7.30 REPORT: Grave fears held for health of Kerry O’Brien, as young ABC fillies take over his program

(Listen to Payton L. Inkletter read this story)

Backyard Grave Fears Held for Kerry O'Brien

It’s been weeks since the ABC’s king of current affairs has been sighted, leading to justifiable concerns that Mr Kerry O’Brien – ‘Kezza’ to his mates – has fallen victim to foul play.

Federal Police have contacted Payton L. Inkletter and requested that he cooperate with their investigations; Commissioner Tony Negus hastened to scotch rumours that Mr Inkletter is a bear of interest: “Mr Inkletter wouldn’t hurt a spitfire caterpillar, it’s just that he has long established a flair for working out what’s really going on, you know, a kind of body language sleuth.”

Ms Polly ‘By Golly’ Whodunnit, crime reporter for the Sydney Morning Feral, asked Commissioner Negus “How does it feel to be on a case this big, but three days into your new position?”

“I’m shit scared, er… sorry, I’m very nervous, truth be told,” the Commissioner candidly admitted, adding “it’s by far the biggest case I’ve been involved in over my past 27 years with the AFP.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with an Apprehended Violence Order, and went on, “Look, I wish Mistah O’Brien would just turn up, in one piece, and looking ten years younger, you know, like he always does every year when he takes his extended leave.”

Ms Whodunnit jumped in “Oh, by the way sir, what do you think of all this plastic surgery the great television journalist and presenter indulges in?”

“Oh, is that so, well look, you’ve given us another lead, you know, what with the drugs and scalpels and pointy things those dudes use,” Commissioner Negus replied.

Beginning to get on a roll, helped by the relative and uncharacteristic reserve of the assembled press pack (possibly due to the mysterious and carefully timed flood of incoming Twitters to their mobiles and Blackberries from what appeared to be a couple of ABC presenters) at this specially convened conference outside the ABC’s studios in Ultimo, Ms Whodunnit braved this next question: “Sir, could Malcolm Turnbull have an insider here in Ultimo, a kind of super cool Godwin Grech with a motive, you know, who’d even take the esteemed presenter out?”

“What, just because Mistah O’Brien bludgeoned Mr Turnbull in that bristling interview back on the 10^th of August? Ummm, well now that you mention it, Turnbull does have a motive… thanks, we’ll follow that one up.” The Commissioner jotted something down in his notebook. “Any ideas on who the mole could be, Ms Whodunnit?”

“Well yes sir, I do.” She leaned forward and whispered “Rafael Epstein.”

“Rafael Epstein!!” the Commissioner bellowed at the top of his voice, spraying the front two rows of reporters, a performance Sir Les Patterson would have admired. “He wouldn’t step on a snail.”

“He would if it helped him get the Lateline program,” Ms Whodunnit pushed on.

“Fair crack of the whip Ms Whodunnit! We’re here talking about The 7.30 Report, its presenter, or more strictly, its lack thereof,” the Commissioner rolled his eyes. “What’s Lateline got to do with it? What’s that sexy chick’s name who runs it from Wednesdays on, you know, the red head? She segues on to that elegant bird who’s on straight after her.”

The formerly occupied press scrabble suddenly took note, and, like one of those perfectly choreographed impossibly thick and fast schools of fish, began texting Sex Discrimination Commissioner Elizabeth Broderick.

“I’m glad you asked Commissioner Negus,” Ms Whodunnit replied, “coz it’s those two women who I think you should be having a long cup of tea with next, making sure you’ve got two pairs of handcuffs jangling near your belly and whatever hangs from it!” Her colleagues let out a loud HURRAY! in a unison matching their synchronised texting of earlier.

“Now now little missy dear,” the Commissioner dug himself deeper, “you don’t have to be rude. But what are those broads’ names?”

“I’ll ignore those last denominators sir, but I’ll give you the names you’re after,” Ms Whodunnit paused for effect, flicked the next page in her notebook over, and held up two pictures, slowly turning 360 degrees. The gasps were long and threatened to hyperventilate their owners. “Leigh Sales and Ali Moore!”

