I Have Measured Out My Life in Coffee Spoons

Obviously the last entry left me tired and in need of recovery time. Or I had some really busy shifts (a self-venting spleen! not as convenient as it sounds!), lots of housework (it's a clean bathroom!) and champagne (bubbles!) played their parts in there somewhere.

I've had occasion this past couple of weeks to be told all about Listeria (a bacterium found in soft cheeses, etc., not a mouthwash*), the new redevelopment at Liverpool hospital and why I should lose weight, quit smoking and/or exercise more. Why do hospitals have such tiresome spiels? At another hospital I worked, the hold "message" was Spanish guitar music which, in and of itself, wasn't too bad. Until the fifteenth repetition on the one phone call. Perhaps I am a Philistine and have no appreciation of Spanish guitar music. The quivering first twang followed by a repetitive descending cadence; a couple of musical curlicues thrown in; it may have felt like the song that never ends (just tell me tell you about this meningitis-ridden patient so I can attend to my bleeding ears); in retrospect it seems fascinating. Much better than canned health messages from a man with a slightly nasal voice, a way-too-perky woman and elevator music in between them.

*There's a novelty. Bacterial mouthwash. Have some flora. Provided it's not Listeria monocytogenes.

I discovered small lad likes chicken giblets in rice. The outlaws/grandparents (whatever, I'm sure you can infer who I mean) came to visit last weekend. I was rude and ate only the rice because chicken giblets are not my thing. Chicken. Giblets. Erk. It's a texture thing, not a giblets thing. Mostly. The rice was rather nice though. Mother Outlaw does this marvellous chickeny-stock thing with it all.

The distance between entries has a lot more to do with my internal weather than how much I've had to do (or not - bubbles!). I keep a journal. Well of course I do, what aspirant writer doesn't? Every now and then I get a surprise at what comes out of the pen when my brain is otherwise occupied. That doesn't sound right, does it? In the zone I'm not thinking about what I'm writing (particularly not in a journal, where I'm not making a point, I'm just - SPLAT! - onto the page), it all just blurks out, to keep up with the auditory splashing metaphor. Because we all need reminders of how vomit sounds when it hits something, right?

It has been a bit odd adjusting to this new job with its long hours and minimal people time. I find I'm becoming a recluse and avoiding social situations. I left behind some pretty nasty effluvia in my old job (not entirely the reason for leaving, but certainly reason for not-staying) that has taken me a while to deal with. Simply put, a couple of people I thought were friends turned out really weren't; and the blood loss from the knives in my back didn't make staying worthwhile. (The positive "real" reasons for changing were the regularity of the roster, wanting to write a novel and my new job is about fifteen minutes from home as opposed to sixty).

Having left all of that behind (with limited success - there's nothing like hanging around with only yourself to help with obsession), I assumed the lows and not-very-high highs were just adjustment to the new! life, with the new! job and the new! time at home; I'd be back to myself in no time. Not so much. I've changed, but I have no real idea about the dimensions of this change.

It's surprising and dismaying that this betrayal* has had such repercussions. I'm not three; that grown-ups are nasty to each other is no surprise to me in prospect. But in fact it floored me. I'm thoughtless occasionally, I'm hideously forgetful, but I mean well; being deliberately nasty just isn't my style. There was a stage in all of this that I understood the idea of keeping your enemies closer, but the thought of being nice to someone who hated my guts and I loathed equally in return just isn't my cup of tea. If I don't like you I'll prefer civility. I'm not going out of my way to make your life hard.

*Betrayal seems too strong a word, but it will do in place of le mot juste. Plus it's accurate.

I always thought I would become more myself as I get older, or at least that's how it has worked before. It seems that the previous myself wasn't really working for me. So here is me, dingy and moulting to a new skin. When this particular epiphany happened (two weeks ago), the imagery seemed apt, but I was probably struggling to stay awake at the time, always a downer. If this were a self-help book the inside of the dingy would be all shiny and bright and full of new! possibilities for the new! me. I don't feel like having a new me, I want some of the old one. My sense of humour and optimism, for a start.

I suppose it feels very dull and dusty because I've limited (professional) possibilities, and the majority of my achievements to date have been professional ones. I could have taken a different kind of job which would have moved me into a management path, but the thought of it didn't thrill me. Then there's writing, very much on the back burner these days. I want to write a novel. I've wanted to write a novel for...ever. That's the next adventure, but I have this to work out first. I want my job to be something I want rather than something I show up at, but I'll settle for what I have. For now. Sound good?

The biggest blot on my horizon right this second is that it is bloody hot in this lab. I am temporarily without joggers and my current work shoes look really naff with shorts, so not only is it hot, I'm in long pants. Unless I'm in early menopause and it's hot flashes. Eek. At least I'm no longer dreaming of zombies during the day (or at night, when I sleep at night, that is).

The biggest question(s) I have at this time of the morning are a) why did four more questions pop into my head when I started this paragraph (including this one)? and b) why are the contaminated waste bags fitted into our big Sulo bins always too small? I'm not boring you to death with the other three questions. I'm sitting here typing this with the Dr Horrible soundtrack playing as specimens run in the background (run, specimens, run!). Soon I will get up and do the morning start up. Soon I will wonder if I should have that second cup of coffee (non, non, Nanette, ze diet is staying). Soon I will try not to look at the clock and count down to just how long I have to be here (the last few hours are always the hardest). Soon I will stop starting my sentences like this, tie off this blog entry and post it. Soon I'll read over it for the fifteenth time, discover the two errors I missed, edit it, re-post it, and sometime tomorrow or on the next entry I'll discover another two errors I missed and edit and re-post again. I am such a dedicated nit-picker that if I don't go and fix something broken it will bug me. For years, if that's what it takes.

Oh, I have to go and catch those running specimens. Then tidy up my coffee cup. Possibly brush my teeth. Ponder. Something. Check my stats again (I have stats these days! Thanks Robert Frost). I leave you with this thought, since I have gone from profound to profane (or at least light-hearted): "This sounds like a twelve-change-of-underwear trip." (The Cat, Terrorform, Red Dwarf.)

Fragmentation Grenade

I have no coherent thoughts this week.

This will make the half century of entries. I should do something celebratory, but baking a cake is futile internet-ically speaking. I feel slightly better than I did, with the help of paracetamol, naproxen and the occasional hot toddy. My biggest achievements for the last few days involve going to work, talking to the boys and shaving my legs. If you complain to a razor company that your legs are not silky smooth, do they send someone out to check? Does a little man with a doctor's bag come out and ask to stroke your shin? "Hmm, yes Ms Lateonenite, I see what you mean"?

I seem to have quit smoking, which has prolonged the illness. I almost hesitate to say it, because it's only been a week. Strangely I don't have any (more) cravings for the nicotine (so far), which is just as well, because nicotine replacement therapies make me want to hurl. Seriously. Barf city. Over the weekend I kept picturing myself stopping at a service station on my way home from work, but it was late and I was tired. Today I keep thinking along the lines of not wanting to quit, because I'm a rebel, a crazy young kid living for the now. Sure I am.

Now I've spent time typing this out, of course I really, really, really want to have a smoke. Too bad I don't have any then, isn't it?

We have a (relatively) new supermarket near us that boasts the wonders of the self-service checkout. Small lad keeps calling it the Silver Surfer. All we need is a Fantastic Four deli counter and we'll have the set. (Would the Thing be slicing meat, or would he be a kind of pastrami?)

In an effort to change up on my dream cycles, to wit: ditch the damn zombies, I've been mainlining Blackadder and Red Dwarf. It seems to be working except for re-reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies yesterday. I don't know why I did it either. I like the book, a lot, but that doesn't make up for being pursued by drippy corpses in my sleep.

Dear Tarted-Up White Pages Website,

Perhaps when I search for a business at a given postcode and suburb, I am not searching for a business at a completely-different-suburb-on-the-other-side-of-Sydney-but-I-can't-tell-that-until-I-click-on-that-link. Just a thought.

Disgruntled.

It really is late and I am tired. This is shift four out of five and my eyelids are ready to slam shut. Time to move around. Midnight will be here soon and I'll have lots to do after that. Mwahahahaha!

That Hoary Cripple, With Malicious Eye

I've spent the last six days in bed! Or on the lounge! Same thing! I was so bored today I nearly painted my nails! Black, but still! I feel very weird! I'm in at work tonight! Not sure this is a good idea! I have fifteen minutes before the trauma specimen finishes and I have to do a crossmatch! No pressure! I think I may lose my voice! That would be trouble! Semaphore doesn't work down phones! I've tried! The phone wound up rebounding into my face after catching on my out-flung arm! These exclamation marks are giving me a headache!

The fog has settled in for the night; the streetlights are hazy and soft, illuminating little. The road, bordered by untended grassy fields, dips ahead into the black. The mist catching on the grasses looks like frost; cold and breathtaking. Visibility is at ten metres and dropping: a man stands in the long grass by the side of the road. Unseen, he leans down to fuss at something at his feet, then looks at the road. He can hear nothing, but the fog - the blasted fog - could be hiding anything. He moves in front of the unseen bundle and reaches down. He pulls ropes up to his shoulder, turns and pulls the bundle behind. It could be a rolled-up rug. It could be.

Husbandly caught the lurgy as well, but he, natch, is shaking it off after a day or so. Shouldn't there be some rule about taking it in turns for illnesses? Not that I wish him sick, but it seems a bit unfair when I subsist on four hours sleep a day Mondays and Tuesdays while toddling off to work all night. Ah. Perhaps I have put my finger on the problem. Hmmm. Will have to consider options, yes?

