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Thursday, July 9, 2009

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…

09th 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.


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