I have come out to play.

Less because I'm an Offspring fan and more because Prudence said she missed me.

Mea Culpa. Lo Siento. Sorry.

It's not that Twitter has taken over my desire to write stuff on the blog. I have a big long list. You know your arm? As long as that. Even if your arms are short.

Wait. What?

But there's been a new job, and the new sister, and my weird family, and getting divorced & going on hols (oh, yeah, did I mention that?) and continuing to be ignored by the male of the species and let's not forget my capacity for drama and, frankly, I just can't be arsed.

So come back here after 13th June. And I'll be here. I promise. Can you hang on that long? I think I can.

I really do love youse all.

Sledge or No

I'm orff to Adelaide for Easter to meet my sister. See you all when I get back. Or check Twitter over at the side there. I'll have plenty to say as we go along, I'm sure.

Promises

I'll never be such a full-of-myself blowhard again.

yeah, I'm AWARE there was no blog post yesterday

not a bank or a stadium

You are all bastards.

Just, you know, FYI.

From 6th October 2008 to 4th June 2009, for 243 days, I blogged every day, come rain or shine or suicidal thoughts. I gave you a minimum of one blog entry every single day. Most days you got more.

[All of them quality, of course.]

And did I get a single thanks from any of you? No. No I did not.

And then I didn't blog quite so much. And then I blogged a bit less than that. And it was only then that you shifted yourselves to get in touch. I wasn't blogging so much anymore, you whined. Touchingly, much of the whinging was specific: I wasn't blogging quite so much about you.

Cry me a river, arseholes.

Well, I'm throwing down the gauntlet. I'm going to give a daily blog a go again. It won't last forever but I need to get back into the swing of things.

So I'm back, babies, I'm back!

Not that any of you lot would even care.

Bastards.

Production Line

I was just on the phone to The Burp who chastised me for not blogging much of late. Well, first of all, I think thirteen blog posts in January wasn't too bad at all. And then I was away for the last ten days. A girl is not a blogging machine, you know.

But I'm back. And I'll blog something soon. I just have to figure out how to do it.

Message for Ms Norman

Can you email me, please? I've lost your address.

Non-Explanation

It's not that I don't have anything to blog about, it's just that I'm struggling to be bothered.

Introducing...

At the pub the other night The Antiquer once again raised the spectre of changing his name. I was kind of thinking of rewarding him just for showing up at the pub. And I got into work this morning to a rather insistent email that contained just a hint of threat:

PS you gotta change THAT name- i don't think i can continue to read blog if you don't

Now, before I get flooded with requests from peeps unhappy with their names - and if anyone should be, it should be k., d. and t. who are mere initials, but at least do have that snazzy bit of punctuation after them - let me just say this: this is a once-only event and will never be entertained again. And come on, it is The Antiquer.

So, ladies and gentleman, please welcome RobertPlant to the blog.

But if he tries to grow his hair or wear funky clothes from the 70s, it's all off.

Still Life With List

No, wait. On Twitter I lied: there isn't even time for one quick blog before I go out. I'll blog tomorrow.

Things to blog about:
- The Antiquer has been running races. And how. Trophies.
- Small Thing has therefore been requiring a babysitter. And how.
- Stopping in at Boxer Girl's - disease; middle aged.
- Drinks with k. and d.: smoke on the water; spying; getting enough chocolate.
- Pinnacles. Gravity. Roadhouse.
- Lunch with New Girl and Wednesday.

I have to write these things here to, (a) whet your appetite (go on, you know you're dying to come back) and (b) because I had all these notes stored in my mobile phone and now they're gone because my phone is gone: also the subject for a blog post.

A demain!

Little Snoring

DJ Pups' plane lands in 5 hours and 36 minutes. When I got up this morning I had all day to get the house clean and tidy. All day. Now, with 5 hours and 35 minutes to go, this is what I've done:

- dropped in on k. and d. who were heading off for a few days in Kalgoorlie; had hysteria-inducing conversation about VPL.
- shot up to Heidi's place to feed her parrots - had nervous breakdown trying to get in front door with dicky lock, went round to friend of Heidi's to get back door key, came back, fed parrots and had a little chat to them so they felt loved.
- dropped in on The Antiquer & co. for quick visit to wish Tam O'Shanter best of luck in the Boston Marathon, finally tore self away 2 hours later after The A had roped me in to babysit the Small Thing while he runs a 10k race next week.
- stopped at the shops for milk.

What I still have to do:

- dust, sweep and mop
- clean bathroom & toilet
- make DJ Pups' bed
- assemble Ikea bookshelves and get all cruddler off the floor of the spare bedroom and into shelves
- wrap DJ Pups' 40th birthday present and write in card
- put wine in the fridge (priorities!)
- clean cat bowls
- put dishes away and stack dishwasher

I'll put the wine in the fridge and then I'll see how I feel about the rest.

Hovercraft

No time to blog.

