Fool's Paradise – Infinity on a Shoestring Gender: Male (last time I looked); Writer; Thinker; Studier of the Human Condition (and chickens' entrails); Wonderer; Laugher; Listener; Character; Recent Optimist; Part-of-the-Solution Aspirant; Sarsaparilla, Cocoa, and ex-White Black Tea Imbiber (no sugar - plenty sweet enough); Twenty Eight Thousand and Twelfth Living Wonder of the World; Amateur Worm Farmer Extraordinaire and Professional Worm Admirer; Humus Assist and Humorist; Play Up; Yes-Hoper...
And I reckon: Reality is actually far better than the best any of us can imagine, the universe is friendly and funny, laughter is a powerful medicine as well as an efficacious antidote for self-importance, and the best is yet to come, despite any and all appearances to the contrary...
Sunday: It was the second Tuesday in August, and a parcel arrived: the MargoReymundo album I ordered the other week, ‘My Heart’s Desire’. It was not until the second following day that I got the opportunity to sit down in the lounge before dawn and listen to it, all the way through in one sitting, as Ms Reymundo asks in the album’s notes, to experience the integration of the work.
Well, I think I can now demarcate my life in an additional way: before REYMUNDO, and after REYMUNDO. It was superb… it was a rich experience, and one that I won’t forget in a long time...
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 WhitemanPark.
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’sJason 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 FederalGovernment’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.
Thursday: Another day feeling more tired than awake, but what’s new? Also, another kitchen clean up to help the commode dragon, but what’s new? I was told off for being so slow, and she’s right, but boy am I thorough…
I visited Bunnings in Malaga late, and picked up my special order from the very helpful Kerryn, of the HPM switch equivalent of the Clipsal 780M, but hey, may both companies’ management live in interesting times: the last couple of Clipsal 780M switches I bought about 4 years ago cost about 10 bucks, and that was to replace the broken ones that had hardly lasted any time at all in the toilet, to control the light and fan. Now Clipsal won’t make them unless a distributor orders about a billion in one hit, which leaves us up shit creek, being stuck with the complex Clipsal switch mechanism in our loo. So finally I’ve tracked down an equivalent from HPM, but they won’t sell to me; enter the lovely Kerryn from Bunnings, special order lass: but the HPM mongrels ask almost three times the amount for the same piece of toy crap, and after Bunnings make their margin (about 4 bucks in this case), the tiny switch cost me almost 32 bucks. Methinks it’s a case of HPM knowing they’ve got Clipsal’s former customers by the proverbials.
After picking it up, I turn to leave the building, and who should be waiting in the queue but Warren U., bless his Kiwi socks, and it’s almost a year since I last spoke to him. We chatted about how his marriage was going mainly, and happily it has improved significantly from a serious low last year. We might see each other next week to collect his freezer which he kindly loaned to The Dear Leader in February last year.
I left Bunnings buzzing that I intersected with Warren, yet another Kiwi who’s seen the light and moved to Australia, and then I called in to The Good Guys to check out the Kenwood food mixers. The lady who helped me many months ago purchase the surprise present of the Homedics massager for the mollycoddled massaged missus, Claire, helped me, and the amazing lass remembered me! (I am memorable though, so maybe I shouldn’t be surprised; I happen to be the most articulate and handsome koala bear in Australia.) Well, what snazzy models Kenwood has to offer these days! I went away coveting the Major model, titanium and all. Our Kenwood Chef must be approaching 25 years old, and has done oodles of work.
The Babies Ink&Peggletter came for din dins, and The Dear Leader joined us also. Janny put on a delicious meal – 3 course – as usual, and we played Blokus, and we all ganged up in the second game to try to defeat Baby Peggletter, but we just couldn’t do it; he’s a genius.