The three sisters tended house for their ailing mother, a cliche in four parts. None of the sisters married; their mother and eventually they themselves discouraged such things. They grew their own vegetables and took in sewing when times were lean, or, not so lean, for special occasions. Over the years their prowess with needles earned them celebrity. They might have been known as witches, else.

My ten minutes is well up and has been for a while; there's been a problem. Now I have to wait for a new sample. Lucky me. I shall leap (leap!) into action when it arrives. I really do need a life instead of alternating odd paragraphs. I would have liked to have taken some more time off but ditto the needing a medical certificate and unable to get to doctor; I'm not so badly off as I was, I'm just tired. Or...

There were cigarette butts jammed into a styrofoam cup by the back door, squashed into dirty liquid that might have been coffee. She hoped none of the staff knew she came out here, but didn't care enough to stay inside. She could sit by that bed for only so long before the walls closed in, the smell became unbearable, the scream inside her head no longer un-screamed. The hospital was tiny - he should have been flown out to Sydney yesterday. There was a storm, she could feel the acid dripping off the words - more important people than her husband would be flown out first. Then the storm. He was still here and no longer conscious.

Ferrets dance in my fevered brain and I feel I should explain; the darkness and dreck. Nah. I just like the word ferret. I wish I had brought my pillow tonight though, if only to be able to rest. Every now and then. Between samples, as it were. At least I no longer have to do fertility counts (yes, that is what it sounds like - Gentlemen, if your swimmers were slow, I salute you - they were easier to count). I sometimes miss some of the things I've done in my career. I told small lad about being an enucleator for the Eye Bank (yes, removal of eyes for donation). It was a brief period. His response? "Yuck." Succinct. I like it.

I hear the sea booming at the shoreline through the crack of the window and wonder if I should be finding it relaxing. I smell jasmine from the trellis just under the window: the night should be warmer so the scent of jasmine can herald some promise. The smell of flowers should always be warm, because the first time I smelt gardenia was at a funeral. The body was cold so the smell was stale.

See? Lots of detail in the unwritten words. It is long past midnight now, I had to break off to do all sorts of work and ... stuff. I am going to put this in under Septemeber, because I like temporal upsets (it's like I have my own TARDIS). I would sing if I had a song to sing, but in lieu of singing I shall spare your eardrums and simply say, if they held upper-class twit of the year, someone would claim discrimination. It would be an open event for twits of all socioeconomic dispositions. There's a thought, yes?

'Tis the Times' Plague, When Madmen Lead the Blind

Ridiculous things I feel guilty about today:

I called in sick for work yesterday, even though

I've been sick for four days, flat on my back with fever, laryngitis and sore throat

I haven't cooked dinner for four days

I haven't done the ironing.

I'm still not terrific today, but I doubt I'll get in to see my doctor. I can't have more than one night off without a medical certificate, which is a great way to encourage Dudley Doo-rights to come in, even when they feel like death, and are going to infect the rest of the staff. Colour me collapsing if I am as sick as I feel.

I tried to have a shower yesterday, but it was too hard to stand in one place while I washed, so I had the quickest bath ever. Baths, in my opinion, should be bubbled, candle-scented and furnished with a good book. Therefore they are always an hour long. Not yesterday, and I was toying with the idea of hacking all my hair off so I could stop the sweaty-haired lout feeling every time I turned my head on the pillow. I've worked my way through nearly all of the drugs in my drug bowl. I have a fruit bowl on top the microwave full of drug packets. Something in druggy literature must have dripped through, but it's not as fun as it sounds. No party packs of 'ludes, coke or tabs of questionable origin yet delirious effects in our household. Dammit.

Small lad scored this one on Friday and the poor mite simply slept for two days. He still has moments of looking peaky, but is otherwise fine, lucky for me, because staggering around yesterday to get his lunch and even conversation (such as it was) was getting a bit much. Today small one (for whom I am going to have to find a new soubriquet, since he's not so little anymore) is off to vacation care with the Y! M! C! A! (do the arm movements for me, would you? my joints still hurt), while I sleep off the day. And hopefully the last of the illness.

I'll try my doctor shortly, but given my luck last time, I think it's time for a new doctor. It's still early in the season yet.

I had plans for this five days off, which weren't terribly ambitious. Strangely none of those happened, what with me in bed all the time. As much as I'd like to be all upbeat and attempting poetical, really, I feel like dogshit and all over having a whinge. Plus even laughing hurts, or induces really painful coughing. I have hayfever at the moment too (say hey! to hayfever) and when I sneezed yesterday, I thought I'd blown out the back of my nose. You know, the bit where your nasal passages meet the roof of your mouth? That bit. Ouch.

I keep reading things weirdly too, so I couldn't escape into a good book. Or any book. I tried starting Sewer, Gas and Electric: the Public Works Trilogy but couldn't get past page four because my eyes were sliding all over the page. I looked up at this entry and though I had planes for this five days off, which makes no sense at all: our driveway is too steep and small for that sort of thing, though it might have shut up the screaming neighbours for five seconds. Not the same lot as previously reported (although they still feature), another lot.

I had an extravaganza of a long dream last night involving the show Medium, poisoned food that Joe Dubois kept eating and some kind of barbed-wire made of cooch grass. And there was unlabelled tinned food. It must have been delirium, because I'm pretty sure I surfaced a few times in there to roll over and tug my sweaty hair out from my neck. Or from my earring. Or off my face.

Cue this morning and the boys ran around getting ready to go to the Y! M! C! A! (ditto re arm movements please) while I slobbed out in bed wondering if I could manage getting up today. I'll need a cup of tea soon, so there's an incentive. I'd like to make mozzarella-filled meatballs with a tomato and bocconcini salad for dinner tonight (plus the makings will go off soon if I don't get to them), another incentive, of a doubtful nature, since it involves lying in bed all day in hopes of being well enough to get up later.

I think I'll go back to watching Castle and drifting off. Sound good? I thought so too.

My Little Horse Must Think It Queer

I wish to sleep far more than I do. Failing time I would choose to sleep more deeply and all-round under the radar. Today's carnival of dreams involved Nathan Fillion looking concerned, but I could only see half of his face - as if I was too short and trying to see him across a shiny table. His face was reflected in the surface with something strange about his mouth. I climbed on something to see better and he didn't have a mouth, it was a black concrete railway tunnel. He held it open and I kept waiting for the scream, but there were only whispers, dark and deep, dry and dead, his eyes were dead, but it wasn't him it was a blonde man whose eyes should have been red. Then I was standing in the lab trying to spray the air with deodorant but I was holding the can in some spastic way so I sprayed my fingertips and got that foaming-because-you've-hit-to-close-to-the-nozzle.

Sleeping during the day isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I found a note to myself about zombies feasting on brains, with no tie to Nathan Fillion so far as I'm aware. I can't figure out the appeal of les zombis to anyone since I find them pretty naff (I have seen the enemy and he is a shambling corpse). The potential for metaphor is enormous, if completely unsubtle and lost in the bits-keep-falling-off-and-there-are-fluids-and-teeth! I have enough fluids, including other people's, to deal with, thank you very much. Besides, imagine the smell.

I have rediscovered Robert Frost (and apologia of a not very formal nature to anyone looking for more Robert Frost than my titles and this paragraph). I have words singing through my head when I'm not asleep. That it may be preventing my own use of words is troubling me only slightly. The music of words is enough for anyone if they know how to listen and the woods are lovely, dark and deep.

For Christmas I will be getting a Doctor Who Sonic Screwdriver - Tenth Doctor - which I suspect will be a boomerang back to small lad since he was supposed to hide it while I forgot about it when it arrived. Instead I had a rehash of "Partners in Crime" in small lad-speak. He wants to try the pointing of two sonic devices together. His sonic screwdriver - Eleventh Doctor - is now part of his school kit, in that it goes in the side pocket of his bag and gets carried everywhere. I love that he lives in his head.

Plumber's cracks abound around me at the moment. There is a lot of work going on around the lab and at home there have been workmen. Of the plumber's crack variety, not the serious eye candy sort. Dammit.

Once upon a time there was a frog who had once been a parrot. He also tried out monkey-ness, being a teapot, half-a-bee, a barfly and eventually gave up to live in a puddle. The end.

I Have Stood Still and Stopped the Sound of Feet

I have a notebook in my lap, torch in one hand and my pen in my teeth whenever I have to clap. I sit in a darkened high school auditorium, with husbandly twiddling his thumbs next to me. We sit in the mosh pit, though I doubt it ever gets used as such.

On stage, years three-four-five-six are performing in the annual school musical and small babies are crying throughout the audience. The lighting cues are being missed, and the kids are bravely carrying on, singing their hearts out and barely forgetting their lines. The microphones the leads are using are screeching occasionally and still an improvement on the matinee last week. Unfortunately the bitchy lead (who must be wearing the latest and greatest brands, and pity the poor fools who aren't - to wit, the leads) has no microphone, so we're all missing some dramatic tension on that one.

The younger grades were on at the beginning and will come on for the big finish ("Up In Lights", "Can't Stop the Music" and some tripe called "Pots and Pans"). At the moment they're in the balcony above us all and the volume from up there is getting louder at every cheer and clap. I'd like to think they're really enjoying the show but chances are it is the influx of sugar at intermission from the cupcake stall.

Small lad is cross with me because I wouldn't let him get a cupcake - the line was out the door - and then he was cross because he wanted to go home and I wouldn't let him do that either. I am a mean mother.

The mum-and-brood who were sitting next to us in the first half have run away. I hope it had nothing to do with the juvenile note passing going on between husbandly and myself. Or rather, from me to him. As he twiddled his thumbs. Seriously, he does that.

In front of us is a lovely little girl who might be three. I seem to have made a friend. So far she has told me her whole family's names and now we're on to the plot of the Lion King. Now she's showing me some very nifty dance moves.

