BEDLOE'S ISLAND: With steadfast hips, give her your tired and your poor; the hand that rocks the cradle will always fraternize with destiny, doubt not

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

05^th August 2009:

Wednesday: With hope in my heart that the little big dry will break today, if the fibbers at the Bureau of Meteorology turn over a new leaf, I dragged myself up about eleven, to join the wily whatchamacallit in getting ready for the visit to Charlie’s. I needed at least another five hours in the cot.

We set off for Janny’s eye appointment about twenty past one, and were there by ten to two, thanks to easy traffic, and the fact that the forecast rain hadn’t started. In fact I dropped the gorgeous gargoyle at the front of E-Block, then parked. When I got in I discovered her dutifully standing at reception with a bevy of medical staff, and then I learnt that she was getting a new appointment, because her headache-migraine she was currently suffering was preventing one eye from being adequately testable.

This threw a special spanner in the works: here we were, like Kath and Kel, two attractive middle aged groovers, all dressed up, minus The Dear Leader – who was awaiting the beak from Homeswest to give his unit its annual inspection – and we suddenly had time on our hands, and no money to burn… So we set off through the back streets of Shenton Park, to Subiaco, where the sight of the Cancer Council’s shop prompted me that I could do with another couple of their canvas hats with neck flap and chin strap, the ones that make me look like a right dork, but keep the sun off my facial real estate. We came out of there with a green one and a blue one.

Before we knew where we were, I was pumping millions into the ticket machine in the guts of Subiaco near the Regal Theatre, with a wheel clamping dick wandering warily around and about armed with a giant mobile phone looking gadget, salivating at the thought of nabbing some poor bastard, which I noticed the creep did, while the opportunity with knockers played merry hell in The Salvos’ Op Shop. I remained in the car and began writing notes for an article on the conditional value of democracy. The sniffer dog for a bargain came out with goodies and was gushing over the quality that Op Shops have in the snootier suburbs.

We stopped next at Lake Monger, with the sky clouding over to a lovely deep grey, the harbinger of the drought breaking, and sat by the water’s edge having a cup of thermos tea and coffee, taking photos of Payton the Koala Bear who wanted to sit near the water and wait for the sunbursts upon the water with spectacular effects. The swans and coots were the usual delight these feathered fiends are. It was a delight to be able to do this simple thing alone; a rare experience for us.

Our last port of call was Gadean Footwear in Mount Hawthorn, whose Sunday Times’ TV Guide advertisements the sharp-eyed sheriff had been absorbing of late, and this was our first visit to the shop. Well, it won’t be our last if we don’t become completely destitute, for the service we received there by their employee Rebecca was, frankly, the best we’ve ever had from any employee ever. She was wonderful, in so many ways I haven’t the time to describe here, but the long and short of it is that we walked out with six pairs of very comfortable special needs trotter accoutrements for my rarely ever spoiled spouse, all greatly discounted due the sale that was on, and feeling like a king and a queen due the validation of the lady who served us.

Rebecca had devoted over an hour exclusively to us, and so it was late, time to head to our local petrol station then Dewsons’ for some last minute supplies. It was almost dark when we got back. The marvellous mixture got a pot of soup on the boil, then drove around The Supreme Leader’s and brought him back for vittles and to spend the evening here with us.

Kerry O’Brien looked rather well on The 7.30 Report, and the highlight for me tonight was the wombat story, an animal I feel a special affinity for, being a fellow marsupial. I was so tired, helped by the huge bowl of soup to die for, that I battled sleep during The New Inventors, but rallied for Spicks and Specks, where we enjoyed Matt Taylor as a guest; Matt was an early Universal Brotherhood member at Balingup, where the lovestruck luscious one and I met a thousand years ago.

I was delighted that a new series of The Librarians returned on Aunty tonight, which had me wide awake. Robyn Butler is but one of a host of captivating actors in this funny show. I departed from the lounge and the delinquents after this, not returning till Lateline, writing in the meantime, during which meantime the doting daughter returned her farter to his place. I got a letter of commendation written in regard to the excellent service we received today at Gadean Footwear, and plan to post it tomorrow; we hope Rebecca gets a fillip from it.

The (Leigh) sales graph: When I returned to watch Lateline, my breath was all but taken away by how spectacular Leigh Sales looked: a smart dark blue long sleeved striped jacket, an excellently contrasting red modesty panel, minimalist necklace, flattering hair style wide at the shoulders, subtle make up, her lovely eyes sparkling in their own right, her ivory skin imbued with inner health; I could go on… So I will: I declare that Ms Sales’ appearance tonight is a template (see for yourself) for any aspiring woman presenter of any age on Aunty doing the serious programs (let me do a brief plug here for Jennifer Byrne: at long last her appearance the last couple of First Tuesday Book Clubs is matching the gravitas of the program, rather than her usual beach deck chair and cocktail outfits). Ali Moore now has serious competition in the elegance and professional appearance stakes, although that slightly more matured babe has a special place in my heart that will take a bit of moving – actually, she would have to murder Mark Scott and stuff his politically correct spleen back down his gob before I… hang on, that might only please me the more! Seriously, it wouldn’t have mattered what was on the plate at Lateline tonight, the pleasure of the visual class was enough, dressed to kill, but I will say a word or three about the George Brandis interview, our good old Shadow Attorney-General: George, you should be grateful that Ms Sales spared you the hanging, drawing, and quartering you and your mob deserve over the abysmal Utegate debacle. She was fair, she pulled no punches, but she exercised restraint, to her credit I think. Kezza would have had your guts for garters, but then that can be a bit much sometimes also. And how constrained was our George, as if something informed him to behave in accordance with a party that is in the process of being chastened, before marination, before next week’s parliamentary raw pounding.

Lateline Business was the usual pleasure, where Ali Moore shows how far charm can get one; she weilds it expertly, and one cannot help but thinking that the blokes she interviews spend their time waiting and hoping that she’ll pick up the dog and bone and dial their numbers again sometime soon for the latest commercial intelligence briefing.

After this I returned to the sanctuary of my writing, and spent some hours alternating between it and dealing with the usual health problems. And where’s the bloody rain!?

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