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Fool's Paradise – Infinity on a Shoestring

PAYTON L. INKLETTER


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Thursday, September 3, 2009

SWEDEN: “Alright then, not to be left right out I’ll weigh right in, a tad left of centre,” Payton L. Inkletter said, dexterously swerving sinistrally


Be all that as it may, meanwhile:


In other news…

03rd September 2009:


Thursday: As usual, the alarm interrupted a sleep that needed to be twice the length it was, despite the afternoon being half gone. I found the Birmingham beauty had been cooking up an incredible storm in preparation for the Chocsons’ visit tomorrow night, and our lunch at my niece Elizabeth’s on Saturday, and that despite the pesky pestle not feeling well today from her bad leg pain last night as well as a serious bout of nausea.


I suggested we shortly go for a shopping trip together, but this plan went nowhere, for the local Mormon missionaries called in, Ruben and Happel; I wisely laid low, not because they’re not a nice pair of fellows, because they are, but time is so short, and religious missionaries have all the time in the world to try to lull their victims into a false sense of security before plunging in with the sword of righteousness. I prepared for the shopping outing, but by the time the magnificent mortar was free from feeding and watering the lads it was too late – she had to attend to more cooking for the evening meal for The Dear Leader, moi, and herself. I used the fading light outside to do a photo shoot of Payton the Koala Bear with four copies of Margo Reymundo’s brilliant album ‘My Heart’s Desire’ in the back garden, and did a check to find that nibs’ father-father-in-law had indeed replaced the ten light fingered 8 feet long galvanised star pickets written about in yesterday’s entry; they were laid out on some timber of ours close to where they originally lay, near the storm flattened fence; and all the while the person of interest was close by watering for his holidaying daughter, unaware of my checking that he had fulfilled his commitment of yesterday under duress. What a fascinating tale that all is; what an intriguing condition is the human condition.


Then with minutes to spare, I drove over to Malaga and got a 5 kg bag of wheat from City Barn, for the material girl to sew wheat heat pack bags as gifts for my sister Mary and niece Elizabeth, whose previous ones are about dead, toasted, or simply carked.


With what time I had to spare before din dins, I then visited two more shops in Malaga, Kambo’s and Harvey Norman, unsuccessfully trying to find DVD RAM discs, and I checked out blenders and Kenwoods. At Narvey Hormone’s I finally got to see and handle the near top model of the Kenwood Major food mixer, which looks supernal in the images on the internet, but what a disappointment in real life. This model was eleven hundred bucks no less, the KM030, and the one of most interest to us is the KM040 for its greater capacity mixing bowl and power – and fourteen hundred bucks thank you very much. I assume the 040 will have the cheap and rushed finish of the 030. A glance underneath enlightened me of why: ‘Made in China. Yes it might be a great kitchen workhorse like our over twenty year old Chef is, but at the asking price it should be in real life as glorious and ethereal as it looks on the web photos; it isn’t.


I delivered vittles to The Dear Leader, and returned home where the good processor and I settled in with a huge bowl of divine soup she made, with three slices of Woolies Ploughman bread, which is a great piece of wheaten kit. Lo and behold, Kerry O’Brien must have been moved by my praise of the divine appearance of Leigh Sales last night: The (Leigh) sales graph: Mr O’Brien looked the identical image of Ms Sales, as he fronted The 7.30 Report, or I’ve gone around the bend! Assuming for the sake of maintaining sanity that it really was Leigh Sales, she looked spiffy, with great hair styling (although who can beat that thing on Kerry’s head?), subtle make-up, unadorned décolletage, a smart dark long sleeved jacket with ideal green contrasting modesty panel, and those priceless sparkling eyes. If it was Kerry, I cannot believe the skill of plastic surgery nowadays. One wonders if Kezza the Great has nightmares about being pushed out of the prime 7.30 spot by younger fillies such as Ms Sales and Ms Moore?


Qanda was interesting on many levels, not the least to observe how self importance infects some politicians and other citizens most detrimentally: I refer to Senator Bill Heffernan’s performance; yes he had some good things to say and opinions to impart among some of his dross, but the way he went about it is most telling: the interruptions, the body language, facial expressions, all being giveaways to a social immaturity shared by the likes of John Elliott and Bob Ellis, to name a tiny few from an overpopulated cohort.


The mix and match line up continued on Aunty as it has all week and last, when I could have sworn Agent 007 was Lateline’s anchor for tonight! James Bond, yanked off the film set for the latest production of that British institution, did an impressive job of keeping it all together, although he had some sexy shoes to fill (Wednesdays onwards only!!) Assuming for the sake of argument that it wasn’t Daniel Craig, or even Vladimir Putin, but rather Rafael Epstein, didn’t he look sharp! (Have a squiz...) A dark pin striped suit, crisp white shirt, conservatively dark blue tie, a trim taut torso barely suppressed beneath these bespoke tailored threads, any moment he could have pulled out a pistol and dispensed the cameraman to a kinder place that the Ultimo dungeon, and seamlessly kept up verbatim with the autocue.


My doll-faced derringer had hit the sack before even Lateline started, being dead tired, and looking it, poor thing. Letterman was interesting, especially due the guest appearance of Dr. John P. Holdren, the Director of the White House Office of Science and Technology Policy.


I spent the night writing till well after sun up, interspersed with two sessions of kitchen clean ups and a middle of the night chat with the frilly-knickered lizard, who couldn’t return to sleep. We resolved, against her feeble protestations, during our chinwag, to buy her an Ashford traveller’s spinning wheel (she has three others already), very soon. This decision conspired to cause her even more sleeplessness, due the night-before-Christmas effect when one is a youngster.

+paytontedwithlove+

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