The action of the play is winding up on stage. Dad of the bitchy lead (who I'm pretty sure played a similar role last year) has just come out on stage and read her the riot act, including the priceless gem of "My daughter, a snob" while he hangs his head. I can't help but think that he's come to his parenting late since he's mentioned several times before this as buying her anything she wants.

Oh, the small kids are being moved back onto the stage and my friend in front of me is showing me the splits, some nifty hand movements and just asked me to spot her while she climbs on the chair. Glad to, keed.

Small lad is on stage now and has his tense face on, oh dear. It turns out later that he is very tired, but right now I'm trying to will happy thoughts at him.

I have more, but in reality I type in the fluorescent lights of the lab and I have things to do: thrills (well, blood) galore and Monty Python playing in the background. He likes traffic lights.

The Mirror [Not] Crack'd

I read a description in a book a few months ago, somehow fascinating and repellent: "...ornate, abstractly phallic orifices". What is an abstract phallus? Is it a metaphorical penis? The kind that women of a ballsy nature supposedly have, or am I confusing my metaphorical body parts? While we're about it, what is a phallic orifice? Blame Kevin J. Anderson.

It puts me in mind of a Lalique homage, a fountain, in charcoal cement, oddly smoothed: grey concrete paving in a cold canyon between black skyscrapers. There are no seats. Men and women are here, not gathered, but not wandering; standing still in deep shadow. The light is that of dawn, but darkness holds sway here. The men wear black suits, black shiny shoes, white shirts and black ties. The women wear black suits with knee-length skirts; their shoes are flat; their hair is long but sternly fashioned. They all look cold between the black glass.

Water gushes, steaming, from the fountain. Standing close to the fountain is warm in spite of the dampness from it. No-one stands close. That way lies madness.

Hello, it's been a while, I'll be a little weird this morning.

Creepy fragments are shooting through my head this morning. ("Once upon a time there was a woman who lived in a small cottage, and her husband beat her.") Don't ask me, occasionally my head just comes up with this sort of thing, although the rhythm of that sentence comes from Neil Gaiman's American Gods. The story of the twins for those in the know ("...the rest is just detail."). The woman in the cottage lives alone, just to confuse the issue. It might be in fragments, but there's an awful lot of detail in the unwritten words.

It's early in the morning, husbandly has left for work and small lad sleeps, sprawled in a warm bed. I have hay fever and am trying not to sneeze - I don't want to wake him.

I have housework and sleeping before paid work to consider for the day, but a twitching in my fingertips that wants me to type, to write something, anything, even if the ideas cupboard is full of fragments and Browning's "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came" keeps hovering at the edge of my mind.

In a reflective mood I carry on, even if he lied in every word and looked askance to see the effects: in my case it's statistically more likely that she lied. Most of my friends and acquaintances are girls (of varying ages and probably not qualifying for the soubriquet of "girl").

Labels only matter if the substance of them is wrong, and to my mind we're all kids yet. Why not? It isn't a matter of being a child but rather retaining childhood's filters, seeing the world anew every time. That I'm a grown woman with a child of my own makes no difference that I can see. Even in those times when I have to be the grown up and responsible. That's part of the fun too.

The cat sits on the table outside, puffed out and cold looking; while she would like to be patted, and warm, if I bring her inside I'll score another puncture as she tries to bite me. She tolerates me, but it's husbandly she truly loves. There are birds squawking rather than singing in this post-dawn apocalypse. I don't know why "apocalypse" seems right and the word itself looks wrong the longer I look at it. I keep waiting for the steel drum to start, but then realise that I'm thinking of calypso music, with a quick cross-reference to Pirates of the Caribbean and weird crab things. Full of fragments, that's my head this morning.

I could go like this all day, but prosaically I have to consider the morning-before-school routines and I want to post this because I'm tired of coming across this blog in corners as something undone and waiting. I like talking, even in the written word, and that this is not so much a conversation as a whisper in your ear is of no moment. Whispers, intimate things, reaching out in the dark (I don't care that it's dawn here, whispers should always happen after lights out, the best way to share secrets). This whisper reaches out to you, to stir not response but reflection; man, do I have my freak on today.

He Lied In Every Word

I'm thinking of cultivating an ethereal and mystical aura. The only things that spring to mind from that sentence are a tie-dyed T-shirt, a long cotton skirt, sandals, frizzy hair and the reek of sandalwood, so the look probably isn't for me. Give me jeans, pithy slogan T-shirts and Amazing Impromptu Haircut any day. I also loathe sandalwood.

The reason for this is some of the ridiculous awkwardness from a neighbourhood mum because I gave her daughter an ice pack for a twisted ankle. ("I'll get it back to you," she sheepishly announced). I found these ice-cube bags in the amazing plastic bag aisle while grocery shopping (cringe*) and had one filled up. Since the ice-pack is disposable, I wasn't too fussed about getting it back. Really. If I wanted it back I would have said where and when. I'm direct like that.

While I'm on the subject, I'm not un-fond of my possessions, but they are only possessions. If I lend something to someone, I hope for it back, but I say goodbye before I hand it over. Not because I think it will get damaged, destroyed or run off with, just because accidents sometimes happen. If it's a disposable something, I couldn't care less if it became Prime Minister, won an Oscar and went on to say it was all down to its new owner in its thank-you speech. The awkwardness** then is perplexing, and occasionally irritating.

So the mystical and ethereal manner could work for me. I could look even more vague than usual. I only need to practice a beatific smile, and stop saying "WHAT?" when I've had a zone-out. I could wear a long cotton dress thing and an occasional stretchy velvet thing. And smell of sandalwood (if I had nose plugs). Although practising facial expressions in a mirror feels a bit American Psycho, and Patrick Bateman is a tool.

*Normally I avoid gadgety-plastic-bags like this because they're disposable, usually craptastic (or less fabulous than I've hoped) and seem a ridiculous waste of all the effort to make plastic. I'm funny that way. I also have a sidebar feeling of the great advertising cliche: being one half of two c's in a k. Erk. (Although I don't have another c that I talk to about shopping in my kitchen over coffee and teacakes we've baked ourselves. Perhaps I'm doing something wrong and should embrace the cliche.)

**I have an urge to invent the word "awkwardity". Until I see how stupid it looks when I type it.

It's three a.m. in the neighbourhood and I've hit a sleepy spot.

It's hard to function at this time of night,
When eyelids slide shut in spite of false light;
My head hits the bench as sleeping I fall
In flittering dark, a whispering hall.
Liquid muttering, shapes felt but unseen,
A glimmer of skin, unhealthy, unclean;
I should run away; no running, not yet.
There's nowhere to go, it's in my own head,
As if the horrors I know took root: bred.
Short naps such as this are double-edged gifts;
The rest of the sleep, the dreams in the rift.

So fell Lord Perth; see that crater in the Earth?

A Strong Drink and a Peer Group

Adventure! Thrills! Escapes!

Or rather, not really, but you try making fixing-the-screw-on-my-glasses-and-putting-the-lens-back-in sound interesting.

It has been a thoughtful week rather than an hilarious one. I still love my haircut, my wrist is giving me no end of gyp and small lad knows how to make microwave popcorn. None of those things led to any particular thoughts, but I have thought to mention them.

I got told by an orderly that he wasn't "...paid enough to be pleasant." Eheu. When he said it, it gave me some pause, but I could see his point. Orderlies aren't paid well. Certainly not considering they get vomited on, abused and, being the low men (and occasionally women) on the totem pole of hospital hierarchy, are ordered around, and often not nicely.

On top of this, several times this week* there has been this dialogue:

Me: Here we are again, how are you?
Other: Back to the shithole. It's not too bad ... yet.
Me: Well, you don't want to peak too soon.

And then I run away to my little lab. (*This "week" started for me last Friday, apologies for any temporal confusions.)

Granted, I've started liking my job again - I don't have to read the procedures manual every time I get something that isn't the routine get specimen/process it/put everything away, I've gotten more things right than wrong (I wasn't getting that much wrong, but I hate making mistakes) - and I have my time off, deliriously filled with things like housework, it's true, but compared to the life I was living eight months ago, it is marvellous.

That said, I would much rather be writing for a living (despite all of my current and ridiculously* crushing doubts about my ability to do that); still, the food is on the table, the roof is over our heads and we're all, pretty much, okay.

My advantage, I suppose, is that I work alone and therefore can ignore any and all politics, peccadilloes and people, if I so choose. So long as my work is done, nothing else really matters. (Others might argue with that, and they can if they like, I'll probably ignore it.)

It is a huge relief to not worry about what's been said today, asked what I'm doing (in tones of I must be doing it wrong) or having too much to do and no time to do it in. I (finally!) have my right head on about that. I have as much as I need and time left over for reading books, watching movies and possibly running away to Queensland for a couple of days in the school holidays with small lad (husbandly too if he can manage it). I believe people call it perspective. Mine's changed. Nice.

That was a fairly marvellous digression, and I'm still not even close to what I started out to say, but bear with me, will you? I might just get there and try for witty along the way.

*It's ridiculously crushing. Ridiculously. While I'm getting things into perspective, it occurred to me that I'm reading real writers' (!!!) work and immediately comparing it to what I'm managing (zilch, currently). Of course I'm nowhere near it. Der. Once again I'm trying to run before I can even turn over on to my belly. (Side note in the middle of all of these side notes - the family do last weekend involved lots of babies and smaller children than small lad; I was pleasantly reminded of all the fun things such as vomiting (baby vomit really isn't as bad as it sounds, but it is ubiquitous) and learning to crawl and walk and baby frustration (which resulted in small lad as a small baby looking at me as "Fix it, Mum! You fix everything else!") and turning over and then back again was a big achievement.)