“One minute you’re blaming The Rafster, now you’re trying to frame Ali Sales and Leigh Moore, you’ve got something wrong with you, dollface!” the Commissioner frowned, adding “Have you got your period?”

Like a North Korean military parade march, the press mob frantically texted off again to Elizabeth Broderick, except for one of them, a scruffy fellow with a three day stubble, who called out “Commissioner, there’s method in Ms Whodunnit’s madness. Those pictures are straight from that sleuthhound Payton L. Inkletter’s website, Fool’s Paradise – Infinity on a Shoestring, and I’ve been following his reasoning as well as my colleague in the frock. You do need to speak to Ms Sales and Ms Moore.”

“And where have you crawled out from sonny boy?” came the response from beneath the hat.

“I’m Chuck ‘Knuckledustah’ Itwozzuntmee, underworld correspondent for The New York Grimes.”

“Okay buster, spill your guts. What’s in it for the dames? – turning Mistah O’Brien into cray bait. And what’s lovely Raffy got to with it? Pray tell, I’m all ears.” The Commissioner did an exaggerated yawn.

“Listen carefully then butterfly chop,” Mr Itwozzuntmee said, “those two fillies have been the anchors on The 7.30 Report for two or three weeks now, charming audiences, and not a word, no mention, of the great Kezza himself. Don’t you find that curious?”

Commissioner Negus drolly replied “Barnacles ahoy! Time to pull anchor! Maybe ah do, maybe ah don’t, maybe ah will, maybe ah won’t.”

“Did you know that Rafael Epstein is to star in the lead role in the 2012 Bond film, ‘The Neutron That Balded Me’?” Itwozzuntmee pressed on.

“Oh dear me, I confess I didn’t!” Negus yawned the louder.

“And that Epstein wears a Beretta 418 concealed on his person every day, drinks Vespers, grain vodka only?” The New York Grimes reporter thumped his flagon.

“Good god man! Is there a punch line? I haven’t got all day!” the Commissioner’s well manicured fingers doing a fair rendition of a Rachmaninoff solo piece.

“I’ll speak slowly, and I’ll say it only once, you uppity overly decorated snout,” the street wise reporter said, taking a swig, “those sweet ‘harmless ladies’, Muuzzz’s Moore and Sales, they don’t like going home so late, they’d rather be home in time to watch Spicks and Specks, cuddled up with their squeezes, they’re running short of vartarmurn lurv, so these chic chicks strike a deal, they’re gonna share The 7.30 Report between ’em. Only one problem, a big red one: Kezza the Great, that hoary old buffalo, he’s been running that outfit since ninety five, he’s got his imprint all over that joint, he ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Itwozzuntmee pulled a trademark green pen out of his pocket for effect, to the astonishment of those old enough to remember, and kept it in his right hand as he continued: “So these girls get to thinking, ‘We’ve heard Raffles lament that he’s always on the wrong side of the screen for Lateline, and how he would like nothing more than to kill the program every night at eleven and retire to the well equipped private bar of Mr O’Brien’s back of the Green Room, and smoke, drink, and woo and canoodle the lap dancers till dawn. Let’s offer him the gig, on condition he does a little something for us.’”

You could have heard a pin drop. Spitting his plug of baccy at the feet of the Commissioner, and imbibing a chaser from the flagon, the street hardened reporter kept going, with “That little something is: ‘Raffybabs, the gig you’ve always wanted is yours, just take Mistah O’Brien out.’ Within twenty four hours no-one’s seen hide nor hair of O’Brien’s arse. And there’s one less slug in Epstein’s Beretta.” He blew imaginary smoke from the ‘barrel’ of that green pen.

Jaws were dropping… “If I was you Commissioner, I’d have that little chat to those girls, and send a team of ground penetrating radar operating snouts to comb the backyards of both those ‘bootylicious babes’, as I’m sure you call them, and don’t be surprised to find half of O’Brien at each of them!”

