PREDAPPIO: “Yes madam, I was a proper gander. My star has fallen. I honk and cry, yet know that all is but a farce, I feel I am the last of dictators”

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

29^th July 2009:

Wednesday: I dragged myself up about noon, after a very broken night’s sleep, but with the long session of sneezing and tickled throat feeling before retiring having subsided now, thankfully. Yet another fine day, damn it.

The priceless daughter worked again around at The Dear Leader’s place, preparing for the house inspection by Homeswest, then took him shopping for several hours till almost six. All I got done all afternoon was a kitchen clean up, having little energy for much else, other than some odd computer tasks, although I had excavated four huge plastic boxes of materials out of the bowels of Baby Inkletter’s old bedroom for the material girl to sort through, and put them back, a task not for the faint hearted.

Today is the second day now that I’ve had big plans to get some gardening jobs done, but dark has arrived before I’ve managed to get to it. The Supreme Leader spent the evening here, and it was Aunty’s big night on television. My highlight was Rebecca Baillie’s 7.30 Report interview with entrepreneur Steve Killelea. What an inspiration he and his wife Debbie are with their self funded foreign aid work, and targeted at enabling their beneficiaries. I am so glad I caught this interview, and may the Killeleas motivate us all to become more part of the solution. Poor old Kezza had an underlying sore throat tonight, methinks.

I am not sorry to see the finish of The Chaser’s War on Everything, given its patchiness, ranging from dross to the inspired, but I still feel the upswell of outrage over the ‘Make-A-Wish Foundation’ skit recently was a load of politically correct phenol splash, and rather feel that it was one of their better skits: arresting, shocking, black, absurd.

The (Leigh) sales graph: I had been back writing at the computer while the delinquents were watching their stuff, but returned in time for Lateline. Wow, Ms Sales was, I hesitate to say ‘stunning’, but having used the lull in my verbal flow to find a better word I don’t think I can, except maybe to say that her ‘stunning’ appearance was nuanced with a professional tincture. Her dark jacket with white modesty panel was just spot on, her hair great, her make up subtle and just right, I could go on… So I will: such apparel and styling when overlayed upon a beautiful woman with intelligence and articulateness is a powerful combination, and one which leverages the lady considerably when she assays to interview the movers and shakers, the intellectuals and the bastar..., er, the politicians, of this world.

Leigh Sales’ interview with Rory Stewart, Professor of Human Rights at Harvard was wonderful, and joins the growing stable of such excellent interviews Ms Sales has undertaken at Lateline. Professor Stewart is obviously a remarkable fellow, with a sense of humour and understatement rare, and Ms Sales tapped into these qualities nicely, and drew them out. There was very little I did not completely agree with in his analysis of the Afghanistan shemozzle, and I’ve expressed my reservations several times before in this diary about the bottomless pit such adventures as these can become. I cringe whenever I learn that an Australian (or Allied) soldier so much as stubs his or her toe in that hell hole, while their Government, the populace, and neighbouring Pakistan are riddled with opposite value holding people to ourselves. Gordon Brown, Kevin Rudd, Barack Obama, all could benefit greatly from a deep think about the reservations so well delineated by Professor Stewart. Thank you Ms Sales for this interview.

Now imagine my state when Ali Moore appeared next on Lateline Business, as elegantly professionally attired and styled as all get out, on top of the visual delight that Leigh Sales had just been. I had to reach for the heart medication and asthma puffer simultaneously…

Letterman kept me and Janny amused as he usually does (Pa pree having been home for quite some time by now), and the sweet and capable Katie Couric held the floor for much of the show.

I returned to writing at the computer, and my sneezing and throat problems of last night fired up again during the wee small hours, bummer…

+paytontedwithlove+

DECATUR: “O sister, where art thou?” queries Payton L. Inkletter, getting cold on the mountain, feeling like a ghost in his house, just soon be alone.

