The Competitive Edge

I have to admit to being feircly competitive. This is a good thing, as I would otherwise not fit in with my entire circle of friends who also display this trait.

Let's face it, everyone likes to win. Winning is fun. No matter what it is, if you're going to compete, you may as well compete to win.

Of course, sometimes you don't and it is here that true character is displayed. While I like to win, I'm not a sore loser. I don't sulk, question the rules/umpire/fates or stomp off in a huff. It's more like "Congratulations! Well done! Let's play again ..."

I have been told, however, that I'm a very bad winner. It's not that I gloat over my defeated adversaries - perhaps that would be better. No, I just get a little bit smug. Or so I'm told. In fact, I'm told that the aura of smugness that emanates from me after a convincing win is so vast that it inspires all other competitors with a burning desire not to let it happen again.

This may explain the events of the other night when playing a new game to celebrate Arizaphale's birthday. It was a "who am I", "what am I", "where am I" type of thing where everyone has to yell out the answer as soon as it comes to mind. If wrong, you're out of that round and more clues go to the remaining players. Lots of fun.

I was winning.

It was at this point that a discussion commenced about winning and losing and our attitudes towards it. Arizaphale immediately proclaimed that she was not in the slightest bit concerned about losing. Couldn't care less. It was the fun of the game that mattered and enjoying the company of friends. No, no. She didn't mind losing at all.

Except to me.

Just the thought of me being two up on the game tally was enough to turn a social passtime into a "no holds barred" pressure cooker of a match. Volume and vehemence went up several notches as answers were shouted out and the umpire's decision questioned on every tight call. "Oh she so did NOT get the answer in first!" "Not fair! That question was too easy - give her another one!" So it went on (to no avail, I might add) for the remainder of the evening.

Why is this so? Perhaps the ersatz sibling rivalry that we have enjoyed over the course of our forty-something year friendship is at the root of it.

This does not, however, explain my Beloved Mumford's very similar response.

He has recently introduced me to the joys of the $3 trifecta. A fun way to pass the time while enjoying a beverage or two at the pub, it involves some consideration of form, conditions, odds etc. leading to an educated punt on the three horses (or dogs) that will lead the pack to the finish line. At least it is for my Beloved. For me it's rather more of a "that one looks nice" sort of thing although I am slowly making sense of the arcane information provided by the TAB.

Not that it generally does me much good. Yesterday, however, I managed to pick the winners in the first race and collected an $86 payout for my modest investment. Woo hoo!

And what was my Beloved's response? Was it "Well done, darling! Congratulations on your win!" accompanied by loving glance and, perhaps, a peck on the cheek?

No. It was "F*%& off, you b*%#&!" accompanied by unfriendly hand gesture. Well, really!

On later enquiry it was established that he didn't have any objection to me winning. He just didn't want me to win more than he did. Hmmmm. Something of a theme developing here...

Of course, I'm not the only one. I remember that the Banker and I had a great fondness for "Risk" and would play it incessantly with anyone who would play with us. Unfortunately, that number dwindled in a frighteningly short space of time to zero. "Want to play a game of Risk?" we would say to our friends. "Not with you." became the regular response, and we could never quite figure out why. Finding new friends simply for the purpose of making up a risk game became our only option, but proved an excercise in futility.

Thinking on it, it must be said that the Banker's Smug-o-Meter on winning is similar to mine which is perhaps why it doesn't bother us in each other. We've taken to two handed games (our favourite being Samba in which I am consistently beaten at about a 3 to 1 ratio) but his removal to Old Blighty has put paid to that. *Sigh*

I know! Perhaps I could interest my Beloved in learning how to play 'Spite and Malice'. Or perhpas not for the sake of domestic harmony.

Now where was that jumbo quiz from the Sunday paper ...

The Culinary Arts

"How things have changed" I thought to myself as I procured the requested Christmas present for Baby Angel. This, surprisingly, was not a voucher to some trendy teenaged clothes shop, nor a subscription to iTunes. No - it was a kitchen gadget essential for the art of cookery.

Baby Angel has taken an interest in cooking - something that dear Arizaphale has never done (panic attack, anyone?) - and is getting quite good at it.

This burgeoning interest has coincided with a vastly improved palate and willingness to try new and different taste sensations which is also very welcome. As I write this, however, I cannot help looking back to a time not so many years ago (just over 3 in fact) when preparing a meal for Baby Angel was something less of a joy ...

Let me state here that I am a good cook.

It was not always so, I admit, but after years of experience and a willingness to learn I have become proficient, if not inspired, in the kitchen.

It would be a challenge to cook a gourmet dinner party for 8, but not beyond me. A good menu, planning, timing and judicious amounts of sauvignon blanc, would see four or five courses delighting my guests with a minimum of fuss.

Why then, was it completely impossible for me to cook a standard dinner for a 9 year old without stuffing it up?

I recall one occasion when Arizaphale had gone out and I was looking after Baby Angel for the evening. She was almost 10 so I felt this should be no big deal.

However, this optimism did not take into account Baby Angel's attitude to food at that time. Like most children she was fairly exacting in her requirements and completely unwilling to experiment in the slightest when it came to food. You might argue until you’re blue in the face that a chipolata is just like a small pork BBQ sausage (thin) but to no avail! It’s just not right and will therefore not be contemplated, let alone taste tested. And don’t even think to venture chevapchichi!

