I didn't say it; just reporting what she said!

[Good grief! I, like, totally forgot to blog yesterday. Where's good old anonymous when you need himher?]

Anyway.

d. was coming over yesterday evening to collect some boxes that he & k. had been storing at my place. When he arrived he was all a-dither, and a bit breathless. Long-time readers know that I occasionally use this blog as a cruel device for recording d.'s verbal blunders. Last night he was excited because k. had made a rare slip of her own.

t. knows his father as 'a fixer'. Whatever might be broken, t. is confident that his daddy can fix it. d. was telling his offspring that he's long had a reputation as a go-to man and that when he was a young lad his prodigious talents at locating lost items had his own mother label him as 'a finder'.

"Which is why," k. informed her offspring, "Daddy and I get long so well together. Because Mummy's a loser!"

k. will be proud

One boot camp woman was talking about the boyfriend of another boot camp woman.

"He's a Pole," she said.

"He's a what?"

"A Pole. You know, Polish. hazelblackberry's met him."

"Yeah? What's he like?"

"Great! A real straight up and down guy."

Luckily we'd been working with weights all morning and no one had the strength to chuck anything at me.

Are you talking about the chickens or the ladies?

New Girl is a big fan of Steve Coogan, as is her dad. I don't know anything about him - you mightn't either. No big deal.

Wait. I'm talking about Steve Coogan, not NG's dad. Although...

Anyway. It came to pass that between them they hatched a diabolical plan to go online and buy tickets to his show and get me one as well. Because I may not know much about anything, but I know what I like - particularly when other people are telling me I'll like it.

Last night we trooped along, and I know the reviews of his stand-up have been mixed and all that but, you know, whatevs - I really enjoyed myself. Though in the first half I wasn't sure what amused me more: the show, or New Girl squirming at being stuck next to her dad while the somewhat, er, ribald humour flowed from the stage. The language and concepts were a trifle bawdy and coarse. Adult entertainment, of a sort.

Afterwards New Girl's dad nicked off home and we met up with The Antiquer and Initials in the Tree, who'd also been at the show, for a coffee (and, for The Antiquer, cake). The A and Initials didn't seem too impressed with my driving style - their faces in the rear view mirror looked a little grim as we sped along. But that could have been because upon getting into the car they found a pair of my undies (clean!) on the back seat.

And to think they still had an appetite after that.

Dan And

I've yet to find a radio frequency to play my iPod on that doesn't at some stage collapse into constant static or get broken into by the reception from a station somewhere.

I didn't mind so much yesterday arvo when the iPod was drowned out for long enough to catch a DJ saying, "If you don't want hot cross buns this Easter don't lean against the barbie."

Not For Compliments

k. and I decided to take advantage of the warm morning weather and have a walk on the beach. As we were coming back we passed an older woman heading out on to the groyne with a rod and a bucket and other fishing paraphernalia.

"That's what I need to do," mused k.

"Whassat?"

"Bring t. down here and catch a fish."

"Well, he'd make great bait!"

A Job Lot

---------------------------

From: hazelblackberry@
Sent: Friday, 3 April 12:09 PM
To: The Raw Prawn@; Jessie Mo@
Subject: RE:

.....and when I can think of a succinct way to tell you the tale, I will. Because it could be quite amusing – wot’s funny is my own horror. Let me ponder it over my salad. Will I have an ANZAC bikky after my salad? I may. But then I am fitting into a pair of pants I haven’t been able to fit into for years (“I substituted chocolate for sex and now I can’t even get into my own pants!”) so maybe I won’t.

---------------------------

From: The Raw Prawn@
Sent: Friday, 3 April 12:18 PM
To: hazelblackberry@; Jessie Mo@
Subject: RE:

.....and as for that particular question, hb, I think your last bog post has answered it succinctly.

---------------------------

From: hazelblackberry@
Sent: Friday, 3 April 12:23 PM
To: The Raw Prawn@; Jessie Mo@
Subject: RE:

I object! I have never once posted about my bogs!

---------------------------

From: The Raw Prawn@
Sent: Friday, 3 April 12:26 PM
To: hazelblackberry@; Jessie Mo@
Subject: RE:

Jessie Mo made the same joke!

On the phone.

We have back channels you know. (fnarr etc)

---------------------------

Only if friends are electric.

My favourite comment on that video:

I always thought this song was about Rugby League & Rugby Union. Come on you Eels.

Reading Delights

From Vetrun: the magazine of Masters Athletics WA (November 2007, p2):

Thanks for the typos...

PERHAPS most readers won’t believe it, but the copy that appears in these pages is mostly checked, and sub-edited before printing. It’s part of the noble calling of editor. It can be tedious at times, especially when tables of results need sorting. (Or double white spaces must be deleted after full stops. Any ears burning?)

However, there are compensations. Childish delight comes from some typos, and I’m almost happy that the writer didn’t use a spellchecker.

Gilding their lilies?

This month’s pleasures came with the announcement that WA athletes achieved 'nine gelds'. Seemed a bit harsh, considering they had just won their events. And the winners of the 'weight pantaloon' must have laboured under a mighty handicap.

Mmph!

Before lunch, Boxer Girl and the owner of the cafe at which we were dining reversed their cars into each other. Bit of a bummer. So Boxer Girl came to the table, wrote out her details and waited for the owner to come out with his, which he did.

