one applies to more situations in life.


3. Join My Cult?

When I was small I was very charming and, perhaps because of this, believed whole-heartedly that I didn't have to do anything I didn't feel like doing at that very second. (Obviously, I have changed considerably over the years.) When I was about 8 or 9 I had a teacher called Mrs Broadbridge, who was determined to whip my arrogant little self into shape and in the process teach me a much-needed life lesson about smart people having to face the consequences of their actions just as much as everybody else. (Still haven't really got it.)

Anyway, Mrs B gave me 20 lines for doing or not doing something - I think it was 'I must do my homework' - and told me to bring them in the next day. I thought it was a stupid punishment and didn't do them. So the next day she upped it to 40 lines. Which I did not do. So the next day she upped them to 60, and so it went until eventually I owed her about 120 lines and she gave me some kind of ultimatum. Don't remember what it was, but it was serious enough that the time had come to do the lines.

I came home from school the next day and told Mum that I had given Mrs Broadbridge the owed lines. "Really," she said with some surprise, "you did them?" (She knew me well.) "No!" I said cheerfully. It turned out that somehow I had persuaded every kid at the bus stop (rural area school) to do 20 lines for me while we were waiting for the bus to come, and I had avoided writing so much as a single 'I must do my homework.'

Mrs B must've seen all the different types of handwriting, but she never mentioned it.

Moral: lines are a stupid punishment.


4. Artistic Injustice

When I was in Standard 1 or thereabouts (age 7/8), every kid in the class was given a circle of paper and told to draw a self-portrait. When we'd done that, the self-portraits would be pinned to a noticeboard facing the door of the classroom, so that anyone coming in would be greeted by the smiling, if somewhat out-of-proportion, faces of Mrs Ryan's class. (I liked Mrs Ryan, who had a mustache and looked not unlike Susan Boyle.) The bits of paper were about the size shown below.

I wasn't actually the colour of a tomato; apparently there are only so many flesh-coloured felt-tip pens per classroom and I was not feeling overly patient that day. I must've been grumpy as well - in the original portrait, which Mum still has somewhere, I'm scowling something fierce.

Apparently faintly Satanic self-portraits are not allowed to be pinned up on the wall with all of the boring normal-coloured ones! I was asked to do another one in a sensible colour.

Moral: no-one ever appreciates Art.


5. Phuck

When I was in Standard 1 or 2 (about age 7/8), an Incident took place on lunchtime. When my class came charging back inside after lunch, we noticed that there was a word on the classroom door which had not been there before lunch. It was stenciled in big green capitals on a piece of pink construction paper, the edge of which had been clipped with crimping scissors, and it looked like this:"Presentation: 10/10. Content: 0/10"

Despite the fact that obviously a lot of time & effort had gone into it, the offending word was taken down and the culprit eventually found. His name was Willie and he was one of those slug-boys who constantly have a runny nose and look to be on the verge of tears, but apparently this is no excuse for writing the effer on the classroom door. I wonder if he grew up to be an artist? Such attention to detail!

(My mother told me years later that although she never thought it was me, she was 100% certain when I came home and declared excitedly that "a boy had written a naughty word on the classroom door, and he spelt it wrong!" I had been under the impression that the F word was in fact the PH word.)

Moral: no-one ever appreciates Art.

I was Sick! But now am Better.

Someone made an interesting comment about this blog yesterday - they said they much preferred reading my 'serious' short stories, which are invariably tragic and poignant (and, if we're being honest, crap) because they were more genuine, and my blog was...they paused. "Irritatingly naive?" I suggested. "Um, youthfully whimsical."

So now I am going to start a socio-political blog in which I write serious pieces about things I have studied long and hard - it is time to put away the whimsical trappings of youth in favour of insights into the nature of Life, Love, and the Inevitability of Change.

Just kidding! Here's a story about my mother and Batman. I didn't spell him 'Bathman' once.

My mother, who is notorious for falling asleep in movies, rented The Dark Knight to watch this evening.

Kate: "You won't like it."
Mum: "But I watched Batman Begins especially!"
Me: "Did you like that?"
Mum: "Don't remember. What was it about?"
Me: "Batman. And how he begins."
Kate: "With the Batcave? And Morgan Freeman?"
Mum looks blank.
Me: "He's a billionaire, but he's secretly Batman, and Michael Caine helps him."
Kate: "You like Michael Caine."
Mum looks blank.
Kate: "They flash the bat symbol on the sky to tell the people the Batman rides tonight."
Me: "The batcave is under his house. He has a girlfriend, but they can't bat be together."
Long pause.
Mum, with excitement: "Oh! Does he save a city? And have a Batmobile?"

Oh, you mean that Batman.


More interestingly, did you know you can get blacklight tattoos? They do it with a special ink that only shows up under a blacklight. They look like awesome I mean this:

There is no way you can tell me that's not pretty awesome.

The second one is kind of lame, but demonstrates how the tattoo doesn't show up under normal light. I mean, okay, so it's probably not so good for your skin, but oh well.

In related news, I saw a picture of a connect-the-dots tattoo:

It's a giraffe. Obviously.

That idea by itself is kind of cool in a hipsterish way, but listen to this.

What I really want is a connect-the-dots tattoo in normal ink, with the dots joined up in blacklight ink. I MEAN SERIOUSLY HOW COOL WOULD THAT BE.*

I know, I know, you're right: it would be difficult to choose something awesome enough. I mean the lady with the giraffe probably could've thought of something better. What would one get? Bok choi?

Also you'd have to carry a little blacklight around all the time. But it would still probably be worth it.


On the topic of Maybe Awesome, how do you feel about fibre-optic hair extensions?


They're so deliciously tacky. I really want some.


Also, I'm still waiting on your questions!


*not on a global scale of cool, just compared to how cool I normally am.

Silver Lining*

*this post is both long and boring, but it has pictures.

My mother and I want to watch 'Mothra,' but the local videostore only has 'Godzilla vs Mothra'. The ensuing indecision (take a chance on that, or watch something else?) is a choice I never thought I'd have to make. Luckily she is making it for me and has trotted off to get a John Wayne. I intend to spend the evening hanging out with my mama with my blankie and endless cups of tea and if that's a lame way to spend a Saturday night then I don't want to be cool.