I caught the tale end of Q&A after the visitors left, and then it was Lateline: The (Leigh) sales graph: let me first talk about last night: the sun rose for the second time on Wednesday, for Ms Sales was so beautiful: her hair, her face, her skin was so clean that surgeons would be legally allowed to rest operating table instruments on it (how does she manage to keep her fair skin so fresh and lovely?). Her dark top contrasted amazingly well with her skin, her eyes were gorgeous. Now let’s talk about that curious species of politician, Environment Minister Peter Garrett, and the interview Ms Sales conducted with him:
Well, Peter Garrett had obviously just watched the full set of episodes of both Yes Minister and Yes, Prime Minister before sashaying into Ultimo to sit opposite Leigh Sales: I don’t envy Garrett’s job to explain how his deliberations have any bearing on the Gorgon Project expansion, but he filibustered and digressed, waxed lyrical and long, and his efforts to avoid admitting the bleeding obvious until many minutes into the interview, when he claimed that the bleeding obvious was not correct, and that he could have sunk the whole thing, were political poetry in motion. Now I wouldn’t be surprised if Garrett had never heard of Golden Wallabies or the Speckled Haired Bandicoots – or is it the other way round? – but hats off to Ms Sales for keeping her composure as this Midnight Gas and Oil Man proved he’s become a slippery polly, up there with the greasiest.
I was almost expecting MsSales to pull out a plastic bag after her questions about them, and slip it over the famous bald bonce to do a bit of amateur carbon capture if not sequestration live for we the viewers’ education. To her credit, she treated the Minister and we the viewers to her good humour and some of her trademark delightful smiling face and scintillating eyes towards the end, when Garrett decided to trumpet his idealist credentials, which many think went down some drain hole ages ago.
On to tonight: Looking even better, if that’s possible (dark long sleeved jacket, perfect hair style, subtle makeup, except that her eyeliner was bordering on more than she needs, given her lovely eyes’ natural charms), than last night, the sparkling and smartly turned out LeighSales’ great interview with Thomas Keneally was a gem. How wonderful when two cultured and intelligent people get together and chat; the pity is that it is so rare. MrKeneally was witty, funny, self deprecating, articulate, revealing, inspiring, and much more, and Janny and I agreed we’d love to have him in our garden any day. I’d polish his head several times every week. Thank you Ms Sales for this wonderful addition to your numerous memorable interviews, wherein you get your interlocutor comfortable and loquacious; it’s in my archive already.
I had an unpleasant sharp pain through my left forehead later, which I was mighty glad when it left; one is easily nudged into pondering one’s mortality at such moments.
I watched Letterman, and he was extra quirky tonight, with some funny physical movements.
I retired to my sanctuary to write, and before I knew where I was it was well after four in the morning, and I was still going. Outside there was not a breath of wind, but it was nippy.
Friday: I was incredibly tired last night, and staggered to bed, having hardly been able to keep my eyes open for more than moments at a time while trying to watch Letterman: I shouldn’t have bothered, for I can hardly remember any of it. I must have been tired, because it was about one in the afternoon when I surfaced, thinking it was maybe eleven. The gorgeous goanna had been up for a while, cleaning up the kitchen (my job) from our din dins last night with The Babies Ink&Peggletter and The Dear Leader, and then started a lazier day than usual for us.
About three o’clock the local Mormon missionaries called in by arrangement, as Janny had baked a chocolate birthday cake for Elder Ruben, and we chatted with him and his companion Elder Happel for over an hour. We thought it was E. Ruben’s 21st birthday today, sharing the day with my neice Elizabeth’s 29th birthday, but it was actually his 20th.
After this verbal interlude, the alabaster dragon and I went shopping up at Alexander Heights, ALONE!, and firstly it took enormous persuasion to coax the translation candidate into the Coles Liquor store with me, where I bought a flagon of sherry; the frilly-knickered lizard must fear being seen by a Mormon or some such; and yet it was simply to get some sherry for her cooking, the next item being our planned mere trifle for Kip Dumpling’s 60th birthday early next month (although I’ve never quite worked out the dearth of sherry flavoured dishes compared to the empties).
We lolled about in Coles, and it was while in there that the exhausted chef suggested takeaway – I had already suggested a DVD night – and so the scene was set for a lazy night as well. So over to Malaga we did zip, and at Civic Video got three new releases, followed by Subway and Led Loostah, all within spitting distance of each other. A visit to the ATM nearby, and we were soon back home.
