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Thursday, February 5, 2009

HIGGINS: What do you call a distillate of ego, smugness, self-aggrandisement, and self-delusion? Payton L. Inkletter’s guess: The Hon. Peter Costello.

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

05th February 2009:

Thursday: I did some early morning light watering outside, then drove Missus Inkletinkletoes to the pathology collection centre beside her doctor’s surgery at the local major shopping centre, and the vampires extracted blood, and then expected her to piddle into a thimble, a challenge that faces every woman who is asked to donate urine for testing; no, I’m not taking the piss out of you, for the size of the receptacles women are expected to wee into is absurd, and if the woman has a serious back problem, it becomes well nigh impossible. So I drove Missus InkleIneedtotinkleintheprivacyofmyownhome back home, where with our box of tricks she tinkled, and I drove her back again to deliver the precious yellow fluid of the nether portions. Then I drove her to our local Dewsons’ where she got some supplies, some last things for a hamper we’re doing for our Babies Ink&Peggletter’s anniversary, and for the din dins with them tonight, as well as general bits and pieces. During my waiting time at the path lab and the local shops I got some more reading done of The Freedom Paradox, which I have only two weeks left to finish before Clive Hamilton’s lecture.

I did some overdue watering out the front of my lovely Sansevierias and then the cotton and queen palms by the road side, and young Dale Dumpling stopped and we chatted for fifteen minutes. I spend an average of five minutes a day out the front, and an uncanny number of times someone I know catches me!

I was to have got to bed, however, a woman’s needs can’t wait, and Missus Inklelusty was determined to be sent to erotic heaven. When I detected those bedroom (kitchen actually) eyes, I knew I didn’t stand a chance. I no longer run and hide, for she always finds me, or failing that, starves me out. I did my duty, satiating the beast that she is, making, as always, a bigger rod for back (did I intend that warped pun, you wonder?), because I keep setting the bar so high for myself. High quality sex is no longer acceptable to the spoilt rotten vixen, it has to be gold medal every time.

Eventually I escaped, and got to bed after midday, crumpled, small, worn out, a mere shell of my usual self. Only to be awoken what seemed moments later, but it was about five and a half hours, by the alabaster dragon to get ready for the visit by the Babies. Janny had picked up Pa pree before six o’clock, and the Babies got here before eight, and we had a most delicious meal, three courses, and later we watched the first episode of the incomparable The Vicar of Dibley. No games tonight, as the Babies were very tired. They were over the moon at the hamper we gave them for tomorrow’s first anniversary of their meeting.

I got permission from Baby Inkletter, aka Say H. Inkletter, to post the two parts so far finished of our progressive science fiction story, ‘Venty Still’, which was Bab Yinkletter’s idea. So I hope to do a tad more editing of my segment, record it and hers, and then post the text and audio within the next couple of weeks, if possible. After they left, also armed with three bottles of worm liquid, returning Pa pree Inkletter to his place, we watched Lateline, and Leigh Sales’ interview with Harretz’ Akiva Eldar, regarding the Israeli election – I noted with mild incredulity Eldar’s apparent indignation that Avigdor Lieberman expects citizenship loyalties from Israel’s 20% Arab population: I know nothing about Lieberman, however, as a matter of philosophical principle every citizen needs to give basic loyalty to the state, or otherwise be in a condition of fundamental conflict and thus at risk of the exigencies of necessity flowing from that condition, which of course is every citizen’s choice. The subject is actually deep, yet it is possible to treat it meticulously and well, taking into account the many shades of grey, concepts of right and wrong, and so on. The treat-everything-in-terms-of-MY-black-and-white-view brigade could not cope with the analysis of course.

Janny hit the sack, and I watched the first half of Letterman, before forcing myself to wake up, and began doing various writing jobs on this here pooter. A break saw me do one load of dishes in the kitchen, and then back to the keyboard, but I was altogether too exhausted physically to walk tonight, more’s the pity. I was very happy to hear from cousin Vee by email today.

On a tinkle break I managed to get Janny to go outside into the back yard with me, about three a.m., to ‘see something’. Of course she was suspicious, lest it be something terrible in the woodshed, however she was most pleased when she saw what it was I wanted her to see under torchlight: Early this week I, with joy, noticed my cuttings of Epiphyllum oxypetalum, which I had been told by now deceased Faye of Lockridge latterly Pepperwood, who gave them to me years back were ‘Poor Man’s Orchid’, but which Mr Gary G. Google has just established through Wikipedia that ‘Dutchman’s Pipe’ or ‘Night Blooming Cereus’ are the standard common names, the ones that I late last year planted out the kitchen window in the Bambusa oldhamii trench, had three flowers developing. I ascertained that they would flower one evening a day or two before now, but I immediately took note of the interesting timing regarding the old wive’s tale, if that’s what it be, of the ephemeral one night only flowering of succulents and cacti signifying matters matrimonial. These last days I’ve been following these flowers’ growth with some solicitude, and two shrivelled up, leaving one, which, lo and behold, is due, surely, to flower tomorrow night!, no less than the sixth of February. Janny was tickled pink at this timing and very happy at my sharing with her this lovely phenomenon in the middle of this night. I’ll let my billions of readers know if it does in fact flower tomorrow night.


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