Taff Down Under 18
"I write as I do, because I have the heart of a small child.
I keep it in a jar next to the writing table"
Stephen King.
Oh dear, big trouble.
Lee-Anne’s gone on one of her periodic healthy lifestyle binges. So this means she’s given up coffee, stopped eating anything with a trace of fat in it, and now lives in the "Bodyworks" Gym. And so I get to suffer, sorry, I should have said "enjoy," a whole new lifestyle. Great.
She has a cup of tea or four now for breakfast, instead of a gallon of coffee which, as she is normally the compos mentis one in the early morning, means I have to find my way to the toilet all by myself. Our early morning conversation now consists of a series of coded grunts to each other.
And I love fat. When I was single my whole diet consisted of three main food groups, fat, pasty’s and burnt things. Now I get to eat healthy, oh deep joy. We’ll be eating dried apple again soon.
The deeply troubling thing though is that Lee-Anne’s threatening to go to the early morning gym classes. Now when I say early morning I don’t mean, "start at 8.30 and do a nice half hour before popping into the shower and off to work". No I mean gym going for the serious fitness head. We are talking about her getting up at 5.30, yes that is 5.30 am, and heading off for an hour of aerobics. You have to admire her dedication. Well no, you don’t actually.
I know what you’re thinking, "why doesn’t that lard-arsed Welshman just join in and get himself fit." Good question. Oh, and fuck you for thinking of it. But I am. Even as I sit and type this, my gym bag is packed and I’m off there straight from work. Needless to say I’m fucking dreading it. I haven’t been since I started this job, and I know I’m going to suffer. Ok, I still walk the dog for an hour or more each day, which helps. Well it helps him more than it helps me. But my upper body is definitely showing signs of heading south. Or would it head north down here?
But I’m glad we’re starting all this malarkey again, it has to be worth it. Please tell me it’s worth it?
After all, it’s Bethy we have to think of, she’s 8 (going on 18) and a very active kid. We need to be as fit as we can so that she gets the most out of our time. And she’s seriously sporting. In fact this very night Mary, the mother in law, picks her up from school and takes her to the Australian Institute of Sport, the most prestigious swimming coaching place in Oz, the place where Ian Thorpe (look him up yourself) trains. Bethy’s having swimming coaching, and is already heading up the grades. We hope she will persevere as she is already whipping the arse off kids two and three years her senior. (Not in the way her mother whips the arse off people, fortunately.)
I’ve developed an interest in post boxes, though not a sexual interest I can assure you. It’s just that out on country roads, as we often are, travelling to flying sites, seeing the countryside or, most often, lost, we come across these amazing post boxes’. Lee-Anne and Bethany being natives and used to this sort of thing find my interest unusual to say the least. Lee-Anne has taken to threatening to drive off and abandon me when I leap from the car to take photographs of them. But they are lovely, and interesting, and different, and somehow very Ozzie. Here are a couple of snaps so you can see what I mean.
Dog walking incidents.
Things happen when I take the mutt for a walk. Normally they involve cyclists, blood, abrupt decisions by the mutt, and lots of swearing. But we’ve had a couple of odd ones of late.
We’ve had a run of cold and wet weather recently. Temperatures in the morning have been as low as minus 4. The other day was a particularly grim one, down to minus 3 and sleety drizzle about. The mutt has to piss and shit first thing, and it was a condition of us getting him that I would walk him regularly, so off we set. He of course was overjoyed; I’ve never met a mutt who wanted to walk so much. As soon as I put my shoes on each morning, he’s off running round the house yelping and overly excited. He also tries to drag me out of the house by my sleeve, and on one notable occasion bit my arse to get me moving. It certainly got him moving, vertically, when my size nine made contact with him.
Anyway, there we were this particular morning, strolling up the street towards the bush, as we always do first thing. The Bushland that is, not a particular bush, or even her….never mind. We passed one garden, and sat there, looking ever so sorry for itself, was a small black dog, for all the world like an abandoned floor mop. You know the type of dog I mean, the sort only an old lady could love, he looked like the sort of dog who would be called "Mr. Wuffles." I just thought the owner had just let him out of the house for an early morning piss, so we carried on walking.