I set up the first DVD, my choice, while the righteous rissole delivered some Led Loostah to The Dear Leader. We settled in to watch ‘I Hate Valentine’s Day’, featuring Nia Vardalos and John Corbett from ‘My Big Fat Greek Wedding’. We liked it a lot, but my later googling revealed that most folk hated it. I think they didn’t get it. Yes it was a weak plot, and predictable, but it was as quirky as all get out, and that’s what did it for me; I’d even go as far as declaring it as borderline cockywhacker.
After this the Birmingham beauty was fading, but as an interlude she did some sewing for Baby Inkletter, before we returned to watch Lateline: The (Leigh) sales graph: Ms Sales looked wonderful again tonight, her smart dark jacket and high necked mottled blouse topping her excellent colour matching teal blue outfit of last night, but I would that she kept to fuller hair. Her interview with David Kilcullen on the military and civilian situation and outlook in Afghanistan had especial interest to me, as I still incline to the opinion that we are fighting a losing battle there, given the huge difference in values between the man (deliberately chosen) on the street there and our population, and the limitless supply of hatred for most things Western from nearby Pakistan. I would like to be wrong on this.
And what a treat was Stephen Long as usual!: The (Stephen) long and short of it: doubtless fresh from a hair and make-up untousling of his tousled-by-Mummy curly hair – although not dressing as flash as he can – Mr Long wowed us with his mastery of all things economic, and I must say I liked his expressions regarding Macquarie Infrastructure Group,‘financial alchemy … turn bitumen into gold’, and ‘ringfenced it … did something of a Pontius Pilate’: pure Esslongshpeak. And yes, we were treated to the trademark puppy dog bared teeth smile, and long may it continue! But wow, oh wow!, Leigh Sales treated us with some transcendently lovely smiles at the latter end of her program tonight; smiles that you would expect from someone in deep love, receiving very fulfilling romantic love perhaps, or the pure love of children; whatever the source, Ms Sales’ smiles were magically radiant and pure tonight, although I detected a possible edge of mischievousness in her lips and eyes when she introduced Mr Long.
I had to put the dozing dibbler to bed, and, before and after Letterman (on which his guest Renée Zellweger again reinforced my compassion for women everywhere being expected to be flesh baubles: she looked gaunt and needed much more covering of her scrawny arms and shoulders) I resolved to, and actually did, write, to try to assuage some of the guilt from the ‘goodies’ I indulged in after my Subway sandwich; I won’t embarrass myself by divulging the particulars…
Friday: Yesterday I said my ‘early’ to bed action plan was fraught, for the simple reason that after maybe an hour of sleep, the frilly-knickered lizard and I kept waking each other up and ensured that neither could return to sleep. Oh for separate bedrooms!: a godsend for older couples, and I could also lock the sheila monster out when she gets too randy.
So it was a matter of listening to my favourite talking book till I dragged myself up before six to prepare to go to my dentist appointment, while the irritated iguana returned to bed, having been reading at the kitchen table till I got up, trying (kindly but begrudgingly) to let me sleep. I had an amazingly good run to the Oral Health Centre at Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital, leaving at 7.15 a.m., and I think if I’d left 15 minutes later it would have been snail’s pace, given the rain storm that was underway, plus the Los Angeles style traffic that is developing in Perth this past decade.
Lydia, a new student dentist for me, spent three hours leaving no stone unturned in my mouth, as well as my medical history, my lineage, my future, my hopes, my aspirations, my failings, my strengths, there was nothing that was not thoroughly researched. The eventual upshot was that the planned crown on my root canalised two-six molar cannot be done, due to diseased tissue around the root deep in the bone. She was very good, and seemed to be completely at home in my mouth, if that doesn’t seem to forward of me to say; she will be a very confident can-do dentist methinks.
I got another hat from the Cancer Council’s shop in Subiaco on my return, to give to Baby Peggletter, and once back home the qualitative western quoll joined me and we went, ALONE!, shopping up at the Marangaroo Shopping Centre, primarily to get a 20 litre ‘box’ of canola oil from the Asian shop there. We did swan around in Woolies like a pair of extremely attractive middle aged lovebirds after this. I was becoming mighty weary however.