Our second City to Surf training run was this morning. New Girl and I were interpreting the "run" part fairly liberally and we were rather surprised when everyone else took off at a brisk jog and left us behind. This didn't bother us overly as we had much to discuss - as always. I'd dropped her at home at midnight the night before, which was an unwelcome intrusion into solving the probs of the world, so now we had the opportunity to pick up where we left off. And we made good progress - expect your various world leaders to begin articulating our vision sometime soon.

And now? Well, a few months ago one of Tam O'Shanter's friends was trying to round up a few people to see the Shakespearean epic, 'The War of the Roses' (starring Cate Blanchett! She's a celebrity). Eight hours in a theatre with, you know, theatre-going types. The Antiquer and I scoffed and wondered what kind of idiot* would spend that amount of time at a play. To cut a long and banal story short...in two short hours I'm going to be trapped for eight hours in a theatre watching 'War of the Roses'. Luckily there's a two-hour intermission and I've packed a pillow - during the break I'll be heading back to the car for a nap.

In the immortal words of Pig, Porky Esq: "Th-th-th-that's all folks!"



*We may have used slightly harsher words than 'idiot'.

Can I see the hands of my real believers?

For those of you who care - New Girl, The Burp, k., QEII, Jessie Mo, Sarah Ulmer, Carol and Karen - there's a new post over on Peppermint Crisp. I'm not making any wild and crazy promises about what might happen in the future. But there's something there today.

And, really, living for today is where it's at, n'est-ce pas?

The Windmills of My Mind

I can't bear it when I miss a good naming opportunity here at Bex. So, even though he appears only twice (so far), I have decided to rename The Antiquer's friend Scotty as Initials in the Tree.

Oh that's much more satisfying.

Place Holder

Blogging will continue but will be light over the next two weeks - but, hey, you should be used to that by now! Grumpy sucked our monthly broadband usage dry in about 10 days flat (and it wasn't even for anything we could be embarrassed about) and now we are abiding the long, dreary wait until our new billing month.

So if, like Peter Hotchkin, you sent me something requiring me to link here and there, just be patient and I'll get to it on the 19th.

I'll be back later today with something else.

Hold Your Position

Thanks to New Girl for that delightful interjection into my blog. Isn't she a marvel?

I am, as they say in the classics, blog-fodder rich and time poor. I'm up to my ears in full-time prac, preparing lesson plans and getting those tricky classroom management techniques under control. Though, if you ask me, it's not the classroom that's the problem; it's the 30 14-year-olds sitting inside it that need all the attention.

Commenting

In answer to the comments that have lobbed into my inbox overnight:

Karen: My back is heaps better, thank you. To be fair, Grumpy did offer a back rub but I was too miserable at the time to contemplate manoeuvring myself up off the couch and back down again to allow for the rub to take place. It was easier to lie around feeling sorry for myself. Easier for me, that is.

k: I prefer to think of myself as the fairy godmother. God knows I'm plump enough to be. If anyone thinks I'm not an f.g. they can just bloody well keep it to themselves.

k: Yes on two fronts: (1) action on the other blog, and (2) holidays are only "so-called".

The Burp: I pulled a muscle hauling my kayak up the beach on Sunday. "Let me do things for you!" said Grumpy. "Why do you have to be so independent?!" (Answer: Because I see girls who let someone else do everything for them and it just makes me want to shrivel up and die.)

The Burp: Yes, I could be lying on the floor at my country friend's house and not getting any work done there either. I'll remember that for the next hols.

Footy Tips: Yeah, yeah. I'll remember to do my footy tips today. Oh, hang on....

Chaos, confusion, panic - my work here is done.

Today is my last day at work. It's kind of exciting and also a little nerve-wracking.

I'm having two weeks off - because, as I told a bemused Grumpy, six weeks in France last year and ten days off over Christmas was, like, sooooo exhausting - and then I'm heading back to uni for a year.

I will tell you what I'm doing. I won't be able to avoid it, I don't think, if I'm to keep up my usual running commentary of bitterness and snark. But I'm not ready to just yet. A bit more paperwork to be done.

And, hey, I have to use all the tools at my disposal to keep you coming back for more.

Watch this space. All will be revealed. You just have to be patient, my pretties.

Ain't nobody told ya?

So New Girl not only has her secret blog but has also started another blog, which is a detailed description of all the people who inhabit her blog broken down into friends, family and whatever other categories she happens to thing of.

Anyway, I have neither the wit nor the energy to emulate such a feat, but I have decided that I should also make a list of "who's who". But again, factoring in my laziness, this list will only include those who make a regular appearance or are likely to appear again in the future. There will be a link to this in the sidebar. It will not be called "Who's Who in the Zoo" as that is just revolting jargon. Here at Bex we do our bext to avoid jargon.

Without further ado, in alphabetical order, names changed to protect the innocent, the Peeps of Bex:

Antiquer, The: Friend. When I moved back to Perth and I didn’t have a car he just shrugged and said, “Take one of ours.” Never actually asked for it back. Loves running and not eating. Hates just about anything else. [See also: Tam O’Shanter and Small Thing.]

Bay Leaf: Older son of The Burp and The Rooster. Makes books, memorises world records, rollerblades. A painted fairy. [See also: Machiavelli.]