Dinner time was, therefore, a cyclic menu featuring the 5 major food groups:

• Chicken nuggets
• Thin pork BBQ sausages
• Tuna mornay
• Noodles
• Spag Bog

(There was also shepherd’s pie, but as this was just yesterday’s leftover spag bog with mashed potato on top it doesn’t count).

All of these delights could be served only with boiled vegetables, being potato (may be mashed), broccoli, peas, beans, cauliflower and carrot.

Gravy was allowed.

Tomato sauce was not ...

... except with chips that came from McDonalds.

This night Arizaphale had thoughtfully provided me with a pack of acceptable sausages and some broccoli. I shamefacedly admitted to having forgotten to buy potatoes having sworn to do so, but willingly pulled out another can of Tiny Taters to substitute. Well they’re already half boiled ...

The cab arrived and Arizaphale departed. This was how it went from there ...


Now for BA's dinner!

Root around the fridge. Find carrots and peas. Phew.

Remember that Arizaphale microwaves vegetables and it only takes a minute or two. I have no idea how to microwave vegetables. I steam my vegetables but realise immediately that this will not be acceptable to 9 year old palate. Must boil! Get saucepans.

Turn on grill. Put Tiny Taters in saucepan to boil some more. Can’t think what else to do with them. Peel carrots, julienne and put in another pot of water. So far so good.

Put sausages in grill. Vegetables bubbling away in a very unappetising manner. Can see the nutrition being leeched from them, but never mind.

Arizaphale rings! She has arrived at destination and is calling to make sure everything is fine. I reassure her that BA has not been abducted by aliens and that tea is going well. Yes, I have carrots. Yes, the potatoes are on. Yes, the broccoli is ready and I have added peas to spice up the mix. Yes, the sausages … SHIT, THE SAUSAGES!

Dive for sausages! They are charcoal on one side and raw on the other. For anyone other than a 9 year old they would be perfectly acceptable (with a bit of a scrape) but we already know from bitter experience that Baby Angel DOESN’T LIKE THE BURNT BITS.

Sausages go in the bin.

Thank goodness Arizaphale thought to provide a whole tray of sausages! Sausages #2 go on grill which is an excellent thing as Tiny Taters, carrots, broccoli and peas are now going soggy. Damn.

Turn heat down on hideously overcooked vegetables and turn my attention to the final ingredient for BA's fabulous dinner – the gravy.

Arizaphale has, again, kindly provided a can of the appropriate gravy mix.

Where the hell did I put my glasses?

OK – instructions on gravy tin say to put 3 level teaspoons into 1 cup of boiling water and stir vigorously with a fork for 1 minute until smooth and creamy. Right.

Whoops! I may have put in a tad over a cup of water, but it will all turn out fine I’m sure. Stir vigorously.

Stir vigorously.

Stir a bit more vigorously.

Nope – this is still gravy water and no amount of vigorous stirring is going to make it better.

Perhaps another spoonful? Or 3?

Half a tin of Arizaphale's special gravy mix later and the product is starting to assume the consistency of slightly silty water. SHIT – THE SAUSAGES!!!!!!!!

It was a jumbo tray which is just as well. Sausages #3 go into the grill under careful supervision. After all there’s nothing left to do except watch the vegetables go even soggier and the gravy congeal to the consistency of lite cream.

Finally, the meal is presented. Sausages without a hint of charcoal. Vegetables boiled within an inch of their lives and swimming in a pool of what might kindly be referred to as gravy by a starving child in a third world country.

And BA eats every bite ...

Bring on the gourmands ... please!

Christmas Cheer

Well, I haven't quite lived up to my pledge - but have at least increased my blog rate to something acceptable! I will try to continue this trend into the new year.

It's Christmas Eve and we're almost ready to face the big day. Pork in the fridge (none of this turkey rubbish around here!), extra crackling (because Christmas Day is the one day of the year that it has no calories), loads of veggies, gravy, apple pie, ice cream - basically enough food to ensure that we will have to roll away from the luncheon table tomorrow.

Three batches of toffee made. One burnt and thrown out. One not quite boiled long enough so a bit chewy, and one just perfect - packed full of nuts and ready for the morrow.

Shame I didn't buy anything for dinner tonight. Not on the list ...

Presents are wrapped and under the tree, taunting us every time we walk past while I, for one, resolutely avert my eyes from the very interesting pink package. No peeking, no squeezing or shaking - Christmas protocol does not allow.

So best wishes to all for tomorrow. Have a great day. Eat lots and drink responsibly (well ... if you're driving). Enjoy family and friends wherever you are and whatever you are doing. Gotta love it!

And for those like A Free Man who turn their noses up at this annual physical and emotional feast? Bah Humbug!

Merry Christmas!

Sucked in ...

First of all I would like to thank all of you who have owned up to the frilly knickers. You are all complete liars ...

Sorry for not posting yesterday (this pledge is harder to keep than a New Year's resolution!) but as as it is still before 9.00am I figure it sort of counts.

After a long day's shoot for our TV pilot yesterday (more of this anon), my Beloved and I decided that a nice relaxing night at home was in order. A glass of wine, something to eat and an evening watching movies was the go - but what to watch?

Despite the vast array of titles in our DVD library we were keen to watch something new and my Beloved, trawling through the internet, found the perfect solution. A LEGAL site offering free downloads of recent films! To the computer, of course, but an excellent solution was soon found.

