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+