The gaggle of reporters, after getting over the shock, began to create one fine hubbub, scrambling for their vehicles, their mobiles, their gooseberries or whatever they’re called, the commotion was not poetry in motion, more like a riot in locomotion. Ms Whodunnit shouted “Those Twitters, they were sent by Sales and Moore, to distract us, the sassy broads!”

“Mind your language bitch, or you’ll be spending the night in the can!” Negus hollered, while he was packing up his paraphernalia.

Editor’s note: If there are any developments to this horrifying scenario, I’ll post them here…

+paytontedwithlove+

UMPLE DAIS: “How did Missus Inkletter’s baby brother come to be fufty years of age?” a puzzled Payton L. Inkletter asks, checking her latest wrinkles.

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

09^th September 2009:

Wednesday: I was aproned up and working studiously in the kitchen, for a man’s work is never done, when the delinquents arrived from yet another gallivant. The bonnie Beretta had gone to the Dianella spinning group at Menora this morning, and I rose when she arrived back in the early afternoon, only to have her dutifully leave soon after to take The Dear Leader somewhere.

It wasn’t long after they got back that Baby Inkletter arrived for some dressmaking requests and fittings of the material girl, who again left with The Dear Leader not long after lobbing home, to visit Umple Dais, her brother, who turned fifty today, to deliver cake, gifts, frankincense, and myrrh. While they were doing this, Reeve Chocson called in ‘briefly’, but we were soon engaged in a debate with Baby Inkletter, who pulled me up over the mildest of subterfuges she overheard me telling Reeve, one that I would have engaged him in if more folk were present when he had arrived, regarding a planned bee hive raiding at his place soon. Some chocolate went west during the discussion, and the young one was not at all moved by our protestations and defences; the young have such zeal for impractical and impossible idealism; I was young once and remember my own stances, so many of which I’ve come 180 degrees around upon today; give The Baby twenty years, and I’d be very surprised if her particular idealism of this day’s particular focus will have survived.

And how kind of Reeve to drop off another bottle of his ‘death is preferable to disease’ herbal hooch blaster juice, for my continued consumption. He stayed much longer than he should have, for he had still much to attend to before this day was over, but it was enjoyable to spend the bit of time with him that he did spare. I did a few jobs for Baby Inkletter on the computer before she left, and what with this, that, and the other, including finishing, finally, the marathon kitchen clean up for my harassed honey, it was dark.

We three, after the little one had left, settled in for the fun line up on Aunty, until I took The Dear Leader home after half nine. But I am getting ahead of myself, for The 7.30 Report revealed yet again that Mr O’Brien is still absent: The More O’Kerry (O’Brien) Volume: I’ve about decided it’s time to contact the Federal Police to report my suspicions that Ali Moore and Leigh Sales have taken Kerry O’Brien out, probably giving the actual job to Rafael Epstein, given his Agent 007 credentials. The Ali Moore or Less: looking more beautiful than a woman has a right to, Ms Moore lit up the screen in a toppingly dark blue rolled collared jacket, with an excellently contrasting white modesty panel, ‘softly’ tight hair pulled back and behind, leaving her trademark understated make-up beautiful face to radiate gently out to the doting male audience, and doubtless to the occasional Leswegian, an unadorned and minimalist décolletage completing the vision. Match that Kerry O’Brien! The story tonight that ruffled me a bit was Kirsten Murray’s report on the examination launched by Defence Personnel Minister Greg Combet, into possibly increasing the combat roles of women. I’m not in favour of it.

The New Inventors, Spicks and Specks, and The Librarians were the usual gems that they always are, by which time I was ready to retreat to do some computer work, after returning the hoariest one as mentioned earlier. In no time it was time for Lateline: The (Leigh) Sales Graph: What a restorative the sight of Ms Sales was this evening! From the glow in her hair, styled well, to her subtle effect make-up, to her pastel shaded blue-green (if these eyes of mine were informing me correctly) chiffon long sleeved blouse, to her camisole and unadorned décolletage, what more could we ask? Well, to nitpick, just one thing: a small piece, even tacked on, of darker contrasting material on the front of the camisole, perhaps extending to the edges of the collar folds of the outer blouse at the breast line; this would have worked better against her very white skin, while keeping the near invisibility of the camisole beneath the blouse. Nevertheless, all in all, she looked femininely svelte.

