September | 2014 |

So, after the van booking farrago, “how did the removals day itself go?” you are wondering, hoping for disaster.

One thing which happened even before we picked up the van was this.

Bethy was at home from college one day, when she got a phone call. “Can you come in next week instead of this week please?” Beth, being her mother’s daughter, immediately kicked off into full rant mode; “Are you kidding? We were let down twice by you, with us wasting time turning up to collect for vans you said you had booked out to us but had not! My mother’s taken a day off work so we can get it all done tomorrow, and so no, we will not put it off until next week thank you!!” And hung up, then rang her mother at work to tell her. Lee-Anne phoned the hire place. They said; “We’ve not been calling you to cancel, we wouldn’t dare after your display in the shop last week.”

Meanwhile Bethy got another call; “Look we’re really sorry about this, but we will have to put it off til next week. I’m going to a funeral and my partner is taking her mother to hospital” Bethy clicked that she may have been a bit quick off the gun last call; “Sorry, who is this?” The reply; “Oh it’s Rebecca from the dog groomers, you have Milly booked in tomorrow and we’re sorry but…” You can imagine how embarrassed poor Bethy was, she spent the next ten minutes apologising profusely to the girl. She was still glowing red with embarrassment when I got home from work at 9.15 pm..

But I’m sorry to tell this, but you the van hire day itself went really well.

The twat in the hat.

We collected the van with no hassle, it was ready and waiting with the rather sheepish looking hire guys all stood to attention behiond the desk. We drove off with no problems. I’ll break your heart now, and let you know I didn’t crash it, not one little bit. Loading it was fun, but could have been faster if we could have stopped Bethy playing “tail-lift surfing”.

We managed to get everything in, and cleared out the garage fully. We carefully juggled all the items, so that useable furniture was the last thing in, as we had a cunning plan. At the dump they have a recycling place, where they take furniture and electrical stuff, and “up-cycle” it, and sell it on for charity. If we could off-load half the van load onto the recyclists, we’d save a packet in dump fees, as they charge by weight. Neat eh? So we headed off to the dump. Half way there, a magpie flew across the road straight into the side of the van, and off’d itself. That was ominous. (Don’t tell Lee-Anne! I told her it had got up, shook itself, and flown away again.)

We got to Tiny’s Green shed, and called the green boiler-suited hippy over to ask where he wanted all the useable furniture put for recycling. “Sorry Pal we’re overfull with furniture, we don’t have any space. You’ll have to dump it.” So much for that Eco-friendly, cunning, bloody plan then. It makes sense though, if you offer a free furniture dumping/disposal service, and dress it all up in greenie ideals, and then people are bound to take advantage. Or the piss.

The van got weighed on the way into the dump, and then we reversed the tail-lift over the pit. Dumping all our furniture and waste and crap into the pit, where it was pushed into the compacter by a bulldozer, was unbelievably cathartic. We were weighed on the way out, and charged $50.00 for the service. Well worth it, we should do it more often.

I was enjoying driving the van so much, that on the way back we took a scenic tour of Canberra in it. I took great delight in waving to fellow truckers. And they took great delight in ignoring me completely.

The garage looks great now, so much more room in it. It had been so full before the dump run that Lee-Anne had had to get out of the car before I could park it in there. It’s now empty, and I can spend a healthy stint each morning in there, alleviating my frustrations by battering seven shades out of my punch bag.

Remember I was whining on about missing out on getting tickets for this?

Acknowledged as the peak of choral excellence in the great British tradition, the boys and men of the Choir share their uniquely beautiful vocal timbre in an unmissable selection of favourite classics and sparkling new repertoire, for a concert to remember. Among the highlights of Program One is Fauré’s timeless and touching Requiem, accompanied by the College’s Organ Scholar; and a nod to their history in English works from their Tudor beginnings through to the present day.

The Program: Charles Hubert Hastings PARRY Hear my words, ye people. William BYRD Sing Joyfully. Giovanni Pierluigi da PALESTRINA Dum complerentur. Peter SCULTHORPE The Birthday of thy King. Brett DEAN Now comes the Dawn. Carl VINE Ring out, wild bells. Benjamin BRITTEN Hymn to St Cecilia, op 27. Gabriel FAURÉ Requiem in D minor, op 48

CANBERRA Thu July 31 7pm SOLD OUT

I had a cunning plan though!!