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

23^rd July 2009:

Thursday: What a rotten sleep I had, as did the commode dragon, although she managed much more time clocked in in the sack, didn’t have a restful night much herself. I took ages to fall asleep, then it came in fits and starts, and before I knew what was happening the rude alarm was telling me to get out of bed, it’s ten, and time to clean the front of the house up for sister Helena’s visit at one.

And so it was nose to the grindstone for both of us, and when my sister arrived spot on one o’clock, we had whipped the house into reasonable order. It is very rare to have Helena alone for some hours to chat, and instead of getting to the old computer she’s given me, to reformat the drive together and such, we had a delicious lunch made by Janny, and we three chatted for two and a half hours about the dramas and developments in our lives, covering much of great moment, until Helena had to leave for a CSIRO lecture over Subiaco way, and given rush hour traffic, she was going to have to motor. Maybe we can continue our chatting next time she’s back in Perth from Broomehill, the farm which she and hubby Phamajames have owned and run for the past thirty plus years, and which they plan now to sell within the next couple of years, to move to a town or Perth; now that is a major change in life!

I had offered to take the newfound fashionplate to Autograph to buy some clothes that she’d seen specialled the other day, and so we began scurrying around locking up the house to leave, when…

Helena had hardly left before, like flies to fresh dung, or bears to a honey pot, the local pair Mormon missionaries knocked the door. True to my usual practice these latter days, I scurried to the computer and began some writing, while the translation candidate entertained them. To my surprise she had them out the door, freshly baked slices in hands, within about three minutes (the lure of the couture was too pure!).

And so, despite my need to be back curled up in the cot, I took the chalcedony coathanger to Autograph, where she tried on maybe eight things, and we bought two she liked. Janny has a special booth there just for her now, and they’ll close the store if she asks. Next a few things in Coles, and then back to our local Dewsons, before hitting the low cement count driveway we call home. We did all this unbeknownst to a certain someone, having a rare shopping hour and a half to ourselves.

I had to have a sleep, for about four hours, but it was either that or translate. The frilly-knickered lizard woke me so I could catch Lateline and have my vittles: The (Leigh) sales graph: Wow! If proof was needed that the redhead gene is near the deoxyribonucleic acid sequences for beauty, Ms Sales’ appearance was all the evidence required tonight; her hair colour shine and style was gorgeous, her make up light and most subtly enhancing (her eyes were not overdone), and she was in a bright red top that was long sleeved and very attractive. I was most interested in Ms Sales’ interview with Foreign Minister Stephen Smith in which they discussed the kidnapping in Somalia of photojournalist Nigel Brennan. My comments relate to the ambience, not the particulars of this story: Unlike a recent interview by Ms Sales with Stephen Smith, she was fairly circumspect, and this was appropriate. Not everyone likes his style it would appear, but I’ll take Stephen Smith’s restrained and very considered approach to representing our nation as its Foreign Minister any day over the likes of two recent holders of this important post: Gareth Gareth Evans, the flamboyant rockstar egotist, and Alexander Downer, the petulant born-to-rule silverspoonist. Smith carefully weighs every word, and thank God he does, in his position. Not sensible to feel you’re at a comedy skit or a rock concert when your Foreign Minister is holding the floor.

Letterman’s guest Tracy Morgan was funny, but what’s with these birds like Leslie Mann, another guest, who continually tug at their short skirts when they sit in front of zillion viewers? Ms Mann, try a longer skirt next time. Diane Birch gave a great vocal performance at the end of the show.

I prepared the Miele oven for a pyro cleaning tomorrow, by removing the door and soaking the glass with detergent water under paper towels, as well as its interior lights glass facings. Janny let me know today that the switch flickered momentarily on one of the settings the other day, which when she told me put the fear of God into me, for that’s how last year’s circuit board meltdown began, and it was a very expensive repair. Fearing that a service call might be required soon, a pyro clean would be a nice thing, plus it’s overdue anyway. It would be about only the third since the repairs of around a year ago.