My money's on Mothra.


Here is a Contents Page for what promises to be a rather lengthy post. So you can stop, go and do something productive, then come back to it. Unlike most Contents Pages, this one is completely unrelated to the order in which the items appear. It's just a list of crap you can expect to read about today.

onesie = no swine flu / warm inside a dog / meteorology magic / british beetroot / pronking-stotting / sitting up like pork / my parents: courtship of / videostore, incense / horses in suburbia (greenday) / get stuffed! / the dumb bug / carpark patrol / hizach


Firstly and most urgently, I really want a pyjama onesie. Pyjamas with arms and legs in them. A jumpsuit made of pyjama fabric. Onesies are remarkably hard to describe, although fashionpolice.net describes them as 'adult footed pyjamas.' Anyway, I thought that these delightful items were the preserve of small children and my friend Riadan, who has a red woolen one that I remember fondly (?) & which I always thought he just sort of found somewhere (he is that sort of person) but it turns out that no, pyjama onesies are widely available! I really want one. Swine flu - which is apparently kinda wimpy anyway - can't getcha when you're in a onesie and also they make for practical zombie fighting gear.


See? Ready to fight zombies.

Seriously I am willing to do pretty much anything for a pyjama onesie please can somebody buy me one for my birthday (july 29) and give it to me now pleasepleaseplease.

Have I conveyed how totally I want a onesie? I REALLY REALLY WANT ONE.


Scientific discovery of the week: it is warmer inside a dog than it is inside a person!* I discovered this because I was walking the dog and, while my breath wasn't misting in the cold, his was.

Fuck yeah, science.


Also in the 'scientific' field, I can predict the weather!** Yes without reading the weather report. I am like an old man sitting in a rocker gumming away and saying "Ee, storm's a'coming, can feel it in my bones," but without being an old man - the scar on the back of my hand itches when there is a storm coming! It has to do with humidity and air pressure*** but last week I said to someone, "Storm's a'comin'!" and then, having used up my apostrophe ration for the week, retired to bed. And then the storm a'came! I am a meteorological Harry Potter, is what I am. From now on I am going to run about shouting that my scar is itching and the Dark Lord is active! (Meteorologically active.)


In an aside, I really like how the British pronounce 'beetroot.' Not 'bee-droot' like the rest of us, but 'bee'root,' or sometimes even a distinct 'beet root.' Beet beet beet! Root.

Today I am going to teach you two words which mean the same thing! I know, it's exciting. Fuck I have an educational blog.

You know that thing that springboks do, when they bounce straight up in the air off all four legs at once?

Not a springbok, but yeah, that thing.

Well, that thing now has a name, and that name is pronking! Or stotting. They both sound slightly rude describe that action. I have made it my mission to tell everyone about pronking in the hopes that they will admire my sophisticated vocabulary and/or buy me a onesie.


Did you know you can buy incense in the videostore? It's right there, with the videos and the popcorn. It was in this one videostore anyway. That's about all there is to that story.

Another good story: I saw a horse walking down the road today. With a rider on it. It is weird, seeing horses in suburbia. I would have been completely confused by the 19th century (and, in fact, all of the centuries before it.)

Another good story: I saw a dumb bug today. It was hopping along the pavement, no doubt looking up at the sky and thinking happy bug thoughts, when hop! it jumped straight into a drainage grate. Whoops, bug. Shoulda paid less attention to how cool you were, breathing through your skin and all, and more attention to where you were going.

(How cool would it be to breathe through your skin? Hopefully not through your butt-skin, though. There should totally be a specific word for butt-skin. Actually I was thinking today, after accidentally saying HIZACH to my friend Zach, that 'hizach' should be a word. Maybe it should be a word for butt-skin, as in, "I have a boil on my hizach." Yeah, that works. (Mum wasn't sure why bugs would mind breathing through their hizachs. "Well," Kate said, "do bugs fart?" According to the Internet yes, yes they do. (What is this, Biology Week?) I wonder if that bothers them, what with the breathing through their hizachs?))

Random story: my parents' first date was at the movies - they went to see 'Zoltan, Hound of Dracula,' and my father wore his slippers. This is my second favourite story about stuff my parents did before I was born; the other one came up when I was swanning about in a Russian-style fake fur hat. "I used to have an actual Russian fur hat," Mum said wistfully. "Dad and I were on a boat, and the boat was robbed." Pause. "The only thing they took was the hat."

Speaking of romance, I was going to go to a craft evening with NRT tonight but then I remembered that I hate craft. He said, "Too bad you're not coming - I'm wearing my beret." Man sure knows how to woo a lady.


Tomorrow, links to things I like to read!



*not based on any actual science.

**not always.

***still no actual science, I made that up

Poking a dead raccoon is not research

And now for the news.

The News: Today I cleaned my aunt's house - the positive thing about this was that TELLUS (who you will remember is the rotund little vacuum who flung himself down the stairs last time I was there) and I are now friends, united against the ever-encroaching dust front.

Here is the not-so-positive thing.

I would like to state here that my aunt and uncle are neat, tidy and civilized people; if they weren't I still wouldn't break cleaner privilege and tell you about their mucky existence. However, I have no such loyalty to the couple who recently stayed in the guest bedroom and who apparently livened up their stay with a game of what I can only assume is called "Who Can Stick A Pubic Hair Highest On The Shower Wall?" What kind of filth wizard leaves scattered pubes at head height? Ew. And there's just no way they could have got there by accident, it must have been...some sort of contest? I just hope there was a good prize, you know, something worth being that fucking disgusting.

The weirdest thing about writing that paragraph was that it gave me an intense sense of deja vu, like I myself had played the pubes-on-wall game. Which I would like to assure you I haven't. WEIRD

In fashion news, Kate has a new hoodie. Unfortunately when she puts the hood up (which she was doing as part of an extensive visual pun in which she and I both wore hoodies with the hoods up and shouted "Neighbour Hoodies") it bears an unfortunate resemblance to...well, that other white pointy hood. In a fit of bad taste I renamed her KKKate. Then she said something really racist and I thought she was quoting a rap song but no, she was just saying something appropriately racist. (Appropriate to the hoodie, not to anything else.) Sometimes I wonder if perhaps I have not been a very good influence.

