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Monday, February 2, 2009

NORTH, EAST, SOUTH, and WEST PERTH: “I will defend the use of the Oxford comma,” booms Payton L. Inkletter, “yesterday, today and tomorrow, y’all!”


Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

02nd February 2009:


Monday: A hot mother coming, with 38 Celsius forecast. Janny got me up at nine, after a mere 3 plus hours’ sleep, given the disturbances and time taken to fall asleep, and I began to get ready to drive her to her doctor’s appointment, first picking up Pa pree Inkletter for the outing on this one million degree day when any sensible near 80 year old would stay home in the cool. (I just wondered now, after years of writing this, just where should that apostrophe go? I mean, whose appointment is it: is it Janny’s appointment, held with her doctor, or is it her doctor’s appointment, held with Janny? If you can throw some light on this, please do. If not here, there is always the Visitors’ Book, where all will get to share the wisdom of your answer, and you get the glory of giving the answer to the adoring gaze of billions of daily visitors.)


Then said doctor’s surgery phoned on the mobble and let Missus Inklemusthavebloodtestsdonethisweek know that her doctor is sick (of her?), and the appointment, but an hour and a half away, is off. So she did some ‘reappointmenting’ for Wednesday, and this meant I could get out of driving the little people out and about on this infernal day. I was not upset. But I was too awake to sleep again, so I tackled this diary, which is beginning to take a lot of time, but then a billion plus ravenous-for-detail-and-dirt daily readers can’t be snubbed lightly now can they!


My right eye now has only twenty per cent of the iris, the top part, surrounded by white eye white, the rest a mixture of dilute red wine through to crimson solid block red: now I’m the writer who ate the writer from the black lagoon.


Missus Inklewemustgetdadneverthelesscozhisairconisnotascoldasours made me a brunch at midday, and i caught up with all the bad news on Aunty’s Midday Report. I took Janny to pick up Pa pree, as her leg is still doubtful for driving safely, and delivered them to the local Dewsons’ for some bits and pieces, before returning all of us to our place to aestivate through a hot humid afternoon. I tried to sleep, without success, so got up and soldiered on at the pooter doing various bits and pieces, before dashing down to Dewsons’ again to post an article on MS from Saturday’s West to The Vines for Chocci Chocson to read. While there I discovered the Harvey Fresh UHT mullock sposhull was still going, and had simply been repositioned in the store, and so availed myself of another four cartons, as well as some delectable Norfolk Punch for the hamper we’re putting together for the Babies Ink&Peggletter’s first year anniversary on Friday.


We broke bread in front of My Beloved and The 7.30 Report, before I tried to sleep again – this time succeeding – being woken by the alabaster dragon at eleven to take Pa pree home. Once back Missus Inkles and I watched Letterman, and he did something different: he played a stand up comedy piece he had pulled at the last minute 15 years ago, of one Bill Hicks, deceased, whose mother Mary Hicks was his guest. Somewhat magnanimously Letterman said he shouldn’t have pulled it after it was aired; I think he was well with his reasonable rights to have not aired it, not because it lacked humour – Hicks was very funny I thought – but rather due Hicks’ confronting references to killing some celebrities with a shotgun in the mouth, which might have been Letterman’s original trigger (pun intended) to pull it. I think I would too back then, and maybe the passing time and events (Hicks’ cancer death) has made it more palatable. I thought Mary Hicks was gracious and mature about it all under the public spotlight also.


I went for a late walk about half two, and came back drenched in sweat. On this walk I had to stop to under the local shop lights to jot notes for The Dawkins Deduction; I often get ideas on my walks, and thus I must carry a pen and paper. I had to shower, and finally hit the sack toward five.

+paytontedwithlove+

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