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Friday, August 28, 2009

NEW BERN: “I propose a toast to Brad’s Drink,” a syruped Payton L. Inkletter invited, lifting a Pepsi Cola, hitting his honk and scouring his sinuses.

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

28th August 2009:

Friday: I dragged myself out of the cot just after noon, very tired, and set about preparing to take Bob swimming. The sashaying shallot had already left to take The Dear Leader on an excursion to hither and yon, and I phoned her to say she could take another half hour, as I was running late (surprise surprise).

I tackled the horror kitchen clean up, and somehow managed to have it all done by the time I left for Bob’s, the delinquents having returned. I had to skip a shave and a shower, having a cowboy wash instead, and I returned The Supreme Leader on the way, unloading a stash of spoils for him from the excursion just completed. The sky was darkening with lovely rain-laden clouds as I motored east, delighting in the kangaroos laying lazily in the paddock in Whiteman Park.

Bob was patiently waiting, and we soon were at a quietish Swan Aquatic. While Bob did his laps I got a lot of reading done in Willie Nelson’s A Tale out of Luck’, which, despite the odd repetitious term, has me in its grip, such that I’m thoroughly enjoying it for the adventurous bit of captivating escapism it is providing. I noticed Allan Schintu was there, and I was introduced to his wife. We finished with a walk and a cup of tea (water for me) at Fish Market Reserve, very late and after dark.

I bought some victuals for the fruit mince pie, who had phoned me with the order whilst I was still at the pool, at Dewsons’ on the way home. After din dins I had to lie down and sleep for an hour and a half, I was so tired. The delicious dessert woke me by arrangement for Lateline: The (Leigh) sales graph: Ms Sales was smartly turned out in a dark long sleeved top, with subtle makeup despite the eyeliner verging on more than enough, and an attractive ideally proportioned necklaced piece, matching her earrings, and she looked beautiful, being more than a match for the two young bucks she had in-studio for a discussion on the week in politics: Labor’s Jason Clare and The Liberals Scott Morrison. Much of the two men’s predictable exchanges were on the signage at the nation’s primary schools spruiking the Federal Government’s stimulus spending. One of the introductory footages tonight dealt with the issue, and who should be seen in it doing a petulant little arm and hand dance and spouting his disgust? – none other than that schemer who some have unkindly noted is one of that small band of politicians whose mere presence can kill cockroaches within a 100 meter radius, Christoper Pyne, who, I might add, did conjure up a bit of a truism with his ‘Dear Leader’ shot at Kevin Rudd. Morrison had a hide to call it a ‘shameless promotion ploy’ and ‘absolutely shameless’, given that we all know his party were nothing in government if not shameless self promoters, while Clare injected some humour by making an analogy between a freezed dried Austin Powers and The Liberals WorkChoices. Mr Morrison, yes Mark Arbib might be using the signage as a political tool, but that doesn’t excuse you for acting like a political tool.

If ever a journalist could have used a pair of sheep dog electronic training collars, Ms Sales could have done with them past midway, when these two mildly testosterone marinated rams wouldn’t stop locking verbal horns on the issue of running candidates or not in various seats, such as Werriwa in days past, and Bradfield soon (thanks to the latest self serving decision of the latest politician – Brendan Nelson – to bail out of his electorate obligations early for insufficiently good reason); a couple of jolts of current would have made them take quicker notice of her, and been some quality entertainment for we wearied-of-pollies’ antics.

The great pick me up for moi was the in-studio appearance of Stephen Long: The (Stephen) long and short of it: How does Ms Sales resist reaching over and tousling Mr Long’s gorgeous curly hair, as his mother does every day? Her gorgeous smile and mischievously sparkling eyes tonight betrayed that this was exactly what she was struggling not to do. Now Stephen launched straight into talking about a kerfuffle in Britain involving Lord Turner and the Tobin Tax; well, I like nothing more than being privy to a kerfuffle, and if it’s an economic one, I want Mr Long to tell me all about it. ‘…the bankers are revolting!’ he informed us, and who could take issue with that! Ms Sales lightheartedly pointed out, given that the Tobin Tax had no chance of being adopted in Mr Long’s opinion, that ‘we’ve just wasted three minutes on that then Steve!’ Yes, and how uplifting and enjoyable for us all, including Leigh, are these episodes with Stephen, so let’s hope that ‘the darnedest things keep catching Steve’s eye!’ for the relief of we Lateline watchers. And I’ve said it before, the chemistry between Ms Sales and Mr Long is a joy to behold.

I retreated to the back room to write, and stopped to watch a very late Letterman on the telly Baby Peggletter gave us about half one. It was after four when I retired, but sleep evaded me for ages. I was very much looking forward to our good friend Reeve Chocson’s planned visit tomorrow, purely to chat with me all afternoon for the sheer enjoyment of it; the dedicated dilettante has been given her marching orders to take The Dear Leader shopping all afternoon, to give us boys quality time undisturbed by the pair of delinquents.


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