In Internet news, KKKate has been a fountain of amusement today. She looked over my shoulder while I was on twitter (yeah yeah, I know, tweeting is for vacs) and shouted WHAT IS THAT, BUTTER DOT COM? So then we looked up butter.com and it turns out it's a website about butter. I don't know what I expected, but I'm kind of disappointed. It does, however, have a useful list of 'Related Links.' Here is the list. 'Whey, Yoghurt, Buttermilk, Parmesan Cheese, Drumsticks, Cheddar Cheese." What's wrong with that? Drumsticks are pretty similar to butter if you ignore the fact that they're completely different.

In local news, here is a challenge: I have decided that the only way to win my heart is to design and build (or commission, that is fine too) a robot that makes cups of tea and steals bottles of vodka and responds to voice commands. Email is fine for the specs, but I'd like the finished product shipped to my Christchurch address.

And now, for the Informative Fact of the Day!
In Danish, the word 'gift' means either 'poison' or 'married,' depending on the context. Cool, huh? I bet you did not know that! Unless you are Xalion, who told me that, but he is too busy designing a tea-making, vodka-stealing robot to care.

In animal news (totally a legitimate news category), yesterday I saw a 7-legged spider. I was removing it from the shower at the time (it was terrorising Kate and it appears that of late I have become spider-vanquisher), and as it flung itself onto my hand (why do they do that) I noticed it was missing one of its two front legs! Because of this I thought it deserved to be lowered gently onto a tomato plant, rather than squished into oblivion. This story does not have a moral except maybe that 'otherly abled' arachnids get a better deal than 'otherly abled' people, as far as being spared a gruesome death goes. But I don't think that's a very good moral.

Speaking of poor morals (that is called a Segue, which is not news), I discovered today yet another case of my cellphone's 'predictive txt' feature having weird predilections towards unsuitable words. I was trying to type 'I'll leave you a plate of turkey,' but ended up almost sending 'I'll leave you a slave of turkey.' Other unfortunate things my phone likes to say are 'That's an unusual pervert' and 'Happy Farter.' God damn it, phone, you make me be's worse than I already be's. Should I ever want to request an Easter plate, I had better remember to do it from a different phone.

Underground Strikethrough News: Where Is The Trust? Readers Still Check for Hidden Strikethrough

Date Tales*

*imagine if Duck Tales was about dating

Was talking about the date to a friend who shall remain nameless and they said, "Oh, I hate dates," and proceeded to tell me about their most recent date. She was running late, and had about 5 minutes to eat dinner and drive to the place that they had arranged to meet at, so she ate fast. Unfortunately when she got to the bar she realised that wolfing down her dinner had given her chronic indigestion, and with it, bad wind. So she stood outside the bar farting like a maniac in order to get the worst of it out before she went inside. Just as she produced a particularly noxious scent her date arrived... from behind her! Ha ha. She said, "I have never prayed for a sudden draft more than in that moment. I panicked and blew cigarette smoke in his face and he was disgusted."

<(")>

Anyone else have any good date stories?

Anyway, that wasn't what happened - my date was surprisingly normal! We drank beer & played pool & talked about music & are probably going to go on a second date. I shall refrain from making any detailed comments because I think I may have gotten drunk and talked about my exciting blog a lot and perhaps also given him the address (maybe there won't be a second date after all). We shall see. Also he is a singer and was wearing a really cool military jacket and is kind of cute and bought me a drink which as you recall was a very important factor.

Oh yeah if you want to follow me on Twitter, and why wouldn't you, it is Tarquin_Death. (The rest of the word 'mongrel' did not fit, and 'deathmong' sort of sounded strange.) This morning I tweeted twat http://twitter.com/home and FUCK IT WAS META. Wait is meta even hip any more? Pretty sure hip isn't hip.

Kate has just walked into the bathroom and shouted, "I'm going to have a shower! You can visit me if you want!" She finds the shower boring and likes someone to stand outside it and talk to her. Nutter. She is also very firm about not being mentioned in this blog but I completely refuse to respect that. She is, after all, family.

In other news, a friend of mine died unexpectedly yesterday, hence the lack of blog. I remember him saying at one point "Death = nap + forever" and that's how I'm trying to think of it, really, because he freakin' loved naps. He was pretty awesome & I'll miss him. But he wouldn't want me to be sad about it, he would want me to be a smartass, & so I'm just going to say ha ha, natural selection kicked your ass, buddy! I'll miss you. RIP.

ps this is not a call for sympathy comments, just wanted to explain lack of blog and make small commemorative effort. Instead of leaving a sympathetic comment, how about you email someone you haven't seen in a while and say hello because, you know, they might die. (By the way I totally haven't emailed anyone so you don't have to feel bad for not doing it either. Just saying it's a nice idea.)

Poker Night (and some stuff about vampires)

Today, I learnt discovered CREATED strikethrough! I am really excited so sorry about all the fascinating lame ways I will show off this new skill of mine.

Anyway, I am thinking of having a Poker Night poker night at my house in the next month or so, depending on when the IRD decide to give me some taxxx back and/or when I get a job. Everyone is invited! This is primarily directed at people who live in Christchurch, but if those further afield want to fly themselves over here then I'm not about to stand in the way of that.

The International Poker Tournament poker night (Oh my God, who taught me to use strikethrough? this knowledge is not safe in my hands) will be let's say about the end of April. $5 buy-in, winner takes all, and it will of course be the so-hot-right-now Texas Hold 'em. That is my favourite kind of poker, because I'm so trendy! Also because it is the only kind of poker I know how to play.

BYO: whiskey, cigars, $5.

Here are the rules guidelines House Rules:

strikethrough rocks!

Rule 1: Dress nice. (That means pants are strongly recommended compulsory before 10pm. (Or, you know, skirts for the ladies (or any men who want to wear them, my poker night supports alternative lifestyle choices.))
Rule 2: Absolutely no singing of Poker Face
Rule 3: Absolutely no singing of Poker Face.
Rule 4: I am an exception to Rules 2 & 3 because sometimes I have poor impulse control
Rule 4a: Doesn't matter if you're a crappy poker player. You'll be drunk anyway. All you really have to know is always bet a lot. It makes people think you're a High Roller, and High Rollers are cool. Take James Bond, for instance. Did he look at his 2/7 offsuit and fold? No, no he did not. He made a pithy remark, and then he bet. (Betted?)

