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Be all that as it may, meanwhile:
'In other news…'
Monday: Upon the advice of the bellicose beauty, I suspended my plans for several hours of activity after midnight last night, including a late late walk, and came to bed before one a.m. As a result, I felt marginally more alive after my several hour long wake-up routine.
I did a frantic car wash, breaking the rules by daring to spray the car with the garden rose to get me started and to wash the suds off, as well as potting a dozen or so Aloe vera plants I have had soaking in diluted liquid seaweed for a day or so. The last ones I potted several months ago have done brilliantly, due to a combination of better sunlight control and pure worm castings from my no-holds-barred worm farm bins buried to their gills along a bamboo hedge; these worm farms are the ones that I throw everything into, including meat scraps, from the kitchen, and with fly control via glass coffee table tops until they no longer attract flies, I then introduce worms to perform their magic. At least 12 months later I have the most sweet, fertile, bones permeated, worm casting compost imaginable. And at the beginning of this year I had enough Aloe vera for the first time ever to begin swallowing daily about a third of a leaf's gel, scraped out with a spoon, taken neat, with much Tim the Tool Man grunting and strutting. I am still alive almost two months later…
Then the good lady and I bundled ourselves into the Swift and headed south, with Willie Nelson's 'On the Road Again' thumping from the onboard boom box, and spent the afternoon with my mother, taking her shopping at Booragoon and here and there, bumping into her sister and hubby (Aunt Win and Uncle John) by accident in the process. And all of this on The Dear Leader's 80th birthday, with whom we spent the afternoon yesterday celebrating one day early together with Umple Dais and The Babies Ink&Peggletter in their pad in Adelaide Terrace. They put on the most delicious meal, the equal of many top restaurants, and the main course was cooked on their Weber rotisserie barbecue, permeating the prawns, chickens, and stuffing with a exquisite hickory smoke flavour! Droolers eat your hearts out!
In what's become a delightful ritual from my standpoint, Mum treated me to a lunch at Miss Maud's at Booragoon first off (the preternaturally self-controlled peppercorn
doesn't eat lunch), the old dear (Miss Maud that is) having obviously picked the pumpkins for the sweet potato and pumpkin roll just this morning, about dawn.
We didn't make housefall till near seven. The day had been warm to hot. We were buggered, to put it politely, and just from driving and walking around shopping aisles, and a bit of eating by me. Yet the devoted devotee made me din dins, and I got My Beloved and The 7.30 Report under my belt.
We went for a walk about half nine in the local park by half moonlight for an hour, with our usual half time sit down on the only bench to break up the exercise for the fragile frisson. I consider myself to be her personal trainer, and she makes me work hard often, when she doesn't want to go, due, to be fair, to her exhaustion or pain, but invariably she thanks me afterwards. Janny's blood sugars are responding very well to the exercise, to support the work the Byetta is doing.
Did I say Byetta?: many times over the past more than a year I have mentioned in this blog how nauseous it had been making Janny every day, even resulting in all out vomiting several times a month. It turns out she was using it incorrectly, waiting an hour before eating after the injection, rather than 45 minutes. She is certain this was the first face to face advice she was given in late 2008 when she started on the drug, the Gila monster goosie venom. For three weeks now since a check up with her wonderful specialist, Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital's Dr Joey Kaye, she has had but a fraction of the nausea she previously was enduring.
Additionally, the gradual weight loss seems to be resuming, all from a gentle but regular stroll in the local park, aided admittedly by a whip cracking husband, but one who was and is granted permission to wield said whip. I do understand rather well, however, the range of painful impediments Janny has to struggle through to achieve what we're doing. If anyone deserves the health improvements (liver, kidney, blood sugars, plus more) that she has gained since the Byetta trial, this gal does. And I am very proud of her. I do believe that I will deserve some kind of medal also, when we reach all the health goals she's set herself, for the hell on earth she's put me through during the regime's enactment, the cantankerous cuddlepot (reducingly) that she is (am I joking?).
And so, we got back after Lateline had been going for some time: The (Leigh) Sales Graph: tonight felt like déjà vu, for surely I made this complaint last Monday?: Ms Sales doesn't appear to understand the poor look of skin-toned camisoles or modesty panels worn by female presenters on serious programs such as professional current affairs. They have a place elsewhere: I suggest they look fine for shows such as RocKwiz, Talkin' 'Bout Your Generation, Spicks and Specks, Good News Week, where women are expected and tolerated, even encouraged, to emphasise, to accentuate, their feminine physique both literally and by suggestion. Not in programs like Lateline. Just because it is not uncommon throughout the news media, especially in the commercial world, doesn't make the breach of this principle any less opportunity-costful.
Precisely what is my complaint?: the use of skin toned modesty panels give the impression at first glance and casual glance that the woman has a far deeper plunge to her neckline, which if it were so, would be a huge faux pas in this genre of program. And the déjà vu continues from last week: immediately following Lateline, Whitney Fitzsimmons on Lateline Business, yet again was a superb example of professional dress for a woman in such a position, and her modesty panel was an excellent contrast to both her skin and her jacket. Ms Fitzsimmons is flying high the dress and make-up standards flag that Ali Moore so long carried with such grace and wisdom.
Having rabbitted on about Ms Sales' darned skin toned camisole now for ages, let me add that she looked superb, but for this one detraction for this particular genre. She would be spot on wearing such skin tones for events such as a media award night, at which, incidentally, she deserves to win several book stops for her quality journalism. (Her husband should hide that damn camisole until such events.)
And so, now that I am all but a spent force barely able to muster another sentence tonight, I will make reference to her interview from London with The Times' boyish looking chief political correspondent Sam Coates, but only in the general: the UK election, likely in May, I think will be a very significant event, for the party that governs after that date will have a leviathan task ahead of it to try to salvage the once Great Britain from a mess of its own making, just as must try the U.S.A. The current lot are damaged goods, both sides, with scandal upon scandal draining public trust, just when men and women of the highest ethical and moral fibre are needed to bring a nation, on its knees, back to standing tall and leading with the best of the few world nations that stand a chance of so doing.
And the voters must choose from the current lot! God help them, God help us all! Our leaders these days need more than ever to be of far superior character than the rank and file public, or we're destined to take a stultifyingly long time to be proud of the human race's self-governing achievements, suffering terrible costs of every kind along the way.
I headed off for a constitutional of my own about three a.m., in the cool humid air of this February week in Perth which is shaping up to be one long sauna by week's end.
+paytontedwithlove+
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