Taff Down Under 5

Ah well, another week goes by, and here I am again typing this crap in the hope of provoking communication with the UK. No great events this week, but I’ll still tell you about it.

Monday, I chauffeured the mother in law for a doc’s appointment. She’s had her cataracts removed, and looks like she’s been slapped in the face with a cricket bat. We went to a new part of Canberra to me, and luckily she was able to see well enough to direct me, as in; “turn left here, no not here, there, and I meant right not left. And did you know that my sister Wilma may come and stay, oh sorry you should have turned left back there.”

Fun fun fun..

While she was in the doc’s, I got a copy of the Canberra times, the local rag, and had a coffee outside. I was served by a guy who made Julian Clary look like Arnold Schwartzenegger. Nice chap, though he seemed to have trouble with my accent for some reason. I mean to say there’s him talking “pure Oz poof” and me with my perfect diction, and he’s looking at me like I’m the one with the funny voice?

Tuesday was a bummer; I got a rejection letter from that gambling job that I went for. It was one of these nice; “Thank you for coming to the interview, we were very impressed by you, but unfortunately we have decided to give the job to someone who has worked for us in the past. We will hold your details on file and will contact you if a suitable post arises” letters.

Roughly translated reads; “Thanks for making us miss our coffee break by turning up for the interview, you bastard. We gave the job to Joe in the next office, as we had created the post with him in mind, and we’re just going through the motions. We’ve binned your application, don’t pester us ever again.”

Ah well, gave me an excuse to do some damage to a bottle of Scotch on Tues night.

Wednesday had a little contretemps with Bethy. She’s been gradually pushing the envelope to see what she can get away with. So we had “words” followed by tears. Not my fault I cry when chastised is it?

Thursday I took myself off for a nice walk. I’m fed up of hanging about the house alone all day, doing the domestic. I swear you could eat out of our kitchen I’ve cleaned it so much. So I took myself off to the Black Mountain, just round the back of us, for a stroll.

 

Getting to the tower at the top of the hill was a piece of piss, just keep going up, easy. I had equipped myself as I would for a walk in the UK, but the fleece came off first, then the sweat top, then the T-shirt, and soon I was semi-naked walking the trail. ( And they call this “winter” my arse! ) Very pleasant too, if steep towards the top. I didn’t go into the tower, as I’d been in there on my first visit, and they wanted money to get in. Fuck’em

I shot off a few piccies, available soon on request, and headed down.

The trouble with going down was that, as I could see the tower on the way up, it was easy. Going down, I had no such marker, and got hopelessly fucking lost. The problem is that the Black Mountain is a gum forest, and every gum tree looks the same.

Normally with an uphill journey of 1-½ hours, you can bank on¾ hour off. It took me 2½ fucking hours. By which time I was dehydrated, knackered and very very pissed off. Good healthy exercise my arse.

 

 

Friday, I went into the city centre, they call it “Civic” for some strange reason.

The buskers there were amazing, my fave was an old Abo guy (Abo is PC here before anyone says owt.) playing a didgeridoo, and I mean playing. The hippy tossers you see in the UK busking with these are just blowing a noise, this guy could play. Weird and wonderful tunes, and he stomped and clapped as he played. The funny thing was when he stopped it was obvious he was pissed as a fart, I wonder how good he is when sober? He was so good I even gave him a few dollars. Ok two dollars. (60p)

Anyway, I went to the public library fired up and ready to get every CD of didgeridoo music they had there out. But then I found a CD of Jacob Obrecht’s “Missa Maria Zart” by The Tallis Scholars, who I collect, and forgot all about the busker.

Friday after school, Bethy went to a “sausage sizzle” a particularly Ozzie thing, like a barbeque, but with sausages as the main dish. Unfortunately it pissed down. The weather this weekend has been REAL weather, blowing a gale, and heavy rain. I was wondering if they ever had real rain here, or if the trees lived off the perspiration of lost Welshmen. But this weekend we’ve had it grand.

 

Bethy is at her dad’s this weekend, so on Friday night we watched Daziel and Pascoe, which didn’t make me homesick at all, though it was nice to watch a quality programme. We then watched one of our video’s from the adult shop, drank cheap voddy, and…just

First thing on Saturday morning me old mucker Alan Harness rang from New Zealand. At 8.30 am the bastard, and me with a hangover and half a hard on. Anyway, very nice of him to ring. He’s been teaching for just over a year there, and him Jo and the kids have decided to head back to the UK, as they miss the rain, the taxes, the fucked up school system, and all the sour bastards that live over there. If any of you remember Harness I’m sure he’ll thank me for not saying “Hi” from him, as he’s a miserable bastard. If we can get enough cash saved before he leaves we’ll pop over for a holiday. (And that’s a threat Harness)

Saturday afternoon, LeeAnne went over to her ex’s place, as not only was Bethy cooking them both lunch, but also they joint own a scrap car that is the same as the one LeeAnne bought me. So she went over, and replaced the seat, wing mirrors and a few other bits for me. I sat at home drinking tea, and making bread. Role reversal or what?

That bread maker is a fucking treat. Just throw the ingredients in, and two hours later, fresh bread. Yummy as fuck, buy one today. Our best bread so far has been a walnut and peanut butter one, but we have a jalapeno and satay sauce one baking at the moment that I have high hopes for. The bloody machine has paid for itself already, and we are living on high quality bread, and fuck all else, at the mo.

Saturday night we decided to go out pubbing. LeeAnne’s been out of the scene for sometime now, so wasn’t sure where we should go, she remembered a pub that she used to love when she was younger, and as it’s only fifteen minutes walk from the house we decided to go there. When we got there the first signs weren’t promising, they had a big “bistro” sign outside. Though when we went in, there was a blues band warming up, the place was a fug of smoke and beer fumes, the walls were decorated in various shades of nicotine, some of the people there looked dangerous, mad drunk, and wild, and the men looked just as bad. A TV in the corner was showing the Ozzy/Kiwi match ( Oz won it in the second minute of injury time, thriller! ) and they served pints on request. I looked around, tasted my pint of “Coopers Dark,” found that it was warmer than most places serve it, lit a gasper, and said; “Babes, this’ll do us fine, it’s now our local!”

 

Ah well, that’s enough of my ramblings.