Obviously, the exception is aces. Never bet on aces. Also if you have a pair of something that's not good either. We're not playing Happy Families. Poker is a game for grown-ups.

Rule 5: If you are caught cheating, I will shoot you. If you are not caught cheating, you will probably win. Your call.

So if after all that anybody still wants to come, or, you know, feels obliged by the bonds of friendship, flick me a txt or leave a comment or something. One of those things. Or an email. Some form of communication. Please. I'm so lonely.

In Other News:

- I am going to start a music movement called 'Outie' which will be the antithesis of 'Indie'. Think Spice Girls on crack wearing Hammer Pants and covering Cotton-Eye Joe or something like that. Alternatively, think My Chemical Romance in drag singing barbershop. Ah, fame! How it stings the nostrils. Or perhaps that is the cocaine I'm just not sure any more. Perhaps I am going Proper Mad? I have an ex-boyfriend who was about as mental as I am, give or take a little, and every so often he would look at me in wide-eyed concern and say, "Ally, I am afraid I'm going Proper Mad. Will you tell me if I go Proper Mad? As in Batshit Fucking Insane?" "Yes, dear."

- Do you think that if we lived in an all-vampire society, people would just wander about naked? I ask this because I was talking to a friend about why we don't all just be naked, and he said something along the lines of "because most people are gross and it gets cold all the time." However, all vampires seem to be attractive, and don't feel the cold (? I made that up assume that's the case), so maybe they'd just all wander round in the nuddy. Guess we'll never know.

- Why are all vampires attractive, anyway? Just once I'd like to read a story about a vampire who was a bit chubby and had bad breath and sat in his room all day playing online games. Oh wait no I wouldn't, I'd rather read about gorgeous and slightly fey aristocratic vampires. Guess I just answered my own question, there. Also, if you were a vampire (where did this tangent come from?) picking someone to vampirise 'turn' you'd probably pick someone cute. I mean, they're going to be hanging round for all of eternity looking like that. Do you really want to spend eternity with someone who picks lint out of their belly button? No, I didn't think so.

- In the early stages of my parents' relationship, my father collected and saved his belly-button lint with the intention of using it to stuff a pillow, which he would then present to my mother as a token of his love. For some reason he never finished it, but apparently he amassed a sizeable lint stockpile before abandoning the project. And you wondered why I turned out so weird.

Not About Jetpacks

See basically I have this vision of the future where everyone flies about with jetpacks strapped onto their backs and the political and social ramifications are immense - but right now I have other, more mundane, things to write about so the jetpacks will just have to wait.

My mother has decided that Kate and I need to do more stuff around the house. She said, "This house is not a hotel!" "What is it," I asked, "a Communist country?" "No! It is a dictatorship." Kate and I, of course, instantly decided to overthrow the regime and ran about shouting things like "The fridge has declared for me! Put that that cheese down!" and "Aha! The toilets are on my side! Where will you rest your dictatorial buttocks now?" End result is that a) Kate and I are now going to do more stuff around the house and b) Kate has started calling me Napoleon, which makes a nice change from Hitler, and declared that she would like to be Pol Pot (on the basis of the funny-sounding name, not the horrific atrocities). We are both fully aware that Pol Pot may be the name of a regime, and not a person, but thanks anyway. (Aside: When Kate and I were deciding which historical heads of state we would be, I asked Mum whether Napoleon, Hitler or Alexander the Great would suit me best. She squinted speculatively at me for about 20 seconds, then said, "I don't think you're a Hitler.")

Tomorrow I get to spend all day cooking! In the kitchen, where a woman belongs. We're having an Indian-themed dinner tomorrow night with my cousins, and I volunteered to do our half of the cooking, because I am both mad and easily excited. I've never cooked Indian before, and I'm a little nervous but also really looking forward to it. I'm going to attempt a thick coconut prawn curry, pork korma, pork vindaloo (we have quite a lot of pork in the freezer at the moment) and possibly some kind of dessert. So excited. Chop dice prep fry steam stir smell taste garnish! Fall asleep on couch.

In other news, I have a weird habit and am wondering if it's one that anyone else shares. I always try to carry as many different pens as possible with me, because I'm really picky about what kind of pen I write with, and my preference changes depending on what I'm writing. At the moment my handbag holds one black ink, one red ballpoint, and one blue ballpoint. Lists, for example, are in plain blue biro. Jokes, catchphrases, and appointments are in red biro. Black ink is for anything Literary - but then all three of those can swap round without notice, depending on the season, my mood, the length of Dr Phil's mustache (metric). It's just me, isn't it. (I need a green pen.)

I discovered the pen habit yesterday at the Library. I also discovered that apparently I love children, which was unexpected as I've always thought I hated the little grublets. I played 'peek-a-boo' with 5 children at the library! And with one midget by accident but let's not talk about that. Seriously, though, never visit the library on weekdays - there are children bloody everywhere I mean everywhere, and they come up to you while their mother is engrossed in Marie Claire and hide behind your legs, and then before you know it you're playing some weird game in which you are making a noise like a hippopotamus (or at least the noise you think a hippopotamus might conceivably make) and the child is going "Eeheehee!" and holding onto your thumb and then you steal the child and it is yours forever. Fuck.

I have decided to start adding tags to blog posts! I know, pretty exciting right. The only thing about this is that it means I have to revisit every one of the 179 posts currently taking up cyberspace on this blog - a concept that blows my mind, by the way. How much stuff can the Internet actually fit? Is it...limitless? Where is all this stuff kept? In Bill Gates' basement? In...in NOWHERE? Oh my God, how does this work? I have to stop thinking about this or my mind will shrink into a tiny, whimpering ball. Am just going back to talking about those 179 posts and how I have to go back and tag them as well, because to start tagging now and not go back and tag every single one of my previous posts would send me into a mental meltdown, like the one I just has (whoops, unintentional lolcat) when I tried to think about the internet.