Place laptop on bed, plug in speakers, snuggle up and bob's your auntie! Better than a drive in and certainly far more commodious and comfortable than the old panelvan in which some of us (not me, of course) used to frequent such places.

We chose "Get Smart" and were soon giggling away to the antics of Max and 99. Fabulous!

Except that half way through the movie the action stopped and the following message was displayed:

"You have now watched 72 minutes of this film and reached your download limit. Please wait 54 minutes to continue watching, or click here to join up and enjoy unlimited access."

What the ...?

Now there is a marketing ploy. Don't pull this stunt 5 or 10 minutes into the movie when you might well just abandon the whole thing and go back to the DVD library. No - wait until you're well engrossed and then impart this vital tidbit of information.

So what did we do, you may ask? Well of course we signed up, didn't we!

Of course this was not as easy as it sounds. Payment (and actually it was a very reasonable fee) was through PayPal with which I have an account. Except that I hadn't changed my profile to reflect my new email address, nor had I updated my expired Visa card details.

So get glasses. Go to PayPal. Update email address. Run to other computer to click on the confirmation email to activate changes. Refresh. Time elapsed - 24 minutes.

Grab wallet. Update credit card details. Run to other computer to click on second confirmation email. Refresh. Time elapsed - 42 minutes.

Whew - so glad we saved that 12 minutes and could get back to our film!

The Joy of Christmas

Unlike A Free Man, I love Christmas! I love getting together with family, friends and the occasional waif or stray; cooking up a storm; eating far, far, far too much and - particularly! - giving out the presents under the tree.

I love buying Christmas presents. There's a real thrill in finding just the right thing to wrap up in pretty paper and put under the tree, confident that the smiles will be genuine and the gift appreciated.

BUT I HATE CHRISTMAS SHOPPING!!!!!!

Buying - good. Shopping - bad. It's as simple as that.

As my Beloved (and everyone else who knows me) will attest, I am an appalling shopper. I don't like shops. I don't like browsing. I don't like queues to the checkout. I don't like the crowds of imbeciles with a collective IQ lower than my shoe size who seem to populate shopping centres. Particularly the ones with baby pushers who seem to think that the fact of parenthood gives them the right not to look where they're going and/or stroll at snails' pace in the middle of the aisle. I break out in hives at the very thought of a Westfield centre and try to avoid the Mall like the plague.

Basically, shops suck.

There are a few exceptions. A book store is a joy and I can even forgive it the Christmas crowds as I am likely to find at least 50% of my Christmas booty within its doors. I am also a great fan of hardware stores - but not generally for Christmas. I have discovered that (unlike me) the majority of my girlfriends are not generally impressed by a hammer drill or circular saw under the tree (thank you Headbang - I am eternally grateful!) so I tend to stick to these establishments out of the silly season when I can indulge my penchant for wing nuts in private. And as for bottle shops ....

However, in the Christmas season shopping and buying go hand in hand and it is impossible to avoid the pitfalls of the Christmas rush. Damn it.

Today I spent some hours in the Mall looking in vain for some list items that had either (a) been sold out or (b) were subject to store queues the length of the Amazon. Finding a park was a nightmare and negotiating the crowds was even worse. Nothing leapt out to provide inspiration for the "damn I can't think of anything, I'm sure I'll find something in town" few (sorry, Mother). And the worst thing is that next week will be even worse.

*Sigh*

Bring on Christmas day when this is all behind me and all there is to do is relax and enjoy ...

You know it's a good party when ...

You go to a lot of effort. You invite everyone you know (and some you don't). But how do you know if your party has been a success?

One indicator is that despite pledge to the contrary, it has taken 3 days to recover sufficiently to blog again .... But perhaps that has less to do with the quality of the party than the quantity of the wine?

Was it that there were several people who said they would drop in for an hour or two and stayed for the duration? Or the willingness of musicians to play and the crowd to sing along to a medley of Christmas carols?

No - perhaps the success of the party can best be demonstrated by the discovery of a pair of frilly knickers behind the hedge the following day.


How did they get there? Who left them? And in what circumstances?

Despite the vast quantities of alcohol consumed, this was definately a family friendly show. There were people taking up almost every square inch of the back garden - sitting and chatting, playing boulles, and generally having a good time. So what is the story with the knickers?

My Beloved and I have been perplexed by the whole thing. Was there some illicit nookie happening that we were completely unaware of? And if so, who? While there was an appropriate mix of gender attending it must be said that opposite sex attraction was definately a minority preference. Of those heterosexuals attending, there were a few couples - most with kiddies in tow - for whom illicit nookie would have been a definate non-starter.

Said item was also far to girlie (and too small) to have been cast aside with gay abandon.

So the mystery remains. Any suggestions anyone?

Party preparations ...

Scrub, scrub. Clean, clean. Tidy, Tidy.

What the @$^# do I do with this? Erm, erm ... bin.

Ah - a convenient empty drawer! Dump, dump, bugger, bugger, full.

Shop, shop. List, list. Where did I leave the damned thing? Never mind, think, think ... think?

Fairy lights UP! Stockings UP! Tree UP!

Are we ready?

Quick one ...

This blogging every day thing is actually quite tough! Congratulations to all those who managed to do it throughout November while (or perhaps in spite of) growing those completely ridiculous moustaches ... well, the blokes that is.