After about half an hour we returned, and there looking on the verge of hypothermia, was Mr. Wuffles, sat in the same spot. So I let Barnum annoy him for a short while, and went and banged on the front door. After a short while a little old lady in a dressing gown answered. "Is that your dog?" I asked, "he’s looking ever so cold out here." "I don’t have a dog," she replied. She didn’t recognise it, and neither did any of the neighbours. So I picked it up, and carried it home, all the while thinking "Lee-Anne’s going to kill me for this." Well we got in, and Bethy and Lee-Anne were all over it like a rash. Hmmmm…
He had a collar, buried deep in his fur, and on it a telephone tag. So I rang the number. Engaged. After several attempts I got through to an ever so concerned sounding lady, who confirmed she’d let her dog out for a piss that morning, and he’d wondered off. "We have him here." I told her, and after giving directions rang off.
The stupid mutt had wondered off, on the most foul day so far this year, navigated himself across her suburb, crossed the four lanes of traffic, the ones Barnum plays chicken on if allowed, in shite visibility, and ended up at our place drinking out of Barnum’s bowl while occasionally being savaged by our cat. The twat.
She soon came round and picked him up, which made me and Bethy rather sad, as we wanted to keep him. He’d have been a good companion for Barnum as they were on an intellectual par, thick as pig shit.
The next night she dropped round with a card, but more importantly, a big box of Ferrero Rocher chockies for us.
The other incident involving the dog took place last Saturday.
On Saturday mornings I normally give him a bit longer walk, as I’m normally up later and he’s busting for a shite, also I have a hangover to walk off.
So this day we were up near Aranda Bushland, when off races Barnum in hot pursuit of a Roo. When this happens normally, I stand there screaming my lungs out at him, while the Roos run off pissing themselves laughing at his turn of speed. Barnum’s fast, but Roo’s are in a different league, it’s like a penny-farthing chasing a Porsche. He always turns and comes back, then rolls over and exposes his belly in contrition, as he knows he’s done wrong. Either that or he’s sussed out that I usually kick his arse, and I can’t get him there when he’s on his back.
Anyway, this time the Roo did something odd. It just stopped. So Barnum, being unused to this dilemma also stopped. The pair of them just stood there, looking at each other, Barnum confused and the Roo just worried. I imagined the animal chat went along the lines of;
Barnum; "Morning!"
Roo; "G’day."
Barnum; "Come on then, run off so I can chase you and annoy the hell out of the human."
Roo; "Sorry old chum, I’m on my way out, dying I’m afraid, can’t help."
Barnum; "Oh shite, what do I do now then?"
Roo: Well you could rip my guts out, help speed me on my way."
Barnum; "No fucking chance pal. Couldn’t you just sorta hop a little way, the chase may do you good?"
Roo; "Love to oblige chum but it’s out of the question. Wouldn’t tear my throat out in a quick and painless manner would you?"
Barnum; "If you’re going to talk dirty, I’m off back to get a good kicking off the human, that’ll teach me. Bye!"
Roo; "G’day mutt."
And so Barnum came back, and got kicked. And the Roo stood there looking sad and old and fucked. Shame really, I was hoping the Roo was going to give him a good kicking, he may think twice about chasing them in future after that.
The sad thing is we think Tiger the cat is on his way out too. He’s diabetic, and has to have two pills a day with his food, but of late he’s taken to eating everything in sight. To our knowledge he’s had a packet of Lamingtons, half a block of butter, a whole packet of crumpets, half a loaf of bread, biscuits, a packet of nuts, three apple oatcakes, cooked meals, most of a cake that Lee-Anne baked, the list goes on. In fact his original nick name was "Mr. Potato head", after he ate a bowl of mashed spud.
If it comes to the point where he needs injections for his diabetes, I’m afraid he’s going to get his neck stretched instead. Such a pity, as I’ve never met a cat with so much character. Any cat that attacks, and hangs from the neck of a 90 kilo Rotty whilst attempting to rip out his throat with his back legs, with the dog in sheer terror, gets my vote every time.
Just Saturday gone, we decided to do our weekly shop in a different mall. Canberra is not one city, it’s an odd conglomeration of five or more cities, all with their own suburbs, all arranged in a logical and lovely amalgamation. So if you want to, and we did, you can drive a bit further and shop in a different place. If you hate shopping, as we do, then this makes it slightly less boring. Very slightly.
So we went to Woden mall, and had a very normal shopping day. Lee-Anne and Bethany wanted to look at things, and I wanted to look at different things, and so we argued and bickered in that half hearted, good fun, give and take, way that loving people do, and had a lovely family day. But just as we were at the till in Woolworth’s getting the weeks groceries, something happened.
