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Monday, May 25, 2009

THE VATICAN: “What is going on with this date, given that 3 Popes fell off their perches?” superstitiously asks Payton L. Inkletter, trying not to be.

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

25th May 2009:

Monday: I punched the top of the alarm when it rudely informed me with attitude that it was ten o’clock, but I had to obey the bitch of a thing at eleven, and so I stumbled out of bed, and rapidly began to coax some life back into my frame. I looked like I was about a hundred, and felt twice that. The thrill seeking lizard was down in Balingup where I left her yesterday afternoon, lucky thaing.

The house looked like a bomb had gone off in the kitchen, but it had to remain that way, for it was off to Bob’s for his Perth outing day, put off for about a week. I dropped off the TV guide from The West to Pa pree with his torch, left in the car from last night, and, seeing that he was apparently alive and well, I headed east into Malaga. At The Good Guys I stopped and went in search of a second Homedics percussion massager, given that the irritable iguana took to and kept her recently bought model at Balingup, and given that it is a real help to my gammy left thigh.

Murphy’s Brother’s Law kicked in, and of course only the three different diplay-only models were available of these gizmos, and to cut an involved story shorter, after embarrassing myself somewhat by assuming the displayed price under the whiz bang model one up from Janny’s was the price of it (stupid boy, why on earth would the price immediately under the unit have any relation, nay, correspondence, to the model itself?), and asking if I could buy the display unit, I instead ordered a new boxed version, paying for half of it there and then, with a 5 to 10 working days promise of delivery to the store – yeah, so in other words, the lovely petite lady hadn’t any idea when it would arrive, but I don’t blame her, only the system she’ll be labouring under, where the customer is to be fed some bullshit and kept in the dark as much as possible. What I thought was a $59 unit will be $85, but it has some features that interest me, including multi-variable speed percussion settings. I hope it’s here before the myxomataic marvel returns from her jaunt in the most beautiful part of the Southwest.

From this nuanced nadir I sped on to Guildford, and pleased Bob greatly by announcing to him that we would take the Swift to Perth city, instead of catching the train. And it is on these journeys that you realise that this fellow whom fate did not favour could have been the best taxi driver in Perth, or anywhere, having The Knowledge to a remarkable degree. First port of call was Kennedys Sewing Centre in Queen Street, where a thousand years ago we bought our first overlocker as a married couple on credit, but the salacious sewer (!) had bought a top shelf Singer back in the early seventies there in her dark ages (before she met me); we have bought several machines through Kennedys or their outlets since, when once the threaded monster wears the old machines out. Yes, the material girl has possibly kept Kennedys afloat single-handedly, and all for personal sewing only, plus the needs and wants and flippancies of Baby Inkletter and Pa pree, with sheets, curtains, and gifts for friends thrown in; yet I have yet to see a willie warmer, assured by the saucy sexpot that she hasn’t yet found a bolt of material wide or long enough.

Perth was spectacular, washed clean and fresh by last week’s urgently needed long delayed rain. Dullsville? I couldn’t give a shit, it’s my home and I love it. I was born here, and it’s in my blood and soul. Some of the people could do with some rejigging, but then so could folk everywhere.

Bob ate his lunch in, of all places, the Central Park forecourt, the tallest skyscraper in Perth, while I took some photos of Payton the Koala Bear, much to the curiosity of many people around.

Next we walked to the Esplanade, and I got more photos of that favoured piece of grassland. Back to the city centre to catch the Yellow CAT, and on the way I took the photo in Hay Street looking into a low sun that won praise from Gladys Hobson within a few short hours of posting it as a header for the Main Site; I don’t know how many times Gladys has caught some change within no time of my making it. After the CAT ride, and on the way back to the car park in Murray Street, I took a photo of Payton by the road verge, and having propped him up with my wallet, picked him up and left my wallet there. Almost back at the car I realised what I had done, then walked and ran, all but touching cloth, with the speed of a fellow well past his physical prime (except in the cot), to the spot, only to find… yes, it was there, on the edge of the footpath, in one of the busiest streets in Perth for pedestrians. While the couple of hundred bucks in it would have hurt to lose, the real pain in the arse would have been the loss of the cards and licence and you name it. So I was mighty relieved, and deeply grateful to the unseen reality humming in the very space between and within every atom to have not lost it. I had been propping the little bugger up all afternoon with my wallet, and early on the thought crossed my mind “I would not want to lose my wallet doing this would I?” Prescience, stupid boy!

We drove back via Bob’s old hunting grounds in Meltham, and in fact had a cup of tea in the park opposite his old home, now a new pair of houses, at dark. I learnt from social trainer Colin that Maxine is leaving at the end of this week; she has been very good to me, easy going, and clearly loves Bob and thus cuts the poor bastard a lot of slack; not every supervisor nor social trainer does cut him the slack he obviously needs, and he then suffers for it. Love is the key, as always… Oh, and I must add, it is always an anxious time when some new boffin takes over, with his or her grand schemes…

I was home after seven, getting petrol before the driving was over. I took Pa pree a meal, and spent an hour doing a few installations and a bit of tutoring on his computer for him. I was weary when I got back and settled into the Player recliner, and ate my heated up din dins, all pre-cooked and frozen by the faithful frolicker, in recognition of the enormity of the problem she has created by rendering me incapable of doing anything domestic for myself after 27 years of marital blizz(ard). It’s wrong, but it’s been done, and now we just have to manage the problem.

I watched TV for the current affairs on and off, enjoying Ricky Gervais on Letterman, and before that I take my hat off to the calm analysis regarding North Korea and its latest showing off of its nuclear muscle of Mark Fitzpatrick in his interview with Tony SilverToes Jones on Lateline, then was revitalised as Ali Moore took over the screen. I did what I could at the computer, again battling with Blogger’s refusal to display a comment properly I did in reply to Gladys Hobson praising my header photo. Was it that long back that I reminded my billions of daily readers where I would like to shove any and all of Blogger’s editing tools, as well as their lame templates? And without Vaseline? And so after all of the interminable mucking about I didn’t hit the sack, all alone in a cold bed, till about a quarter to six.


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