Or in some cases, maybe not ...

This will have to be a quick one as my Beloved and I are in a frenzy of preparation for our Christmas Party being held on the weekend.

My traditional Christmas open house has been going on ever since I arrived back in Adelaide and has been a great opportunity to catch up with extended family and friends over the Christmas period. A smallish, but enjoyable gathering where once again the familial group will turn up, have a great time and vow not to let it be so long before we all catch up again ... a vow which will, of course, be broken as everyone continues with their busy lives until next year (weddings, landmark birthdays, baptisms and funerals excepted).

However, this year will be different! Since Chez Moi has become Chez Nous the gathering will also include my Beloved's very extensive contact list. At last count I believe around 439,516 invitations have been issued ... goodnes knows how many will turn up but we are expecting a fair crowd and can't wait to host our first party together. The familial group won't know what's hit them!

So it's on with the cleaning smock and back to my "to do" list for now ... more on the party anon!

Klutz-R-Us cont...

As I have previously mentioned, I am something of an accident waiting to happen. My previous post on this subject detailed a small altercation with my bedroom door resulting in split eyebrow.

My Beloved (who at the time was simply the recently acquired Love Interest) thought this was a one-off incident and the type of unfortunate accident that could happen to anyone. He has learned differently.

From the split eyebrow, to the blue ink incident and the simple daily trips, knocks and falls it has become apparent that I am genetically designed to find ingenious ways of damaging myself. I blame my mother who is herself prone to this sort of thing (recent sprained ankle from taking the rubbish bins out; broken arm from fall on pavement; ability to effect straight-jacket type arrangement with dressing gown etc. etc.).

The latest incident concerned a cigarette lighter. Well, to be more specific it was a cigar lighter in stainless steel resembling nothing more than a small blow torch. My Beloved (knowing my proclivity in this area) was at pains to point out to me that fingers and hands must be kept well away from said lighter to avoid damage so the last time I used it I was very careful to ensure that it was pointing away from all vulnerable body parts.

The only problem was that I was holding it up-side-down.

Let us say no more ...

My Beloved has started to call me "Midvale" in reference to our favourite Far Side cartoon. I suppose if the klutz fits ...

*Sigh*

Round and round we go ...

One of my more interesting experiences over the last month or so was to participate(in a small way) in the making of a short film destined for Tropfest and other film festivals (Cannes anyone?). Produced and directed by the delightful S & J, it was a wordy little art piece starring (of course) my Beloved Mumford as "Stan" and filmed at the historic carousel down at Semaphore.

We arrived bright an early (well, I was bright and it was early) on location - the first there but soon joined by the wonderful crew and the carousel custodian. This wonderful old man knew everything there was to know about the carousel and needed only slight encouragement to expound on its history, features and maintenance to anyone who would listen.

Unfortunately, there was little time to sit back and listen to an interesting yarn. Determined to be helpful, I immediately got stuck into taping cardboard and yards of black material over the dormer windows to exclude the natural light while my Beloved and his leading lady were made up, costumed and coiffed. At the same time lights, camera and sound were being prepared by those who actually knew what they were doing, and S was running through the quite complicated blocking with her two stars. This was particularly challenging for my Beloved as while the leading lady really only had to sit on one horse, he had to move from one to the other on cue - all the while reciting some very stylised and quite tricky dialogue.


At last we were ready to shoot, choosing (of course) the final scene to start with. This is where the real work for us unskilled crew began! The carousel had to move, of course, but slowly. Much too slowly for the mechanism so all carousel moving had to be done by hand.

The Custodian, the Writer and I became the carousel pushing team (being otherwise redundant on set), charged with getting the thing going smoothly, keeping it going at a dignified pace and - most importantly - keeping out of camera shot! Not as easy as it sounds as moving the damned thing was basically the equivalent of push starting a medium sized car. And no grunting please ...

Actually, we discovered that pushing it in its intended direction was not too bad. The difficulty came in pushing it back - which had to be done for every take and, of course, every time an actor fluffed a line. Which, given the wordy nature of the script, happened with back breaking frequency.

STAN: But you haven't given me another chance! (actual line: But you haven't given me a chance)

"Carousel back!!!!" Heave ...

STAN: But you haven't given me a chance! (Incorrect pronunciation of "chance" with short rather than long 'a')

"Carousel back!!!!" Heave ...

STAN: But you haven't given me a chance! (Perfect delivery, marred only by plane going overhead or truck rumbling past)

"Carousel back!!!!" Heave ...

Fortunately all this pushing back and forth was interspersed with frequent breaks (as my Beloved says - the catch cry of film making is "Hurry up and wait!") and fabulous food supplied by the Writer. Bugger the diet! Expending this amount of energy surely entitles one to a chip or two ...

Naturaly the shoot went over time, so by the end of the day we were all looking a bit like this ...

The exhausted team were all treated to a bang up meal at the pub - congratulations all round and a fabulous day.

And I get my first film credit ...

Secret Men's Business

Well, it's official. My Beloved (aka Mumford the Magician) has been cited in the local rag's daily gossip column as a "man about town".

Ah, what images that simple phrase brings to mind! Debonair, certainly. Charming, witty and a raconteur of note. Devastatingly handsome and (for the ladies) slightly dangerous to know? A person to see and be seen with...