Phew. Back to the point, which I'm sure by now we've all forgotten (but I haven't, I went back and re-read the first couple of paragraphs), the idea that you can be paid enough to be pleasant. It's a poser. In some respects. Bear with me again.

One of the things that used to drive me up the wall (and still would, if I had to put up with it) is the idea that when you're at work it should all handed to you on a plate, particularly when major changes (or even minor ones) are afoot. I can probably explain that best with the comment, "I'm not paid to think." Well you're not paid to breathe either, are you about to crash out all blue?

It's...interesting that people at work have this entitlement attitude - that you should be compensated for civility or effort. The effort part is a no-brainer - if you're paid to do "x" minimums then I suppose, she types doubtfully, the minimums are all you must do. Everything else is an extra, but why you should be ordered to apply yourself when something changes is a source of puzzlement to me. To keep doing your job you have to absorb the changes and adapt to them. As Sue Kaufman put it, "...Change is Growth and Growth is Life, which makes a pretty neat equation." In more ways than one. With this is mind, should you only develop outside of work? Should your personality only be formed away from the job? Only be affected by the people you meet?

I've certainly found the people I deal with professionally (i.e., outside of friends in the workplace) instructive in how to live in ways that friends are not. Which brings me back around to civility. One of the great liberators for me was the realisation that most people don't get out of bed in the morning to make anyone else's life difficult. Those who do usually have something else going on, and they're still in the minority. Hmm. So if I've got someone unpleasant on the phone or in person, they're either unpleasant themselves (more on that in a minute) or something has happened before the phone call, incident or conversation.

Unpleasant people, character disorders and total effing nutbags are usually more to be pitied than hated. Or perhaps empathised with. Can you imagine having to live you life constantly on guard? Constantly having to fight nearly everyone you meet because you think that's the way to live? To always be angry?

I've spent a lot of time angry, nearly all my life. Considering that start I got (in short, nasty - is it enough to say I was a foster kid? Well, I hope so, because I don't feel like getting into it), it isn't surprising about the anger. Having said that, my dearest wish is to be at peace. To not be angry; so I find myself, confronted with angry people, upset people, wanting to make them feel better, or at least less worse.

I'm certainly not paid for that - but I choose to live the way I want to rather than dictated to by a paycheck. And there's the logic fail in the attitude. If you're not paid to be anything other than the bare minimum in your duties, aren't you ceding your power (to choose, to live, to be) to your job?

As far as empathy and/or sympathy goes, it's somewhat off-putting that there are people who might read this and assume I'm fooling myself, since I fell down (In their opinion) so spectacularly when confronted with someone in genuine need. This blog probably isn't the place to start - or at least not in this entry. We can disagree on what the genuine need was, when balanced against the needs of the job and the ridiculous lying that was going on (nice and intriguing?). And for the moment I'm leaving it at that.

Some personality wobbles are fascinating, and not in the sense of looking at a new bug, although any reading this may think I'm having a shot, I'm really not. I have my moments of shit too. Anyway.

Most of the time I find people hugely entertaining; exuberantly laughing my way through my days is how I prefer it. Even crazy eyes (a subspecies of nutbag - always defensive, always have a scapegoat and often dud themselves) are wondrous in the way their minds work.

Ah-ha. Finally I come to the point. People are fabulous. Even the repugnant ones. Because after all they're just trying to get through too; first do no harm is my ethic. I could go on for pages about how fantastic, how awesome people are, just being themselves, but I'll bog down in sentiment (more than there is already?) and I'd like to pass and leave it at that.
    
"What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how
express and admirable! in action how like an angel!
in apprehension how like a god!"

That'll do for now. Peer group? What's that?

Spread My Dreams Under Your Feet

There were wasps flying outside the garage, in formation, orange and black. The garage and side doors were open and small lad was running down the driveway towards me. I put my hand up to stop him, my voice frozen, circuits jammed. Husbandly was standing behind me. The wasps flew past the open side door, diverted by something outside. Small lad came into the garage to look at what Dad was holding - a friendly duck wrapped in a towel. The duck was happy to be with us, a smile sensed (since ducks can't smile, can they?), nice and warm inside the towel. As I looked at him I saw the wasp-maggots on his feathers. He was a diversion. I turned to look out the side door again and the wall in front of me disappeared; the walls behind me changed to a deep golden cream colour with a white trim, the wasps outside, four, five, six of them flying straight for me. As the walls changed behind me, the wasps veered away, unable to attack in the reflected golden light; husbandly woke me up to offer me a cup of tea.

We have wasp issues. There is a nest somewhere near the bathroom window and every now and then (okay, it's only twice so far), I've found a wasp in the bath after I've cleaned. Bees don't bother me at all, I'll happily stand still if a bee is crawling on me. I've scored plenty of bee stings, particularly when I was a kid and went barefoot just about everywhere. Wasps, ick. For some reason we keep getting nest attempts on the front door as well - quickly killed off but after ten years of it, it's annoying. I've never been stung by a wasp, which is why I'm creeped out by the whole notion of wasps.

Back to the dreaming, I don't always get the wake up call from husbandly or small lad; if I'm deep enough I go back to sleep and barely remember dreams unless they are somehow important.

In another, I was sprawled on the lounge reading a book while small lad was playing in his room with a friend. For some reason my hackles were up - I didn't know who the other child was - when both boys came out of small lad's room. The unknown boy came first and my stomach went cold and creepy; there was something wrong about him being in our house. He had blue eyes and blonde hair and a gorgeous smile; but he wasn't supposed to be here. Then someone knocked on the door four times (the heartbeat of a Time Lord?) and I was relieved. Thank God, that will be the police, I thought, so I opened the door, ready to welcome them in when the words died and my mouth hung open. At the door was a lady with a scarf over her head, wrapped completely around her head so I couldn't see her face, facing away from me and turning slowly in my direction - I woke up, heart pounding, since I don't want to be anybody's blue-eyed girl, Mrs Death.

While I'm freaked out about the door knocking - it was so clear, so concise somehow, even if Death was shorter than me - no, I'm freaked about that dream. I think I know that child from somewhere, so whatever freaky thing I'm processing in that one, it's freaky. Unlike the last time I dreamed knocking on my door, this one has me unsettled. The vivid patterning on the scarf, the slow turn of her face toward me, ponderous and unstoppable, until I woke up.

I'm at work at the minute and it has been a very quiet night (yes! I said the Q word!). I'm too scared to move near the stock fridge since it keeps hitting 5.5 degrees and therefore setting off nearly every alarm in the place. Or rather, two alarms, and nowhere near as loud as the oxygen depletion alarm from the BMT lab (that's a horror).

I've had a very full five days off. There was housework. There was shopping for birthday presents. There was an appointment with a hairdresser. There was a christening and birthday party. There was more shopping, this time at Ikea. There was building of furniture. Okay I'm going to stop this half-arsed list.

I went home and crashed out completely last Wednesday, having had the wasp dream on Sunday and meaning to put it in here. Ha! After spending Saturday night reading a book, Sunday through to Wednesday morning was amazingly busy. If it wasn't a bleeding patient, it was an antibody, or just volume of work. Come to think of it, the only thing I didn't have was a transfusion reaction.

So! On Wednesday morning I crawl into my bed, thinking of nothing more than picking up small lad from school, then coming straight home to catch some more z's; oops, I'd forgotten his haircut appointment. I manage to stagger around for the afternoon. I think I made it to about seven in the evening and out like a light. I slept until about two, then surprisingly (surprising to me anyway) went back to sleep until six. Oh bliss.

On Thursday there was housework. Enough said. Small lad and I went to get some veggies for dinner after school and, standing in the "food court" (no it isn't), I talked myself into a hair appointment for Friday, because this going to work and coming home and going to work and coming home is getting a bit dull. With some trepidation, because I have never come out of a hairdressers utterly pleased with my haircut. Until last Friday. Talk about awesome. Three hours later, I have a marvellous colour (not blue, maybe next time) and when we got to the end (because I did so much, sitting there, watching everyone else's haircuts, reading my book and blissed out on the head massage), R. (the BEST hairdresser in the WORLD) says "I could straighten it out, or I could do...what I want to do, and give it some body." "Go on," I say, "I'll let you." Am I glad I did? Or rather, he did? You couldn't have wiped the smile off my face with a sandblaster. Or a grinder. What an awful mental image that is. Particularly compared to how wonderful my hair looked. It still does. Although it's not quite so fancy, I find I'm wearing it out rather than tied back and hidden away. Marvellous.

I was so excited by the Amazing Impromptu Haircut, I had to ring an old friend and burble at her about how truly wondrous it was; which was nice for me, but not much chop for her since she was at work and I could hear people wanting to talk to her in the background, but oh well.

For some reason I thought I was shopping some more on Saturday what with the birthday presents and the christening thing (supposedly) on Sunday. Oops again, because all of that was on Saturday, so emergency shopping and run around later we're all enjoying the splashing of Holy Water (well I might find it a hoot, Catholics may differ and I probably have to avoid any of those people if they read this blog) then on to a two-year old's party (the sister of the christen-ee). Small lad had the joys of trampolining, husbandly reconnected with some seldom-seen friends and I did the helping out, the sitting around chatting, the running after kids. The latter might have been a mistake since I wound up under a pile of kids on the trampoline; it did give a couple of adults a chance to have a lend when they told me I had to get back in as minder. Har dee har har.

Again I have the good intentions and intend to start on the blog entry because the wasp-maggot-duck has caught my imagination, but I crash out again Saturday night, waking up again at two. That night I didn't go back to sleep, but read a book instead (Deep Water, Pamela Freeman, book two in the Castings Trilogy, very good).

