taps mic; looks quizzically at sound control booth

I was in Officeworks the other day with The Gelchild, picking up items for planning prior to going home and doing some planning to help the young wretch make it through this semester relatively unscathed (although the world of structured education being what it is, and she being who she is, some level of scathement - scathementness; scathementosity - is inevitable).

Anyway.

We were wandering down one of the aisles and I was giving voice to various thoughts I was having about the stuff we were looking for, in ways that only 10 years ago I would have found totally cringe and yet today, in my 50s, feel increasingly acceptable and normal. (And only 10 years ago I would have found this attitude in itself horrifying, I feared it, and now I'm all like, eh, whatevs.)

So I was chatting away and then from ahead of me I hear someone say "I'd know that voice anywhere" (which, let's face it, in the case of my voice is absolutely not a compliment). To my amazement it was my old friend Alice Keppel! (I just did a hunt on the blog to see if she'd been previously mentioned and to my astonishment she appears not to have been). Why is it when you run into one of your glamorous friends - the type who look glamorous even when, as was the case with Alice Keppel, they're dressed in old jeans and a jumper - that is the day you've decided you can get away with being in public in that pair of stained trackies and your hair three days passed its used by date for a good wash?

We were chatting away and then I thought to introduce The Gelchild and then followed it up with, "I'll have to explain her to you when we catch up. It's a long story."

And I guess I'll have to do the same here at some point.

Surplus to Requirements

(If you really hate spoilers, read the post below this one first. Then this one. Or don't. Spoil the whole thing for yourself; see if I care.)


An addition to this amazing adventure: when the beeping began, I was writing an email to someone at work, dispensing elegant pearls of wisdom, and I started the email with this: 

I have officially arrived in 2012 as I've finally got round to learning how to access my email through the web. This achievement is offset somewhat by my inability to make my smoke detector stop beeping (yes, have changed the battery, etc). It's going to be a close run race between the arrival of the electrician and the departure of my sanity.

During the course of tapping out my hotly sought-after advice the electrician arrived and the events described below occurred. So I finished my email thusly:

If none of what I said makes sense, I can understand: the electrician just arrived and pointed out that there's a second smoke detector in the hall, and that's the one that's been beeping - not the one I replaced the battery in TWICE.

I'll be in tomorrow if you want to discuss - my comments, not the smoke detector fiasco.

The person I was sending the email to replied this way:

Thanks. This made me laugh out loud.

Still no word on whether he was referring to The Smoke Detector Incident or my work-related words of wisdom.

Shock the Monkey

I have a smoke detector in my hallway, hard-wired into the ceiling. Yesterday afternoon it began beeping. Being the resourceful and independent single woman that I am, I ascertained that this was because the battery needed replacing, so off I shot to the shops to grab a new battery. I got two because, as Magilla Gorilla taught us all those years ago, "nuthin' like havin' a spare spare". I came home and replaced the battery and had just climbed down off the stepladder when the bloody thing beeped again. And again. Without going into details another hour was spent replacing the battery, double-checking it, checking the indicator lights, pressing buttons, inspecting the meter box, all the while feeling my sanity unravel as the beeping went on and on. Okay that was a bit detailed but you needed some local colour.

Eventually I resigned myself to a night of no sleep. I figured if I shut the hall door and slept on the couch in the lounge the beep would be less intrusive. I also decided to drown out the sound with an episode of Midsomer Murders on iView. I paused the show at some point to get a drink and that's when I noticed: miracle of miracles, the beeping had stopped! I could sleep, un-aurally-molested, in my bed! (Which I did. I'm no fool.)

I ended up spending today at home, doing some work from the comfort of the couch. (The other couch. Not the one I'd planned to sleep on. I have two couches. Just the two. I'm not building a Couch Empire here. I need you to be able to properly see this with your mind's eye.) At about 1pm I thought I heard a noise, but I ignored it. And then there it was again. The sodding beeping. I may have called the detector an unkind name. A phone call to the real estate agent brought an electrician running. He phoned me on his way to my place and I carefully explained to him all that I had done in an attempt to fix the problem, defending my status as a resourceful and independent single woman.

The electrician arrived and took a look at the detector. He was puzzled as everything seemed to be in order. Then it beeped again. There was a hint of defiance in the noise this time - I have a sense for these things. The electrician looked at his sidekick. "Where's that beep coming from?" "Er," I ventured, "from the smoke detector?" I confess I may have had my duh face on at this point. "No it isn't," he said. Then he and the sidekick looked down the hall and pointed at something on the ceiling I had failed to see in all my rampaging about the house the evening before, being resourceful and independent in a womanly and single way: a second smoke detector, purely battery-operated, with a dead battery - and trying to get anyone who would listen to pay attention.