Of course most of this is completely true ... but one wonders if the Advetiser would have been quite as ready to bestow that particular soubriquet had they seen this ...

"Look what I've bought" my Beloved said excitedly as he joined me at the pub a month or so back. "It's like a portable office! It has room for my phone, and my book and sunglasses and ... oh yes, here's a little pocket for my wallet and I can put my pens here ..."

"It's a man-bag" said I, stating what was patently obvious from the first glimpse.

"No, no!" he said, horrified. "It's just like a small briefcase, except with this convenient shoulder strap ..."

"It's a man-bag" I repeated, lips twitching as I tried (unsuccessfully) to keep a straight face.

"It's genuine leather ... " said he, in a last ditch attempt to justify his purchase.

"It's a man-bag."

At this point we were joined by several of our gay friends who, after greetings all round, spotted said item.

"Oh look!" one said. "Mumford has got himself a man-bag!" There several were oo's and ah's as the man-bag was displayed and it's (admittedly) convenient features explained.

"See!" said he, triumphant. "The guys all like it!"

"Yes" replied one of the group. "But no self-respecting homosexual would ever actually be SEEN with one. It's just TOOOOO camp!"

To date the man-bag has endured, despite the fact that I tend to burst into peals of laughter whenever I see it.

My Beloved carries it off with panache, though. Maybe something only a Man About Town could do ...

Pledge

I admit it - I have been a slacker when it comes to my blog. Mea Culpa ...

To make amends, I've decided to challenge myself with my own version of Nablopomo and post something every day between now and Christmas. That way I might catch up with all that is happening!

Stay tuned ...

Chez Nous

Well, it's official. 'Chez moi' has become 'chez nous' as my Beloved has moved his stuff over and settled into his new 'pad'.

The previously austere pool room has been converted into a spiffing bedsit cum office cum studio cum bar cum ... pool room. A little bit of imagination, ingenuity and a small quantity of bailing wire has transformed the space out of all recognition - assisted also by an eclectic collection of art, bits of costume and various props. I particularly like the traffic lights and the honey bear head sitting on top of the TV but am concerned about the 'head box' into which (supposedly) knives and arrows are inserted without any damage to the occupant. Hmmmm.

Of course there are a number of exceptional side benefits to the new arrangements, not least of which is the elimination of all that pesky travelling time and the hassle of making assignations. Other perks need not be mentioned in this forum ...

Oh, and just in case you were wondering, my Beloved does have house access privileges. For the moment ... (just kidding!)

Home Invastion

I was blissfully slumbering away last night when I was rudely awoken at about 4.00am by the most HIDEOUS sounds coming from the living room.

There was a great screeching and warbling, followed by banging and crashing and then more screeching and hissing. Naturally I leapt out of my nice warm bed to see who or what was strangling Fang and turned the light on to a scene out of "Attack of the Killer Kitties" (I'm sure there is such a film, and if there isn't, there should be!).

The upstart cat from the other side of the back fence who has, on occasion, risked life and limb to have a bit of a wander around my back yard had decided to investigate what was on the other side of the cat flap.

What he found was an 8.2kg monster prepared to defend hearth and home to the bitter end. Fang - large at the best of times - had puffed herself up with indignation and was about the same size and shape as a black, furry beach ball. With teeth.

Poor kitty from next door had, by this stage, figured out that curiosity was likely to get him killed, so was making every attempt to find a way out. Not very successfully and pursued, at this point, by both Butch and Fang intent on revenge for this outrage.

I, meanwhile, am trying to get all the doors open as far as possible while avoiding being an incidental casualty of WWIII. There were cats going everywhere! Over the furniture, up the screen door, over the kitchen bench, into the laundry (whoops - dead end) and out again - in the process knocking over the neatly stacked empty bottles and cans like so many skittles.

The poor traumatised beast from next door finally found his way to feedom and dashed off into the night (hopefully) never to return.

Butch and Fang - the home invader gone - resumed their nomal sizes and looked at me as if to say "Well, what are you standing around here for? Let's get back to bed." Which we were all very pleased to do.

It makes me realise, though, that their less than enthusiastic reaction to the introduction of wee Q as a regular household guest is as NOTHING compared to what might have happened if my Beloved had brought round another cat. They've been positively genial in comparison ...

... and a Goat in a Pe-e-ar Tree

Over the last several months, my Beloved has been dealing with his own production number, working on a joint Australian/Uzbekistani feature film, "Kimbung Jim Jams". Being the 'man on the ground' in our fair city he's been responsible for all the pre-production and organisation that goes into putting a film together.

This is a difficult enough task without the added complication of overseas producers that keep on changing their minds and driving us out of ours ...

The first challenge was the script which finally arrived ... in Uzbekistani. Not useful. An english translation eventually followed which revealed just a couple of small issues ... like locations that were not on the location list, characters not on the cast list, about a zillion extras, $20,000 in cash being dropped from a great height for the purposes of a dream sequence, and a goldfish required to jump out of its bowl on cue and perform a death defying leap into a drain.

Well, not so death defying actually ...

So for several weeks it was a matter of finding locations, taking pictures of them and sending them through to Uzbekistan. Same deal with actors and extras - take some footage, convert to streaming file and email to Uzbekistan where, after an inevitable delay of hours, days or even weeks (Uzbeki time seems to vary somewhat from ours) would come approval/rejection and another 'to do' list.

"How's it going?" I would ask with trepidation.