I threw in my later writing in the middle of things and joined the loose cannon in the cot at half five, without even flossing and brushing my teeth, cleaning out my tonsilla crypts, nor salt water gargling, due to realising that I would take another couple of hours to get done at the computer what I was trying to do, thus kissing goodbye to the hope of any sleep or restoration before ‘tomorrow’s’ work with Bob. The racy horseradish had put pressure on me at her latest tinkle break to call it a day, and so I lay in her carnal arms, unable to sleep for ages, scared among other things of the tooth fairy sending a message to Sidrah the dentist of my dereliction.

+paytontedwithlove+

HYNČICE: Like two peas in a pod Payton L. Inkletter (recessive-brains) and Missus Inkletter (dominant-beauty) passed on traits to their Baby Inkletter

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

22^nd July 2009:

Wednesday: Where was I...? That’s right, dutifully in the middle of a huge double whammy kitchen clean up, having deliberately adopted the approach that it is better to leave sleeping dragons lie. The sun had been up a couple of hours in this cool to cold day, and most of the rain of the last couple of stormy days had gone away.

I fed oodles of stored kitchen scraps to the worm farms, and put some storage items into the shed, only to find the alabaster dragon up when I came to re-enter the indoor world. We circled each other warily for a while, which is our normal procedure when our days overlap, until we each established that it was safe.

I phoned RAC Insurance to report the storm damage to the fence of two nights ago, and then my sister Mary, who was cheeks deep in a facial for her birthday from her oldest daughter, to wish her many happy returns.

The dietary diatribe tempted me with the offer of four slices of toasted grain bread smothered in Chocson honey, and I succumbed – what else – and washed it down with a Moccers coffee while we ‘chatted’ as I half watched Aunty’s midday news report, giving the wholesome wench my complete and undivided attention. When the news was over, and I did in fact give my complete and undivided attention, I was reminded vividly of just how well that gal can talk the back leg off a Border Leicester, or even an Outaouais Arcott.

By now I was fading fast, and eventually escaped the gum flapping by begging to be put to bed, and thus I escaped into the inviting embrace of Mistress Nodette, without even so much as a bedtime story. It was about half one in the afternoon.

As arranged, the harassed hobnobber woke me at a quarter past eight, but I had been awake for at least an hour, trying to muster the energy to arise. She had spent the entire afternoon after my bedtime kiss taking The Dear Leader shopping at the local major shopping centre, with the usual flippantly dismissed return trips to get forgotten scripts and knickknackery.

I watched the Sixties themed Spicks and Specks with the Zeitgeistish zebra and The Supreme Leader, and after this Missus Inkletter returned The Dear Leader home, leaving me to tackle The Chasers War On Everything, who, not before time, will end next week: they have been a combination of too many extremes between woeful and brilliant; better that they had been almost exclusively at the brilliant end. I always find Moving Wallpaper funny, as I did again tonight.

I ducked off to to a job or three till Lateline: The (Leigh) sales graph: Leigh looked fabulous from the neck up: lovely hair style, light make up, sparkle in her eyes; great from the neck down, assuming she was hosting a Triple J special, Rage, or Play School. Several things wrong Leigh: rule number one: almost never go bare armed while hosting news, current affairs, serious documentaries, especially never for The 7.30 Report, Lateline, Lateline Business, where the anchor can be interviewing some serious intellectual and/or political and business clout; rule number two: your clothing needs to make definite statements with colour contrasts if you are going to have them, skin colour as well, and darker colours should almost always be included in the palette; rule number three: modesty is essential, and the appearance at a glance of modesty is important also.

Let me explain this latter point: Ms Sales wore a dark top with a very deep scoop to the navel, with a beigey coloured modesty panel, but it was too close to her skin colour on her chest, and the distraction becomes that here is a woman who until closer inspection is bare to the navel behind her wide scooped top. In certain venues maybe, ABC current affairs no. Had the panel been a dark shade, and the top had long or elbow length sleeves, voila! Women of Aunty, carefully observe Ali Moore for elegance and professionalism in dress standards, and all on her own budget I’d bet my left testicle. And before the teenagers bemoan the age issue, there are young styles which satisfy the professional template Ms Moore adheres to.