Once back the greatest daughter in the world took The Dear Leader for a shopping outnbout for four hours. Meanwhile I eventually got to bed till Lateline time, and of course I often can actually sleep without the delicious delectate beside me, as can she me. The (Leigh) sales graph: Ms Sales looked very nice, professionally outfitted and styled, and of course this always lifts the likelihood of more effective interviews, assuming, as is the case with Ms Sales, that there is depth and substance to the anchor. I was overjoyed that the opening in-studio interview was with Stephen Long: The (Stephen) long and short of it: fresh from the untousling of his curly hair that his mother tousles daily, Mr Long looked like future Reserve Bank Governor material, dressed as smart as all get out, and sounding at least as on top of the issues as Glenn Stevens himself. And I bet Mr Stevens would give Stephen the job in exchange for his lovely head of hair. I would happily have Mr Long decipher or expand upon anything economic, he is so savvy and articulate on these matters. So, better news for the Australian economy it seems – that’s a relief. And as if this segment needed any icing, Mr Long provided it anyway, with a perfect Esslong smile counterpart, that inimitable baring of the front teeth around and past the canines, but which is the fear striking equivalent of a month old Rottweiler puppy’s grin.
The discussion Ms Sales brokered with Federal Finance Minister Lindsay Tanner and Opposition frontbencher Tony Abbott regarding the emissions trading scheme legislation was worth watching, if only for the laser cutting stare that Tony Abbott manages to achieve every time I’ve ever seen him. Well Mr Tanner, as much as I like your direct style, it’s a pity you had to pretend to support the two million bucks salary for the head of the National Broadband Network Company, Mike Quigley; is Labor really spruiking that a CEO on half that figure, or less, could not deliver success for the project?
Now how valid is Tanner’s explanation about the tie up of the two parts of the emissions trading scheme? Is the renewable energy part really like Microsoft’s assertion that its internet explorer web browser was crucially bound to its operating system? I did like Mr Abbott’s analogy that the two parts are not Siamese twins. Now I think Lindsay Tanner took the cake tonight with pre-thought out funny lines with his ‘bearded lady from Vladivostok’, don’t you?
I then entered the sanctuary of my writing for the entire night, broken up with sessions of tackling the huge kitchen clean up. I was still writing at nine in the morning, and was to join the garrulous gecko when she surfaced for a ‘breakfast’ she planned to make me, when we took a spur of the moment decision to charge over to Benara Fresh Markets in Beechboro – ALONE! – to stock up on fruit and vegetables, and it was most enjoyable, despite my tiredness. It was over and done with quickly (almost an hour including travelling time), and that stalled breakfast happened for us both on our return.
The hours slipped by until the satiated horny devil was tucking me in about half one, after having ravished me as she is wont to do, before flinging me away like a Wrigleys Extra gum wrapper as she is wont to do, but only after the earth has moved for her multiple times. As I fell into a badly needed recuperation, with a dull background headache and aching bones, not from the lubricious lynching I had just received, rather I think from a war going on inside from my cold turkey with tea and coffee, plus Reeve’spangalactic herbal blaster hooch, the doting daughter went off to take The Dear Leader here there and everywhere for some hours.
(Back from the future update:) I spent the next almost 48 hours in bed exhausted, mostly asleep or almost asleep, disturbed by leg bone and muscle pains and headache, with but three two hour waking sessions for eating, and I can only put it down to the Reeve Chocson killer hooch herbal hell blaster juice (even on one third his recommended dosage: I may be tough enough to drink strong cocoa unsweetened and suck teabags, but I’m not that tough) and my withdrawal from exceptionally high tea drinking.