"Pear shaped" would be the invariable reply as some additional ludicrous request arrived via email.

My favourite moment was the weekend before shooting commenced and we discovered that a fairly significant character had not been cast. Message to my Beloved - "we have three possible candidates, could you please film auditions and send to us by 5.00pm today". No matter that the Parental Body and two of their friends were coming over for lunch - we just invited the auditionees to come to chez moi and perform in front of the assembled guests! Actually, it added some interest to lunch and we got to see 3 quite embarrassed chappies doing their own unique version of Punjab Hip Hop. What fun!

The first day of shooting finally arrived and my Beloved was off at some ridiculously early hour of the morning (having grunted once or twice in my general direction - his version of "Good morning, darling") to tackle the multi-national cast and crew, keep things on track and generally try to avoid anyone killing themselves or others.

This turned out to be a difficult task.

The culture clash became apparent immediately, with the Uzbekistani contingent showing a complete disregard for rules, regulations, health and safety issues ... and timelines. What was already a tight schedule over 5 days became a nightmare of 14, 16 and 18 hour shoots, no sleep and endless arguments between the Director and anyone who'd care to listen. Obviously the protocol in Uzbekistan is to do whatever you want with a bribe to the appropriate personages to smooth it over. Not how we do things in dear old Adelaide, however.

My Beloved became the "Mr No." of the production.

"No, you cannot climb onto that roof without safety gear."

"No, you cannot take a camera into the middle of a busy road withoout a permit, traffic cones and the police."

"No, you cannot fire a gun on set."

"No, we are not going to buy 20 identical goldfish so you can throw them down the drain one by one until you get the right shot."

We discovered that the word "Nazi", even when mumbled under the breath and in Uzbekistani still sounds like an insult. Added to all these problems was an Uzbekistani caterer who had an uncanny knack of disappearing whenever he was needed and leaving the delicious (not) Uzbekistani cuisine he'd whipped up in a hot van for several hours. Four cases of food poisoning reported so far ...

At last it was over, however, and the wrap was celebrated with the delightful Australian crew members and a late night trip to the local karaoke bar - scene of Arizaphale's recent triumph (hem hem).

However, it appears that my career as a part-time, unpaid production assistant is far from over. Once he's finished standing in for [CENSORED] on [CENSORED] it'll be straight back into pre-production for a TV pilot and even larger bi-national feature film next year. Can't wait!

PS - why the Goat, you ask? Literal translation of Kimbung Jim Jams from Uzbekistani.

PPS - no goldfish were harmed in the making of this movie.

Production Numbers

My goodness! Has it really been this long since my last post? Apologies, dear reader!

Since last I wrote, life seems to have been a series of production numbers one way or another so I'll fill you in on what's been happening over the next few posts.

Those of you reading my dear Arizaphale's blog would already be aware of one of them, being the sad damage done to my back in the line of duty!

One would not necessarily expect working in Charity to be hazardous to one's health, but alas this can be the case. Not only is there the virtual jostling for position with other, less worthy causes for the philanthropic dollar in a manner reminiscent of ye olde school tuck shop, there are the physical risks of putting on a function.

We do these all the time and the physical dangers vary with each event. At our May film night the major risks were getting high on the glue fumes coming from the 1,200 glitter coated goody bags being assembled in the office, and being trodden on in the crush of femininity rushing the seats for the premier of "Sex and the City". For the Ball there were the dangers of tripping over the hundred or so auction items and 65 cases of wine littered around our already disgracefully untidy offices and, on the night, breaking an ankle while trying to boogie in 4 inch heels.

A week or so ago we had a different challenge with our annual walkathon - herding about 150 people and a dozen or so dogs in varying degrees of costume (the dogs, not the people) through the registration area, past the face painter, down the beach, around the water station, back to the starting point, over to the sausage sizzle and home. This, in itself, presented no great difficulty. It was the carting of various supplies that proved the problem.

After all, a T-shirt by itself is not a particularly heavy item, but when you have 200 of them in 4 large boxes that have to be manouvered into the car for transport together with 500 hats and all the other paraphernalia required for such an event it can get a little tricky. My downfall was a container filled with water bottles. Having conveniently placed handles on either side, I suggested to a co-worker that we could pick up an end each and see if we could transport it to the waiting boot.

With the traditional "1, 2, 3 ..." I lifted ... and she didn't. Actually we both heard the 'pop' sound that (I discovered later) represented the tearing of a ligament and my immediate thought was "Oh shit, this is going to be bad". It was.

Ice on the back for almost two days had no impact whatsoever, movement was limited to a slow and painful stagger leaning on whatever was available, lying down was fine but turning over or getting up practically impossible and as for going to the loo ... yikes!

At the time, my Beloved was busy with a production number of his own (more of this later), working 16 - 18 hour days and not generally able to be of much assistance. Thank goodness for Arizaphale who, in true Bestie fashion, dropped everything to come over and fetch, carry and do anything else required. A doctor was called, drugs acquired and the process of "rest it until it gets better" commenced.

Somehow I don't think this "rest it" advice extended to herding people and dogs up and down beaches but when Charity calls, one must do one's duty ...

Karaoke Queen

My dear Bestie, Arizaphale, is a paragon of virtue. She is a wonderful mother, understanding step-mum, supportive wife, great teacher and fabulous friend. She is a non-smoker and responsible drinker, active participant in her church and reliable taxi service for all and sundry.