Now, on to the content: Leigh, book a bloody room with Joe Hockey please! Half way into the interview I got a tad embarrassed for Ms Sales, for Hockey had her giggling and squealing like a school girl. True, Ms Sales regained a measure of control of herself, but really, it compromises one’s ability to grill the bastards, to keep ’em honest, when the vurtamurn lurv in the water kicks in too intense. The rule applies for all flavours of politician; they mustn’t be allowed to get too comfortable, and never in control, if they are on for matters political. To be fair to Ms Sales, tonight’s love fest was a rare slip up. And to drive home further my professional dress point, look at how good Shadow Minister Hockey looked, oozing class from every pore, and this from the fellow – me – who has several times in this forum noted his behavioural similarities to an oxygen-starved-at-birth gorilla.

Ticky Fullerton showed she has noted Ms Moore’s template when she anchored for her next on Lateline Business. Before I knew where I was, both the drowsy dilettanteishic dabbler had slunk off to bed, being mighty tired, and Letterman was on. Well, I did tuck the Birmingham beauty in, but it was only at the close of Lateline – one has to have one’s priorities clear. Kevin Spacey, with his talent, was the main attraction on Dave’s show, not counting Paul Shaffer’s great orchestra, but then The Flatlanders were a treat as well.

I did some writing, now after midnight, and about one the incomparable dissimilar got up for a tinkle, when I decided to tackle a kitchen clean up for an hour, before heading back to writing on this stillish night, with the odd shower trying to arrive. I struggled with capricious Blogger’s comments settings, trying unsuccessfully to get its option of 300 comments per page to ‘take’, which on the settings page it claims to have done several times, but at the Visitor’s Book it stubbornly keeps showing only 200 and a link for the new ones. I hate your guts Blogger, I quickly learnt to, and I suspect I always will, for all the countless hours I’ve struggled with your vagaries.

Oh, don't let me leave this day without commenting on a piece of immaturity by our Premier Colin Barnett: I saw him say on some news program today somewhere “China is more important to Australia than Australia is to China. And as Australians and people working and representing Australian business, I just urge you to be very conscious of that.” I would have preferred he said “China is very important to Australia. And as Australians...”

I managed a dual posting, a bit of writing, and finally crept into the arms of the alabaster dragon about half five.

+paytontedwithlove+

NEUSES: Alpha & beta, galvanometer, good Hans Berger opened our eyes with his alpha blockade; Payton L. Inkletter bemoans the evildoers’ beta blockade

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

21^st July 2009:

Tuesday: I fell asleep soon after risking all by slipping into the dastardly delicious debutante’s rapacious arms, and slept for twelve hours solid, but with the usual result of still feeling most tired. My tinkle break at half five p.m. was a brief venture into the cold, before jumping back into bed and listening to my favourite talking book for over an hour, till My Beloved time. Pa pree was here, for the decidedly delirious daughter had kindly taken him shopping, and we ate vittles together watching the noos on Aunty.

I felt sorry for Ali Moore, anchoring The 7.30 Report with a croaky voice while Kerry O’Brien is off again seeking more face lift surgery. Ms Moore is the most elegantly and professionally dressing (more mature) babe on Aunty, and she proves it night after night after night; imagine what she could do if the ABC coughed up some wardrobe spondulicks! True to her strengths, she featured a couple of men with economic credentials to have a strictly polite and eminently professional discussion about the Reserve Bank’s assessment of the Australian economy, ANZ chief economist Saul Eslake and Chris Richardson from Access Economics. Ali has insufficient inner mongrel quotient to maul the bastards like Kezza the Great does. And neither do we sensitive new age bull koalas want her to aquire a high IMQ either. Oh, of course I’m not referring to Messrs Eslake and Richardson as bastards; mostly these are the politicians.

