OK, let’s get my most recent big cock-up out of the way, so you can have a good chuckle at my expense, and then we can get on to the usual bollocks.
On a normal evening shift, (12.30 – 9.00 pm,) I’ll leave work at about 6-7 pm, or whenever I have a gap between seeing clients, and go and collect my car from the “on street” parking spot I use. This is about 15 mins walk away, from my office. I then drive it back and park it at office, as pay parking there stops at 5.30 pm. At knocking off time I leave work, and usually arrive home at about 9.15pm. There I’ll catch up with Bethy and Lee-Anne, and we’ll swap tales of our respective days, and how good/crap they have been. Usually I’ll have a nightcap and, if there’s any on, watch a bit of cricket, before hitting the pit at 10.00 pm or thereabouts.
Thurs 18/7/13 brought us the first decent bit of rain we’ve had for ages.
That day I’d had a bugger of a day at work. I’d spent far too long in and out of the magistrate’s court at my client’s “treatment order” tribunal hearings. I’d also had to chase up a client who needed his jab done. Come 8.30pm I realised I hadn’t collected my car, so I decided to leave it, and collect the car at 9.00pm, straight after work.
At 9.00pm, I threw on my jacket and looked for my car keys, I couldn’t find them. I had last seen them when locking up the car. Bugger, must have left them in the door!! So I locked up the office, and phoned Lee-Anne to give her advance warning I may be; “A bit late”.
After 15 mins walking in the rain I get to the car, but there’s no keys in the door, oh bollocks. There is however a note on my windscreen, which read; “You left your keys in the car door, we’ve given them to the guys at the Caltex servo.” (Servo=petrol station.) “What nice people”, I thought, “very civil minded of them.”
I walked for five minutes to the servo, only to find out it shuts at 9.00pm, it’s now 9.20pm.
I phoned Lee-Anne;
“Can you get Bethy to drop off the spare set to me?”
“No, she’s at basketball, her match doesn’t finish til 9.45pm, and then she’s going out with the girls.”
“Can you get Mary to drop them off?”
“She won’t drive after 9.00 pm too dark and scary.”
“Will you borrow her car then, and drop them around to me?”
“I can’t, I’m pissed, been celebrating after work with the office crew.”
Ok, so I walk 15 minutes back to office, and it’s still raining. I considered taking my work pool car home. This used to be a regular acceptable thing, known as “home garaging.” But the management, in their never ceasing efforts to make our lives less pleasant, have decided to make it a sackable offense to home garage now. So I decided against it. I also decided against taking taxi home, as it’s $40 for the trip, and I’m a tight bastard.
I got to the local bus depot only find out the next bus to the city centre is not due for 15 minutes. Then I realised I had loaned Lee-Anne my “My Way” card the day before, and would have to pay cash. Luckily, and for a change, I’m carrying some cash. (Is anyone else like this? I rarely carry cash these days.)
Wait. For. Ages.
I got on the next bus into the city, paying cash. I’m bloody sure the driver pocketed the cash, as he didn’t give me a ticket, best of luck to him. When we arrived in the city bus exchange, I found out to my ever increasing dismay that the next bus to our suburb was not for 30 minutes. Oh, and it’s pissing down now. As I’ve nothing better to do apart from get wet and swear, I decide to go for a beer while I’m waiting.
Canberra, Australia’s capital city on a Thursday pay day? I’ve seen more life in a tramp’s vest.
I ended up in “King O Malley’s”, for no other reason than it was the closest, and it’s still pissing down. There a cover band are murdering 70’s classics such as “Nutbush City Limits”, “Highway to Hell”, “Superstition” and other songs you wished were long dead and buried. This made the grotty little place even less pleasant. The only decent looking pint there was Bulmers, draft cider, so I buy one. I get it, and it’s piss weak and flat, deep joy. I decided against having a second, partly due to it being piss, and partly for fear of the temptation to heave it at the band. (Who were now playing “Radar love”. Badly.)