Confronted with a now-empty Sunday, instead of a day of family fun, I decide to betake myself off to Ikea. Again. I seem to do that a lot. I spent an hour fiddling with the kitchen planning software and harassing the Ikea "coworker". I'd already picked out the furniture I wanted from the net, only to reverse myself midstream and get completely different furniture. And a soap dish. Coming home at midday, I spent the rest of the afternoon building furniture and emptying the fucking ugly hand-me-down-glad-we-had-something-but-yuck-how-awful we've been putting up with for fourteen years. I can finally open my wardrobe door fully without having it clunk against the bedside. Downer note (to wit: fucking ugly etc.) aside, it does look much nicer than it did.

Once again, I opened my fat mouth and fell in while at Ikea. A lady asked the Ikea coworker (*snort* going to run that into the ground? You bet) about parts missing, and muggins here pipes up with "not ever happened". Guess what I found when I got home. Go on, guess. Not only a couple of screws, but an entire side panel of a storage box missing. Bahahaha. The universe loves me. My first thought was "I hope that lady doesn't have any missing parts," before fixing it up. Ikea will post it so no dramas there.

Much nicer five days off than I've had since I started this noo improoved job. Today (meaning Monday, although it is Tuesday morning), I got it into my head to iron clothes. While I'm happy I only have some odd socks left to match, it probably wasn't the brightest choice given it's four in the morning and I need some toothpicks or matchsticks for my eyelids. Because then of course I did the floors. Colour me silly.

Today (meaning Tuesday, since I'm looking forward now and it is, indeed, Tuesday morning) I plan to crash out again so I'm on form to cook something nice for dinner. Or possibly some washing, because we just can't have enough of that in our house.

Are dreams better than newspaper to wipe the mud off your feet? Not really, ephemera leave smears.

Just Buy a Bucket

Feeling slightly better? Me too.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I'm sitting in front of the greater mac (ahem, Greater Mac) rather than using the iPad. It feels a little strange. I've been behind on my facebook games and the number of game requests from friends was starting to scare me. I thought I should do something about that.

Today's plan, aside from fitting in some sleep, is the deathless boredom of housework. And posting some book mooches. I can foresee a great deal of popularity for me here - I post overseas. Whoopee! I only hope, since a couple of the books on my wishlist were only ever published in the US, that I find a like-minded moocher.

Husbandly took off this morning with a burgeoning lurgy - yes, he scored it too. Bummer, dude. Small lad took off with a hand-drawn life cycle of a chicken and a thirty-second speech. Life cycle is a small misnomer - it's more an urn-shaped birth-to-death sort of thing. No chicken-or-the-egg conundrums for my son, no sir. The egg hatches, the chicken lives and that's all he wrote.

Tonight I have the joys of working and reorganising the stock fridge, because moving bags of blood from one place to another is a passion of mine. I was going to launch into a sarcastic paean of praise, but I just can't be bothered.

It stems from a chat with a near stranger, who asked if I liked the trots (as in harness racing, not diarrhea); when I said not really, know nothing about it to be honest, he replied with "It's a passion of mine" and then bored me rigid about it for the next five minutes. Then he asked about something else - what it was is lost in the tedium brain-death, sorry - and then said "Another passion of mine" and went on again. I know very clever people are very involved with their interests, but that doesn't mean I need the OCD discussion from a near stranger. Just go away.

Which makes me laugh (at myself), because if there's one thing I have, it's a gob. I can go on for days if you let me - but generally if I see the foot shuffle start I try to break off and set you free, or steer the conversation into something you might like.

Not that I have very many conversations these days. I work alone.

The Lego castle was a great success, the book shopping less so. Although I did find a choose-your-own-adventure clone for small lad. Now I have to wrestle him into reading it. We also had beverages - real coffee for me and hot chocolate for small lad. It's a hard life.

It's 9:23 in the neighbourhood and those sheets aren't going to change themselves. Let me find my motivation and I'll be right with that.

Similar to a mother's womb? Last time I checked my uterus was not a hard plastic shell, nifty bottom parts or not. And what, we should put the baby back now? What for? You can't play with your rubber ducks and plastic boats and squirty empty shampoo bottles in a bucket! And really, I mean really, even upmarket washing a baby in a bucket is still washing a baby in a bucket. More risk of throwing he or she out with the bathwater, too.

CMV Negative and Irradiated

I've spent the last two weeks feeling like crap (on a stick!). I managed to work my five shifts-in-a-row bonanza feeling only marginally blech (and how too, too marvellous to combine that with four-hours-of-sleep-a-day marathons). Then it came to the five days off. Didn't make it off the lounge, except for the occasional shower and cups of tea when no-one else would get it for me. Small lad is a bit young yet for the pouring of hot beverages, and husbandly can't be there all the time.

Now of course I'm back to work again (I like eating, apparently, and that kitchen won't pay for itself). Right now I'm tea laden and viciously hating the RCPA QAP survey.

No wait, right now I'm tea-laden and giggly for no good reason. I'm not happy with the RCPA survey, but them's the breaks if you want to work in a professional field and apparently I do.

I'm fighting very hard at the moment not to fall into the Pit of Despair. I changed jobs to give myself some breathing room, but it seems that the indians just keep coming and coming; mixing metaphors is also one of the things I was trying to get myself away from.

The utterly crushing depression at the beginning of the year was a bit crap. In the same way that running over your cat in front of your kid is a bit crap. Not that I have done that, and here I knock on every piece of wood I can find, because just lately, universe, you seem to piss all over me whenever I open my metaphorical or actual mouth. Not that I'm paranoid or anything.

I don't mean anyone has shot my dog (I don't even have a dog) - or run over the cat, if you like that better - just I find myself being held up a bit. I was having a high dudgeon moment about something and not half-an-hour later found I had to do exactly the same thing. Because that's how it all pans out; beware the high horse you ride today because you may have to clean up said horseshit tomorrow. And that high horse horseshit is heavy. Add some insecurity, a dash of loneliness and a ravening fury about the uses to which your life has been put, and hey presto! misery central.

Millions of people have it worse; these things will pass. I'm doing my damnedest not to complain about what I do or don't have, because really, even if I felt I was in the worst job in the world (personally, telemarketing ranks slightly below shovelling shit in an abattoir but only barely), I'm still out in front - look at husbandly and small lad, they are so marvellous - but I'm getting a bit frustrated with the timetable here. There are things I wanted to be doing by now, and I'm not doing them.

Some of those things, like the kitchen, I'm deliberately not touching. The four-month-supposed-to-be-only-one bathroom renovation extravaganza makes me very, very tired and thus not enthused about being without a kitchen for any length of time. So I wait until I can save some more dosh. Okay then.

So then I think about organising the house. It's lovely, of course, to have a house that I can do anything with (in a severely limited way - we have the most stupidly proportioned house in the world; it can't even boast interesting angles). But oh, there are just too many rooms. Obviously thinking about this at four in the morning is a bad idea.

It comes down to being tired. And sidetracked. And tired.

I had my five days off and instead of spending it doing anything I wanted, which incluuded such delightfully decadent things as cleaning the bathroom*, I wound up ill. Before that it was a do I had to attend. Before that another do; and various running around after goods for birthdays, easter, oh wow I'm in fine whingeing form this morning.

I'm not even thinking about writing. I'm so...discouraged and feel like a complete prat. I also feel extraordinarily stupid these days - starting a new job will do that to you.

* I like cleaning our bathroom. Sad sad sad sad sad.

I did finally catch up to current day mimi smartypants, so points to me for that.

And in a horrifying aside, why the hell did I look at this and why am I linking it now?

In my perusals of smartypants, I found about a great website called BookMooch, a site for giving away and receiving free books. Well, nearly free. You pay postage to send them away. My first ten books will go in sometime today.

We watched X-Men: The Last Stand last night before I came in to work. I tried to talk small lad out of it, because it is sad. In the all-of-these-people-die-and-the-good-girl-is-now-bad-and-even-the-others-are-morally-ambiguous sense of sad rather than this-is-a-completely-crap-movie sense. Others may disagree, if they really want to.

At the end of the film, small lad turned to me and said "you're right Mum, it was sad, but sometimes I need to feel sad. I've been happy for yeeeeears now."

He quickly amended years to months, but I like the balance of the outlook. Not quite sure where it came from; I'll take it anyway.

The plan for today, since plans are a good way to stay out of the Pit of Despair, except when I don't/can't/won't stick to them, is to take small lad shopping this afternoon. On the shopping list, aside from something nice for dinner (because boy am I tired of I-can-throw-this-in-a-pot-or-microwave-and-no-cooking-skill-is-required foods), are:

• Lego castles
  
• Megamind the DVD (as opposed to Megamind the Horse Rustler?)
  
• Real coffee in a cup and everything, instead of dishwater in cardboard (coming soon to a theatre near you - Dishwater in Cardboard! You won't believe we charged you money for it!)
  
• A book. Because clearly my collection of two-thousand or so is lacking something.

I'm not really CMV negative, I'm too old for that sort of thing.

Frog Takes On Lawnmower

I have an urge to run and hide this morning. I have lovely coffee-spill decoration drops down the front of my shirt. It might have been better if I'd kept to my old bad habits of wearing a lab gown everywhere, but no, I try to stay gown free on the eating and the drinking. I try to stay gown-free most of the night anyway, because the petticoats just get in the way and pants are just so practical.

I blame the shirt. It's one that has mysterious stains. (Food-related mysterious stains, not- oh never mind). I wash and scrub, until my washing machine starts chugging, iron the shirt and fail to notice the mark right between the boobies. I'm hardly likely to scrub until my fingers bleed, I don't have a washboard and I'm too big a girl for that sort of thing.

Despite appearances to the contrary, I haven't been at the alcohol swabs, unless someone wants to make me an offer.