I wanted to take poor Ali and give her a hot bath, powder her bottom, put her into some fleecy jammies, and tuck her up into a warm bed, with a mug of lemon and honey, and a pinch of iodised salt. And book her in for a visit to her doctor tomorrow – under threat of a gentle medicinal smack to the bottom if she doesn’t cooperate – to check out what might be a goitre in her throat, poor darling. I might have the same thing; I must get my doctor to check it next time I go. Maybe her sore throat caused the slight bulge at her sternal notch, but maybe it’s something more sinister.

More story coming…

+paytontedwithlove+

CAPE YORK: Payton L. Inkletter, astronaut, Australia’s secret weapon in race to moon, beating the Yanks by one day, to NASA's exquisite embarrassment.

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

19^th July 2009:

Story coming…

+paytontedwithlove+

HADRIAN’S WALL: “Little soul, roamer and charmer… who now will depart to places darkish chilly and misty…” he had to be joking! suggests P.L.Inkletter

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

10^th July 2009:

Friday: I had the most terrible ‘night’, getting very little sleep. I had struggled to slip into the sensuous sensory-deprivation of sleep while in the arms of the sultry saltshaker, when I lay my tired body upon the low thread count polycottons ‘last night’, and eventually I separated from her salacious embrace to make my own space, and lo and behold I slipped into the arms of my other mistress, Madame Nodette, but in what seemed but moments later I heard an explosion, and came to with a big physical start. It was all in my imagination, but it was enough to put paid to falling asleep for hours, and when I did it was in fits and starts.

And so I was not happy when I got up about eleven upon the suggestion of the crusty curmudgeon, who recalled my request to wake me then, but I forced myself to face the day, and in a couple of hours began to feel like it was a possibility. But I was happy with the showers of rain we were treated to here. Speaking of the ruddy rubicon, she braved the rain and made a visit to Homecraft at the local major shopping centre before I needed the car, and got more bargains from their closing down sale; we’ll be sorry to see them go, for the nearest material shop will likely then be Morley. And she picked up the blood test results from her doctor, and they are brilliant regarding her diabetes numbers, thanks to the past nine months or so on Byetta; however, I have seen the very high price she has paid using the goanna goozy.

I headed off to Bob’s at Guildford and arrived there about half two, having first dropped of tonight’s dinner to The Supreme Leader, and we headed for Altone Park for his swim. While he splashed around like a duck in water I got some reading done of ‘Baylya-Balinga’, a history of Balingup by A.C. Frost, and enjoyed it as well as received good information to help me with my novel, ‘Venty Still’. As I noticed last year when we visited this pool for the couple of weeks it takes to do maintenance at Swan Aquatic, a large family of domestic variety geese are still gracing the golf course bordering the Altone centre; they seemed as interested in me looking at them as I was in them. We finished with a walk at Fish Market Reserve as dark gathered, and then a cup of thermos tea.

I got home just in time for My Beloved, with a meal brought to me like the big Turk that I am, and Janny and I stayed on to watch Stateline and The Collectors, but were both so sleepy, falling asleep in fact, we hit the sack. Why oh why? do I often at such times nevertheless take ages to fall asleep? But I got almost an hour before my alarm got me up to watch Lateline: The (Leigh) sales graph: Almost looking as beautiful as last night, Ms Sales had everything right: hair style (full, flairing low), eye make-up (very light), long sleeves, dark jacket, and she was successfully minus a necklace, given the cut of her jacket and blouse. And of course she looked so clean that a surgeon could rest his instruments upon her while doing brain surgery. A word of advice which I’m sure Ms Sales doesn’t need: stay out of the sun, with such lovely fair skin.

I always enjoy Ms Sales’ in-studio rendezvous with Stephen Long, and tonight was no exception. Stephen’s curly hair had not long since been rebrushed after his mother’s several times daily tousling she surely gives it. His thoughts on the Chinese arrest of the Rio Tinto boss, Stern Hu – the wider perspective regarding doing business in and with China – was astute, but then Mr Long always is.

