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Be all that as it may, meanwhile:
In other news…
Sunday: Up at sparrows, assuming the sparrows are tardy ones, I dragged myself up just after nine, needing double the sleep, not the least reason being having the loquacious loquat talk the back leg off a Border Leicester last night for hours, till very late, in addition to way too little sleep for the last two nights. Oh, and despite the wonderful time we had and the great company of the last two days: the Chocsons for din dins Friday night, and lunch at niece Elizabeth’s and Michele’s in East Victoria Park yesterday, at which The Babies Ink&Peggletter were present, as were my dear mum and sister Mary, and also The Dear Leader, it was very tiring for my darling dewdollup and moi. We are quickly knocked for six by more than one round of dizzying social engagements in rapid succession.
I was virtually ready for when The Babies Ink&Peggletter arrived about ten, and I had some nice presents to open, before we set off north on Wanneroo Road to I knew not where, ensconced in the back of the Laser, cuddling Payton the Koala Bear and sucking my thumb. The day was cool, cloudy, and it drizzled for a total of but ten minutes during the whole day. When we turned into
The next five hours were spent having a great deal of fun with two very special young people, my daughter and her partner, doing things from playing mini golf a couple of times, in which I hit a hole in one on the eighth, to Frisbee golf, to walking through five amazing mazes, being hopelessly lost in each one, to going down a children’s corkscrew slide like an overgrown kid, to a lovely picnic lunch, to a koala talk – in which Payton the Koala Bear got to pat a real live koala bear (while the fellow holding said stuffed bear was getting a few lingering sanity establishment looks from folk) – to seeing kangaroos, emus, peafowl, the biggest dog in the universe, every imaginable variety of parrot on earth, you name it, and more. Simon the koala man won a spot in my heart – strictly platonically! – for his generosity of time and talk about his koahrlahr bahrs; he is almost a surrogate mother to them.
It was after five when we got back to our place, and the irreplaceable iguana greeted us with curiosity as to where and what we’d been and done. The Babies had some refreshments with us – something cool to sip and nice to munch upon – before leaving at about six to spend the evening with Baby Peggletter’s dad. Well, all I can say is yet again I have been spoilt rotten, and I cannot adequately express in a few words how much it means to me. Thank you Babies Ink&Peggletter.
I attended to a health problem, and then tried to muster the energy to visit Kip Dumpling with one of the world’s largest mere trifles, made by the pulchritudinous possum, a couple of days early for his sixtieth birthday. I made the mistake of laying down in bed after a shower to have a rest, and before I knew where I was it was over three hours later; the mere trifle will have to wait till tomorrow evening, if Kip is home.
I took a tinkle, and with the ravishing roulette round settling in to watch Compass on Aunty, I crawled back into bed. Over an hour later I still hadn’t been claimed by Mistress Nodette’s divine embrace, despite being by this time cuddled by the living divine embrace of the Birmingham beauty, and so I begrudgingly left the warmth and love and comfort and nurture of the low thread counts, and got up towards midnight, just knowing it would be hours before I could sleep again.
It was after three in the wee smalls, and I had been writing for a while, when I decided to watch the vodcasts of two of Friday night’s Lateline interviews: The (Leigh) sales graph: What a professional cut Ms Sales projected tonight! I liked the colour of her dark jacket, but I cannot quite discern the shade from my computer’s rendering of the vodcast: maybe it is a dark fawn to chocolate shade? And the blouse complemented it perfectly, its mottled colours ideal, and they were small enough to create the vital balance or wholistic pattern effect. In toto, her apparel matched her lovely hair colour ideally (styled just so!), and all was rounded off by her subtle effect make-up, allowing her natural glow to shine unimpeded.
To THE interview: my word, Ms Sales gave us, with the enthusiastic support of her borderline hapless interlocutor in London, Treasurer Wayne Swan, a very watchable interview! And how smartly attired was Mr Swan! He’d killed and tanned one of the last golden zebras to make his tie, and it stood out like a barber’s pole in his crisp white shirt. This one is a curious case, for it combines the zest of an intelligent, keen, and focussed journalist, who just so happened to miss out on her morning coffee and resolved to sublimate the frustration of this misfortune into grilling a politician, with the equal determination of a high performing pressure cooked polly, who has just been unjustly slighted, to defend himself and his Government. For the record, I think Mr Swan was more justified in his defences than Ms Sales was in her flacks, but the way Ms Sales couched and persistently delivered them was approaching poetry in motion, a kind of Kerry O’Brien mellowed from his second bottle of Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup, and I think, to their credit, both conducted themselves professionally. And for what it’s worth, I think Ms Sales was ‘off the rails’ in Mr Swan’s words with her criticism of the signage at our nation’s schools, but boy am I glad she kept asking, for it delivered an engrossing stoush; I’m sure I noticed the same double decker crossing the bridge there in London about ten times so it’s driver could catch more of the interview; is there anything more appropriate than keeping our politicians out of their comfort zones, when it comes to examination of the way they steward the nation and its funds? I think we only caught a glimpse of the discomfort the Treasurer was in at interview’s end, when he did whip his earpiece out with some haste. I hope Ms Sales got her coffee before she left Ultimo that evening.
But then maybe she didn’t need to after the tonic of cornering that delightful Rottweiler puppy, Stephen Long, for the weekly wind up interview of all things economic: The (Stephen) long and short of it: With preternatural restraint, Ms Sales refused to disport herself as she introduced her favourite weekly interviewee, and yet again Mr Long, who looked as dapper as all get out as usual, gave his trademark discriminating analysis, mixed with his wit, this time mainly about the toxic debt smoke and mirrors tricks of the banks with the nods and winks of the world’s governments. And hallelujah, Mr Long gave us his classic and loveable special smile at the end.
It was well after five, with dawn not too far off, by the time I got to feeling like I could try sleeping again.
Yesterday I was chuffed to receive a very heartfelt thanks by email from Margo Reymundo for a review I posted to my website of her remarkable album ‘My Heart’s Desire’.
+paytontedwithlove+
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