In other news, I hate lolcats. I'm sorry, that is one meme which has passed me by. Show me one - just one - that is actually laugh-out-loud funny (or even clever I'd settle for clever) and I will completely revise my position; but for now they remain an abomination. Not unlike this rather pointless post. I mean, c'mon! It's not even about jetpacks.

Final point: moths rock. One fell in my wine, so I lifted it out & put it near my lamp to dry. Next time I looked over, it had fallen into my coffee (from the edge of the book-stack where I'd put it to dry its wings). So I pulled it out again. The little bastard is still alive, and has now dried his wings and flown away! Two thoughts. One: he is awesome and when he returns home he'll get a ghost author, write about his ordeal, sell the movie rights and become a millionaire. Two: he was suicidal and I've totally destroyed his plans but possibly restored his will to live. Either way, that moth rocks.

Kate Rocks

"Watch as this brave avocado orchardist..." Obviously, I am watching Top Town. It is a show where provincial NZ towns compete in bizarre competitions of strength and/or skill to be crowned...Top Town! It seems to involve a lot of bad puns & people from Timaru falling over.

Farmers ad has just come on...'Farmers...your store.' Whatever! If it was really my store, I would own it, and then I would not have to go to work tomorrow. Work is so awful and etc.

Yesterday was a good day! Started with clothes swap party - as well as several stunning pairs of shoes and items of clothing I managed to snag myself a simply fantastic handbag, apparently designed by an over-excited 6-year-old. The material is leopard print. Glittery, gold leopard print. The clasp is a tasteful gold imitation snakeskin - several different types of snakeskin, in fact - and the front of the bag is covered in chains. Elton John would probably look at it and go, "ooh, don't you think that's a little...too?" but I think it's simply tacktastic.

Apart from that no news - am tired, grouchy, have work tomorrow & haven't plucked eyebrows.

Kate just came into the living room and delivered the following monologue: "I've got my shizzle on my nizzle! Wait, I've got my shit on my...? Ooh." Pauses, then begins to sing. "I've got my shizzle on my nizzle and I'm going to town...I got my sizzle on my bizzle and I"m going to the circus...found a bizzle on the sidewalk and I'm going to town...got my wizzle on my tizzle and I'm going to the circus. Woah, oh, shizzle nizzle circus. Woah, oh, bizzle bizzle town. We're going to town. To see some lions." Pauses, stops singing. "Wait. Are you writing that out? To put on your blog? For all the world to see? Never mind, the world can have it. It's just that good."

I have the most awesome sister EVER.

PREPARE TO BE BOARDED

Mr Jones? Mr Jones! Mr Jones, it's Ally calling from Bob's Droppings. We have a fantastic offer for you this afternoon - a huge bucket of fragrant horse shit! Now we've only got a few of these especially large buckets left, so I'll be very quick. Let's see if this product is right for you, Mr Jones.

Well, of course you're not interested! Yet! If you knew how fantastic our deals are, you'd be the one ringing us! Ha ha. I'll just give you the quick run-down. It'll only take ninety seconds.

Come on, sir, ninety seconds out of your day to talk with a lovely young lady. Normally that would cost $3.95 a minute, sir, you're getting a bargain already. And we haven't even started talking about the great horse shit!

Mr Jones, I think you'll find that its especially lovely to put on your garden. Do you garden, Mr Jones? Great! Oh. Oh, well, I know that if you did garden you'd find it was lovely to spread on those seedlings. A lot of our customers have said that it's just the right texture. I'm sure you'd agree, Mr Jones.

Now I know that sounds fantastic, right? But did you know that if you sign up with us now, over the phone, we'll sweeten the deal a little for you? Ha ha, not literally! Horse shit is better left in its natural savoury state, as I bet you know, Mr Jones! Ha ha. But seriously - listen to this, Mr Jones. If you join up right now, not only will you get some of the country's top-quality horse shit at the lowest prices available, but we will throw in a couple of extra scoops - fill that bucket right to overflowing! How does that sound, Mr Jones?

Come on now, Mr Jones. I just know that Bob's Droppings is right for you. You know you want to do this.

***

ARGH BRHFDSADFH I HATE MY JOB SO MUCH

I have created a work persona called Courtenay. She is pushy and rude and pretty much the ideal telemarketer - spent my first couple of days on the phone being nice and polite and got nowhere. Enter Courtenay! She allows me to cut people off mid-sentence without guilt or remorse. She says things like, "Come on, Mr Cooper, you know you can just imagine yourself lying by that azure blue pool. Let's sign you up right away and put you on the path to a lifetime of fantastic holiday deals!" She ruins people's days.

It's like some B-grade movie where the main character has blackouts and keeps waking up with blood underneath their fingernails and a creeping sense of horror.

I sincerely apologise if Courtenay rings you. The right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing. The left hand really needs the money just give me your credit card number already.

We guarantee that you will simply adore your horse shit.

Uh. My sister just came into the lounge and shouted, "My blue eyes bring all the Germans to the yard, and they're like, 'let's take Poland, ja!?'" Damn right, take Poland, ja! We'd take England, but it's kind of hard.

I never really had that big of a following in Germany anyway.

Also someone totally grabbed my bum on the bus today. What is wrong with the world?

Bad Morning

This morning was among the worst wake-up calls ever: Kate running into my room and flinging herself full-length on my bed, which I was sleeping in. I went "Ack Ack Gahhhh" and hid under the covers, then she yanked them off and shouted, with no little excitement, "I was going to make you a cup of tea and I put the bag in the cup but then just as I was about to pour in the hot water two flies flew in the cup and started mating in it!!"

"What?"

Right up there. Here, in no particular order except the order in which I remember them, are the Top Five Worst Awakenings Of My Life:

5: That one

4: Waking up from a nightmare in which my upper lip was grotesquely swollen and running to the bathroom mirror to reassure myself that it was only a dream...only to find that a bug had bitten me in my sleep and my lip was in fact grotesquely swollen. Terrifying! And I looked like Homer Simpson for a week.

3: Either of the two times I've left my alarm on silent by accident, woken up at 10am, and had that awful sick moment when you realise you're two hours late for work and there's nothing you can do about it.

2: Waking up on the last morning of band contest in Auckland, still a) wearing a cocktail dress and heels and b) quite drunk, to very shrill-voiced cornet player shouting "The bus leaves in five minutes!"