Which is why it's so much fun to be with her when she goes on a bender.

This does not happen often. There needs to be a special combination of circumstances for there to be any chance of an "Arizaphale Behaving Badly" evening, but such was the state of affairs on Wednesday. Baby Angel in Sydney. Husband in KI. No school in the morning. Friends who know the location of a karaoke bar.

The evening started calmly enough. My Beloved cooked us a lovely meal, we discussed current events, the world financial crisis and other erudite matters and then decided to pop out for a nightcap at the local pub. No problem.

My Beloved, having had an early start on the [CENSORED] was just about to suggest heading home and popping on a movie when Arizaphale came out with the fateful words "How about we go and have a sing?"

And so we set out to the local karoke bar on the understanding that it would be one drink and one song. Famous last words.

When we arrived at the venue at something after 10pm we were the only patrons there. We ordered a drink and proceeded to browse through the 'playlist' of around 582,532 available songs. Not an easy task and one requiring the reinforcement of another round of drinks.

My Beloved got things rolling with a couple of his 'standards' and, sick of waiting for either of us to make up our minds, just picked out something for us to sing as a duet which we dutifully did. I wish I could remember what it was, but in any case we didn't make a bad job of it and it certainly got the ball rolling.

And what a roll it was!

Arizaphale with microphone in hand suddenly became a woman possessed, choosing song after song for our listening pleasure. And when she wasn't singing, she was dancing. And when not dancing ... well, it was time for another round after all and singing and dancing is thirsty work.

The venue started to fill up, providing a more extensive audience but also some competition for 'mike time'. There are certain rules of etiquette at a karoke bar - firstly, one must always clap politely at the end of a song, no matter how well or how dreadfully it has been performed. While Arizaphale did this with (sometimes) unwarranted enthusiasm, she became somewhat less able to abide by certain of the other conventions as the evening wore on.

It is, for example, poor form to run around the room giving notes to other singers on how they might improve their performance. It is also not generally acceptable to provide back-up vocals to complete strangers if not invited. This was explained gently to her by my Beloved, but at one point I thought she would have to be forcibly restrained.

In between Arizaphale's virtuoso performances, my Beloved found another few songs to add to his repertoire (and a couple not to), we girls harmonised delightfully on something that had a lot of 'La's" in it, and I managed a stirling rendition of "Toucha Toucha Touch Me", ably backed up the other two.

A fine time was being had by all. At around 1.30am, and conscious that while it might not be a school night for Arizaphale it was for me, my Beloved managed to shepherd us both out of the club and within about 3 feet of a waiting cab, but it was not to be. As if by magic, Arizaphale disappeared back inside and the next thing we heard was her dulcet tones belting out "Mustang Sally".

At this point I became resigned to hanging in there for the duration, and ordered another round... She was just having too much of a good time to drag away, and after all, she doesn't get to do it often.

So it was with very bleary eyes that I hauled myself to work the next day after what can only be described as a short nap. Just the day to catch up with my filing.

And Arizaphale? Her text message next day said it all. "Thanx 4 a gr8 nite, but do not take me there ever again!!!:-)". Until next time ...

An Update for All!

Well, today has been a very exciting day! My beloved has recently be hired by acclaimed director [CENSORED] to take part in a [CENSORED] as the [CENSORED] for international celebrity [CENSORED].

Imagine my vicarious excitement as he went off today for a preliminary meeting with [CENSORED]! They had a great chat about the [CENSORED] and where it would be [CENSORED]. Turns out [CENSORED] is a great guy and it looks like they will get on very well on the [CENSORED].

He has his first day on the [CENSORED] tomorrow at various [CENSORED] around Adelaide. Fortunately, our fears about having to [CENSORED] and not [CENSORED] for the [CENSORED] have proved to be unfounded. So it should be a great [CENSORED] and fantastic experience for him.

So stay tuned for the next exciting instalment of my Beloved on the [CENSORED] as he [CENSORED] a major [CENSORED] in the company of [CENSORED] and various other [CENSORED].

I love being able to share good news!

Feeling blue ...

"Why is it" I enquired of my Beloved as we were driving along this morning "that Q appears to be turning blue?"

We both looked at the little dog who had, indeed, acquired several blue markings not common in a Jack Russel in the 30 seconds since we left the house.

My Beloved rummaged around in the back seat for a moment and retrieved the offending item - a blue pen that had obviously sprung a leak. "But it looks OK" said I, taking the article and inspecting it a little more closely. Not closely enough, it appeared, as I passed it back only to find blue ink all over my hands.

The pen was chucked out the window, thank goodness, but the damage had been done. Suddenly it appeared that there was blue everywhere. My hand was covered in it - then I found that it had leaked onto the arm rest causing more havoc. From the arm rest it had transferred to the other hand, my arm and to my (inevitably) white shirt.

"Bugger" said I, as I tried to remove the bulk of the damp ink with a convenient Wet One, achieving only a smearing effect that seemed to make it go even further.

My Beloved, who by this stage was convulsed with laughter, could come up with nothing more constructive than to remark that I appeared to have been performing obscene acts with a Smurf. Ha Ha.

What was really annoying, of course, was that he - immaculate as always - had not a drop on him. Not a smear. Not a hint of blue was to be seen about his person while Q and I looked like we'd been hit by a paint truck.