Tonight’s interview by Ms Sales had me quite fixated, for when a politician of the more odious class is on, anything can happen. Before I give my analysis, I should remark that it is so easy for us armchair critics to give our ten cents’ worth, when we have never conducted a live interview with anyone, let alone with practiced skunks of the political persuasion; I take my hat off to the skills of the ABC journalists and anchors for the, in general, excellent job they pull off, tackling all and sundry, in politics, business, medicine, science, literature, you name it, and providing we the viewers with much to think about and be informed by, as well as entertainment. The fact that they commit botch ups occasionally is not at all remarkable: they are human after all, like the rest of us; except they are on display, in spotlights where angels fear to tread.

And so to that interview: The (Christopher) Pyne O Cleen (Anti) Septic Assessment: Having been forewarned from the outset that Ms Sales would be interviewing Christopher Pyne, Opposition Spokesman for Education, later in the program, I ducked into the kitchen and swallowed a Pramin and an Acimax; doubtless Ms Sales had taken a couple of Maxalons herself. Good on Ms Sales for keeping the Shadow Minister out of his comfort zone for so much of the time during this discussion on the primary schools infrastructure component of the Government’s economic stimulus spending. She has not been so good at doing this with Pyne’s colleague Joe Hockey, but to be fair, it would be harder to put the pressure on in-studio than on screen, as Pyne was for this one; repeatedly Ms Sales pulled Mr Pyne up, legitimately, to keep him on track, and to show up some of his spurious and hypocritical claims. As an aside, I’m still coming to grips with the claims of some unkind people who point out that Mr Pyne can kill cockroaches within ten paces of his screen presence, and a hundred when he’s in person. Putting that aside aside, Mr Pyne looked his usual immaculately groomed self, given that he considers himself future Prime Minister of Australia material, God help us all.

I think it is a very important role of Oppositions to examine how Governments spend money and manage the nation, and keep them on their toes, and out of their macro-level comfort zones; I am happy Mr Pyne is trying to do this, and shining the light on the current school infrastructure spending to identify any waste; however, the stench of hypocrisy from this yet to be classified mammal rose beyond his legendary personal stench of self righteousness throughout this interview, and this appeared certainly not to be lost on Ms Sales.

Mr Pyne said ‘…the public get really riled about Governments that waste their hard earned taxes. There is no responsibility greater for a Government than making sure that taxpayers’ money is not wasted.’ (Listen to him here - he must have taken speed! - it's only 52 seconds long.) I remind you Mr Pyne that the Howard Government – of which you were a member – on the strength of your motherhood statement – wasted a lot of money, much of it on self promotion, much of it on purely political pursuits; for but one example, do you remember the tens upon tens of millions of dollars spent advertising the Workchoices legislation, later ditched? I don’t like Governments of any colour wasting money, but all the recent Federal Governments in Australia of both persuasions have been equally guilty of such excesses. I don’t think this fact is lost on as many citizens as Mr Pyne pretended tonight it is, to his side’s favour. He said ‘(the Labor Government) …spending like drunken sailors … in order to essentially buy the election…’ Good god man! Exactly which Government are you talking about?: both in fact; all in fact.

Mr Pyne really flagged his feeble-minded credentials when he said ‘The government will own every interest rate rise between now and the federal election.’ Good on Ms Sales for telling him that his argument was ‘a little disingenuous’, reminding him that interest rates are at emergency settings and that ‘it is inevitable that they are going to rise’. The fool barged on and said that ‘the Government says that they are at emergency levels and that it’s inevitable that they would rise, and of course they would say that…’; so does the Reserve Bank, so do the history books.