"I feel like such an idiot!" I said. But I'd jumped the gun. The time to really feel like an idiot was when he presented me with the bill.

The Alfred Hines Seaside Home, Rockingham

Deepening Trough - Part II

I was filling Grumpy in on my latest medicinal requirements. There was a genuine look of regret and concern on his face.

"I feel to blame. I feel as though I made this happen."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. (And, honestly, the egomania!)

Then I added, "But if it's any consolation, you certainly didn't help."

He waited patiently until I'd finished laughing. "Well, you're clearly on the road to recovery."

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

Walking back along the river after the Cool Night Classic this evening, Scarab and I were bickering as to whether the complimentary food box provided after the event constituted a meal. I think an egg & lettuce sandwich, a small quiche, two pieces of sushi, a fruit flan and a mini Mars Bar is a meal! Scarab didn't so much beg to differ as refused to even listen to my side of the story. She was going home to have dinner.

It was a beautiful night. The clouds had blown away, the river smelled salty fresh, the city lights looked festive and summery. As we walked across the Narrows, the wind felt like it was blowing us clean.

When we got back to my car, Scarab gave me a big hug and said, "That was great fun! I'm so pleased you're doped up!"

Me, too, Scarab. But there's no way I'll admit to you that I'm about to go to bed and I'm staaarving.

Deepening Trough - Part I

I sat in the doctor's surgery this afternoon as he ran through the possible side effects of the medication he'd prescribed for me. He didn't seem quite sure where to look, which should have been a warning, given our history of awkward moments.

"Now, I only mention this one because patients don't tend to report it, but it is a possible side effect: it may make it difficult for you to achieve orgasm."

I burst into tears afresh. "I don't think that's going to be a problem for the foreseeable future - I mean, isn't that one of the reasons why I'm here?!"

I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. I couldn't help but chuckle for a moment myself. "Go on, laugh at me then."

Then I asked, "What about weight gain?"

He looked at me. "I can promise you, weight gain is not one of the side effects of this particular drug. I only prescribe those drugs to female patients as a last resort."

A man with insight! It's been years since I've encountered one of those.

A grimace was the reply.

Grumpy and I had to go to a funeral last week. He rang me in the morning to check I was picking him up. Then he spent some time panicking over whether he'd fit into his suit or not. He and his new girlfriend spend a lot of time at home watching the telly and eating chocolate. Quite frankly, the Grumpy one has really piled it on.

Despite, or perhaps because of, my ex-husband's somewhat stretched outfit, it was a lovely funeral. Grumpy hitched his too-tight pants up, surveyed the rather ancien nature of the crowd and muttered to me, "Jeez, I reckon they must all be wondering who's next."

Afterwards he convinced me to stop at his place for a while so I could cuddly Finny* and we could chat for a bit. The Finny part was lovely, but the chatting wore pretty thin in a hurry. I was going to the movies with Heidi later that evening and I wanted to get in a gruelling stair climb before I went.

"I've gotta go," I said.

Grumpy was standing at the kitchen bench shovelling chocolate into his gob.

"Sure you don't wanna hang around?"

"Can't. I'm going out and I want to do a stair climb first."

He looked at me with an expression somewhat akin to irritation. "You're turning into an exercise obsessive," he said. "You wanna watch that."

I regarded him for a moment, as impassively as I could. I looked at the flake of chocolate melting into an irremovable blob on his silk tie. (I didn't mention it.) "So," I asked, "how's that suit working out for you?"



*For those not following along on Twitter, Pounce has been missing for several weeks now. We are sad.

I can hear strange voices echo.

Last year, stepbrother #1 got married and this year stepbrother #2 did the same. I wasn't particularly looking forward to the event and the only thing really keeping me there was the promise of stepbrother #3's company. Oh, and Bezley's firm grip on my arm.

The reception was barely underway when, to my dismay, it seemed that stepbrother #3 had decided he'd had enough and was going to head orff home. He'd come to the wedding with a mate of his and the two of them had enjoyed several drinks - brewskis, if you will - before and after the ceremony. They were getting a little boisterous, as is their wont, and thought better fun might be found elsewhere.

I grabbed him by the arm. "You can't go!" I whined. "No one here is as interesting as you."