1: Waking up at 7.30am, after an hour of sleep, in an extremely over-wrought emotional state and completely exhausted, to realise that my bus left in five minutes from somewhere on the other side of town, and I was moving from Christchurch to Wellington that day and had connections to make. And I was drunk and in Dunedin, on The Longest Day Of My Life.

Have I told you the story of TLDOMY? No? (Yes?) Well, it is a Cautionary Tale featuring a Man (who played the Euphonium; need I say more?) a lot of alcohol; a missed bus; sobering up on a plane; moving CITIES; the ferry, and a backpackers. I was going to tell the entire story, in my usual amusing manner, but it would be a long story & I am tired. If there is much clamouring to hear it then perhaps it is a story for another day; but if not you will have to make do with...yes! This graph.


Anyway, poor start aside (mistyped poor as 'porn' there, which is a different story entirely), it was quite a good day - I went to the museum, partially to see Fred & Myrtle's Paua House and also because my mother made me. Fred & Myrtle's Paua House was a tourist attraction for 40 years or so - a retired couple ran it, and it was open 7 days a week, 8 hours a day. They took their 70th wedding anniversary off, but that was it. They didn't charge, and any donations people gave were donated to charities. When they died, their living room was uplifted and installed in the Christchurch Museum. Apparently the whole paua house thing started when Myrtle told Fred to get his polished paua shells off the living room floor, because they were getting in the way of the vacuum cleaner. Fred, displaying a slight passive-aggressive streak, did this:



Which sure showed Myrtle.

Dear Neighbours

I am sure that you are very nice people, but if your car alarm goes off one more time I am going to come over there and hit you with a brick.

Had a panic this morning about job, lack of, and money, lack of, and bills, profusion of, but dealt with this by laughing hysterically and am fine now.

Ew, sister's Horrid Boyfriend has just arrived. He is a bogan. Of all the things I thought my sister might grow up to be (vet, model, singer, sportswoman) I never thought 'boganess' would be the eventual outcome. However, they've been together three years and show no signs of slowing down. I don't think I want a brother-in-law whose black singlet proudly displays his bleach blond armpit hair (no, really, there was dye left over from his head, probably because he didn't do the roots), but it appears that I have no say in the matter.

Have started watching a huge number of martial arts films - partially because I've just discovered the genre (thanks to House of Flying Daggers, which you should go and watch right now because it is, as my impossibly coloured friend says, awesome) and want to see all the martial arts movies ever made ever, and also because as an added bonus I get to see DVD Boy all the time. If only he came and watched the movies with me my life would be complete. I could ask him, but that would be a bit weird. Although I did borrow his pen the other day, which is definitely progress. Must remember I really only fancy him because he has dimples and the power to give me free rental.

OK, Kate and Horrid Boyfriend are trying to make me watch a Youtube video called 'My Dick in a Box.' I am retiring to the other room.

Today is not my birthday.

Currently hiding from Kate, who is busy repaying my generosity in offering to dyeing her hair (and subsequent hideous ginger dye job & appropriately insulting new nicknames) by playing loud Jonas Brothers tunez. Specifically, that 'slipping into the lava one.' The one that sounds like something Maroon 5 would have written if they were younger and a little more camp.

I'm slipping into the lava/I'm one of the Jonas Brothers/I wish I was old enough to be in a band where they don't make you wear a promise ring/Oh well I'm still significantly richer than you.

Probably not the actual words, but then you never know.

Did you know you can buy heated fingerless gloves that plug into your USB port? Like electric blankets for your hands. They're going on my Useless Novelties wishlist, right next to the towel that has BUTT printed on one end and HEAD on the other.

Have found a site which has collected images of things people have written on money. An alarming number of people seem to write their shopping lists on $20 bills. Actually makes sense if you think about it - you don't need the list after you've been to the supermarket, and you're not going to forget to take it with you. Save trees! Deface money. It may be the ultimate act of hippiedom. Maybe I should alert the hippie faction. I'm not actually sure if we have a hippie faction (hippie faction, hippie faction. Ridiculously fun to say quickly). I think the majority of Christchurch's hippies are actually just stoners.

Going to a comedy show tonight. I hope it's funny.

Am feeling flat. Below is a graph of how my day has gone so far, with important events noted. I
realise the thought of this becoming a graph-a-day blog is a horrendous one. I'll try and exercise a little more self-control in future.

Possibly a proper update

...because most of my posts recently have been about crap.

Ah what a beautiful day to be alive. The sun is shining and the birds are chirping and the bees are buzzing round the huge purple bush they like to buzz round. I'd take a photo if I had a digital camera, it's all very suburban and idyllic. Have spent the morning with the Sunday Star Times and a big pot of coffee...ahhh bliss. Would be nicer if the neighbour wasn't mowing his lawn but I suppose you can't have everything.

I am finally settling back into Chch, the city with the soul of a zombie nun -living at home with Mum & Kate is going well now that we've ironed out most of the little things (to give you an idea of just how little, there was recently a very heated debate about whether the shower curtain gets pushed to the left or to the right side of the shower (it's the LEFT, you FUCKERS)) & realised that we are all adults here, people, so let's behave like it. And now we are, apart from the odd conversation like this:

Me: "Why is my phone charger unplugged?"
Kate: "You plugged it into the plug the radio uses."
Me: "Yes, but I was the only person home, and the radio wasn't on. The radio still isn't on. You're not even using the radio."
Kate: "Well, I wanted to use the radio before, so I unplugged your charger, but then I forgot."
Me: "Couldn't you have moved my charger to another plug?"
Kate: "No! You shouldn't have plugged it in there! That's the radio's plug!"

But then I started calling her 'The Socket Lord' and 'Adolf Plugler' and and now I'm allowed to plug things in wherever I like. As long as I plug the resident appliance back in when I'm done. Maybe I should buy a couple of motherboards...are they called that? Those four-socket things that you attach to your plug. They might be called motherboards or I might have made that up. Hmmm. If they aren't called motherboards, they really should be.

I also need to buy a knife sharpening thing - sharpening block, perhaps - as my family seems to enjoy cutting everything with really dull knifes. I mean knives. What a weird typo to make. But apart from dull knifes and weird routines everything is pretty OK.

