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Be all that as it may, meanwhile:
In other news…
Wednesday: Beauty face woke me by arrangement at half four, but saw how near death I was, and asked if I would like to sleep longer. My answer of course was yes, but I had to have a tinkle, a big one of which I was rather proud, for I had not done one in the six plus hours I’d been sleeping (fortunately!), and while that’s neither here nor there for a young bloke, it becomes a quite something to strut about over for the older gentleman. (Where is this ‘gentleman’ did I hear some of the billions of my daily readers ask?) Having given the truthful answer, I then explained that as Pa pree would be having kittens, I had better rouse myself somehow and go and get him, but doll face assured me that it would not be the end of the earth if another hour passed; the astute reader can read into that what in fact was there…
So under a million covers – the temperatures are mild but feel freezing when the fans are blowing on one snuggled up for sleep – I was left by the chalcedony crocodile for another hour’s sleep. Well, as you all know, the best laid plans of mice and men… I couldn’t quite return to the embrace of the Mistress Nodette, and so got up after a stint of trying, and decided to clean the kitchen up from last nights’ efforts courtesy of the little people, without the stress of certain folk, singular, hovering over my shoulder as I got it all done. Then I drove around and picked up Pa pree after six, and you all must know that feeling when you’re not the object of overflowing floodstreams of approval… But as it’s all turned out, the chalky crocodile has been far less incapacitated, to her surprise, by this latest procedure, and has needed therefore much less minute by minute additional presence and assistance.
I managed to cowboy water and fertilise some of the bamboo outside on this first day of April’s evening, and April is always my favourite month in the south of Western Australia; it’s just priceless. Then in I charged to watch My Beloved with the delinquents, while we all ate our vittles which Pa pree and Janny knocked up, a curry chicken rice and vegetables creation, which will have a hifalutin name but I don’t know it, and then we were treated – well me at least, for I think the little people would rather watch American soaps – to Kerry O’Brien and his The 7.30 Report.
Kirstin Murray’s report on homebirths had me more on the side of the establishment, not in order to further line their egos and pockets, but to help lift the ratio of healthy baby births. A lot has changed since our daughter was born in Osborne Park Hospital a thousand years ago, and I understand many hospitals have birthing suites that can be made relatively homely, with midwifery services running the show, but with higher tech medical help a couple of minutes away. Ted Weaver, of the College of Obstetrics & Gynaecologists (a field I often wonder if I should have taken up professionally rather than remaining an amateur) put it bluntly, but I do find myself leaning heavily his way when it comes to babies’ arrival to the bright light of day: “There's no point going through a beautiful birth experience at home if you deliver a baby that's dead or harmed as a result of that birth.” All this is a bit prescient as my niece Marie is very overdue to give birth now, and is very keen on a natural birth.
Kezza then interviewed Dylan Moran, and I was pleased that Moran, who I do greatly enjoy in Black Books, as with his kick Bill Bailey – actually I enjoy Bailey more – that Moran had humility in not big noting his talents when he had the chance, rather expressing his limitations: good on you Dylan. I like also that he had no hang ups about growing older; we can’t avoid it as long as we live, so it’s wisest to give it no more importance than it deserves.
My headache began to debilitate me enough, despite white comforters, to send me back to the cot, the boudoir of the rapacious reptile’s thousand delights, and after on and off sleep I emerged by arrangement with the chalky chameleon at half ten to watch Lateline. Leigh Sales was radiant tonight, and she gave Treasurer Wayne Swan, in London for the G20, a very fair interview, although of course she couldn’t pin him down to give a number on unemployment upcoming in Australia, and I don’t blame him. Journo’s always seem to try, and pollies always seem to resist, in these matters. And John Micklethwait, Editor-in-Chief of the Economist couldn’t complain about the fair hearing Leigh gave him either. Leigh Sales is good at letting an interviewee or debater flow while they stay sufficiently on issue. Micklethwait told us how the G20 nations can increase protectionist measures while staying within the technical parameters of the WTO requirements; the WTO requirements therefore ought to be flushed of those loopholes.
In between the two Latelines I charged in the wheels around to Pa pree Inkletter’s and dropped him home.
If I thought Leigh Sales was radiant, Ali Moore on Lateline Business should have been busted. She looked so elegant and gorgeous, with a type of low angled beehive or French Twist or whatever updo hairdo that was just so; Janny gave me the name of it, some frog word starting with the ‘sh’ sound, and ending in ‘lon’ or such like. (I just checked and the alabaster dragon is asleep as I write now, so I can’t get the name.) Anyway, the interview of note she did in the studio was with the Asian Development Bank’s senior economist Dr Dong-Yhunn Park, who made the devastatingly real comment that a one percentage point reduction in GDP growth might mean in Australia the difference for a family of one car instead of two, while in countries such as India and China it’s more like the difference between two meals a day instead of three. It is hard to disagree with Dr Dong-Yhunn Park that
Now Ali, assuming my missus will grant permission, I could come to your studio and be your Doctor Dong. You might like the bottomless experience and wisdom of an older gentleman like myself. I envisage the opening going something like this: “The name’s Dr Dong, James Dong, James Ling Ham Dong in full, Ali, and how would you prefer it, shaken or stirred? It’s all right Ali, I’m a doctor.” (Honestly Ali, if you should ever read this, I am more respectable than my humour would sometimes suggest!)
Bill O’Reilly was worth watching as Letterman’s guest, and the two bounced off each other very well, and covered a touch of heavy political ground, which Dave Letterman I think prefers to keep to a minimum on his show; was it this episode where we saw Dave sending balloons up with Harry and a lady, who he didn’t say, but I wonder was that Regina Lasko? I don’t believe I’ve seen a picture of her before, that is, the new Mrs Letterman, or whatever she wants to be known as. While googling to try and find a photo of Regina, I think I noticed a link suggesting their son Harry has been the victim of a nearly successful kidnap attempt; if this is the case, doesn’t it remind us of what mongrels humans can be! Wasn’t Marianne Faithfull a treat!, and her backing musicians were superb, playing a track from her latest album ‘Easy Come Easy Go’.
Somehow I managed to go for a late walk on this cool night. I did bits and pieces at the computer, including an email to sister Helena for an update on her eldest daughter’s birthing progress, or lack of it, as well as a comment, my first, on Damyanti’s Writing on Writing: Amlokiblogs site, and had the usual health struggles to contend with before giving up and hitting the sack about six, with an awake frilly knickered lizard who’d got up for a tinkle and medicine, and she kindly cuddled me to sleep.
+paytontedwithlove+
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