Eventually I catch second bus to our suburb. I walk home, through the drizzle, from the bus stop, glad the trials of the evening were over. I arrived at 11.05pm, one hour and 55 minutes later than usual.
Expecting rapturous welcome from Lee-Anne, instead I find Lee-Anne in tears, as Ginger has eaten her last pair of wearable shoes. I got to bed late very, very, late, highly pissed off, and damp. I decided against going to gym in the morning.
BUT, look at the sequence here. If I had left the keys in the door any other night of the past couple of years, I’d have been at the car by 7.00pm at the latest, found the note, and been at the servo w-a-a-a-ay before it closed, problem sorted. No, on this night, the one bloody night I’m stupid enough to do so, it’s the only bloody night in ages I decide not to collect the car until 9.00 pm, thus setting off the whole bloody sad chain of events! Fuck my luck.
The holiday? Six weeks left to go!! We’ve booked and paid for all our accommodation, we only have flights to Ireland, and a hire car there, to book. Of course, because we so desperately want to catch up with Clarkie and Catherine, we’re having to go there during half-term, (Clarkie has a pretention to being a teacher.) It’s the most sodding expensive time to fly to Ireland in the year, such is our luck. But we do not begrudge him, after all, he flew from Luxembourg to meet us at Nicol’s on our trip before last. Then him and Catherine abandoned their kids at New Years Eve to be with us in Sennen on our last trip.
I also get the impression the Lee-Anne is going to fall head over heels in love with Ireland too.
Due to my rank incompetence we’ve found ourselves with three days spare on the holiday. It happens like this; you book digs from say, Friday the 1st, to Friday the 8th. You then book your next digs, from Saturday the 9th. to Saturday the 16th. But WTF do you then do on the night of the 8th. when your landlord has kicked you out? I’d managed to do that three times!! God I do wonder about me sometimes. Luckily we’ve managed to juggle things to get the days consecutive.
Anyway, it’s given us three days when we plan to sneak off somewhere quiet, and away from everyone we know, to an area of the country which Lee-Anne has not yet visited, just to have a little bit of peace and quiet on our own, (and lots of kinky sex.) Please don’t suggest we come visit you on these three days, as we’d love to, but also want some “us” time.
God I’m aching to get back. Anyone who reads the poems section will see I have a deep yearning for the places I’ve lived, and the friends I still have. Some nights at work, I kid you not, I’ll spend a spare half-hour using the street-view facility on “Google maps” wandering the lanes and byways of Cornwall, Devon, and Llanelli even. It brings a warm glow of nostalgia and belonging, or “hiraeth” as us Welsh would say. Anyway, I’ll shut up about that before I start weeping again, and you lot take the piss.
Ok, (cue dramatic music) “What was the result of your blood test Taff?” I hear you all (not,) saying. Well, surprisingly good actually!
Cholesterol: down.
Liver function: up
Uric acid: good.
kidney function: good.
BP: back to normal.
Vit. D: Low, take supplements.
His recommendation was that I keep doing what I’m doing, as then there will be no need for me to take medication. This is a bitter blow to me. You see, to achieve the dizzy heights of relative wellness I have reached so far, it has required a huge and painful whack of self sacrifice and self control of me, neither of which I’m good at, nor neither of which are in any way enjoyable. It’s been horrific in fact.
I’ve given up cheese, started using low fat milk in me tea, don’t eat anything with more than 5% saturated fat in it, and cut back drastically on my alcohol intake. I now cannot enter our favourite Deli for fear of seeing a large ripe hunk of Stilton and then drooling on the floor. I wake up in the night in a cold sweat after dreaming of falling into a vat of Laphrohaig. I hallucinate about cheese pasties. I’d been planning on, and would much rather, him prescribing me a handful of pills to take each day, (and a new liver,) in order that I may let me let rip on nice food and booze. Or at least let me eat like a normal person, not a frigging anorexic teetotal stick insect.
I won’t be so diligent before I take the next sodding blood test.