Not satisfied that he had spewed enough hypocrisy around, Mr Pyne complained that everything Kevin Rudd does is about politics; wow mate, you’re right there, but your implied point that Turnbull and Howard are and were different is stomach turning. Now the near coup de grâce was delivered by Ms Sales towards the end, when she pluckily said ‘…Julia Gillard once called you “a mincing poodle”’, and it was theatre to watch the magnificent self control from the pelvis up of Mr Pyne, who didn’t even give away a Tom Cruise Mission Impossible cheek flinch, but I’d bet tomorrow night’s dinner that his butt cheeks flinched. (It's worth listening to his reaction; it's only 28 seconds long.) Personally, I am upset at how unkind that remark of Ms Gillard's is toward poodles! I think our Deputy Prime Minister was as close as nearmost to spot on.

It’s so nice to know that if Christopher Pyne was the minister (on his own say so), everything would be perfectly managed. Thank you Ms Sales for a great interview, so illuminating of the mediocre and archetypical nature of the beast. (Warning to those who don’t ever want Christopher Pyne to be Prime Minister one day, but think his mediocrity will prevent that happening: ambition is the more powerful factor; look at John Winston Howard.)

Letterman’s interview with Tony Blair showed how popular he appears to be with the American people, if the audience was representative.

I worked at the computer most of the night, getting emails and various jobs done, plus some writing. Dawn was past history when I finally got to bed, courageously slipping in beside the smoking Beretta.

+paytontedwithlove+

FARTERS’ DAY: “Who would ever choose to be a Marter when there are the delights of Farters’ Day?” asks a spoilt rotten and aMAZED Payton L. Inkletter.

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

06^th September 2009:

Sunday: Up at sparrows, assuming the sparrows are tardy ones, I dragged myself up just after nine, needing double the sleep, not the least reason being having the loquacious loquat talk the back leg off a Border Leicester last night for hours, till very late, in addition to way too little sleep for the last two nights. Oh, and despite the wonderful time we had and the great company of the last two days: the Chocsons for din dins Friday night, and lunch at niece Elizabeth’s and Michele’s in East Victoria Park yesterday, at which The Babies Ink&Peggletter were present, as were my dear mum and sister Mary, and also The Dear Leader, it was very tiring for my darling dewdollup and moi. We are quickly knocked for six by more than one round of dizzying social engagements in rapid succession.

I was virtually ready for when The Babies Ink&Peggletter arrived about ten, and I had some nice presents to open, before we set off north on Wanneroo Road to I knew not where, ensconced in the back of the Laser, cuddling Payton the Koala Bear and sucking my thumb. The day was cool, cloudy, and it drizzled for a total of but ten minutes during the whole day. When we turned into Neaves Road north of Wanneroo, I still had no idea to where we were headed: we travelled east for a long way, before turning in to the carpark at The Maze, which I had never heard of.

The next five hours were spent having a great deal of fun with two very special young people, my daughter and her partner, doing things from playing mini golf a couple of times, in which I hit a hole in one on the eighth, to Frisbee golf, to walking through five amazing mazes, being hopelessly lost in each one, to going down a children’s corkscrew slide like an overgrown kid, to a lovely picnic lunch, to a koala talk – in which Payton the Koala Bear got to pat a real live koala bear (while the fellow holding said stuffed bear was getting a few lingering sanity establishment looks from folk) – to seeing kangaroos, emus, peafowl, the biggest dog in the universe, every imaginable variety of parrot on earth, you name it, and more. Simon the koala man won a spot in my heart – strictly platonically! – for his generosity of time and talk about his koahrlahr bahrs; he is almost a surrogate mother to them.

It was after five when we got back to our place, and the irreplaceable iguana greeted us with curiosity as to where and what we’d been and done. The Babies had some refreshments with us – something cool to sip and nice to munch upon – before leaving at about six to spend the evening with Baby Peggletter’s dad. Well, all I can say is yet again I have been spoilt rotten, and I cannot adequately express in a few words how much it means to me. Thank you Babies Ink&Peggletter.

