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Fool's Paradise – Infinity on a Shoestring

PAYTON L. INKLETTER


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Monday, February 15, 2010

RAMSGATE: A little white light arrives destined to leave Nachlasslessly, with relative gravitas in the process of fluxing Heraclitus, missing clarity.


Be all that as it may, meanwhile:
In other news…
15th February 2010:

Monday: This is my first Fool's Paradise main site and 'In other news…' blog posting written on a Windows 7 machine, but don't get me started: it's quite a mixed bag this Win flipping 7! Another terrible night of broken sleep – when it eventually arrived – and with a weird dream or two (speaking of weird dreams, the strawberry sweet and I decided to rest in our respective recliners in the lounge yesterday afternoon after The Babies Ink&Peggletter left, in the airconditioning while 37 celsius roasted the outdoors, and I fell asleep for awhile and had the funniest dream, in which former Prime Minister John Howard was sitting in our lounge, and Baby Inkletter, as a 25 year old, came in and sat on his lap. I begged Mr Howard to hold the pose while I shot off to get my camera, which Missus Inkletter had moved and and couldn't remember where she'd put it, resulting in us having a spat. By the time I got back to the lounge the former PM was gone. It would have made a great shot for posting at Fool's Paradise, even if it was just a dream.)

Oh, and yes, we did have a little Valentine's Day treat yesterday, last night in fact: we bought Subway and drove to the beach, cracked open a bottle of Apple Norfolk Punch (incorrectly labelled, as it turned out, as Original), and got lost in each other's eyes, forgetting that between us we're a hundred and five, sitting and walking along the Sorrento beach front. We had to employ the usual subterfuge to get the time to ourselves. Later we drove to continue our mutual enchantment at Mullaloo beach, only to find dozens of drunk youths disporting themselves in the park opposite the hotel, openly urinating, flaked out on the grass, and whatnot; it's times like this that one feels less than assured about our nation's future. We decided to call an end to our evening at this juncture, and come home. It was a lovely time for ourselves, and rare.

So back to today: I was up at sparrows but feeling awful, and after a phone call to Wangara Suzuki fixed a service time for early afternoon, rather than this morning, and returned to the sack for some more fitful sleep.

I left the chagrined chefette to her full day of cooking, some for the Deeler family, whose poor wife and mother, Meg, has had two more cancers diagonosed, on top of last year's neck cancer, and put the Swift in for its 1000 km service, at a bit over 2200 kms. After this I called at several places on the way home buying and attending to sundries, and was whacked out – from doing next to nothing – when I arrived back to find the delicious derringer whacked out from doing heaps: the luscious ladle had cooked up a storm.

I put on my helpless male act to pressure her into cutting up four Fuji apples with cheese, and we chatted in the lounge while I devoured them.

In the evening we did our walk to the park for her exercise, and the champion that she is, Missus Inkletter, with back pain, did 7 back and forths of the long central path.

On our return I watched Tony Jones' Q&A, before Lateline: The (Leigh) Sales Graph: It's Monday and Tuesday nights, a breather, then Friday nights for Ms Sales this year, and she looked her usual picture tonight, but for the mistake she too often makes: not wearing sufficient contrast against her skin, this time her camisole showing through her jacket was not as good a look as an unmistakeable contrast would have been.

Her interview with US Deputy Secretary of Defence, William Lynn, dressed smartly, was hard work for the poor journo, with Mr Lynn giving rather lapidary responses throughout. Lesser journalists would have concluded the interview in half the time allotted, bereft of ideas to keep the man talking, and denied springboards to anything new from his feedback. You could be forgiven for believing that the Deputy Secretary was believing that his every word was being listened to by hordes of enemy operatives itching to pull a myriad of triggers the moment he let slip anything of counter-operational value – hang on, that's probably not far from reality, in that if he let anything of strategic import slip it would likely be in the possession of deadly opponents within minutes. To be fair though to Mr Lynn, who would want a job like his, and his boss Secretary Gates, trying to put a positive spin on the ill thought out and disastrous succession of US military adventures since the Second World War?

I engaged in a huge kitchen clean up after midnight for the sacrificial saint, and managed a very late walk in the cool but humid night air. I heard a different sound on one of the local ovals and saw that twenty or so large sprinklers were shooting into the heavens as geysers, thanks obviously to the uplifting efforts of hoons. I got through to City of Stirling security on my return, and they were grateful of the information. Without being told, in this hot weather the first that might have been noticed would be some huge dying areas of grass with polka dots of green around the geyser pools.

It was well after dawn before I got to lay my weary head on the pillow beside the birthday girl…
+paytontedwithlove+

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