Oh, remember I said that one of my gay mates would come up with a piss-take out of my digital Rogering off the doctor? This in from Scooter in Toronto;
Ok, I have to admit, I did laugh on cue when I read your reaction to getting poked. The way you straight boys dramatize over getting finger up there, as if someone was trying to shove the Hindenburg up your ass.
Easy for you to say Scoot.
Also, as part of my preparation for being back in the UK, I’ve gone on the wagon for two months, and have upped my exercise weights and the frequency of my gym sessions. This is being done in the vain hope of giving my liver and kidneys a fighting chance while I’m back, (if you’ve ever been carousing with the Llanelli crew, you’d understand,) and so that people don’t call me a fat bastard, (at least not to my face.) But so far the only effect has been that I’ve put on 4 kilos, have a constant thirst, and I am having very weird dreams.
On a debate forum I infest we were debating the best online banking service (ok, now that’s boring as all get out, but does help the time pass at work.) A lot of people now do their banking off their mobile phones I was amazed to learn.
So, as I said there;
“I did bank with Citibank, but they wanted me to have a mobile phone to get SMS in order to log on, I neither have nor want a mobile phone, so I dumped them.” When I told them, they sounded incredulous, (I had to phone them up to confirm I was cancelling the account.) “You don’t have a mobile number? “We can give you a mobile dongle for your use to get banking SMS authoristations if you wish. Are you sure you do not want a mobile phone, they’re very useful.”
Am I the last person in the world to not own a mobile phone? Maybe not for long. Bethy wants to upgrade to a Samsung Galaxy S4, and so I may buy her “iphone 4s” off her. Funny isn’t it? I’m a total nethead, but haven’t got into the whole mobile phone thing at all.
I have to use a mobile at work, as we’re a crisis service. A while back I got a crisis call, (turned out not to be a real crisis,) which concluded with me being told ; “Your team need to invest in better phones, it sounds like you are speaking from the bottom of a well!” I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was because I was on the bog having a really satisfying dump at the time.
Now then, I’ve got a hearing dog for the deaf! As you probably know, I’m a little Mutt ‘n’ Jeff these days, (ok, a lot.) One of the problems I’ve faced in the past is that I sometimes miss our phone ringing, especially if I’m in another room. Not any longer! Meet Ginger, the hearing dog for the deaf.
As you will notice, if you watch that video, the puppies have grown, and are still alive despite chewing everything which doesn’t move, and getting beasted for it. Here’s a comparison photo for you.
Notice something different about Bethy too?
Yes, much against my better judgement and wishes, she’s gone and had her belly button pierced. A little bit of rebellion on her part perhaps? Truth be told, she’s still a dream of a kid. Compared to her peers, (and me and her mother when we were that age,) she’s an absolute angel. Whereas most of her age group are out on the weekend, getting pissed, drugged up, into fights and having sex with strangers, (as me and Lee-Anne did,) Bethy prefers a night in a local restaurant with her boyfriend, and then to come home to have a small glass of port and to watch a DVD. Suits me, quids in.
The other night she went to a sleep-over pyjama party, an alcohol free sleep-over pyjama party, an alcohol free sleep-over pyjama party with a bunch of Christian mates. Who were all girls. Suffice to say; I prefer her doing that on a Saturday night rather than her hitting Canberra’s nightclubs dosed up to the eyeballs on E and Coke, pissed to the gills, knickers to the wind. Call me a hypocrite, I don’t give a toss mate.
If you saw and met some of the toerags I come into contact with via work, you’ll know how very blessed I feel.
Talking of which; remember this?
A new referral come to us with sparse information, except that this boy “needs our team”. Ok, so a bit of research on the medical records computer I find out he was admitted to the ward following;
Attacking staff at the benefits office with a knife for; “disrespecting him.”
2 other recent attempts to attack people with a knife.
Recently threatened to; “cut a bitch’s face off.”
4 court cases hanging over him for assault.
3 hospital admissions in the last 2 years
2 serious suicide attempts in the last 12 months
No fixed abode.