I attended to a health problem, and then tried to muster the energy to visit Kip Dumpling with one of the world’s largest mere trifles, made by the pulchritudinous possum, a couple of days early for his sixtieth birthday. I made the mistake of laying down in bed after a shower to have a rest, and before I knew where I was it was over three hours later; the mere trifle will have to wait till tomorrow evening, if Kip is home.

I took a tinkle, and with the ravishing roulette round settling in to watch Compass on Aunty, I crawled back into bed. Over an hour later I still hadn’t been claimed by Mistress Nodette’s divine embrace, despite being by this time cuddled by the living divine embrace of the Birmingham beauty, and so I begrudgingly left the warmth and love and comfort and nurture of the low thread counts, and got up towards midnight, just knowing it would be hours before I could sleep again.

It was after three in the wee smalls, and I had been writing for a while, when I decided to watch the vodcasts of two of Friday night’s Lateline interviews: The (Leigh) sales graph: What a professional cut Ms Sales projected tonight! I liked the colour of her dark jacket, but I cannot quite discern the shade from my computer’s rendering of the vodcast: maybe it is a dark fawn to chocolate shade? And the blouse complemented it perfectly, its mottled colours ideal, and they were small enough to create the vital balance or wholistic pattern effect. In toto, her apparel matched her lovely hair colour ideally (styled just so!), and all was rounded off by her subtle effect make-up, allowing her natural glow to shine unimpeded.

To THE interview: my word, Ms Sales gave us, with the enthusiastic support of her borderline hapless interlocutor in London, Treasurer Wayne Swan, a very watchable interview! And how smartly attired was Mr Swan! He’d killed and tanned one of the last golden zebras to make his tie, and it stood out like a barber’s pole in his crisp white shirt. This one is a curious case, for it combines the zest of an intelligent, keen, and focussed journalist, who just so happened to miss out on her morning coffee and resolved to sublimate the frustration of this misfortune into grilling a politician, with the equal determination of a high performing pressure cooked polly, who has just been unjustly slighted, to defend himself and his Government. For the record, I think Mr Swan was more justified in his defences than Ms Sales was in her flacks, but the way Ms Sales couched and persistently delivered them was approaching poetry in motion, a kind of Kerry O’Brien mellowed from his second bottle of Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup, and I think, to their credit, both conducted themselves professionally. And for what it’s worth, I think Ms Sales was ‘off the rails’ in Mr Swan’s words with her criticism of the signage at our nation’s schools, but boy am I glad she kept asking, for it delivered an engrossing stoush; I’m sure I noticed the same double decker crossing the bridge there in London about ten times so it’s driver could catch more of the interview; is there anything more appropriate than keeping our politicians out of their comfort zones, when it comes to examination of the way they steward the nation and its funds? I think we only caught a glimpse of the discomfort the Treasurer was in at interview’s end, when he did whip his earpiece out with some haste. I hope Ms Sales got her coffee before she left Ultimo that evening.

But then maybe she didn’t need to after the tonic of cornering that delightful Rottweiler puppy, Stephen Long, for the weekly wind up interview of all things economic: The (Stephen) long and short of it: With preternatural restraint, Ms Sales refused to disport herself as she introduced her favourite weekly interviewee, and yet again Mr Long, who looked as dapper as all get out as usual, gave his trademark discriminating analysis, mixed with his wit, this time mainly about the toxic debt smoke and mirrors tricks of the banks with the nods and winks of the world’s governments. And hallelujah, Mr Long gave us his classic and loveable special smile at the end.

It was well after five, with dawn not too far off, by the time I got to feeling like I could try sleeping again.

Yesterday I was chuffed to receive a very heartfelt thanks by email from Margo Reymundo for a review I posted to my website of her remarkable album ‘My Heart’s Desire’.