Thursday: Woah! Beware Reeve Chocson’s herbal blaster hooch juice! I went to bed last ‘night’ (about midday) quite ill, and that was just from three ‘shots’ as prescribed. I decided I will self prescribe a one third dose, that is, one shot a day, till my system can handle it. In my hard drinking days (so many decades ago now it’s not funny) I can not recall any spirits – even in ridiculous quantities –from a bottle ever causing me so much trouble…
I arose not long before the Babies Ink&Peggletter came for din dins, having slept poorly, but with some restored optimism that I might live a bit longer yet. We had a very nice evening, joined by The Dear Supreme Leader, and my report to the kidlings that I was doing a cold turkey on coffee and tea made an impression upon them, knowing as they do how I single-handedly have been keeping the black Indian tea market afloat through the Global Financial Crisis, and this moved Baby Inkletter to ask for a shot of Reeve Chocson’s killer juice (courageous girl).
We played two board games: Quoridor and Blokus, and my what fun they both are. The moreish missus and I really like these two games, perhaps the former the most, but they’re very stimulating to the old neurons. When The Babies left, taking with them The Dear Leader, I caught the last half of Lateline: The (Leigh) sales graph: I said ‘last half’, but I downloaded the podcast of Ms Sales’ interview with Greens Leader Bob Brown and National Party Senate Leader Barnaby Joyce and watched it all later.
Firstly, Ms Sales looked spectacular, in her dark blue striped jacket with spot-on green modesty panel, as well as superb hair and minimal appearance make up, in fact every bit the class professionally of the appearance of the roosters she interviewed, albeit the older one could be caponised. Now to the interview on today’s vote against the Government'semissions trading scheme: I must say I wish these two were present in the studio with Ms Sales, and across the table from each other, not beside each as is the usual arrangement. It was entertaining thanks to FederalParliament’s stand up comedian, Barnaby Joyce, who was typically speaking like a rooster with a belly full of tequila soaked worms. He gave some classic lines: ‘…the metaphor of whether you want to amputate both your legs or amputate three of your fingers. Now I'd prefer to amputate three of my fingers than both my legs…’; ‘The only benefactors will be the brokers, the bankers, and the bureaucrats, who on the commission on the way through will make an absolute creaming, buy themselves a new BMW out of the money from your wallet, Leigh…’; (my favourite tonight:) ‘…Bob Brown talk about these tens of thousands of green jobs. All the mine workers and abattoir workers and farmers, all with their little aprons on lined up at the Manic Monkey Cafe ready to sell cafe lattes to the passing crowds. I don't think so, Leigh.’; (my second favourite quote:) ‘Well I'll have to light a little candle in front of a picture of Bob tonight. I used to pray to the dear Lord but I should have been praying to Bob, because obviously he can fix the drought.’. Leigh, have Barnaby Joyce on every night please!
I am a tad uncomfortable admitting that, on the issue of our economic response to global warming I am closer in opinion to the likes of Barnaby Joyce and his cronies than Labor and The Greens, and I’ve been into it a spot here before. The subject of global warming appears immensely more complex than the Labor legislation is addressing, and that’s before the legitimate matter of how to economically manage the changes that will be needed are touched. But still, I have nightmares wherein I find myself agreeing with parts of the verbal spew of that quirk of nature Wilson Tuckey and such. The old Brownie was his typically political speak self, correctness and all, making out that only The Greens are to be the world’s saviours; I think they are part of the solution, but vastly too extreme to be the whole solution.
Anyway, thank you Ms Sales for that interview, it’s now in my archive of political treasures.
Given the early start tomorrow, I tried to get to bed about half one, but it was a fraught plan…
Wednesday: It was almost six when I got to bed, frustrated by the clunky user interface at 4shared.com where I was endeavouring to gain some control over a flood of spam comments of recent times arriving under many of my audio recordings of my short humorous stories. Ultimately, I had to disable the whole comments facility, due the inability to efficiently delete the spam (try deleting several hundred viagra and cialis tainted comments, one at a bloody time, because the facility to tick them all and delete them in one fell swoop does not exist!). And so, having spent a couple of hours at it after my whole wee hours night of writing, this fruitless task interfered with my rest. I have emailed suggestions to the folk at 4shared.com, who, by the way, have always been very helpful and pleasant in my personal dealings.