Speaking of typos (ooh, segue!) I'm going into a temping agency tomorrow morning because the money is running out and I need to start working again. Lame. However, this will mean I get to do psychometric testing (whee) and typing tests (whee) and Excel tests (crap) and spend some of my day not sitting round the house. I have been doing a lot of gardening - my mother has a great garden, mostly NZ natives and veges and things like that, and I've been really hoeing into the weeding.

Zing!

(I have so been looking for an excuse to make that pun for about the last week.)

Went out last night - first night out in Chch, good Lord - and made some friends! (I think.) Which I sorely need, because my social circle is more of a social four-person blob at the moment, and I miss having readily available drinking buddies. It's quite glum-making to realise that you'd really like to have a beer in the sun but that you have no-one to have it with. Ah well. Friends will come! I should advertise.

I was thinking that I might like to be a real estate agent, after I've worked for 6 months or so (you need a financial cushion to keep you going while you get started, and at the moment all I have is a financial whoopee cushion). You basically get to be your own boss, and the amount of money you make directly reflects the amount of work you put in. That was always one of the things that really annoyed me about salaried jobs - you could be giving it 150%, and the guy next to you is doing a half-assed 75%'er at best, and yet you get paid the same. I mean, sure, you may get promoted sooner, but at the end of the day there's no incentive to really work. Real estate, however...if you do a crappy job, you won't last. if you do an average job, you'll make average money. if you work your ass off, you can make ridiculous amounts of money. Ridiculous amounts! The woman I went and talked to about it said, "You have to like three things to be good at this job - hard work, people, and money." I like people and money, and I'm sure I could get used to the other one.

Mind you, I read an article on the Chatham Islands this morning and now I want to go and live there (town of 200 people, one doctor, one 'constable'...I would start a dinky wee business doing God knows what, and go down to the sea and write a lot. I imagine rent is cheap), which kind of implies I am not very good at this whole deciding-what-to-do-with-my-life business.

I think the problem is that half of me wants to be a rich, high-powered and successful city-dweller who wears a lot of black and accessorizes well, and the other half of me wants to be an eccentric writer living in a cottage by the sea. It'll be interesting to see who wins. I'll keep you updated.

Am cooking tonight! Teriyaki squid. How the fuck do you cook squid? I did not think this through. For those of you who know Chow, I'm trying to recreate that squid I used to eat all the time. I doubt it'll work, but it should be...educational. The lesson will probably be "you don't know how to cook squid."

Anyway, I'm really just rambling on here, and should probably go and do something productive.

Like the Sudoku.

PS I totally cheated on this update thing. I wrote a letter to a friend this morning, and this post is pretty much lifted word-for-word from that letter. It's not laziness, people, it's efficiency. Learn from me.

Peck peck peck

It is SO HOT! I hate it. Am completely unused to hot weather, and have never liked it anyway. It is stinking hot. I am just stinking. Spend most of my time talking loudly about how Wellington Just Does Not Do This, and gravitating towards patches of shade, the exact opposite of a heat-seeking missile. Stuck my face in the fridge yesterday! Fridge was stinking.

Moving back home has turned out to be more about re-establishing pecking orders than anything else.

All was easily sorted with Mum - she drove me here and we spent most of the time talking about expectations that we both had, things that we didn't want to go wrong, things that she would prefer I didn't do and vice versa. So boundaries are drawn and Mum and I are getting on swimmingly, possibly because we are both capable of behaving like adults. (Am a little annoyed at Younger Sister this morning. YS is not behaving like an adult but like a squalling brat.)

YS has decided that she has been living here longer than me and is not prepared to go back to younger sister level in the pecking order. I'm fine with this - can see her point and happy to be on equal standing - but the fact that she won't discuss anything rationally, preferring instead to fly off the handle, means that at the moment I am making a lot of compromises and she's making none. Here is the most recent thing YS has shouted at me for doing:

- walking to the bus stop at 8.30 in the evening, when it is beginning to get dark. In the past 6-8 months there have been two attacks on people in our area, so I understand YS's worry, but a) 8.30 at night is probably not prime attacking time and b) the bus stop is a block away. Just the one block. But apparently my refusal to catch a $20 taxi rather than risk my life on The Block and pay a $2.50 bus fare means that I "hope that something awful happens to me so that I get everyone's attention." (She didn't mean that, but she's one of those people who says the meanest things they can in an argument.) There was to be no discussion about this. I am never to walk to the bus stop again after 7.30 at night, or it'll be curtains for me! Mum and I discussed safety things and came to an agreement - YS was totally unreasonable. YS will be ignored, and I will stick to Mum's rules. She is the Mum, after all.

I do love YS very much, but she is incapable of compromise or rational discussion. It's just annoying as it means that at the moment that I'm the one making all the effort.

Dog is another matter - he is trying to etastablish the pecking order in the most basic of ways, by biting me a lot and being completly unrepentant about it. I said "If he bites me again, either he goes or I do." I know this sounds a bit harsh, but I don't want to live in a house with a dog who is a) large and b) ultimately good-tempered, but not above being a right bugger at times and c) untrustworthy. This has, of course, made me the ultimate villain in YS's eyes ("you think you can just get rid of the dog because you don't like him?!" "...because he bites me. I'm not living with a dog who thinks he's allowed to bite me." "He doesn't bite me, you must be doing something wrong.") All my fault. Oh well. Is not worth getting my face bitten off over.

Grumble grumble grumble. Is just teething problems. YS has just got up - you can tell because all of a sudden my coffee-and-blog reverie has been interrupted by the obnoxious bleating of a ZM radio presenter at high volume.

YS and I have had a lot of fun since I got here, and will undoubtedly have a lot more. I am just grumbling because it is something I like to do, and I feel that if I don't rant a little bit (not on a regular basis, I promise) then I'll find myself standing in the kitchen shouting obscenities. And the neighbours have already made a noise control complaint about the dog.

On the upside, am off for coffee with Andrea this morning, which will be good! Woo and Yay!
She has also unfriended Butthead McArseface. Perhaps I should start a Facebook group ('I Unfriended Butthead McArseface') and invite all his friends to join it? That would be...childish. And yet satisfying! Yay, Andrea coffee! Andrea does not have a codename. Andrea, would you like a codename? (El Capitane? Catwoman? Ms Merivale? Ha ha.)