We were at the till with our shopping on the conveyor waiting to be served. They bag your groceries for you here, isn’t that nice? I was looking at the women’s mags on the racks, and wondering how few brain cells it takes to read one of these "celebrity" magazines, three or less I suppose. Do you really need to find out that "Posh Spice" is looking a bit on the thin side? Or that someone famous may be shagging someone other than his or her wife? Or, worse of all, do you really need a magazine called "Inside soap?" I mean to say, if your life is so empty you feel the need, not only to watch soap operas, but to buy magazines on them, I’d consider becoming an organ donor soon if I were you. Don’t bother donating your brain though.
Where was I, oh yes back at the till. There was a god almighty thump from behind me, and Lee-Anne grabbed my arm and shouted "Taff!" I looked round and there was a rather large man, spread-eagled on the floor. So I rushed over. I got to him, saw a stream of blood coming from his head, and took charge. Till people and bystanders were all offering conflicting advice, some of it verging on the homicidal. I told them all to back off, and talked to his wife, who was about as much use as a chocolate fireguard. "He said he felt faint, then keeled over. He hit his head hard on the edge of the counter." So far so good. "He’s never done anything like this before, it’s rather odd’" You don’t say. So I got down and talked to him. No response. I checked his pulse, weak but not dangerous. Some idiot came up and said, "get him to stand up and walk about a bit." Tit head.
Anyway, I heard him groan, and got his name off him, Andrew. I went through what I could remember of the checklist of things to do with someone in that situation, including asking which pocket his wallet was in, and told him to stay where he was. He was breathing ok, which made me feel a lot better. I got the till totty to get me some kitchen paper to staunch the flow of blood from his head, by this time he was making moves to get up, so I let him try. Normally you shouldn’t let people try to get up just in case they have neck or spinal injuries, but he was adamant he wanted to sit up, so fuck it it’s your neck pal. I gave him a hand. By this time the "official" first aider for the store had arrived, so I talked him through what I knew so far, and left him to deal with it. The cut on Andrews’s head was a beauty, a five-stitch job by the look of it.
His wife in the meantime had managed to get all her shopping on the conveyer, and was looking for someone to serve her. I think the word "shock" would apply there. As we were having a cuppa and a fag in an outside caff, the ambulance was arriving.
Those of you of a prudish nature, and I can’t for the life of me imagine why I’d be sending this drivel to someone so inclined, may want to skip the next bit.
Remember the vasectomy I had? How could you forget? Well it’s was three months ago, so I’ve had to have a sperm test. "Yeah, big fucking deal," I hear you say, but remember, this is me we are talking about here.
Ok, the morning of the big day arrives. Lee-Anne takes Bethy off to school, then sneaks back to give me a helping hand. Although hand would not be the right term here, as she used far more than just her hand. Anyway, the sample pot was rather on the small side, and you know how much the bloody end of the thing shakes about in those final few seconds, and I at their request, hadn’t had sex or a wank for four days before, so I was fully loaded. Just at the point of no return we realised the pot had rolled under the sofa, panic. It could all have got rather messy, but I think we got most of it in.
So then I had to rush it to the depot, we’d read the form and there’s one not ten minutes drive from the house, and I had two hours to get it in. Get it in the depot that is.
So off I drive with only a tub of hot man fat for company. All the way there I was thinking "please don’t let there be a pretty young girl at the counter, please don’t let there be a pretty young girl at the counter, please don’t let there be a pretty young girl at the counter." Now I’m sure the people there would have no blushes, after all they are used to dealing with sperm samples. And in all probability Ozzie men probably march in and say, "here’s me spunk pot girl, the wife give me a head job to help me along, so I hope there’s not to much saliva in it! G’day."
But I’m Welsh for fucks sake. We don’t do that sort of thing; we don’t mention semen to strangers. The girls at Welsh pathology departments probably think they’re testing frogspawn or something.
So I get to the test place, and there’s a queue of two people in front of me, me standing there with a pot of spunk in my hand, and a pretty girl serving. Fuck my luck.
I get to the counter, hand over the form, and discretely pass over my pot. She looks at my form, examines my pot, too fucking closely for my liking, and says in a voice that could be heard in Sydney, "Jeez Mr. Thomas, we don’t do semen tests here, you’ll have to take it to Canberra hospital. But be quick you don’t want it to get cold." I walked out giving the people there sunburn off my blushes.