I turned up at Llewellyn Hall at 5.15 pm, as they were advertising that the box office would be open for ticket collection at 5.30 pm. I thought I’d get to be first in the queue for any returned tickets. Hmmmm.. The best laid plans etc. I was told by the nice, and rather plump young girl who was setting up the ticket office; “There may be tickets returned, but I won’t be allowed to sell them until 6.45.”

Bummer. I told her I’d sit there and wait, and try to catch anyone coming in with a returned ticket, and mug them. I had a handmade sign;

“HELP!! Desperate to buy a ticket!!!”

Willing to beg

and sat next to the ticket office holding that up. Seeing as there was no one coming in, I got bored after two minutes. Just for a lark I decided to try to teach the ticket office girl how to pronounce “Llewellyn Hall” properly, just to pass the time, and to keep me at the top of her thoughts. She tied her tongue in knots trying, but didn’t quite manage it. She went off to answer the phone.

When she came back I chatted away to her, promising to love her forever, if she’d keep me as “first refusal” on any returns. After a while she called me aside to the office window; “I’ve had a return come up on the computer. I’m not supposed to do this, but I’ll let you have it now if you want?” (Poor girl was probably desperate to get shot of me.) Seeing as it was it was only 5.45 pm then, and she wasn’t supposed to sell them any returns until 6.45 pm she was being very kind. “Only one thing it’s an “A reserve” ticket so it’s $98.00″ Needless to say I bit her arm off.

So I got a great ticket, one of the best seats in the house, brilliant!! As I had an hour to kill before the gig started, I went to the closest pub, obviously. Confounding my normal luck, not only did they have a great pint on sale, “Ruby Tuesday”, and a VERY nice 18 year old Ardberg on offer, but on TV there they were showing the final hours play from the England vs India cricket match, so I got to watch a reasonable bit of that too!

The gig itself? Oh god they are good! The purity of the sopranos, the harmonies, the counterpoints, the complexity, the depth of the bass, the unique textures of sound! I have never seen or heard a choir that good before. (I’m not ashamed to admit that my tears started during the Palestrina.) The bass vocalist did a short solo piece, confirming to me that my penchant for the bass voice is not perverse one bit, and despite everyone else I know trying to convince me that sopranos are the bees knees, bass is where its at. The organist, who was playing some bloody great Wurlitzer thing, did a ten minute solo that made Keith Emerson’s clever bugger efforts look rather like those of a rank amateur.

The only trouble with watching a choir like that is you always end up wondering if one of the young boys is taking a turn in the barrel that night. Cruel, unnecessary and unkind of me I know. Blame the catholic church.

I’ve since signed up with all the early/classical music concert promoters in Aus, for email and twitter notification of gigs here or in Sydney. “Rare as rocking horse shit”, is the term which leaps to mind.

Down at the pinnacle while walking the dogs the other night, I realised it must be coming into spring and mating season here, as the Roos were starting fighting. This is an amazing thing to watch, they look just like pissed up Scally’s having a barney over a “bird” or “spilled pint”.

Whether your a couple or a family, this georgeous 3 bedroom sanctuary is only one street back from the pristine waters of Nth Broulee pet friendly beach. Relax or entertain on the spacious and private rear deck, or drift off on one of the day beds listening to the sounds of the ocean and native birds. The enclosed yard is great for the kids and pets and big enough for a game of cricket.

The digs were fine, all that we wanted really. We had three days of walking on the beach in the rain, slobbing about at home, reading books, (I got through 3,) watching DVDs, having high octane kinky sex. We even got it together enough too go out for a meal one night. The weather was fabulously foul, we had rain all bar one day there, and a proper storm too.

Made me homesick for Cornwall it did. The dogs had a great time, as the beach was dog friendly and had an “off leash” section too.

There were many surfers there enjoying the storm driven waves. Mad buggers the lot of them.