Christmas Fears

‘It is like trying to untangle a seething mass of worms with your bare hands and you’re looking at the worms through a kaleidoscope.’

I have developed a completely irrational, paranoid fear that during my preparations for Christmas Dinner something will go horribly wrong. Fears include, but are not limited to,
· The desserts will not set
· The chicken will not be cooked properly and I will give everyone festive food poisoning
· My inner gay man will take over and I will impetuously colour everything with red or green food colouring, then instantly regret it
· I will be stuffing the chicken at the last minute and the stuffing will not go in the chicken/come right out the neck of the chicken/fall on the floor
· I will get my hand stuck in the chicken
· Everything will be HORRIBLE and everyone will have a BAD TIME!

I realise that none of these things are very likely to happen, especially the last one – my friends are a resilient lot and in the relatively unlikely event that everything is over- or under-cooked to the point of inedibility, they’ll just laugh at me, get pissed and order pizza, which is why I like them.

My hand might get stuck in the chicken, though – this is yet one more reason to not start drinking during Christmas Day, no matter what my deputy chef may suggest. I do not want my guests to arrive to find me and Ashton (aforesaid deputy chef and your co-host for the evening) blind drunk in the kitchen attempting to make frozen chicken hand puppets do the can-can, while all around us things bubble frantically, boil over and caramelise on the stove. That would be a little embarrassing.

I am also putting off the vomitous horror that is (relatively) last-minute Christmas shopping. Why do I have so damn many family members? I am beginning to understand why people go on killing sprees more often during the holiday season than at any other time of year – to cut down on the number of cards and presents required, that’s why. I think this year I might just smile in a Buddha-like manner and say in “Your present is my presence.”

Do you know what song I do not like? Oh Girl by Cut off Your Hands. It is a booty call txt set to music. The tune’s very catchy, but unfortunately I can’t enjoy it due to the hideously tawdry lyrics. Example:
“Oh girl/Can you come over to my house?/Oh we can do things that we’ve never done/We can just talk it can be such fun…” Gosh, Cut off Your Hands, if I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that I’d probably have about as many dollars as you’ve sold records. Like, FIVE.

Happy Whatsit

It has been Christmas and now it is not Christmas anymore for a WHOLE YEAR. (Although in Just Jeans today I did take a Christmas photo for the staff, who wore Santa hats and clustered around the dressing room mirror and said things like "We were just so busy yesterday!" and "It seems to go faster every year!" and "Just push the little button on the top.") Only in Nelson, huh? On that note (bad pun here), saw a busker today (smallish girl with violin) who had a sign saying "Am Saving For A Pony."
See, in Wellington, that would be ironic.

Am staying with Dad. Dad was Santa for some store or other over the Christmas period, and made several witty (and festive) remarks to passing couples, the best of which was to an elderly man and his wife ("Remember when you asked for that gorgeous brunette? You never said thanks." -wife giggles-). A passer-by overheard this and wrote into the local paper, they were so impressed! We were also dutifully impressed until it turned out that lo! 'passerby' had been Dad.

Family Christmas dinner in Christchurch was much as expected, apart from v strange ten minutes where I mentioned my job in passing ("So how's Wellington going?") and everyone was Very Interested and we spent a good ten minutes talking about Eftpos machines over the turkey (rather than talking turkey over the eftpos machine). Other highlights included my sister revealing that her boyfriend had dyed his armpit hair blonde (and then defending to the death his right to do so), and my smaller cousin revealing she had worms. Truly a festive occasion.

Also I have bought a bikini, following a grade-A tantrum in the mall (this is in preparation for BrisbanD - if I'm going to be poncing around the beach in a bikini I thought I'd better buy one. It cost a shitload. It probably worked out at $5 a centimetre, or something, but at least now I won't have to ponce around naked (although depending on how things pan out with the Thing, I could- NO!)) Not having to ponce around naked is a good thing, surely?

And tonight my older sister and I are going to go and sample the delights of Nelson's nightlife. Suspect these delights will be limited but such is life. Am not sure whether to blend in with the locals (most of whom look like Britney post-well, everything) or to be an Individual. Also need to buy cigarettes and beer. Cigarettes and beer, cigarettes and beer. Will now transpose beer song

(to the tune of If I Only Had A Brain, from thewizardofoz).

I could while away the hours, conversing with the flowers and whatever else is near
I'd be charming, I'd be witty, and my day would be less shitty
If I only had a beer.
I could dance the Hokey Pokey and warble karaoke devoid of shame or fear
I'd be charming, I'd be funny, I would not have any money
If I only had a beer.
And I could have a pie, at three a.m. or four
And I'd drop a lot of it upon the floor, and then I'd walk into the door!
Life would be less dull and dreary if I were pissed and leery, to me that much is clear
I'd be witty, I'd be charming, I could shag someone alarming
If I only had a beer!

Why would you stand around the kitchen, a'moaning and a'bitchin' cause the weather isn't fine
When you could be oh so happy and your day would be less crappy
If you only had a wine.
You could dance around in stockings, pretend your life you're rocking, and your nose would redly shine
How I wish we had some vino, we could have a proper beano
If we only had some wine.
We'd down our drinks in town, 'twould be a glorious lark
I'd converse with someone tall and cute and dark, and then wake up in Churton Park!
I would not be glum and cranky, with hair and clothes all manky, no, I'd border on divine
Full of confidence and grace, with makeup smeared across my face,
If I only had a wine!

So let's stumble down to Shooters, I might get out my hooters and fall off my high-heeled shoes
And my poise would be rewarded in a way completely sordid
If I only had some booze!
And when I've created messes, blaming drinking to excesses my behaviour does excuse
So come on, let your feelings true show, I'll declare my love for Hugo
If I only had some booze!
To me, sobriety is something found in church
So, for the meaning of all life now let us search - from bar to bar I wish to lurch!
When you find your life you're hating, your job is sent from Satan, well darling that's not news
So to the bar let's get our asses and fill up our stolen glasses
With a little bit of booze!


It really works rather better as a duet. Do you think Festive Lettuce is a good band name?