Yesterday morning (which is still this morning to me, welcome to the disorientation of twelve-hour night shifts) I took forty minutes longer to get home than I should have. Because to wanted to...SING! So I did. Forty minutes of singing at the top of my lungs, with a wind down listening to Vivaldi. Great way to relax. Tell your friends.

Unfortunately tonight/{this} morning my voice is heading towards crackville (not Crackville, in California; only drug addicts go there). I may have the small lad's lurgy, but before the hypochondria sets in, I'll assume it's overdoing the singing.

I have the attention span of an ADD squirrel. Or a dog distracted by a squirrel while trying to get it to fetch the stick, boy, go on! It's a problem and not one to explore at four in the morning, unless I really have been at the alcohol swabs (or much more likely alcoholic facsimile from a pretty glass bottle in a special shot glass); small bananas compared to solving all of the world's problems (this should only ever be undertaken while mellow and under the influence). Two o'clock is the best time really, particularly if beer has been consumed, but let's make do.

Or we could all be kind to each other, all the time, or most thereof, but apparently not.

Oh, terrific mood, thy name is me. I had a phone call earlier, the kind where I hung up the phone and said, "And when you've finished being unpleasant, perhaps we could get on with it." Because everyone else "just does it" (no they don't), and I wouldn't. Blood Bank! Mad with power! Arbitrary rules just to shit you! Yes, you in particular! Patient safety doesn't enter into it!

So much for leaving work at work. No, wait, I am at work, so that's all right.

SQUIRREL!

As much as I like the movie Up!, the dead squirrel joke isn't much chop for very literal little people (like alliteration? Me too!). "It is funny because the squirrel is dead." and it is, for the grownups; mystifying for littlies.

For anyone who hasn't seen the movie, skip the squirrel, dog and random exclamations. If you want.

If you don't, go watch it. It's a great movie though strangley not as beautiful as Wall-E. Back to Up!, the only part that puzzles me is the bad guy. In the commentary it was said that the writers tried not to make the bad guy intrinsically evil. The odd part is the bad guy takes the prize in the Pixar universe for "Most Evil (and Believable) Villain". He's adult, ugly and twisted, and creation of talking dogs (!!!) notwithstanding, one of the most reprehensible characters in a kid's movie.

The other bone I have to pick with Up!, and since I've started I may as well, is the talking dogs. Talking dogs! Really! I want one! I want all of the dogs I have ever owned to be talking dogs! Every dog person who saw the movie (especially the lines "Can we keep him?" "No." "But he's a TALKING DOG!!" and the very well-animated Kevin's body language on the "TALKING DOG!!") wants one! Sometimes when I'm not thinking about anything, I think about how much I want a talking dog! Ever since watching this movie! Do something about that, would you?

I wish I were a rich man, ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum, all day long I'd sit on my bum, if I were a wealthy man.

Then again, I'm not sure I want to commit to the sex change.

Today is my birthday. Thank you for all the good wishes. I have no plans to do anything. Other than the ironing, I'm catching up. Finally I have myself slightly organised, while outside my windows zombies smear icky things and mumble about brains. They don't want mine, apparently it induces fits. I'll be safe come the end of the world then.

I meant to be serious there, not quite sure what happened. Just think, you too could be this mental...just...errr...maybe not. I was going to blame something, but it's much more fun to assume I'm a nutbag. Better than being a peanut (as in size of brain equals, for those who don't geddit, geddit?).

Lawnmowers: one. Frogs: a blood-smeared and speckled zero.

Ills of Boydom

Or rather, this is the third day at home for the small lad. He has a really great husky voice happening but wants to go to the doctor. Pity our doctor is not available for some reason today.

Meanwhile Cookie Monster is playing Big Bad Wolf playing Grandma to get the awful looking bird seed cookies off Big Bird.

Chris Lilley might well be a genius, but I don't like his characters. I can see where the humour is or should be, but caricature isn't always amusing. I didn't like Burn After Reading for the same reason: laughing at the genuinely unintelligent is just mean. If anything, particularly in Burn After Reading, it made my heart hurt to see people get in their own way and not realise what they've done.

The letter of the day is Q, which unless they're about to start in with English spelling of either Chinese or Arabic, should be the letter(s) Qu. English the Evolution, coming to a children's show near you!

Time to run a bath so hyperactive sick boy can have some "relaxation" time and I can have a slight rest; meaning I can go and get some work done. For this afternoon's project, I have a request to make pom-poms.

I feel like we're living out in the country. It's been four or five phone calls and I've conclusively failed to get through to our doctor. While I don't really need the backup (to wit: permission to keep small lad at home), the cough is deep and booming and the laryngitis pretty ick. That hasn't stopped his nibs from leaping around the lounge room, nor splashing about happily in the bathtub. I had to pull stern Mum face to stop him splashing all over the bathroom floor.

(Not that it worked, nor do I mind all that much. For a sickie lad, he has been very easy, even if he does keep confusing my foot with the cat. No, not a fever induced hallucination, more a failure of the peripheral vision.)

Pom-poms are a no, repeat, we do not have pom-poms. Much more fun to play Fruit Ninja on the iPad and watch the re-runs on ABC2. I dudded myself this morning on a voice-over for the "new" Bananas in PJ's ads and was told to stop it. "You know B1, This isn't right, we used to be dressed up people, not this animated nonsense." "Yes B2, I've been feeling a bit unreal myself." "Muuuuuuum! Stop it!"

At least it wasn't Yo Gabba Gabba, the bossiest, children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard excuse to cash in on kids shows ever. Strangely, small lad seems to like it. It lost me the day it told its viewers that they must be very quiet when they were playing, because being loud was bad. They're kids, kids make noise. That's what they do, and parents tell them to be quiet.

Having descended into the beginnings of a rant, I had better be off. Everyone reading, have a marvellous day, and I'll try for more interesting blah blah blah soon.

Felis Maniaca

Our cat has gone officially insane. Let's be kind, we said to ourselves and each other. The weather is cold and the cat will not sleep in any warm bed we make for her. Let's have her inside and she can climb up onto our bed, wrap herself around husbandly's legs and purr herself into oblivion.

That was then. This is now.

Meowing pitifully when she came in, because inside is evil, she settled herself in to the bedroom after some obligatory hiding out under the bed. This morning she disappeared entirely, probably back under the bed. Determined to put her back outside again, because certain businesses belong outside, I settle in to wait while I re-read Neuromancer. I hear some tacka-tacka-tack as she swans around the bedroom, then settles herself by the door. I got up to pat her and back under the bed she went. We did this twice. When I got up to pat her again and (gently) pick her up, she exploded into a whirlwind of claws and rather loud caterwauling.

She managed to get both of my wrists, three toes and scare the crap out of me. Silly cow.

I don't know if it was a combination of being hungry and small lad being at home (she has issues - he is as gentle as all get out) or she was just having a moment.

Now I'm walking wounded and she isn't talking to me again. Sigh.

Reruns of Reruns

Bewitched? Not really. I saw this episode yesterday.

Small lad excelled himself in the Mother's Day stakes this morning. He made cards, both of them utterly gorgeous (particularly the emoticons in silver pen), and handed over an oil burner - something I've needed for a while.

"Needed" being a relative term: the fates of our lives do not depend on the presence of an oil burner.

The day went sort of downhill from there. I had half-planned a trip to the Powerhouse Museum, but before I said anything about it we had an invitation to a family do. So tough luck on that. It's frustrating that there is never room for compromise with these things. And no is not taken well with this particular bunch. All of that grousing aside, "my" herb bread went over a treat.

So much so I looked it up on the iPad; cue watching youtube videos and getting embarrassed about looking up my stats for this blog. (I opened Safari, okay? Blogger was one of my open pages, okay?) Some people read this page. Good Lord. Drivel ready? Drivel launched.

This is the most stop-start entry ever. I have A Few Good Men playing in the background - late-eighties/early nineties musical grace notes to denote action, ick - and keep getting sidetracked. They're all so young! Jack Nicholson is so crazy! Guantanemo Bay - that embarrassment - before anyone had an idea what it was!

As much as this is compelling, I find myself out of love with easeful deat- Sorry, wrong opinion piece. Ahem, I find myself out of love with American courtroom drama. The constant harping on judicial process and the majesty of the legal system is starting to sound like a denial argument - methinks they doth protest too much. Extrajudicial process? Sure. Go overseas. Disregard any judicial process in the host country; it's probably inferior.

Okay, that's it for my incendiary remarks for today. Good timing. Jessup (Nicholson) has just entered the courtroom. Got to love the logic of the righteous - how utterly insane in the brain, murrain. Well, not really a murrain, unless I wanted to start a whimsy on the death of empathy; the death of understanding and the deeper ramifications. Nah. Take too long, and I'd contradict myself at least four hundred times.

Still worth a thought.

I have mixed feelings about the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie. There's no Will Turner or Elizabeth. Not that the only reason I was watching was Orlando Bloom...not at all preciousss.

Hairy Bikers are now cooking, and I have an urge to barbecue a pineapple on a spit, basting it with sugar and cinnamon as I go. Not what the Hairy Bikers are doing, they have some sesame seed thing (gak! blech! I hate sesame!). I had my pineapple thing at the Braza in Leichardt and think about it every now and then as the perfect dessert. Except for the heartburn from the pineapple, but you pay for what you get in life, right?

It is late and I am tired so it is time for me to read a book until my eyes slam shut and I leave the light on all night.

Obliging Bilge

I've been sucked in. The Doctor Who Bonanza proceeds apace, and tonight instead of quietly reading or having a bath, there I was, re-watching The Stolen Earth and Journey's End.

It's a way to avoid the State of the World Today. Whose justice? And that's all I'm going to say.