Currently paranoid about people wanting to kill him, and that; “people in the street are out to get me if I wear red.”
Also he’s not on an order. This gives some bright spark the idea; “Let’s discharge him from the psych ward, and the EIP can follow him up.” Our response; “Go and get f….”
Guess who ended up with him on his caseload? Yup, muggings here. So bracing myself for a knife fight I saw him a few times, alone, at home. Fortunately he was very pleasant with me. Then he decided he preferred it in hospital, so he presented himself there, claiming to need hospitalisation. He did this more than once. Funnily enough, each time he did it was outside of our team’s working hours, or at least when he knew I’d be off. Getting sick of these repeat performances, the staff at the unit assessed him and put him in a spare room in the assessment dept for the evening. He got a bit arsey at this, as he wanted to be in the ward. So he then stabbed someone, another client, with a 10 inch knife. So THEN they banged him up in the secure unit. Since being in there he has;
Escaped from the alleged secure unit.
Head-butted a wardsman.
Physically assaulted female staff, telling them “I wish I had my knife to go stabbing” and “All women are c**ts, I hate them all.”
Slashed the length of his arms, both of them, with a razor.
Beaten up another client.
Hmmm..
His diagnosis is now “psychopathic personality.” Neat, I’ve not had one of those on my caseload before.
Oh sorry I forgot, another few Bethy tales;
On one Thursday I was on a day shift, which left me the evening free. So I thought I’d tag along and watch Bethy’s women’s team play, (yes I am a perve, and no there wasn’t any cricket on TV.) I’ve always been under the impression that this team was a team for “under 25 yr olds,” it’s not, it’s an “open age group” side. As Bethy explained to me in the car on the way there; “There’s one woman in our side and she’s 32 years old and has had 3 kids. She’s still really good though, and fit too.” The way she said it you’d expect anyone else over the age of 30 to be be pushed around in a bathchair, and fed by spoon. That made me feel really old.
The other thing I wanted to boast about tell you is that Bethy’s job has worked out really well. So well in fact that not only did she get a glowing 8 week appraisal, which stated that she’s; “A hard and very diligent worker, a credit to the hospital,” but also, she’s one of two people chosen to be trained as “Refugee mentor.” She’ll get extra training, (but sod all more money,) and will be given refugee people to train in her job.
He he, just to balance that, I got an e-mail from Bethy while I was at work the other day, it read;
“I work with idiots. My supervisor thought that Kate and William’s last name was either Wales, or Cambridge. Duchess of Cambridge, Prince of Wales. I’m like, it’s Windsor! She’s like WHUT?”
Welcome to the world of work our kid.
The other night, I asked Bethy; “Are you not seeing Brandon tonight?” Her reply was; “Oh he’s off seeing some guitarist play tonight…” When I found out who it was, I was so peed off! To be fair to the lad, he did bring me a stubby holder back from the gig. I’d have preferred it if he had told me he was going though, I would have gone too.
Lee-Anne’s ventures into the gastronomic arena are playing off big time. The other day was the anniversary of her mother’s lung cancer operation, (bear with me, they are an odd family,) so Lee-Anne decided to cook her mum her favourite meal. The mother, the butcher’s daughter, delights in offal, her favourite being Oxtail. So Lee-Anne decided to do oxtail. Heston style.
Like this:
The whole purpose of a stew is that it’s a way of using up those cuts of meat that can’t be cooked in a short time because they contain more connective tissue, muscle fibre and collagen, which toughens up under heat. By subjecting such meat to a gentler heat over a longer period, however, you break down the tissue, turning what was once tough as old boots into soft, gentle nuggets of meat that are as delicious to taste as they are easy to chew. This recipe requires some time to prepare – you need to start things in motion fully two days before serving – and a long time in the oven, but it really is worth the trouble (I know it seems as if I say something like that every week, but it’s especially true of this dish).