And so my plans to be up to greet and socialise with Reeve Chocson, who called in to give me a bottle of his herbal blaster hooch to help me with one of my many health problems (and I’ve decided to abstain from all tea and coffee while on the high octane killer juice, and bear in mind that can mean not having twenty, yes twenty, tea bags some days), evaporated, and I spent the entire day in a fog of sleep and dozing, till almost sundown, when he called in again with The Dear Leader, whom he’d kindly taken out for the entire afternoon, but I hadn’t even surfaced in time to say hello yet again.
I also missed Baby Inkletter, who had called by for dressmaking fittings with the material girl, her mother, my missus, the Birmingham beauty, and also the most bootyful woman in Nebadon. I was up in time for din dins with Umple Dais and The Dear Leader, except that my sister Mary rang, on behalf of my mother, just at sit down time, with a request for help to get her TV-VCR combination working, over the phone. It took twenty minutes, but fortunately I had used both remote controls yesterday, and this memory helped get some joy for Mum eventually.
It was a pleasure to see Kerry O’Brien’s interview with Attorney-General Robert McClelland, for the latter man was restrained, professional, and all the things that all the rest could be. Yes, their subject is one well worth being a lot wary of, that is the extension of our terrorism laws.
I got in a stint of writing before Lateline: The (Leigh) sales graph: Ms Sales looked very nice, but not as spectacular as she has of late, due two simple things: a tad too much eye make up – this lass has such lovely eyes, they need little help – and her hair was too flat: full hair, flairing out wider, does kinder things to her facial type. Anyway, who am I to judge?: just a red blooded bull koala, with an eye for beauty among the gum trees. Her blue long sleeved top was lovely and smart, and despite my ten cents worth, she still looked great. Now as much as it hurts to draw attention to a positive in Christopher Pyne, I now will: Ms Sales’ interview on tomorrow’s Emissions Trading vote with the federal politician who unkind people have said his mother should have drowned at birth, revealed firstly just how smart he dresses, classy and immaculate in fact, which he doubtless believes is all helping his chances of being Prime Minister one day (God help us; don’t do that to us please!). Anyway, in general, it’s so much easier for men, for we can wear the same style all the time, while women feel pressured to change their styles all the time, with the likely result that often they’ll look way less good than at their best, while when a bloke gets it right, he can acceptably stick with it, just changing colours and ties a bit. Yes, Christopher Pyne, Manager of Opposition Business, looked so raffish he was a template tonight.
As for the interview, again, is it fair of some folk to suggest Ms Sales has to down a couple of Maxolons to curb her retching whenever she has to interview him? I’ll leave my billions of daily readers to judge what they think of such hard hitters. Anyway, Mr Pyne is articulate, too pedantic for his own good often, but again, while I think he and his party are saturated with politics on the Climate Change issue, I also think so are Labor. The complexity of climate change is so great that I’m far from convinced that carbon emissions are the main culprit here and now, even though they must be part of it all. It seems the Labor Government are rushing despite enormous doubts being raised by many credible sources; how about a bit more consideration of the scientific issues? But don’t think I enjoy pollution; I would like to breathe clean air everywhere; I just don’t want to see economies stressed unwisely and unnecessarily, based on ideology or emotion-charged videos of icebergs collapsing.
I enjoyed Ali Moore’s Lateline Business interview with the Commonwealth Bank's CEO Ralph Norris; my word Ms Moore’s techniques are a lesson! She charms her interlocutor to supply as much information as she can safely get, while Kezza goes in and bludgeons his victim senseless. Anyway, Mr Norris withstood some of the charm, and kept a few things inside his head, despite Ms Moore’s knavish attempts.
I fell gladly into the sanctuary of my back room and my writing, for the entire wee small hours. Remember, I’m going cold turkey on tea and coffee from today. I did have my legendary impossible strength unsweetened bucket of cocoa, though. Don’t anyone get between me and my cocoa if he or she wants to retain their consciousness unbroken…
Tuesday: It was almost dawn when I got to bed ‘last night’, and the bad graces of insomnia chaperoned me as it too commonly does these days, so it was a matter of laying there for a few hours listening to my favourite talking book courtesy of my iRiver T10 and its ear buds, while the most beautiful woman in the world slumbered, for some inexplicable reason innocently, beside me. I had anxiety about the coming day’s outing, and how my health problems would affect what I had committed to do.