Tonight’s polly tousle was pretty lame between Mark Arbib and Andrew Southcott, on the subject of job creation policies, with neither using it to demonstrate that anything very spectacular resides in the void inside a politician’s head. I still am forming an opinion about Arbib, and sadly for Southcott, tonight’s efforts did not impress me at all, he being someone I previously knew essentially nothing about. He just pushed a typical political line, and there was nothing of merit in his method of pushing. I got the impression of yet another stock standard politician, as if we need anymore of them, when both sides as well as the cross benches are oozing with such mediocrity already. Ms Sales caught Southcott in a spotlight like a hapless bunny with all the skill of a Special Air Services ranker when he complained of the Rudd Government's apparent inaction over Stern Hu: 'This is the job of our leader, the Prime Minister, to be in touch with his counterpart on a very important issue involving an Australian citizen who's been detained and not yet charged' Southcott pontificated; Ms Sales cut in with a deft verbal sabre: 'Well Dr Southcott, isn't it a bit rich for the Coalition to be so exercised about this matter when the Coalition left David Hicks at Guantanamo Bay for two years without charge and for five years without a completed trial?'; this left Southcott like a rabbit wishing it was very near a briar patch; but he can thank his lucky stars that the red-head-with-street-cred left him completely unmolested from this point on, apart from a couple more tiny and brief interjections while he filibustered along, namely an 'As was that' and an 'OK'. Now had it been Kezza the Great wielding the cutlass and spotlight, Southcott'd have been skinned and gutted, kidneys left in, within half a minute; it goes to show what a high inner mongrel quotient can do: Ali Moore's IMQ = 1; Leigh Sales' IMQ = 5; Kerry O'Brien's IMQ = 10.

The distant derringer had awoken after her couple of hours of shuteye, and watched half of Letterman with me, the highlight of which for me was the final musical act by Levon Helm. She returned to the cot, and I spent the entire night at the keyboard, writing, listening to music as I did so, and attending to sundry jobs on the computer. The light of a new day began nudging the sullen sky as I decided to leave the silicon monster be for a few hours. Or so I thought… I returned as the sky lightened, allowing diffuse light throught he grey firmament, and dual posted this very entry, taking the usual forever to get it done, jumping through the usual html hoops to achieve even the very basic result that I find only passable – love you Blogger editor, you putrid excuse for a pleasurable and efficient piece of software.

And so it wasn’t till maybe half eight when I took my virtue into my hands and entered the boudoir and bed of the voracious vegemitiniferous vixen, held by her warm arms, but shaking like a wreath at my funeral…

+paytontedwithlove+

MELBOURNE: “Spring Street first housed the result of HRH Vicki’s belief in the land of Vegemite, Hills Hoists, and Victas,” notes Payton L. Inkletter.

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

09^th July 2009:

Thursday: I was out to the world, and when I began rousing, I thought, my, it’s mighty dull outside. Well, little wonder, for the sun was not far off setting in a clouded sky, 5.20 p.m. no less. I slipped maybe nine hours ’neath the reticular activating system, but was still tired.

And so my plans to do a bit outside in the backyard before dark were dashed, and the next hour and half were consumed in just waking up. Janny got the news by phone that The Dear Leader’s Homeswest house inspection is set for two week’s time, which puts us all under extra stress to get a major clean up done. Speaking of the bodacious bauble, she has been a mighty selfish bitch this week (and I’ve told her so), actually doing some days of dressmaking just for herself, in between countless hours of cooking for the extended family, and countless hours phone counselling them, wiping their arses, the usual expected of her these last forty plus years.

My Beloved next, and the usual subtle domestic violence directed at me by the violet crumble bar, in the form of a huge bowl of home made chunky meat and vegetable soup with delicious bread. I soldiered on with this fare during The 7.30 Report, with that thing on Kerry O’Brien’s head looking a touch calmer tonight, but only a touch. Geoff Hutchison’s report on the death at 90 of Ted Kenna, the last living Second World War Victoria Cross recipient, was a treat; that kind of dignity is dying off everywhere in the western world. As ever, Clarke and Dawe showed up our Canberra pollies at their games.