I'm still working my way through mimi smartypants, I'm slow, but I get there. In the End.

Found: a pair of glasses lost for eight years. Next time something goes missing, I'm looking on top of the buffet and hutch. How they got up there eight years ago...I can take a guess. I think husbandly put them up there so they'd be "safe". Chances are he was changing the light, same as this time; he just forgot. Oh well. My old prescription was crappy anyway. I must have been drugged when I went in for them. The strength is about twice that of the glasses I currently wear. If I feel like getting drunk, but can't for whatever reason, I'm pulling out the old glasses and watching the world go lurching by. I may throw up, but the head spins might be worth it.

Probably not, but it seems a working theory until I'm tired or crazy enough to try it.

Now I'm off my shifts for a while I've spent a leisurely couple of days sleeping. Although yesterday morning I hauled myself up to go to an antibody breakfast club meeting. For non-blood bankers, that is an amazing collection of nouns in the one spot.

On my way out yesterday morning I got stared down by Fluffy the cat from across the road. For all her one eye-ness, my cat is the doyenne of the cat milieu around here - nearly every cat in the street comes to visit*. It couldn't be because she leaves food if she doesn't like it - meaning it isn't chicken breast or fillet steak. Fluffy (probably not her real name) is something of a madam, cat bell notwithstanding. After staring me down (not that I was staring back, I can cope with not dominating a cat, thanks), I got the flick of the (fluffy) tail and a view of her arse. Lovely. The anus as an expression of disdain.

*including the cat we managed to catch in our possum trap. After Cass, the mad prophetess no-one listens to (yes, that's our cat), lost her eye, we were bound and determined to catch the booger who attacked her. Cue patient baiting of possum trap and capture of one beautiful black cat. When it comes right down to it, though, neither one of us can bring ourselves to either a) wring it's neck (and husbandly could, he used to kill rabbits for the pot) or b) take it to a vet to be necked. Dang. We decide to let it go, but a long way from us. Irresponsible? You bet, let us add to the feral cat problem.

Husbandly takes the cat on a drive and lets it go in a park. As soon as he opens the cage, out shoots Blacky, only to pause twenty feet away. The thought processes were obvious - no, wait, I don't know where I am - and the Blackster looks back at husbandly, looks relieved - hey, I know him! - and starts running back toward the car. Then pauses - hang on, he's the one who put me in a cage - and that was the last we saw of Blacky.

Before the hate mail starts (because anyone who knows cats knows this one was obviously an owned cat and not the bastard tom who attacked our Cass), Blackster showed up about six weeks later, calmly sitting on our verandah; having just eaten Cass' dinner and relaxing before the off.

Last night I wound up flicking from one lot of bad tv to the next - and couldn't be arsed getting up to either put on a DVD or plug the iPad in. I caught Mary J. Bilge Blige live at Abbey Road and somewhere before that the complete and total bilge that is the hysterical Private Practice. Oh the humanity. (Somebody get me a bucket).

Having said that, I found it hard to tear my eyes away - the horror, the horror - like watching a crash in slow motion.

The sonic screwdriver (season 5 version) has arrived for the small lad's birthday and it is AWESOME!! I want one! I want to take it to work and point It at alarms when they go off! Because that oxygen depletion alarm is coming off the wall if it keeps up, I'm warning you, inanimate collection of circuits designed to keep us all breathing! This is your last chance! I love rational anger, don't you?

The Yellow Pages ad with the singing bobble-headed man creeps me out. I'd link it but the internet doesn't have everything.

Morphometric Cartoon Characters

At the moment I'm reading The Wayfinders Why Ancient Wisdom Matters in the Modern World by Wade Davis. Very long-winded title, but appropriate since it's a lecture series, really, rather than a book. Very interesting. I just finished The Stars My Destination (yes, okay also known as Tiger! Tiger!) by Alfred Bester ("...for tin crumbles to dust in the absolute zero of space."), one of my favourite novels for the moment.

At the back of my copy is a little blurb from Neil Gaiman (is it just me or does he turn up everywhere?); apparently Alfie Bester bequeathed his estate to his favourite bartender. Who knew? Well, apparently lots of people, but Wikipedia was strangely reticent about the fact. Because I like conspiracy theories, even small ones, I'm going with no-one wanting to mention that he drank. A Lot. Towards the End.

In the way of wiki, that led me on to Babylon 5's Alfred Bester. For some reason, although he's played by Walter Koenig, still recognisably Chekov, the character keeps morphing in my brain into Bilis from Torchwood season 1 (Captain Jack Harkness/End of Days).

The mind is strange. Mine, anyway.

As predicted, I've done less than I hoped to do in the house-clean-keeping stakes, but then, I also made Yorkshire puddings with dinner tonight, so I'm not too bummed. The boys are keeping well. And I predict, since I've come in to work and there were puddings left over, over-fed.

Anything else to report? No not really. I've taken to braiding my hair again. Isn't that a bottom-of-the-barrel mention?

My head is all over (the braid isn't long enough to hold it in place), partly due to my reading habits lately, because nothing messes around with my inner life than compelling science fiction - slideshows of the Spanish Stairs, a space-yacht and the commercial dynasties of the world persisting into the future ad infinitum as a ridiculous upper class - the exhilaration is marvellous, though the spontaneous giggles are off-putting for passersby.

The rest of the slideshows currently running (come visit my head, bring your own popcorn and please be tidy) are intercuts between two short stories that are not written yet. Probably if I did the work instead of thinking about it, things would proceed swimmingly, but again I'm caught in the conundrums of far too much to do half the time, and little motivation for things other than sleep the rest. And the boys have been home. And I'm sure I can think of more excuses if I try only a little. If I try really, really hard, my head might pop.

I normally drink about a litre of water on my shifts these days. The tea room is right next door! There is nice water! There are no comfortable chairs! Count them, zero. Really. No comfortable chairs in a tea room. I'd bring in my own, but it's a bit big to be carting around. It probably doesn't comply with OH&S requirements either. Frankly the thought of doing a risk assessment on a comfy chair doesn't float my boat. It does boggle my mind, however. The Spanish Stairs must be wearing off.

I have no idea where I was going with that. I had to stop and do some work (that is, after all, what they pay me for); marvellous for breaking the concentration.

Anyhoo, as I wasn't saying, I was thinking of doing something postgraduate. I found a couple of master's programs (not the "he knocks four times" Master, but the- oh, you know), that looked pretty interesting. I think it was either Charles Sturt or UNE that had an MA with a non-MA component. I was thinking of doing the "Arts" requirements and then picking up either maths, IT or pathology subjects to fill it out. That would be interesting. Then I looked at the cost. Which didn't bother me, per subject; I could always do the units I wanted without an award at the end. I'm a grownup, I can do whatever I want. Then I saw a disclaimer on one of the websites saying "you must balance the expected career benefits against the cost of this course". Consider me paused. I think I'll just muddle along without, thanks.

Speaking of he knocks four times, back to the science fiction, what the hell was up with those episodes? Flying death's head. Green light things. Ay? Tim Dalton as evil Time Lord, kinda nifty.

No idea where I was going with that either, except the boys are having the Doctor Who Bonanza (all seasons and specials now available in my iTunes library! Go nuts, boys!). Me, not so much, although I did make them sit through "Midnight", my favourite creepy Doctor Who after "Blink".

Much, much later than the above, that will teach me to think it was going to be a really quiet night. You know it's bad when you start growling every time the phone rings. Although people who know me are remembering the number of times I've been caught swearing whenever the phone rings at work. The only thing that mortifies me is that I'm not all that creative in my swearing, generally it's {expletive} off and then I answer the phone. Pick an expletive, I don't always go on about fornication.

Not everything is about sex. Including sex. Apparently.

The View May Be Dazzling: Oxygen Masks are Optional

A few weeks ago I got a delightful surprise in the mail. I subscribed to the Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, and promptly forgot I had. Since all I get are bills in the mail, the marvellous package of issue 50 made my day. The stories were exceptional, which made all of that joy (and giggling) worthwhile.

For myself, I've turned into Gene Roddenberry: can't write for sour owl poop. (Thank you Harlan Ellison). I keep false starting on a short story that I think may have a novel in it somewhere, but, sucks budgies, it's just not coming.

I've discovered I'm overly fond of the semicolon; it seems the book on grammar wasn't entirely wasted.

Or perhaps it was, I'm undecided; just because I like punctuation marks doesn't mean the rest of the world will appreciate my use of them. Okay. Stopping on that now.

Umm. Err. Where is my constant stream of bullcrap from yesteryear? It seems I have lost my way in the verbosity stakes. How frightfully dull of me.

The Royal Wedding is, by now, done and dusted, or nearly so. I tuned in to see the dress (ahem, The Dress), but aside from the light moment of seeing Wills and Kate trying not to crack up at the altar (?), couldn't have cared less. And still don't.

I did some more ironing today, yip-yip-yippee, then transferred recipes to "my" recipe book. Does that sound profitable? I thought so, until I remembered all of the other things I intended to do today. Since I'm starting a run of five in a row, I'll be a bit pushed over the next few days, but I think I'll just have a go at a bit at a time. At least the new and improved bathroom only takes a little while to clean.

That's what I'm telling myself now, but of course I'll do less and beat myself up all over again. Never mind, it will all come out in the wash. Literally, since that's what I needed to get done today.

There was some excitement in our street this afternoon. I heard sirens start up and had that automatic thought of "is that coming to our place? Naaah, can't be", as you do. Then I realise that it is in front of our place. Cue looking out the front door, like the nosy neighbour that I am (in this context, anyway), since it turned out that one of the girls next door decided to dial triple-0, just for the hell of it, and ask the fireys to come out. Nice. Yes, she is old enough to know better. Young people today.