I arrived about half one, after a very easy drive, at Melville, where Mum today moves into her retirement village home, to meet her with my dear sisters Mary and Helena, and helped with haulage, unpacking, and shifting a few things around. Very little really, for most of the heavy stuff had been done.
Janny had made us a lunch, and her sandwiches, brownies, and slices (as well as my Oxford comma) were a big hit, of no surprise to moi, long having being married to the greatest cook in Nebadon. Aunt Winnie and Uncle John had arrived by now, and so it was a crowded living room, with a couple of us kids sitting on boxes. I left a clearly stressed and unhappy Mum about three and called at Cousin Vee’s in Kardinya, to spend an hour chatting and catching up. He has lost an enormous amount of weight since his radiotherapy for throat cancer, and has only put a bit more than one kg back on from the twenty he lost, and he wasn’t heavy to start with. I can’t believe that it was way back in early March that Janny and I called in to see Cousin Vee soon after his surgery.
His wife looked very tired, poor thing, and it was nice to see her mother Coralie, and still helping them so much. The kids were just back from school. I interacted with them more than I ever have, and noticed how sharp Jordan is and how artistic and pretty Emily is.
I did something very rare on my way back: I did almost a three quarters of an hour of shopping in Woolies alone at Dog Swamp, and to my delight I found they were selling Bic Ultra biros! so I bought three packets of 8, having turned Western Australia upside down recently trying to find some, on special too, yippee! Another important purchase was four packets of Woolies Home Brand cocoa, to keep feeding my addiction: regular readers are well aware of my chronic cracked and powdered cocoa addiction. And I found a liquid dishwasher detergent after weeks of searching, but it’s going to be too expensive to warrant its continued use after I test this bottle. (One day I must relate my reasons for wanting a liquid.)
At Woolies petrol station locally the blasted pump didn’t click off, causing petrol to overflow badly, and splattering my trousers and shoes as well; the cash register attendant didn’t seem too bothered to even grunt much when I asked had others had trouble with bowser 7. At least I warned the lady in the queue behind me to watch out for it.
After tuck tuck and seeing Kezza the Great gently take the Minister who’s always wong, Penny Wong, through the wringer, I was so tired I couldn’t keep my eyes open, so the morning sunrise put me to bed for a couple of hours, till Lateline, when SilverToes tried to get some sense out Greg Combet and Greg Hunt about the emissions trading scheme positions of both sides of Australian politics. Ali Moore was her usual perpetual charming and elegant self on Lateline Business, although I took a while to work out what the dark and glittery top was she was wearing, and when I did, it wowed me (yeah, maybe I do need to get out more), and her hair style was just so beautiful as usual, oh, but enough Payton… ummmhh, errr…, no, I must say more: the poor gal indeed might have a developing goitre like myself; my offer to bring her home, give her a hot bath, powder her bottom, put her in fleecy jammies, tuck her in to a lovely cot, and feed her some broccoli and cheese soup still stands, as does the threat to smack her on her bottom is she refuses to go to her doctor and ask is all well with the thyroid. Her interview with Patrick Elliott, chairman of JB Hi Fi, was encouraging regarding the uplift in domestic consumption as it is playing out for his company. Mr Elliott was Mr Cool, and articulate. I think now’s as good a time as ever to share Ali Moore’s lovely smile, one of the best in current affairs anywhere: click here.
Letterman had a funny man, Steven Wright, on (a repeat show), and he had me chuckling constantly. Oh, the exceedingly overrated Paris Hilton was on also, and Dave needs to stop fawning over her.
I descended into the dungeon to write away the night, the most life uplifting way to spend my time nowadays.