"I know, mate, I know," he said with what almost sounded like genuine regret in his voice. "I'm the only real person in this place."

I would have told him he was wrong, that he was totally unreal, but he would have taken it as a compliment.

Lend Me Some Sugar

One of Bloody Ern's philosophies that could make him so easy to be around was the principle of "I'm up, everyone's up", which could make for some fairly early mornings when he started stomping around the house at 4am. But at least he generally adhered to daylight hours and the early evenings for his wakefulness.

My neighbours, on the other hand, seem to have adopted the same approach while choosing to be night creatures. This week I've averaged about four hours sleep a night, and with each successive broken snooze I can feel my sanity slipping a little further from my grasp. As I lay in bed last night, alternating between despair and murderous intent, I formulated a plan, which I have put into place today. To wit, I have complained to their real estate agent and the police and my next stop will be the council and I'll keep up this campaign of harassment and vilification until they're quiet, or evicted. Either one suits me.

I have become a complaining woman. But this blog has given me five years of solid training so who amongst us is really surprised that I've now taken my carefully honed skills out into the real world?

This morning, though, I thought I'd get things kicked off with a slightly more personal touch. The shenanigans finally wound down at about 8am and I decided to hang around at home for another hour. I figured an hour would give them just enough time to slip reasonably deeply into precious slumber. Then I went to their front door and I began knocking and knocking and knocking until, after several minutes, a couple of them finally staggered to the door.

"Oh, did I wake you up?!"

[hurt, offended, confused] "Ugh, well, yeah."

"Good!" [insert rant about good manners and decency, followed by a grand stalking off]

I doubt we'll be exchanging gardening tips over the fence anytime soon and I can't say I'm too sorry.

Howdily doodily, neighbourinos! I'm the anti-Ned Flanders.

But there were spots before my eyes.

The decorations aren't the most original, interesting or artistic, but that punctuation was enough to make me want to hang around and proposition the driver.

Except it got chilly so I had to get off the bonnet and put my clothes back on.

It's funny how they never showed up.

Purchase

On Sunday morning Heidi and I decided that we were too tired to cope with the demands of a dive, so settled for a snorkel instead at Boyinaboat Reef. Heidi wanted to check it out because she thought it would be a good spot for a dive. As we climbed up and down the rocks, them and us baking in the sun, I vowed and declared there'd be no way she'd get me all trussed up and lumbering over the mole in heavy, awkward dive gear. I can feel awkward just walking down the street, thanks.

We jumped in the water and swam out to the reef. We'd only been floating along for about ten minutes when I broke down and almost demanded of Heidi that our next dive be here, on this very spot*. She just smiled. Well, I can never really enjoy a thing unless I create a bit of drama first. And my resolve only wavered slightly as we exited the water, when the swell had picked up and getting a toehold on the rocks was a bit tricky.

Afterwards we had eggs. Nothing beats eggs. Not even scissors.

I could live on just eggs all the time. With maybe some lime to keep the scurvy at bay.

And a ship's biscuit.



*By 'this very spot' I mean Boyinaboat Reef. Not here in my office where I'm composing this blog. While the visibility would be good, when I'm in it conditions can rarely be described as calm.

Exit, pursued by.

I got home at about 10.30 last night from dropping The Pups at the airport - after our first failed attempt to get her on her flight - only to find that the ferals next door were blasting music in their back yard. I went round to their side gate to ask them to pipe down, which, to their credit, they did.

I staggered inside and went to bed only to be jolted awake at 1am by loud feral conversation drifting over from the back yard. After lying there for a while getting more and more enraged I finally decided to get up and, once again, ask them to keep things down to a dull roar. It turns out they were somewhat resistant to the idea that conversation in the dead of night could be classified as 'noisy' or 'intrusive' and as I endeavoured to make them see the error of their ways I was fighting hard to keep the 'nagging harridan' element out of my voice.

Then a male voice interrupted me, mid-rant.

"Excuse me, excuse me," he said. "Do you know you're hot?"

"What did you say??"

"I just had to let you know that I think you're hot."

"I couldn't give a stuff what you think: JUST SHUT UP!"

And with that I walked off. If it's not old men, it's ferals. If things don't improve soon I'm getting me to a nunnery. It's lights out there at, like, 9pm. And no one listens to techno, I'll bet.

Yeeow! Ayipioeeay!

So I'm the office weirdo again.