I was thinking about my last entry (blah, blah, nothing to say) - the fun stuff that happens at work I have to leave at work. The nerd stuff (gee-I-like-this-different-method-and-actual-work) I wouldn't even bother boring anybody with, but oh sigh, the hilarious clinical notes (explosive headache after hitting brick wall with face (you think?)), names and general silliness of some of the things we get (please test this clear fluid to see if it is anything) I can't say anything about. Patient confidentiality, anyone?

Disclaimer: I made up the examples above. Of course I did. And any resemblance to anything or anyone is a complete coincidence. Really, honest and for true.

Speaking of making stuff up, and I usually do, we have a running saga on our kitchen whiteboard about three frog brothers, Bob, Clob and Shlob. Although they may have to turn into butterflies - my audience of one (yes, that would be Alex), complained about them being frogs. I did include some butterflies in the last story. In terms of story we are talking two paragraphs at most, but I stand by it being a story. Even if one of the kids from the street poo-poohed it. Sucks budgies, I say. The particular kid is twelve and my target is seven. So nerts.

(Not the same kid who called the fireys today, that was a different one.)

(Children! Everywhere! It's frightening!)

More speaking of making stuff up, and I told you I usually do, although this is only barely in the same category, I want my patterns to arrive from the US. Hurry up, International Checkout! I went mad about a month ago and made bags left, right and centre (actually...no I won't do that joke to you). I have a new sewing machine and everything. Thank you, ebay. So now I want to make myself some stuff. HURRY. UP. This toying with my emotions is not fun.

Shh, it's a secret, I'm also waiting on a sonic screwdriver for small lad's birthday. Don't tell him, okay?

In One Ear and Out the Other

While the rest of the world is commenting on the Royal Wedding, I'm watching Simon Schama's A History of Britain. The last time I watched this, Alex was a baby and propped up in front of the tv while Simon told us both about King Charles II.

I'm determined to update this blog more regularly then once every couple of months. But not that much happens to me. I go to work. I spend time with the boys. Not exactly the stuff about which sagas can be made, unless they're very boring sagas.

I've spent the last two days re-reading Dune by Frank Herbert. I've read it many times, though not for years now; I got more out of it this time than ever before. Ah, bliss. Almost as good as a warm bath.

Meanwhile William the Bastard is being promised the throne by Edward the Confessor.

Let's leave politics to other heads, since my greatest plans for today involve ironing, dinner and going off to work. Maybe less ironing than the whole three baskets worth, and possibly a less ambitious dinner than roast beef with mini-yorkies; the going off to work will be the same.

I find myself very fractious at the moment. I'm not doing anywhere near the sort of writing I thought I would be doing or at least trying to do, but then I didn't really know what I was getting myself into with very long shifts. I'll get used to them - another six or twelve months. Sigh.

Harumph. I'd say more tomorrow, but I'm not sure about having anything else to say. Twirling onwards then.

Irritations and Hats

It's in my mind this afternoon to do some kind of illustrated guide to night shift, but it would be something squelchy out of a Clive Barker novel right now, and there's no need to have people losing their lunch over a few bad dreams, is there?

I was also thinking about a guide for considerate night-shift living,because my sleep would benefit if everyone would JUST BE QUIET, but then again, I'm a tad cranky. In some cases, I would like people to stop being so quiet because creeping slowly so as to not wake me up, which already woke me up as your clodhopping boot hit the wooden floorboards, takes a lot longer than just stampeding down the hallway in the rush to ... whatever you were doing. As you were.

Ranting aside (I have more, but you go ahead), there have been no events, unless going to the maritime museum, David Jones Food Hall and faffing about at home count. We were going to the Easter show this year, but small lad started with the "I'm booooored"s and the "it's not fair"s and the refusal to do chores without a fair amount of grousing, so consider the kibosh firmly placed on top of that.

I think I'm more upset about that than he is, because I want to go on rides. Show bags have lost their appeal for me, since I'm unlikely to find a new car, gadget or immense cheque with lots of zeroes after some number greater than one made out to little old me. Obviously getting old has caught up with me and the magic of show bags has worn off. Or perhaps I'm tired of working for a living. I'll get over myself soon. Although I did rather like the extremely cheapy one we got last year full of cowboy and Indian gear, except for the immediately broken bow of the bow and arrow set. I would have liked one of those and a reason to play with it at work, because I think adults are far too adult.

I woke up all cheerful and contented, new bedding, don't know myself, it's marvellous, nice and warm and toasty, until I stood up and had the nice (sic) hangover feeling I have these days after night shift. All slightly swirly head and incipient headache. Partly because I read a book for most of the twelve hours I was at work last night (it was quiet, okay? There was no work, okay?), so my eyeballs are a bit spinny. I keep "forgetting" my glasses.

For some reason the iPad decided the logical auto-fill for forgetting as I typed it was "forget tin". I know Apple likes aluminium, but I think proscriptions about metal use are taking it a bit far.

So now I'm reclining under my nice warm doona typing this and considering the time, really do have to get up if I'm going to make mozzarella-filled hamburgers for dinner. And potato salad. And something. Or something else. Maybe I'll just give up for tonight and we can have crap. Last night I made prosciutto-wrapped chicken meatloaves with Parmesan and bocconcini polenta, so I have expended culinary effort this week, it's not like I'm throwing in the towel.

It's all just too, too risqué really.

In Lieu of the Spew

It hasn't been an eventful few weeks.

The bathroom proceeds apace - we have tiles on the walls only wanting grout and before too much longer we will be able to enjoy the luxury of a shower without running the gauntlet from the backdoor to the shed. With barely any clothes on.

It's three a.m. in the neighbourhood and Jim has given up cardigans for cowboy boots and blue paint. In odd positions.

At home I am re-reading some of the In Death series by J.D. Robb (also known as Nora Roberts); at work I've been re-watching True Blood, Serenity and Resident Evil Extinction (Even More Gross Things Invented For Arse-Kicking By Teenage Boys). Of the three, Serenity is still my favourite.

It's three-oh-five a.m. at the airport and the cleaners are getting restless; the poker game has turned strip and no-one wants to see Big Matty naked.

The new job is going swimmingly, if I do say so myself, month three and no-one has run screaming from the room. I keep having to adjust to the idea that I'm on the ground floor. This morning when I went to leave I was thinking about having to wait for the lift. Which is odd, because when I went in to work I was thinking about how much more stuff I was taking with me these days. I can park just outside the lab - less than a minute to walk in and I'm carrying an arsenal of entertainments.

It's three-ten a.m. in the backyard and the hidden vodka has leaked into the soil.

I've signed up for a creative writing course again. This time it's through the Sydney Writer's Centre and it's online, so I am really looking forward to it. Now that I have decent sleep patterns (if not terrific - after all I am still working night shifts), I may be able to front up without falling asleep at the desk. And since I'll be at home it won't matter if I drool.

It's three-fifteen a.m. at the petrol station and the drunk man weaving along the driveway has started reciting "Do No Go Gentle Into That Good Night" flawlessly. His audience consists of a flatulent cockroach, a chip packet and fourteen cigarette butts.

I always thought the sonnet was my favourite form of poetry until I met the villanelle; having the form and its rigid structure explained by someone who knows their poetry was just icing (Mark Treddinick).

It's three-twenty a.m. in the Botanical Gardens and the vicious plant wars shower green stalks across the paths; by morning they will have dried up so their human servants will never know.

I had a plan to simply vent and vomit about some issues I've been having. Not necessarily in this blog, you understand, just to let some of it out. Instead of making myself miserable I had a chat to one of the lovelies here at work and came back thinking about a blog entry instead. So here I am. Even better that the 3G is now working again on my iPad. It was a bummer without it, especially when I was trying to finish crosswords.

It's three-twenty-five a.m. in the kebab shop and the chillies have invaded the chickpeas; they've had problems ever since the hilariously-shaped felafel became pride of place over the counter, displacing a jalapeño.

The rest of my plan for this morning (aside from the doing of work and the completing of aforementioned crosswords) is to build a fort from the empty boxes from Red Cross. Donate blood today! It's all in a good cause.

It's three-thirty a.m. in the warehouse and Big Matty is wishing he could remember where the airport, his left shoe and his underwear went. His trousers, shirt and right shoe are right where he left them.

Thank you, and good night. It's been a ripping good fun half-hour.

God, That's Good

I've watched Red Dwarf approximately twenty-seven times. All of the series and Smeg-Ups. Now t'yoong man is watching them all again too, on top of my twenty-seven viewings.

I am so very bored (and boring) at the moment. My biggest achievements for the entire weekend are multiple loaves of bread. I had my hand on the pre-sliced, rust-proof, easy-to handle loaf of Wonder White in the shop (love that fibre) and thought it wasn't quite as bouncy as fresh bread ought to be. Thus, this weekend has been a festival of hand-made, hard to toast (look at the size of that thing!), crusty bread. (Cut the chatter, Red 2).

Other than that the house looks like something out of a zombie movie - plaster dust everywhere and the continual small pieces of kipple that have accumulated over the last two months of renovating the bathroom. Any minute now I'll buy a real sheep and we'll be complete (and it's pretty unlikely some robot woman will toss said sheep off the roof in revenge).

There are rather a lot more references to science fiction in this post than usual, but so it goes; at least I don't browbeat people with geekdom: "why would anyone have to ask that?"

It might be all geek to me as well, but believe it or not, there are fully functioning members of society out there who have no clue about Star Wars, Trek or -ship Troopers. Fully functioning. Imagine that.

Well before I start sobbing into my keyboard over the waste, I believe I'll take my crap mood elsewhere. Thanks for reading. I really, really appreciate it.