There was supposed to be a chippy in the village, but it was shut, so we drove down to Moruya for a chip supper one evening. While waiting for our serve, I saw the most amazing poster for a “Holistic-Spiritual-Hypno-Chinese-herbal-massage-socio-Reiki-therapist”, thank god the mother in law wasn’t with us!!

We ate out at “The Little Restaurant and Bar”, this was our second visit, having found it by a Tripadvisor recommendation the last time we were down there.

We both had the specials on offer, I had the snapper, Lee-Anne had veal. For a small place they did beautifully cooked food, unpretentious and interesting. They would have to work on the finessing of the presentation, and be a little more adventurous before they will get a “hat” but I’m sure they could achieve this is that were their aim. (Just call me Marco.) They had a good range of beers and wines on offer, but I was driving so stuck to one and a Scotch. . Our waitress was very pleasant and courteous, and, as on our last visit, the owner/chef again spent time at each table.

Seeing as we were there on a cold Tuesday evening, out of season, the place was surprising full with diners at each and every table. Nice to see them doing well, they deserve it.

(My photos were taken on a phone camera and do not really do the food justice.)

The Friday after we got back, we went to see; “The Importance of being Earnest.” We tried flogging off Mary’s ticket, but there were no takers. I tried giving it away at work, no joy. Bethy and Brandon asked all their friends if they wanted a freebee, no a sausage. Their fucking loss, it was fab!!

We stopped in a at a pub for a bite to eat before the show, coincidentally the same one I’d been in before the Kings College gig. Unfortunately they didn’t have any cricket on show though. Luckily we had booked a table in advance as even early evening it was busy. I’m always bagging Canberra pubs, for good reason usually, I’m used to UK pubs, and always down on “Plastic Paddy“ pubs, as “P J O’Rielly’s happens to be.

But I cannot complain, it had pleasant staff, and a good range of beers. The beers were sold in pints, which is a cultured and civilised thing to do. All the beers were served too bloody cold, which is an unfortunate, silly, and country-wide problem down here.

The food service was a little slow, however the food portions were generous. I had “Matilda Bay beer battered flathead fillets with/ rustic farmhouse style chips, salad and a freshly made tartare sauce $18″. “Rustic farmhouse style chips” is just a pretentious crap concept, it just means you get fucking “chips” and not those abominable American “fries” which are sometimes served to people with no taste. Fish was very heavily battered, but well cooked.

Bethy had a burger, which was actually served rare as requested, for a change. Brandon had a huge pile of ribs, which was FAR too much for one person to eat. We took 90% of them away with us, wrapped in a napkin or ten.. This was not a smart move as during TIOBE the smell of them made my mouth water through the whole show.

All told far better than I expected, and I will go back as and when the circumstances dictate, or even boozing, when I’m in the city centre for a night again. Any of my Pom mates reading this; “it’s like a Wetherspoons, but without the low prices and the drunken Chavs, but with over-chilled, mainly piss, beers.”

The Importance of being Earnest? Well it was an absolute hoot. I’d not seen it before, live, I think I saw the original movie on a wet Sunday in Wales once. That’s about as exciting as a wet Sunday in Wales gets. The guy playing Algernon stole the show. Imagine if you will a very gay version of Benedict Cumerbatch, camping it up wildly (pun). I know some of my gay mates will have no problem imagining a gay Benedict C, they may already have. Earnest himself wasn’t too great, but adequate. Lady Bracknell was the classic fire breathing old dragon; “A handbag?!?!?”

I was astounded to be reminded how many classic lines there are in the play;

“All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does, and that is his.”
“I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.”
“If I am occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up for it by being always immensely over-educated.”
“To be natural is such a very difficult pose to keep up.”

It was a great night out, and, afterwards when we got home, we had Lee-Anne’s homemade sponge cakes and some sherry, just to keep the atmosphere going.

Now here’s something that REALLY pissed me off. Before going to the coast I had the car serviced. On the report that came with the inevitable huge bill, it noted; “Front tyres both bald and illegal, rear tyres nearly bald.” Seeing as we were going to the coast in predicted thunderstorms, and having to cross Clyde Mountain which is often snowed in, (when it’s not avalanch’d out that is,) I thought it best to get a new set.