"Thanks. Oh, wait, you'll need to give me your driver's licence info as well," she said.

He recoiled, "Licence?! I haven't had a licence in years!"

It Feels Like Underground

"Anything still making you nervous about the new job?"

"Oh yeah - I'll tell you what makes me really nervous: the thought of having to squeeze my car into my tiny little car bay in the basement downstairs. Er...of course, it's a given that the basement is downstairs and not upstairs."

"Great! You know your way around already."

Investment Portfolio

Lunching with Boxer Girl and Canned Ham I was worriedly eyeing off The Ham's heaving bosom, threatening to spill forth from her blouse.

"Ham, I'm not perving on you. Do you realise the top button of your shirt's undone?"

"I've got too fat for this top - I'm busting out of it! Do you think anyone's noticed?"

"Don't worry about it. They're an asset - you want them to attract interest."

I've seen you wrapping presents when it's no one's birthday!

Yesterday I ended up driving The Antiquer and his mother-in-law to Margaret River, and then me and The Antiquer home again. We were dropping the m-i-l, who is over from Scotland, down to Tam O'Shanter and Small Thing, who are holidaying down there. [But Tam O'Shanter is still running about a thousand miles a day. Maybe my priorities are all skew-whiff, but that doesn't sound like a holiday to me.]

As we passed through Vasse the m-i-l asked what it was named for.

"A French sailor, I think."

"Yeah," said The Antiquer, "Just think. If the French had colonised Australia this whole area might have become a vast wine-producing region."

Boom tish indeed.

Always the Last Word

I’ve only been to Canned Ham’s house a couple of times, and always from my place, so when I dropped her home after work yesterday evening we were coming from the city and she had to show me the way.

She convinced me to stay for a glass of champagne, which turned into I’m-not-sure-how-many because my hostess was keen to provide refills when the glass was only half empty. After a couple of hours of much convivial chat, I decided I really had to go*. As I got in my car The Ham had a look of concern on her face.

“Do you know where you’re going, haze?”

I looked at her. “Yeah. Home.”

------------------------------------------

While we were scoffing brie and guzzling champagne The Ham’s daughter came in the front door. She’s turning 21 soon and Ham decided then and there that I should make her party invitations. We chatted about what she might like for a little while and then I remembered some thank you cards I had in the car that I made a while ago but am only just getting round to using. I brought one in to show the young lass. She quite liked the look of it.

Later, as I backed the car out of the driveway, The Ham called out to me. I stopped and she came over to the window: “Now, haze, I’m not going to make you a card, but thank you for the lift home all the same.”



*A couch and a DVD required my urgent attention.

Inspiration - The First

At home:

New Girl cut this cartoon out of the New Yorker for me and I've framed it and stuck it behind my keyboard - you know, in my "home office". Next time Grumpy is over mowing the lawns I'll show it to him: I'm sure he'd appreciate it. Just as I'm sure New Girl wasn't having a go at anyone.

This looks like a case for.....MR FIST!

Optometrist by day; crimefighter by night.
Watch out, crooks - he's got his eyes on you!

Words are all I have...

Jessie Mo was in a meeting with a lawyer but anxious to get out and email me. It seems this legal professional kept referring to the problem under discussion as 'a moveable beast'.

----------------------------

Sarah Ulmer sent me a rather torturously worded email she'd received:

"Availability of Minister X for the purposes of signing briefs: May I suggest that due to the volume of work that is currently going through the Minister’s office that if you require a response from the Minister before the end of the year an email from your General Manager to the Minister’s adviser would assist in prioritising your brief."

When she forwarded this little nightmare to me, she added at the top: "Am thinking about having the Minister sign her name alongside Elle McPherson's on my briefs."

Walk Like an Egyptian?

Not quite.

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.

I've been awake for a while. At the computer. And I've been taking cough medication.

While I'm here I might as well blog this...

Grumpy's mum, The Busy Walker, has a friend over here in the lovely WA metrop for a week or so on some quiltin' safari. These crazy old biddies and their quilts! So The Busy Walker thought it might be nice if Grumpy and I got together with the friend while she was here. I don't mind some of TBW's mates and I said, "Sure, why not!"

[I said it, I didn't ask it.]

Grumpy, as could be expected, grumpled about this. "Bloody hell, we'll be having to listen to her communist manifesto all evening!" This particular friend is known for bulldozing her mates into various causes and issues. But what the hell, they have fun.

I could barely contain my delight when the friend rang this evening to dictate, er, arrange logistics for our Friday catch up. We'll pick her up from her hotel. The name of this fine establishment? The Good Earth.

He was being quite.

The Antiquer and I were lunching yesterday. At The Blue Duck Cafe. We both had cream of cauliflower and spinach soup and then we shared this monstrous lump of a thing called a coffee and hazelnut stack.

It's alright for some, isn't it?

Anyway, in between the usual gossiping and gutter sniping that is the hallmark of our conversations, the subject of the writer, Saki, came up. The Antiquer has become a bit of a fan. According to him, Saki was killed in World War I by a German sniper. His last words were to a fellow soldier, "Put that damn cigarette out!"

I think I might inform the health authorities. This may be the earliest recorded case of a death caused by passive smoking.