So I get to the car, and realise I’m almost out of petrol. Not to worry our local service station is nearby, so I drive like a loony, like a loony with a pot of hot semen that is, to it. When I get there I realise that fate is dealing me my usual hand, the place is full of old people.
May I digress here a short while?
Now I respect the elderly as much, if not more than, the next man. After all we are talking about a generation that has been through a lot, and includes many war veterans. But why the fuck is it that they are so shite in petrol stations?
First of all they never seem to know where the petrol cap is on their car. Then they find it’s on the side away from the pumps, so they have to jiggle the car back and fore to get the cap within range. Then they read all the instructions on the pump, including the ones for the maintenance man, before deciding whether to have unleaded or diesel today. Then they search their many pockets for the key, and try each of the hundreds of keys they all carry for some inexplicable reason, before remembering that they keep the petrol cap key safe in the glove compartment. They then turn out the glove compartment, discussing each and every item in there with their partner, before returning to the cap, without the key.
I could go on, but if I do I’ll only end up going down the petrol station armed with an axe. Again.
So I eventually get my gas, and find myself driving like a madman across Canberra, hoping to fuck I didn’t get stopped by the police. "Medical emergency officer, I have to get this spunk to the hospital before it gets cold!!" Of course every red light is against me, the roads are clogged with busses and old people driving slowly, so by the time I get there I’m a complete mess.
Did I tell you how big Canberra hospital is? Fucking big, that’s how big, very fucking big. And of course when I look at the map I find couldn’t have parked further away from the pathology department without leaving Canberra. So I run around, getting myself lost twice, and by the time I get there I’m a wreck, and I have only twenty minutes of my two hours left.
So I approach the pretty girl at the counter, you didn’t think there wasn’t going to be one did you? "Oh Mr. Thomas," she calls out loudly as I walk away, "you haven’t filled in your details on your semen pot." Thanks a bunch..
We got the result the other day. "Inconclusive, please submit another sample in one calendar month." That’s just about the sum of my luck that.
The other day I took one of the young lads from work out to the local rock-climbing wall. He’s getting ready for discharge, and has an interest in outdoor pursuits and we’ve been doing some bush walks and other outdoors stuff. He’s a nice chap, but can be chronically unwell at times. Anyway, me and him get along well, we swap music CD’s on occasion, and he doesn’t mind me taking the mutt along on our bush walks, so fair play to him.
We get to the climbing wall and the young girl behind the counter asks if we’ve done this before. I know I have, and when he’s asked he replies; "Oh yeah, loads of times." So that’s ok then.
So I belay him up a couple of routes, he’s not a good climber but he’s enjoying himself, so that’s well and good. After a while he gets a bit arm sore, and so I buy us a mug of coffee each, and we sit outside, have a fag, and chat. (The chat is the main purpose for our trips out; he doesn’t know that, he thinks it’s for fun. I’m not going to disillusion him though.) So we watch the rain coming down, talk about his hopes and fears. Talk about what happened when he became ill, and how it’s all affected him, and about his guitar playing. Talk about his meds and rugby and gothic rock, and any old shite.
So we go back in, he’s a lot more confident now, and hammers a couple of routes in the blink of an eye. So fuck it, my turn. I get him to belay me, up a couple of easy slabby ones to warm up, then onto an over-hanging section of roof. "This’ll show him who’s boss here," thinks a certain knob head.
So up I rumble, feeling every one of my years, every fag and glass of scotch I’ve ever had, and trying to remember the last time I went to the gym. I get maybe forty feet up, hanging on by fingertips and toenails, and risk a cheeky wink at him, only to find that he’s deep in conversation with someone, and that he hasn’t taken the rope in. Just to complicate matters, the person he’s deep in conversation with isn’t actually there.
So the girl from the place comes across and tries to point out my perilous position to him, and to ask him to take the rope in. Although from my tenuous position under the roof it actually sounded like she said; "Pay attention to the man on the rope you stupid twat, or you’re banned." He looked up, grinned, apologised to the invisible person, said a very weak "sorry" to the girl, and started taking the rope in. At which point I popped off.
Well I didn’t deck it, obviously, I wouldn’t be boring you with this now if I had, but fuck did I come close? Oh and my harness taking up the slack at 9 m/s2 did more to stop sperm production than my vasectomy ever did. I can sing soprano now.
Anyway, we patched things up in the car on the way back, and the nurses patched him up when we got back to work. We’re sticking to bush walking for a while though.