Bette Midler: Sister of The Rooster. Tres sportif and dynamic. I have the tiniest little crush on her and her stylish tracksuits. [See also: Wheels.]

Bezley: Stepmother and friend. Got Bloody Ern out of some of his more extreme bad habits and into sarongs. Also, when they got married she took all the staples out of his shorts and hemmed them properly.

Bloody Ern: Extreme father. Dad to the max. Like The Rooster, A Real Man. He and The Rooster were in the same room once: the world bulged at its seams, straining to contain all the manliness. His exploits live on even though he does not.

Boop, The: Daughter of Jessie Mo and Livewire. Told me all about her new Barbie sneakers. I didn’t understand a word.

Boxer Girl: Fun, super-efficient and kind-hearted co-worker and now - yay! - friend. Dedicated to fitness and salad. And the ever-so-occasional bourbon and coke.

Burp, The: Surprised me after twenty-odd years of friendship by confessing that putting together a kids’ party freaked her out, man. Can do anything else. Sells a lot of Plasticware™, plays netball, and organises many social events. I am preparing myself, quite inadequately, for her imminent departure from Perth. [See also: The Rooster, Bay Leaf, Machiavelli.]

Canned Ham: Bright and breezy work mate, on the lookout for a booty caller (whatever that is).

Chopper, Mr: Neighbour to The Burproosters. Lives hard, looks mean – but I know he likes to cuddle poodles and scrapbook. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! (Much respec’, Mr Chopper.)

Chopper, Mrs: Wife of the hard man. Looks sweet but look who she’s married to: and remember, he calls her boss.

Cinderella: Not-so-ugly step-sister. Raises turkeys that she’s already named. Claims they’re going to get served up as Christmas fare all the same. Bezley and I very much doubt this.

d.: Husband of k., father of t.. Works in exotic locales, running mines. Though his visits to Australia are brief, he is a rich vein of blog fodder.

Don Mary: Grandmother, erstwhile.

Dyzie: Mother. Not lorst but gorn before.

Grumpy: Husband, faithful companion and all that crap. He wears the long shorts in the Grumpyberry household.

Inge de Bruin: Broad-shouldered, statuesque, over achieving, no-nonsense goddess who kindly lets me call her a friend. Thinks this blog business is odd.

Jessie Mo: Although we rarely get to chat in person because she lives in Canberra, the email waves run hot across the Nullarbor as we discuss the fact that of course such and such behaved in such a way because this is his/her star sign. See, it’s all explained! We’ve only recently discovered a mutual love of Fleetwood Mac. To think that all this time we could have been talking about Stevie and Lindsay and the rest of the gang. [See also: The Boop.]

k.: Wife to d., mother to t.. Another excellent source of blog fodder despite only intermittent appearances in Perth. Smiles in an enigmatic way when I have yet another joke at her expense. Will probably kill me one day.

Machiavelli: Younger son of The Burp and The Rooster. Too cute for his own good. Seems to think this life bizzo is a bit of a lark. [See also: Bay Leaf.]

Nefertiti: Mother of Scarab. Always calls me dahlink or sweetie. With her husband built up a large and prosperous business from scratch. Judges people on first impressions and has yet to be proven wrong. I say that because she likes me.

New Girl: Swiftly promoted from work peep to matey. Sits in the next office and is often found in mine discussing just when I’m getting a new DVD player so I can watch her Bill Bailey video. Appreciates the restorative powers of Swedish nachos and Gloria Jean’s. Filled with infectious enthusiasm for many things but will probably never convert me to coffee.

QEII: Soothing balm to my soul or mosquite-like irritant? Difficult to say, but she certainly understands the necessity of hazelblackberry carving out some me time. Our friendship has barely withstood my non-TV watching ways. Highly conversant on lady gardens and the maintenance thereof. Loves her dog, Lola. Likes fresh chocolate and red, red wine. Her cheese and her laydeees should both have that matured edge to them.

Rooster, The: Man’s man and husband of The Burp (the two are not mutually exclusive). Tends to roll his eyes whenever he sees me. Goes red easily. [See also: Bay Leaf, Machiavelli.]

Sarah Ulmer: Uber-woman. If she took it down a thousand, she’d still need to take it down several thousand. Really out there. I mean really.

Scarab: Friend. Likes to bead while watching Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple and Midsomer Murders. Also likes Star Trek, but we can overlook that. Drives a green VW bug and still can’t tell left from right. Is a dog person but has looked after our cats with great love and attention: there is no greater recommendation. [See also: Nefertiti.]

Small Thing: A sweet and solemn and very small thing. Probably the only person to be able to manage the enigma that is her father. [See also: The Antiquer, Tam O’Shanter.]

t.: Son of k. and d.. Last time I saw him he hadn’t yet reached the talking stage, but he was devilishly cute.

Tam O'Shanter: Long-time companion of The Antiquer. Makes him acceptable for human consumption. Delightfully Scottish. Like The Antiquer loves to run, with an added dash of grinding-the-opposition-beneath-her-heel. [See also: Small Thing.]

Wheels: Husband of Bette Midler. When I finally worked up the courage to talk to him I found out he was quite nice.