Catalyst had the six finalists in the Eureka Prizes, and each was most interesting; if I had to highlight two, they would be Andrew Smith and his work on methane gas, and Amanda Barnard’s work with nano diamond structure. And my heart goes out to Laura Black, the lass suffering from complex regional pain syndrome, featured in Dr Maryanne Demasi’s report ‘Complex Pain’, and I hope some breakthrough helps her immensely, and soon.

I went outside after this and worked on storing kitchen scraps in readiness for daylight to feed them to the various farms. I had a health issue to attend to, before returning to The Box for Lateline. The (Leigh) sales graph: If it is possible, Ms Sales looked even better than last week, frankly the most radiant and healthy and beautiful perhaps that I’ve ever noticed, with that copper wash through her hair (or so I’m plumbing), in a gorgeous style that is full and flairing low at the shoulders, and a dark long sleeved jacket, subtle eye make-up (subtle always please Leigh!), skin so white and scrubbed and steam cleaned… She was a treat for Stephen Long, who, fresh from his daily curly hair tousling by his mother, whose eye he is the apple of, and whose in-studio economic analysis was, as always, worth hearing: I hope his ‘turning point’ regarding unemployment, that is, big shedding possibly around the corner, is wrong, as I’m sure does he. Will Hutton was interesting, and obviously bewitched by Leigh, but could you blame him? Hutton didn’t pull too many punches, and his blunt analysis of the way the Chinese Government runs its affairs was worth hearing.

From youthful beauty to graceful beauty, Ali Moore was on next, knocking me for six as always, tonight being elegance plus plus, from her restrained and lovely hairstyle to her clothes. Ms Moore should be the template for professionalism for women in the media. And if I was Leigh Sales, I would thank the spirits of Ultimo that she has Ali Moore as an example from which to learn, particularly in dress sense, but not limited to this. In general, Ms Moore is the epitome of understatement, and it works brilliantly. Take the other week when she had a mildly surfer hairstyle, and I was almost hospitalised, but gladly so.

Letterman was a delight with Emma Watson, who did a good job of keeping him on his toes. But of course this old dog couldn’t wait for Queen Latifah, and the only thing I would have changed would have been putting a small sleeve on her weird green blouse. Her presence and words more than made up for this however.

I put the drowsy dimpled chad to bed before Letterman, as she was asleep in the Ibis, whacked out. But of course, it never lasts long, for within two hours the somnifically challenged sorrowpot was up for a tinkle and a drink (water!). I meanwhile, inspired by some showers I could hear on the roof, alternated between writing at the computer and doing a kitchen clean up, as the dynamic dwarf pocket rat had done another marathon cookathon for all and sundry, including, but not limited to, hangers on, blood suckers, sundry bottom feeders (I am largely joking!)…

I did my first ‘full’ diary entry (this one) in over a week or more, and dual posted it in the wee small hours, and finally made the dangerous move and slid in beside the preying ranter and into her drowsy arms about five.

+paytontedwithlove+

CALWELL: Godwin Grech photographed red-handed with fake koala he-male; Payton L. Inkletter kidnapped from his home in Perth; Mrs Inkletter not worried

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

02^nd July 2009:

Thursday: Up at noon on a day that would have some drama develop…

After taking the couple of hours to wake up and be presentable to the world, on this cold fine winter’s day, I began a huge kitchen clean up while the devoted derringer – after receiving empathetic support from me regarding a close relative’s invalidations by phone – drove off to take The Dear Leader on a shopping spree, likely to be of epic proportions.

I was elbow deep at the sink in suds when, before three I heard the soon-to-be svelte suckable sweet opening the door… Must have forgotten something, I thought, only to be put quickly in the picture that...

MORE STORY COMING...

+paytontedwithlove+