+paytontedwithlove+

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…

03^rd 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+

BRITAIN: “I’d be a thinking I was Rip Van Winkle, going to bed Wensdy night and waking up 11 days later the next morning,” Payton L. Inkletter reckons

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

02^nd September 2009:

Wednesday: Having done a marathon write and photo enhancing session last night at the keyboard, as well as a kitchen clean up to put me sweet with the tantalising toffee apple, it wasn’t till well after dawn that this lonely traveller slid between the fleecy low thread counts. This would help explain my dragging myself up about three in the afternoon, when the smooth smoocher returned from her first spinning social in over twenty five years at Menora with the Handweavers’, Spinners’ and Dyers’ Guild of Western Australia (Oxford comma challenged), which lasted a few hours from mid morning. She really enjoyed the break from the time stealers back around these parts.

What follows now is a case of should I or shouldn’t I be so candid? I did a bit of fertilising and watering of the rather neglected over this winter Sansevierias out the front, before weeding and watering the struggling pair of cocos palms near the road. While engaged at this, the neighbour’s on the uphill side’s father, who is checking on the property daily while his daughter and son-in-law, with their two children, are on holiday in their homeland of Macedonia, came out with his wheelbarrow on the way back down the street several houses to go home for the night. I had a fairly long pleasant chit chat with him, despite his poor English, and he then went on his way.

It was getting close to dark, and I returned to the backyard to do a few odds and ends in the remaining light. I heard the same neighbours’ dog bark, Jacky, and I went up the back to check whether he was in our yard or his own, because the last half a dozen panels of the fibro fence between us were blown down in a storm in mid-July, and it will be an insurance repair job when the neighbours return. As it turned out Jacky was in his own yard, and I for some reason continued up to the area to look around. I noticed suddenly that a pack of ten 8 foot long galvanized star pickets were gone, which I have had stored maybe 15 feet back in our yard from the damaged fence line. They cost a small fortune when I bought them, and they could be double now, and I had plans to use them this spring to push back a hedge of bamboo near the back of the house.

Recently it crossed my mind when up there that they could walk, but I honestly never felt the need to move them, feeling that I could trust particular folk given that we are neighbours. I quickly scoured my mind for any chance that I had in fact moved them recently, which I quickly ascertained that I hadn’t, for they are heavy, and were tied by wire together in the pack, and I would surely remember such an effort, given that I last glanced at them maybe a fortnight or less ago. Now I began to get very angry.

The nibs’ backyard is completely fenced off from the front, and a key is needed to open the carport access to the rear. I knew with a certainty who was responsible…

One thing I despise is dealing with people ripping me off. All my life till recentish times I’ve let it happen, because I so dislike confronting mongrel behaviour aimed at me. However, I have finally learnt that some behaviour is very best confronted immediately, and with a force that the perpetrator respects. It is important to know what your enemy respects, for anything less than this will not achieve the desired result. I spent a bit of time calming down, my heart racing, and did a quick alpha state meditation, followed by a quick prayer, then grabbed another loose 8 foot galvanized star picket and an umbrella (it was raining lightly), and in the very faint light walked down the street some half a dozen houses.

I put the star picket on the paving near the front door, and could hear folk out the back. I found the side gate was not latched, and marched around there, where the fellow of interest was seated socialising with his son and another couple. I asked XYZ to come and speak with me, beckoning him out to the front. He followed me, and after he arrived there with me, I pointed to the picket on the ground and said to the effect: “XYZ, some one of your friends has taken ten of my pickets, and they will be put back very quickly.”

He was shocked but composed, and I went on to tell him that this was not on, neighbours must have complete trust in each other, I pointed out that I have never done anything like the same even though the opportunity has been there… He broke in to say “They are here” and “They’ll be back tomorrow” in words very similar to these (his first language is not English remember).

I told him that as far as I was concerned, once they were returned it never happened, and that ‘his friends’ must never do anything like it again, and as a conclusion I told him that while I am generally very mild I can get very angry. He obviously believed me (it’s true by the way), and said many times to the effect “Don’t worry Payton, they’ll be back”, and when I had told him they can be put at the carport, he said “No, I’ll put them back in place.”