Long time in the oven? Only 9 frigging hours, I nearly had a heart attack at the thought of the electric bill, (compounded by the fact I wouldn’t be eating any of course.) But to be fair it turned out wonderful, and the vege version I got was superb too.
The “daikon” we had with it, those round bits on the left, were …interesting…
Then the other night she decided to knock up some pasta;
The yolks were BEAUTIFULLY runny, warm, moist, and full of flavour, complimented the pasta shell wonderfully. The asparagus and roast pumpkin base contrasted and provided more “bite”. The left over whites were made into pavlova for dessert. So good we had them again the next night. I’ll let the photos do the talking…
Every Wednesday during the winter, the staff at our office take it in turns to bring a big tureen of soup in. I put my hand up for a contribution. Most bring in either shop bought soups, or something safe like brocolli, tomato, or onion soup. Being a clever bastard, I made “Parsnip and Pear soup” and also made some “walnut and coriander seed bread”. It went down a treat, (and fortunately stayed down.)
Not everything in our kitchen goes to plan. Here’s another e-mail exchange;
Me: I think I just broke the last small wine glass.
Lee-Anne: There were two wine glasses left. So there should be one now.
Me: I broke the other one yesterday
Recently I’ve had to vary my dog walks. Why? Well the annual “Skippy Slaughter” has been happening.
This year, a conservation cull of up to 1244 eastern grey kangaroos will take place on seven grassland and woodland sites within the Canberra Nature Park and neighbouring unleased territory land.
These sites are:
Callum Brae Nature Reserve (94 kangaroos)
Goorooyarroo Nature Reserve and adjacent unleased territory land (740 kangaroos)
Kama Nature Reserve (27 kangaroos)
Mount Painter Nature Reserve (80 kangaroos)
Mullanggari Nature Reserve (25 kangaroos)
Mulligans Flat Nature Reserve (78 kangaroos)
The Pinnacle Nature Reserve and adjacent unleased territory land (200 kangaroos).
So instead I’ve been visiting some of the hills in South Canberra, notably Mt. Arawang and Urambi Hills. As a result I’ve had some nice shots of these locations to bore you with, here you go.
The ironic thing is that despite the mass of unwashed “Animal Lib” type activists doing their best to disrupt the cull, and therefore lengthening it buy nearly a fortnight, no bloody roos on my local stomping ground, the Pinnacle, were shot. I could have saved a fortune in gas if I’d known that!
Animal liberationists have vowed to try to disrupt the culling and will focus much of their efforts on the Goorooyarroo Nature Reserve, where a licence has been granted for 740 kangaroos to be shot.
One Saturday morning I got up early, (well, early for a Saturday I wasn’t working on,) and got myself down to the lake for some photography. I was there at 6.50am, before the sun rose, and as it had gone down to -4 overnight there was a hard frost about. Got some cracking shots, even Charlie had to admit they were good!
He thought this sunset shot,and others taken at the same time, were “photoshopped too green” the colour-blind twat. (He said, expecting a deluge of e-mails form other clolour-blind twats.)
As you can tell, it’s been bloody cold here of late. Not as cold as it can get, apparently it’s the warmest July on record, but parky all the same. We’ve had some snow on the ranges around the city, and some wonderful fog banks.
Oh, despite having the holiday hanging over us, we’ve I’ve still been on a ticket buying rampage. I’ve got me Mary and Lee-Anne tickets for the PM’s XI in Canberra, and on my 55 th. Birthday, Lee-Anne and I will be at the SCG watching day two of the final Ashes test in Australia. Unfortunately I left this a bit late, and we’ll be seated apart, but we should be able to wangle something to spend the match together. I’m on the prowl for tickets for the 2015 Cricket world cup matches which are being played in Canberra too. No particular teams I want to see coming here, but I’m a confirmed cricket tragic now. We’ve also got tickets to see Russell Howard in Sydney. The girls are sweet on him, but he’s not my type.
Ok, the next time I post one of these bulletins, just for you buggers to ignore, will be a couple of days before we fly over, you have been warned!
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