So I rang around. I had a couple of quotes, the best being $360 the least best $550. Then I rang Kmart Auto. “How much for a full set of 190/60 R15’s please?“ The guy rustled some papers, tapped his keyboard; “I can do you them for $610,” he stated. I gave him the usual; “Ok, I’m just ringing around now, I’ll get back to you.” Him; “Have you got any quotes yet? We will price match any serious quotes,“ interesting. “I’ve been quoted $360 by Tyre-Power”. Brief pause; “Ok, I can match that and knock $10 off.” I could feel the red mist rising, so I politely told him I’d get back to him with the best quote. Fucking HONESTLY!!!!

You quote me $610, and then when I show that I’m not a complete fuckwit (shut it!) and have other offers on the table, you tell me you can do them for $260 cheaper, and you expect me to come running? Go fuck yerself pal.

In the end we went to Bob Jane Tyres who had a “4 for 3” offer on, and got them for $300, no worries. Seeing as our aging Subaru “Old Greg” is only going to be with us for another six-month or so, why should I spend more?

Isn’t technology wonderful? At work, and probably at great expense, they have installed a new answer-phone service. Now, if anyone rings us outside of hours, instead of the phone recording a message, the message is emailed to us individually as an MP3, how brilliant!! Or at least it would be brilliant if the computers we use didn’t have such shite speakers that no one in the office, least of all me, can hear the fucking messages.

So why is this month’s missive entitled The Vapours? Remember their famous song, a song which to this day they deny is about wanking; “Turning Japanese”?

I’ve got your picture, I’ve got your picture
I’d like a million of you all ’round myself
I want a doctor to take your picture
So I can look at you from inside as well
You’ve got me turning up and turning down
I’m turning in I’m turning ’round
I’m turning Japanese
I think I’m turning Japanese

Nostalgia or what?

Well I went to my GP the other day, just to get a path form, as I haven’t had a routine blood screen for a year. As you may know, the last blood screen I had showed my liver was past it’s “use by” date, having been dissolved in Scotch. Not only that, but I had so much cholesterol in my veins that the blood corpuscles were having to queue up to get through them, and only then in single file. This lead to a massive fitness and diet binge which somewhat salvaged me. So I went to the GP, at $70 a go I hasten to add, to ask for a path form.

My last GP had moved on. GPs last in my local surgery as long as snow does in the city. So I had a new one. Dr Anu turned out to be a very pleasant Sri Lankan lady, and after all the formalities, she signed me off a path form. Then she asked; “Have you done the national bowel cancer screening test?” There’s been a free government sponsored nationwide bum screen for us old farts. Stupidly, without thinking, I told her the bloody truth; “No Doc, I cannot do that as having bleeding haemorrhoids is an exclusion. I’ve got whoppers of Nobby Styles.” Oh no, why did I say that?

So she’s booked me in for a bloody colonoscopy! Think$$$$. Even with our private health cover we still have to fork out a bundle, just for the pleasure of having a length of drainpipe rammed up my arse.

Honestly, I looked online for some consolatory information and found’; “The colonoscope is a thin, flexible tube that ranges from 48 in. (122 cm) to 72 in. (183 cm) long.” What? 72in.? That’s six fucking foot!! I’m only 6” 1’ tall! It’ll pop out of me mouth. But also; “You may feel bloated or pass gas for a few hours after the exam, as you clear the air from your colon.” Nothing new there then, I doubt any bugger’ll notice the difference.

I also have to go on a strict diet for a few days, and two days before the big event start taking Picolax, which means keeping running shoes on, and a clear runway to the Kazi. That could be interesting, as I’m in work for the days before.

Lee-Anne has been suffering with her hearing, you can imagine how good that makes conversations in our house. We’ve had complaints about our shouting at each other from six blocks away. So she had to have a routine MRI scan. This found a growth in her inner ear, about the size of a grain of rice. “It’s probably nothing to worry about,” said the ENT specialist, Dr Pham, not reassuringly. “It may be a tumor, but it probably isn’t”.
So she’s going to have to go to Sydney to see another specialist, ($$$$$$) one who, according to the reassuring Dr Pham; “May decide to cut it out with a laser scalpel”
All fun and games down here then eh?