Two of the big bosses came to visit us in a you've-all-done-very-well-thank-you-Mr-Grace kind of way. The arvo tea was going quite well and Big Boss 1 was commenting on how he needed to come to our offices more often. BB2, a slightly nervous man, piped up and suggested that if they were going to be strolling between buildings over summer, then perhaps we needed to budget for some parasols.

I then loudly announced, "Or perhaps for you, BB2, a surrey with a fringe on top."

*pins dropped*
*tumbleweeds rolled*
*a thousand years of deadly silence*

Someone guffawed, but I think it was at me and not with me.

Aaaaaand....RACING!

Around March this year I bought, on impulse, a hat. Then I texted Boxer Girl and said, "I've bought a hat! Hope you're having a Melbourne Cup do because I've got a hat to wear!"

I wasn't too worried about imposing on my friend. She may grizzle about having 175 people round to her abode for causal nibbles but that's just to disguise how much she enjoys organising a knees up. A few weeks ago I was feeling rather pleased to have been invited to her friend One-Eye's 50th, which Boxer Girl had insisted on hosting.

"Hey, are you having a Melbourne Cup bash this year?" I asked her.

"Well, I have to, don't I? You've bought a hat!"

And so it came to pass that cheese and champagne was handed around, the oldies danced in a conga line, and Canned Ham did overindulge and overdivulge. I was sober; it was a harsh scene.

Limpid

Somehow, on Friday, an impromptu work lunch was organised. I just got caught up in the flow. It's amazing how silly some people can get after one glass of wine. There'd been some fairly fruity talk around the table and then it turned most sensibly to cricket but was brought back to basics again when one fellow declared, "I've got a third leg."

"More like a middle stump," said Canned Ham.

Things continued on in this vein for some time, me stone cold sober, taking notes and trusting in prudence. I don't know how it happened, but my ears tuned in on the conversation of a pair a little further down the table. I only hoped that what they were talking about wasn't related to the rubbish going on around me, because I recoiled a little when I heard the guy say, "Well, I might as well cut mine off. It's half-dead anyway."

Tea break's over, back on your heads!

We were about a quarter of the way through boot camp this morning and I was already dripping sweat, beetroot red and generally begging for the sweet embrace of death.

"Right!" barked the instructor, "I want you to get into pairs. One of you is number one and one of you is number two."

"Do you want to be number one or two?" asked my partner in suffering.

"I'll be number two - because that's what I feel like."

Whether You Heart or Hate Etsy

Regretsy

Thanks to Ngaire for the link.

Startling the Horses

I decided I had just enough time for a quick shower before Inge de Bruin arrived at my place for dinner. (No, I didn't cook. A quick trip to the shops netted me a gourmet pie, a salad and a Vienetta.) I was busy getting myself into a lather - in the shower - when there was a knock at the door. Hastily wrapping a towel around me I rushed to open it, assuming it was Inge arriving early.

I had the idea to hurl the door open, fling one arm up in the air and trill, "Ta daaaa!" but something stopped me at the last minute. Some might attribute it to common sense, but you can't use what you don't have. Nevertheless, the door was still opened with quite a flourish only for me and one of Fremantle's mayoral candidates to find ourselves face-to...er...face.

Both of us were instantly covered in a fog of embarrassment and confusion which he tried to address by shoving a pamphlet in my damp hand and I tried to respond to with an attractive, braying laugh and squawking, "Oh, I thought you were someone else."

It was all very unsatisfying. Each of us came away from the encounter without knowing if we'd got the other's vote.

Moby

"I call you honey, because I do not know your name, and because I love honey."

Oh dear. This is going to be a long taxi ride.

I sneeze. The taxi driver asks, "Are you cold, honey?" and he tries to wind my window up. I tell him no no no, no need. Really. I want to know the outside world can hear my screams if necessary.

Then he tells me that I am beautiful, and that I have been a very nice passenger with my wonderful personality. "And," he adds, "That is why I love you."

["Who is teaching this guy English?" asks New Girl when I call her to tell her of my adventure.]

I have been doing a lot of uncomfortable laughing and saying, "Er, thank you?" in a half-hearted way during the journey. Inside I am praying for the end.

When we get to the service centre, after what seems about five years, he tells me that he hopes he sees me again soon. Then he insists on kissing my hand. I sprint until I'm inside the building.

This morning as I left the house I realise that I've left my umbrella in his taxi. I only hope he doesn't try to track me down to return it. I need another shower.

Ghostly

Karnup Road, Serpentine