Talking about me flying through the air, I had a lot more pleasant experience of it the other day. The weather, as I was saying has been foul on and off, normally foul at any time I want to go flying. But one weekend just gone we had a beaut of a day. I gave Peter Bowyer our local flying school owner a bell, and asked if he could give me a couple of days instruction, as I’m as rusty as fuck.
http://www.australianparagliding.com/
He was busy but agreed to put me on a radio so he could encourage me. Encourage me not to do anything too stupid that is.
So I drove out to Spring Hill, and met up with the guys and exchanged insults. The wind had gone to nowt, but we drove to the top of the hill, and there was enough to get a top to bottom in. So I set up. After getting my self together, I then gave Peter and the rest of the guys an object lesson in how not to take off, complete with getting my lines twisted, falling over rocks, losing my brake handles, and staggering into the air at the last moment. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but I could hear Peter pissing himself laughing over the radio.
So we had a morning of doing that, and I provided as much entertainment as I could. But in the afternoon the wind picked up slightly, just ever so slightly. So that was it, we were all in the air and cruising about back and fore on the updraft from the hill. I’m really chuffed as I hadn’t had a decent flight in a while, and loving it, when Peter’s voice came on the radio; "360 degree turn to your right Taff." So I turn, and I go up. "Keep holding that, Taff". So I keep holding it, and I keep going up. This is amazing, my first real thermalling!
I’ve flown in thermal conditions before, mainly out here in Oz. But it’s always been a case of fly into the thermal, whack the brakes on, and try and stay in the thermal as long as possible. This is totally different, this is flying up inside the thermal, and it’s totally gobsmaking.
Now what I want to know is, how the fuck can he see that from the ground? He’s sat there watching me, and he sees me enter the thermal, and talks me up in it. Be buggered, the guys good!
So I do this a few more times, with Peter instructing me, and make some fair height above the hill. The views are enough to bring tears to my eyes, but when I land I tell the guys I’d had to take my goggles off and it was the wind that did it.
The next day isn’t as good, I get a few 360’s in, but gain no real height. And then the wind picks up a bit much, so I ask Pete if it’s ok to fly. "Yes", says he "but keep your speed bar full on." "I aint got a speed bar" I reply. "No speed bar?" Say’s Pete, with that grin I know so well spreading across his face, "Shame that, you’d better not fly then. Funnily enough I’ve got just the one for your harness back at my base."
I can’t wait to try it out! Oh, and Lee-Anne didn’t hit me for buying more kit Pete.
Thanks to all of you who sent me their local paper for August the 2nd. I haven’t got round to reviewing them yet, but rest assured they’ve all been read. A very big thank you to the Harness family for sending papers above and beyond the call of duty!
We went to see "Finding Nemo" the other day. Crap. A great firm like PIXAR shouldn’t join with Disney, Disney are shite, they took what could have been a good and funny story, and smothered it in saccharine. Bastards.
We went to our favourite lesbian bar again a couple of week’s back, Tilley Divines. We took, or rather he took us, Albert along. He drove so we could get slaughtered on their house red. This, for a house wine is rather nice, though the mean buggers wont give me a pint mug to drink it out of. We went to see Mary Coughlan, an Irish blues and jazz singer. I’ve had a few tapes of her for donkey’s years, and was dead keen to see her live, I wasn’t disappointed. She was absolutely wonderful, the sexiest singing voice you will ever hear. Rush out and buy all her CD’s now! (Or send me your snail mail address in an e-mail, and I’ll burn you copies of the two we bought.)
Well I fell in love with her, as you’d expect, and so did Lee-Anne, which was nice, and gave me even more of a hard on.
Afterwards Albert drove us into Civic, the main centre of Canberra, and we drank coffees outdoors at a late night coffee shop, and watched the pissed people going by. All in all a lovely night out, thanks Albert!
Oh while we’re talking about music, we’ve just watched "Australian Idol; The Mad, The bad, And The Ugly". It’s left me feeling good looking, immensely talented and charismatic. So this is a good time to warn some of you that I have six tracks down for a new CD of my god-awful music, and that some of you will be receiving a useful drinks coaster soon.