Lee-Anne in her role of Sir Humphrey to our territory government, had to ensure everyone in her department has the required security clearances the other day. This is apparently due to her having Federal Government documents, and ministerial briefings, passing through her hands. I think I’ll start calling her “007” rather than “Sir Humphrey” now.
Being a noble person, she started with herself, and what a bloody farrago it turned out to be! She had to list everyone in her family, then all their closest relatives, then every time they had been abroad, with dates, locations and contacts. Ok, that’s where this bloody blog thing comes in handy. By referencing the blog, and our wedding souvenirs, and Mary’s vague memories of when she was living in Britain then Papua New Guinea, with a then infant Lee-Anne, and family trips to New Zealand, where her dad was from, we were getting somewhere. Bethy’s trip to Japan was a doddle, her father hasn’t been abroad. We got all my families dates of birth, trips overseas (none), our birth certificates, wedding cert and all other relevant details.

Then we realised that Brandon was now a “person of significance”, and boy has he travelled or what? Seeing as he’s American, it’s been mainly to the States, but also the UK, and other places.

It makes me giggle I must admit, I can just imagine my mother’s sheer horror to know that all her personal details are on an Australian Government database of “persons of interest”. You know, just in case she’s a fifth columnist for the Red Army or something. Hey, as you’re a good mate of mine, maybe you will be on it now too!

I had a great chat with Helen, Matt Abbott’s lovely missus the other day, one of my regular; “It’s Sunday, I’m pissed, let’s annoy people” calls, (don’t laugh, you may be due one soon.) She said something that brought a lump to my throat; “Matt’s out climbing at Stannage.” It wasn’t that he was not there for me to abuse that made me all whimsical, but the fact that he was out, climbing, and at Stannage. Stannage for those of you who are not climbers, is the Mecca, the Nirvana, the Eden, of UK rock climbers. Oh it’s not that it’s a tall cliff, quite the contrary, it’s reasonably low being in the region of 25 meters, or 80 foot high at it’s highest . But it has always been the testing ground of UK climbers, with famous names like Brown, Whillans, Fawcett, and Dawes, all leaving their mark there. And that semi-evolved simian twat was out there climbing. Just to add insult to insult, he was probably climbing with someone famous. I used to do some climbing you know, but here was I sat in a warm and cozy room in Canberra on a Sunday evening, with a glass of good Scotch or two in me, and my lovely family about me, and at that moment I’d have swapped it in an instance to be with Abbott on a cold and windy Derbyshire fell, ferezing by bollocks off, holding a rope and failing miserably to climb anything at all. Arse.

Just to cheer myself up, I asked Helen if she was keeping an close eye on their kids, Danny and Gina, just to ensure they were not developing like Matt, or had inherited Matt’s, genotype. “How could I tell?” she naively asked me. “Easy, just keep checking the back of their knuckles, if they are getting calloused from dragging on the ground, they have Matt’s genes.”

Oh well, it made me laugh.

By the way Matt, if you’re reading this and wondering why, yet again, I’ve written a couple of yards of drivel just to tell people what I’ve been up to over the past month, it’s due to someone giving me a massive incentive by commenting thus;

These stories are complete fucking drivel. Why do you feel the need to to write them let alone publish them! Excellent photos, more please.

We had someone leaving today at work just the other day, being an arse I forgot about it until the day before. So I needed an easy recipe to knock up before going in, Lee-Anne turned me on to Lemonade scones. I made this batch, they taste even better than they look.

Recipe here; I added sultanas and a bit of desiccated coconut to the mix to jazz them up a bit.
I’ve long thought that the one therapeutic tool which would make my working life so much easier would be the ability to prescribe a “parentectomy”. Honestly, some of the parents we get to meet with the kids on our caseload need more help than the kids. Though saying that, some just need a vigorous clinical application of cricket bat from me.