Monday: I began my daily struggle to have enough health to face the outside world, but struggle as I might, I was destined to fail today… Before I forget ever to mention it, the other day when I had the bad migraine, I dreamed of finding three rabbits, one of which understood my words to it. This first rabbit was a large and unusual slug at first, in a brick lined subway beneath a railway line, which morphed into rabbit when I picked it up. No, I wasn’t tripping, if you discount the Pramin and the five white comforters…
It was to be Bob’sPerth city outing day, a week since I’d last taken him out, so I set about preparing for that. Meanwhile Baby Inkletter had arrived for a brief visit involving dressmaking (a sadness is very evident, and we are privy to its source), and we ended up watching much of the Minister who’s always wong, Penny Wong, address the National Press Club. I enjoy listening to articulate people, of which she is right up there with, even though I don’t think she and her party have got a sound enough grip on the science in the dragon’s tail about climate change.
The Dear Leader arrived with the preternaturally beautiful daughter, but I was fading fast, and threw in the towel in my battle to have the health to leave the house today; the frilly-knickered lizard phoned for me with apologies to poor Bob and his keepers – I won’t be seeing him till next Monday all being equal. I excused myself and returned to bed.
I heard the wowbait wayfarer leaving at seven, after hours of light fitful sleeping, off on a gallivant, just as I got up, to watch My Beloved. Then it was pure theatre to behold Kerry O’Brien summons his inner mongrel on The 7.30 Report, during his interview with Malcolm Turnbull, and the two men bristled at each other. It was echoes of the good old bare fisted John Howard days, when there was so much blood on the floor at ABC studios they took to drenching the entire fit out with Scotchgard to cut the after fight clean up expenses. Then, as now, I reckon it’s the inner mongrel that summonses Kezza the Great (not the other way round) to these duels, it’s so barely below the surface. Kezza’s got the highest IMQ (Inner Mongrel Quotient) of any at the ABC, and sadly the brilliant journalist can’t quite annoy his inner mongrel equally when he’s got some hapless moronic Laborite in his spotlight. Anyway, it reared within a nano second of Turnbull’s attempted deflection of the Godwin GrechUtegate affair question, with Kezza’s body language so wonderful it brought a tear to my eye: the legendary journalist somehow restrained himself, with just a bob in the chair and almost a Tom Cruise Mission Impossible cheek flinch substituting for what he wanted to do, and that was rush at the plasma tube screen with his seat in a white knuckled death grip and smash Turnbull’s silverspooned arse. The remainder of the interview had me and doubtless countless others spellbound, as the two roosters in their respective fields compared whose dick was the bigger. Oh for one these daily!
Now ABC ladies, if you want to be rightly called ladies, don’t try to emulate Kezza: leave the dirty fighting to the boys please, it’s unbecoming otherwise; it’s far better to use your feminine charms combined with your intelligence, wit, and wiles, as so epitomised by Ali Moore and occasionally Leigh Sales, who would have succeeded in having Economics Correspondent Stephen Long strip to his Keynesian monogrammed boxers Friday night in Ultimo, had she not forbid him, saving having the transmission cut by the studio scruples minders.
Speaking of Lateline, Tony Jones looked spiffy as so he often he does, but he floundered a bit during the excellent interview with Dr Richard Haass, President of the Council on Foreign Relations. It of course is an impossible task interviewing experts in their fields night after night as a journalist, to meet them equally in the expertise in question. Midway things got a tad testy, as Jones got a bit simplistic with his remarks about the history of the first Gulf War. Anyway, Dr Haass had my approval for much of what he said. Haass’ point about the judgment call for exercise of restraint was very good. I love Dr Haass’s line that ‘there’s an awful lot of unfinished business in the world, it’s called ‘history’’.
What a sight was Ali Moore tonight on Lateline Business! Her pizzazzy suit top with ochre tone contrasting modesty panel was ooohhh! so sharp and attractive; and whether she needed this to use her charms – I think not – she was amazingly charming in her interviews with the hapless puppies she interviewed tonight.
Janny and I watched the repeat Letterman show of Joachim Phoenix from February, which we had missed, and I see now what all the fuss was about. The poor actor was not up for this type of interview, any interview. The music act was a delight – Anthony Hamilton – and I dug the heavy dude dancing with the bird and doubling as the backing vocals; not because I fancied him mind you, rather that he grooved so well; so did she for that matter.
I spent most of the wee small hours writing; a quiet moonlit night outside.
Posts