Having been skiing recently we decided to go tobogganing to keep our sliding skills up. At Corin forest just outside Canberra, there’s a small hill that’s fed snow artificially. They did used to have a massive metal slide there, almost three hundred and fifty meters long, but that went up in the fires this year. For a small charge you can hire a plastic sled and go and try and hurt yourself on the snow. It’s ever such a little slope, but great fun. Mary, being a bit of a go’er for her age decided to join us. We had great fun, got covered in snow, soaked through to the skin, and I got a ticking off off Mary for going down backwards, which made me sulk for an hour.
To round the day off we hit Tidbinbilla nature reserve and had a Barbie in the woods. It’s great to see the tree’s regenerating there, with the burned trunks sprouting leaves.
Oh some of you wrote back after the last one of these, saying you couldn’t get to see the panorama’s I was bragging about. Apparently you have to have "java" enabled on your browser to see them. Don’t ask me how or what that means, I haven’t a fucking clue. For those of you who can, and want, to see them, there are a couple of new ones up at;
http://www.paulspages.co.uk/taffspanos/
Though I fucked the Mount Perisher one up so badly that even Paul couldn’t weave his magic to make it join up. Sorry Paul!
While your there, do check out Paul’s panoramas and other work, he’s very talented!
Oh I went on an "Assault Response" training course the other day. It was supposed to train us to deal with violent clients, but was a total waste of time.
The first day was spent totally on theory of aggression, illnesses that predicate people to violence, and our legal position if attacked. I snored through most of that as I’ve had a clinical interest in aggression theory for sometime now, and have read up lots on it. The legal bit was quite interesting. They told us what we could do if a client attacked us, basically nothing, and what they could do if we so much as shouted loudly at them, as in "sue our pants off." Nice.
I give you this gem of wisdom from the manual we all got.
"The rule of five.
During crisis communication, sentences should be limited to no more than five words, and the words used should be limited to five letters or less."
Ok so I’ve got a guy who’s psychotic, lost it, and violent, running at me with a length of pipe he’s ripped from the wall and I’m going to be thinking;
"Please put down that piece of pipe. Bugger seven words! Put down the pipe Gerald. Oh bollocks, his name has six letters in it!"
Am I buggery.
So on the second day we get down to practical responses, much mirth ensued. First off they asked for a volunteer to play the nasty aggressive psychotic person. "Who better" I thought. So they gave us a scenario where I was supposed to be a psychotic client wanting to leave the locked ward we have here. A guy and a girl were to play the nurses who were to talk me into staying, using the de-escalation techniques we had learned. I went out came back in, and went into my routine. The girl cried, the lad was backed against to the wall, half the class were ready to run, the other half looked like they were going to jump on me and give me a lithium enema.
So the girl running the course asked me to try it again, but with less venom, and could I "not foam at the mouth, and try not to use the words "fucking wankstain cocksucker" this time."
It all went rather downhill from there.
The funniest bit was doing the restraints. None, I mean absolutely none, of them worked. Ok, I have my old Aikido, Jujitsu and Karate training to thank in part for that, but also the fact that the techniques are so arsy and aimed at not doing anything that in any way would inconvenience the client didn’t help.
At one point, Karina, the course tutor, said, "Ok, Taff’s just shown that the three person takedown may not work on everyone, so we’ll show you the five person take down." Ah huh. So I had five people hanging off me, I allowed them to catch hold, as any raving psycho with a knife would do.
I said to the person on my right arm "I’m going to break your left wrist," to the person on my left, "I’m going to break you right radius, and black your eyes". To the person behind, "I’m going to drop you on the back of your neck and slam my knee into your nose". To the guy on my waist, "Do you realise that when I’ve got rid of these three, your face is just in the right position for my left heel to break it?" To the guy in front, "You’re fucking dead matey." Obviously I wasn’t going to do any of it, just wanted them a little edgy.
So they tried taking me down, and I threw them off, and smiled. So Karina asked for another person to be the client, and Nathan, a six foot seven inch Aussie Rules Football player volunteered. I thought Karina was going to resign on the spot.
Absolute nonsense. I put as much on the feedback sheet, explaining that it was the course and not the tutors or teaching I disagreed with. Lets face it, if a manic depressive with a broken bottle attacks me, my choices will be "can I leg it out of here?" And if the answer to that is no, I’m going to do all I can to ensure that I come out of it in one piece, up to and including, beating the fuck out of them. So sue me.
Anyway, thanks for all the kind feed back I’ve been getting after these mails, it makes it nearly worth the effort!
Love and kisses to almost all of you,
Taff, Lee-Anne & Bethany.
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