The worse type are either health workers, teachers, or social workers. Now don’t get me wrong, not all in those professions all are like that. Amongst my good friends for example we have Wynn who is a social worker, Louise who is a nurse, Dave C is a nurse, Harness was a Teacher, Charlie is a trained teacher, Clarkie is a teacher, and Abbott is a social worker. Despite being mates of mine, they are all relatively sane and healthy people. Ok, those last two may need to be scratched from the list, but you get my drift. You want examples of where a parentectomy is needed?

Ok, we’ll start with the woman who underlies this rant. A social worker. Her daughter had a mild dose of psychosis on the back of taking some unidentified drug, possibly ice at a rave/doof party. She’s doing well. So the other day, I get a phone call from mother; “Oh, last night, well we had tea, I made salad and rice. Then we sat down to read for a little, while. Oh I lit the fire first….” This carried on, with a minute detailing of the nights events, very, very boring, events, laterally sprinkled with “I hope that was the right thing to do?” and “I didn’t want to intrude on her privacy”. But it went on for 35 fucking minutes, without ever reaching a punch line. I don’t even spend 35 minutes on the phone to me mother. Think about it, the next time you watch your favourite soap opera, just think what it would be like to spend the whole of that duration listening to the world’s most boring social worker dribbling on and on and on and on about the minutiae of her boring bloody family life. I was desperately trying to flag someone in the office down so I could sling them the rescue note I’d written; “Yell out that my next client is here, please save me!!!” But no luck. Just as I was on the verge of slamming the phone down on her, or slashing my wrists, she came to the point; ”Oh, remember we talked about me having some time off to look after my daughter?” That had happened in our first session, two days prior. “Yes, I remember, your daughter said she didn’t want you too take any time off, as she found you over protective and stifling.” Smart kid obviously. “Oh, well I had a word with my boss today, and she’s agreed for me to take six months, unpaid, carers leave. Was that the right thing to do?”
God help me.

You want more? Sat in on a client assessment the other day, with Dr Michelson, one of our best shrinks, (he knows to do what he’s told.) So the Doc says to the kid; “Ok, well since you left hospital last week, you seem to be traveling well, so we’ll keep you on the same dose of Risperdal.” Father (a teacher) chips in; “Ah, well I’ve been looking into this problem online, and I think he’d be better off on Olanzapine” Oh fucking really, you do do you? Obviously your ten minutes on Google is far more informative than the Doc’s fifteen years of training and twenty years as a senior consultant then. I mean, if this teacher twat were a biology or chemistry graduate, or had a masters / PHd in a related subject, he may have some point to make. But he’s a fucking geography teacher.

More?

One of our clients has parents both of whom are mental health nurses. The other day, my mate Gary got a phone call. I just got one side of it, but Gary, who is normally very cool and professional, and an ideal counter to me in sticky situations, (he chats with them, I belt them, ) was obviously close to blowing. When he put the phone down he vented to me; “Ok, you know Sally was unwell. Well her parents have, against mine and the doctor’s advice, taken her on that holiday to Hungary, as they are; “both nurses and know how to look after their own daughter.” But while there she’s been getting more and more paranoid and psychotic. So I told them that I’d ring the on call registrar and get some extra meds authorised for her. You may not believe this, but the reason she is in decline is her fucking parents FORGOT TO TAKE HER MEDS on holiday with them”. Poor bugger ended up having a stay in a Hungarian mental ward.

One last one.

I get a hysterical call from the mother of a client, a mother who also happens to be a local GP; “If you do not come and take away my son, I will stab him to death and then slit my own throat!!” Whoopsy, we rush round there, with the police called for backup, as the boy is known to be rather nasty when unwell. We get there and he’s obviously flying, not been taking his meds and smoking tons of blow. It takes nearly two hours to corral him, mainly because he’s been shitting everywhere and I have new chinos on. The police sat back and watched, as he wasn’t threatening, but was rather shitty. We get him to the hospital, bang him up in the secure room, and wait for the on call consultant. It doesn’t take Bruce much time to assess him, and the stink certainly helped propel that along. Just as we’re calling the wardsmen to get him taken to the High Dependency Unit, who bursts in but mother; “I am a doctor, you cannot take my son from me, my love will cure him, my love will cure him!!!”

I have many more, but that lot will do for now. It’s rather cathartic writing this blog