I returned relieved that he did not pretend ignorance and admitted quickly, but it took me some time to regain my equanimity. Why do we do such things to each other? And this fellow is not poor, not struggling as we are, nor is his daughter’s family beside us, the yard through which he took his spoils. Janny knows, in retrospect, when it actually happened: two days ago on Monday when I left in the car for Guildford to take Bob swimming, within moments a vehicle pulled in to the drive next door, and she heard scraping metal up the back, thinking it was in the neighbours’ yard, and Jacky barked a lot. Nevertheless she did walk out into the backyard lest the dog was going to make a nuisance of itself in our backyard, but not far enough to see what was actually going on. Then a little later she heard great laughter from the nibs’ carport, and soon after the vehicle left, down the hill toward the nibs’ father, XYZ’s house.

Too much excitement for me, and I really hate confronting bastards, or more exactly perhaps, bastard behaviour. I will do my best to greet the culprit, who we see several times each week visiting the house while he is looking out for it, and just as often at all other times, due to his visits to his two grandchildren, as though it never happened, true to my word. He walks up every day all year round.

The Dear Leader ate with us and watched the great Wednesday line up on Aunty, until I returned him before ten, and I did some writing until Lateline: The (Leigh) sales graph: Regular readers know that I have waxed lyrical about how Ali Moore is an excellent template for elegant appearance for the ABC’s current affairs and news presenters, but I never expected Kerry O’Brien to take it to heart, for he has been looking the image of Ali this week on his 7.30 Report! But enough of that: Leigh Sales took my breath away for how sublime she looked tonight. That peachy hair style so marvellously complemented her face, which was graced with subtle effect make-up only, tiny earrings and no other jewellery, and a smart and very becoming black approaching-elbow-length sleeved dress with white banding, with diminutive décolletage; she was a picture that still has my head spinning. And a chalcedony apparition to boot, as clean as the driven snow; there are women who would scratch eyes out for skin like this. Did I mention the sparkle? Or should I say ‘scintillation’? Wow. No, WOW!

So, was anything of import on the program? Well yes, actually Ms Sales had an in-studio interview of interest to me with that well fed svelte sparrow, no, a sparrow on clover, Opposition Treasury Spokesman Joe Hockey, who did again what he does well, and that is to bucket wholly everything the Labor Government does, and manage, as always, to spin every good thing as a result of the former Howard Government. Who has noticed that the nifty charmer Hockey exerts a powerful effect on Ms Sales, who can barely resist his charisma, especially in-studio? Yet again Hockey caused Ms Sales a few moments of giggling like a school girl – brief as they were – the first time calling on him: ‘Well come on, throw it out there!’; the second after Mr Hockey mentioned Peter Costello: her smile was so incredibly effusive, her eyes were smiling as powerfully in congruence, but hey, this is a slimey politician, like them all (with few exceptions), and it’s better that they not be allowed to gain this degree of traction. To be fair, these were just moments out of over 13 minutes; Mr Hockey should be very happy with the amount of self spruiking he managed. I have advised Ms Sales and Mr Hockey to book a room before, and tonight’s performance is suggestive of their having taken my advice.

Mr Hockey had some good things to say, when professionally and sensitively questioned by Ms Sales, about the private versus public lives of politicians, but unfortunately he also missed an opportunity to affirm that indeed it is best for politicians to set better examples ethically and morally than average, instead giving a fairly mediocre and stuck-for-words analysis of the general principles of that aspect of the issue.

The elegance factor was not over yet, for Ticky Fullerton made the sun rise for the second time today when she fronted Lateline Business: she looked grand (take a look see), the result of the enchanting combination of her hair style, her top, her unadorned décolletage, her subtle make-up. Well done Aunty’s presenters tonight!

I began writing in my sanctuary, interrupted first by watching David Letterman, and much later by Janny calling out for help from the bedroom, which gave me a fright: she had a very bad thigh muscle cramp, one of the banes of her life. This took almost a half hour to settle down with our usual measures, including the percussion massager.

Dawn was approaching on this chilly night, and I was still writing. This day has been punctuated with a very unpleasant interlude: I would be happy never to have cause to confront anyone again ever in all eternity like I did with the neighbour’s father.

+paytontedwithlove+