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Wednesday, September 16, 2009

GDAŃSK: “If you can’t stand the heat, then get out of the kitchen,” reckons Payton L. Inkletter, using the Fahrenheit scale, marking Gabriel’s passing

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

16th September 2009:

Wednesday: Oh how lovely, yet another day with rain clouds about, and a little rain: this September has been divine, for almost every day thus far has had at least a tad of precipitation; this will buffer us for the roasting we’re surely in for as always this summer.

I arose about the time the garrulous gallivanter returned from her spinning session with the Dianella group over in Menora, and this might be her third visit with them; it’s gratifying to see her enjoying an activity which she enjoys so much, that is just for her, and of a genus which she’s not indulged for approaching thirty years – ‘me’ time that is. Her battle now is to take a corresponding slice of time from certain time stealers each week, so that she is not cramming this leisure activity on top of all else, thus adding another layer of exhaustion to her already exhausting life.

The deadly derringer came with me for the drive and outing to my doctor’s appointment, miraculously snatched last minute by phone yesterday, when another patient cancelled, and at half four I was masked up in the waiting room of Dr Barry and colleagues; the mask being a precaution, for at this stage I might have been a swine flu supporter.

Dr Barry quickly established that mine was simply a virus serious, to quote my dear niece Alice, who at about 12 said to me, “You’ve got a virus serious Uncle Payton”, referring to my mental state. Anyway, I was glad to learn that the chest/throat troubles of the past six days were of the kind that I’ll be able to shake off unaided by ‘botticks’; sadly, Missus Inkletter is now displaying my early symptoms; but then, what can you expect when the girl is always all over me like a rash; I’m not blaming her for that, for she would need to be a high order of angel to resist me, and she of a certainty ain’t one of those: I’d wager she at most might be a cherub, one of those fourth serial cherubs, you know, the more physical kind.

My kind doctor attended to various other woes and worries of mind, and I came away with an ultrasound referral to examine that mysterious lump in my sternal notch, as well as an eye clinic referral at Charlie Gees; they might be able to tell me what’s up with my weirdly behaving right eye and what the brown stain is in my vision, the one that a high tech private eye clinic couldn’t find three years ago, while all the while I could see it as plain as day.

After this the celestial vision and I drove a little further to the beach at Sorrento, and enjoyed a walk along the footpath overlooking the Indian Ocean, with rain clouds relieving themselves on the dimming horizon: it was a rare treat for us, two extremely attractive middle-aged baby boomers, wanting to get our rocks off (thanks Kath and Kel!) and we later sat in the car until the night settled on the ocean horizon, having taken a number of photos of Payton the Koala Bear with the spectacular backdrop of deep grey clouds arching over Rottnest Island, and crying their cargo down in veils in the distance.

We were home in time to watch My Beloved – well, strictly I did – while the devoted daughter took vittles to The Dear Leader, who has been keeping his distance while I’ve been sick. I was so tired I was falling asleep during The 7.30 Report, hosted by another celestial vision, a white with black speckles chiffon bloused and black camisoled Ali Moore, which is a pity, for she cuts a much more arresting sight than that old crusty red head, Kerry O’Brien: speaking of whom, I’m now all but convinced that Ms Moore and Ms Sales, with the assistance of Mr Epstein, have liquidated him, in order to win The 7.30 Report for the young fillies own. I, due to will power, rallied, and watched the children run The New Inventors, being especially impressed with the life saving potential of the rear lights on the jacket for motor cyclists, before enjoying Spicks and Specks (if you don’t enjoy this show, go to your doctor and check that you are human), and then Star Stories, upon the merits of which my jury is still out; maybe it’s my doubts about Kevin Bishop, or should I say prejudices? If so, I should strip those away, and examine simply how funny and talented he is or isn’t.

What I planned to do next was write until Lateline, but Madam Nodette had other plans for me, luring me into her blissful embrace: I asked the doting derringer to let me sleep for an hour, and wake me to watch said current affairs program, but when she did, I, from the depths of a blissful slumber, shooed her away, thus missing Lateline.

When the bedraggled Beretta finally came to bed at almost one, she woke me, and try as I might to return to sleep, I couldn’t, so not long before two I got out of the warm as toast bed to write, leaving the slumbering sweetmeat to the designs of the night season. During the wee small hours, which for me continued till way after sunrise, maybe two hours in fact, I managed to get Lateline’s podcast, and I enjoyed watching Lateline during a break from my writing: The (Leigh) sales graph: Ms Sales looked most acceptably professional in a long sleeved dark jacket, and her hair was styled to good effect. The interview she conducted with the Opposition’s Member for Warringah Tony Abbott and the Government’s Small Business Minister Craig Emerson had a number of gems buried within it, and is now in my archive. Both men looked dapper: Mr Emerson approaching Rafael Epstein’s Agent 007 class, Mr Abbott approaching a highly coutured clown – his tie was arresting, looking edible and very sweet, highly sugared in fact.

The Tony Abbott Bovine Backsides’ Harvest: it is almost always entertaining when Mr Abbott is on, and tonight was no exception. Ms Sales certainly kept the whip in her hand tonight with both men, pulling them up and keeping them moving, to her credit, and to their credit they behaved relatively well under this discipline. Those gems: try “the Archangel Gabriel could be leading the Opposition at the moment and he would do it tough” from Abbott, but shortly after that wonderful line his body language belied his claim “…but Malcolm is certainly the best person to lead us”; if his head shook any more vigorously it would have fallen off while he uttered those words. Earlier he made a very astute remark to the effect: ‘Politicians do have to be people of conviction, but we still have to win elections … there is always a tension between those two objectives … we can’t save the country from Opposition…’ as a reply to the issue of supporting the Government’s Emissions Trading Scheme. I commend him for his honesty and pragmatism on this point.

Later Abbott used an expression that was new to me: ‘praised with faint damns’, after Emerson missed the opportunity to be spontaneously gracious – rather he was belatedly mildly gracious – to Abbott in return for a deal Abbott offered regarding some reciprocal recognition of successes of each side’s policies. It took Ms Sales’ interjection “So no credit there to the Howard-Costello legacy?” to get Emerson to finally give some recognition, and Abbott was spot on with his ‘praised with faint damns’ remark (I later googled it!), and good on him for being so good natured about it.

This interview ended in a most refreshingly civilised manner, with very pleasant acknowledgment of each other by the pollies, led again by Abbott. Thank you Ms Sales for this interview. I have posted a picture of the interview and some more description at my new site, THE ABECEDARIAN PROJECT, which keeps an eye on ‘The people, the scuttlebutt, the intrigues of the ABC’.

The Birmingham beauty had a stint up and dressmaking while I wrote, due to her inability to fall back asleep after a tinkle break. She was asleep again by the time I finally rejoined her.


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