Some people are just like that. Sigh ...

Of course it turned out that the pen was innocent. Having dropped my Beloved and Q off at their car so they could continue on to familial duties, I dropped by Officeworks to buy new cartridges for my printer. Knowing the confusing array available, I had taken the precaution of taking the spent (or so I thought) cartridges with me. Mistake.

By the time I realised that it was in fact the ink cartridges that were the problem, I had managed to spread the joy to those fingers that had not previously been affected, my wallet and my face. Oh bliss...

Now let me give you some tips about removing ink stains.

You can't.

I tried Jif. No effect. I tried detergent. Not a chance. I retrieved the turps from the shed and tried that. Nada.

Not to be discouraged, I googled "how to get ink off your hands" and was rewarded with the information that a weak solution of bleach will do the trick.

Not so as you'd notice.

I finally discovered that nail polish remover could be applied with some effect, but have come to the sad realisation that the only thing which is really going to get rid of it is time. Until then, I will continue to look like I am suffering from some bizzare form of gangrene. I will try to colour coordinate ...

Sunny Sunday

Pop quiz! What do the following three objects have in common?



The answer is that they are all capable of being juggled on the back lawn on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

It was a glorious day, so my Beloved and I (yes, Dear Reader, the Love Interest has been given a significant upgrade ...) were enjoying a wee dram in the back garden when off he goes on what appeared to be a bizarre search and rescue mission. Q and I watched, bemused, as a collection of household items were retrieved. These included a standard set of juggling balls, several billiard balls, two triangles (of the type used with the billiard balls), a hammer, a coffee cup, a pool cue and a broom.

What followed was part juggling spectacular and part slapstick routine as all of these items were thrown into the air and caught again (most of the time) with gay abandon. While the billiard balls were no problems, one must acknowledge that a pool cue is not made for juggling. Nor is a broom. Lacking aerodynamics of any kind it was certainly a challenge to get them off the ground. Particularly in conjunction with other objects.

The hammer is, of course, the natural enemy of the coffee cup so it was with some relief that this combination came off safely. Famous last words, of course, as the coffee cup did eventually come to grief having been clipped by a spinning pool cue.

Q, quite sensibly, refused point blank to fetch anything.

The show really was worthy of a larger audience, but I'm sure none could have been more appreciative.

The juggling spectacular was followed by a more sedate, first to five match of petanque, utilising the billiard balls once more. I shan't disclose the final score, but let's just say that my Beloved does better when the balls are going in a more vertical direction ...

We will overcome ...

There is a demarcation dispute currently underway at Chez Betty's. I have previously mentioned the small dog "Q" and speculated on the fall out that may result from a sleepover. Well now I know.

While the Love Interest's schedule remains hectic and unpredictable, there has been a significant increase in time spent at my house which has, in turn, meant that Q has also become a more frequent visitor. Butch's answer to this has been to spend more time at his various neighbourhood haunts, returning only for food and the opportunity to vent his spleen with a cacophony of outraged yowls - generally commencing at around 5.00am and being placated only be a session of quality lap sitting over my morning coffee.

Fang has taken a different approach.



The Love Interest and Q have been spending the weekend here, so she has set up residence in the bed in the guest room and is refusing to leave. I noticed her there on Friday morning, burrowed under the quilt with just eyes and ears protruding but thought that this was just a passing phase.

She was still there when I check on her at lunchtime ... and later in the evening ... and the following morning ...

I understand now that this is nothing less than the feline version of a protest movement. Think of suffragettes chaining themselves to the railings and you'll get the idea.



The message could not be clearer. Fang has taken a stand and will not be budged from her chosen location, even though Q has discovered it and periodically visits her only to be hissed at and otherwise made unwelcome. Being a dog, and therefore eternally optimistic, Q thinks it is a famous game and perseveres. Bring on the negotiators ...

The mexican standoff has now been going for almost 48 hours. I'll keep you posted ...

So sorry ...

My apologies, dear readers, for my lack of writing over the last couple of weeks. I have been doing my nails ...

Baggage

At my age, one must expect that any new relationship is going to arrive with baggage.

That might be a hostile previous partner, mad children, deep seated emotional problems or any number of things that are bound to intrude on one’s formerly tranquil existence and create challenges for a fledgling couple.

In my case that baggage has arrived, literally, in a small backpack.

With a creamy body, big brown eyes and adorable expression, the Love Interest has come with another woman in tow ... his small jack russell, Q.

Now I have never been a dog person. I think the problem started when, as a child, a dog ate my pet rabbit Peter (my goodness, what imagination there!). Then there were the two standard poodles with halitosis breath that I had to endure frequently as a friend of my mother's drove us up to our country ranch. And, of course, there was the incident of the unfriendly rottweiler and my left buttock just last year ...

So I have always had cats, and have lived happily with Butch and Fang for the last 9 years. Q has seriously upset this arrangement.

Q is one of those rare dogs that you simply cannot fail to fall in love with. She has completely won my heart and has free range of the house whenever she visits. Much to the cats' disgust.

A typical visit, from the animal's perspective must go something like this ...


Q: Oh Goody! Going to Aunty Betty's house! That's the place where I get spoiled with chicken wings and steak and pate and can run around the garden with interesting smells! Oh look! There are the cats! Maybe if I run up and say hello they'll be my friends!

B & F: Oh %*&@#!!! Incoming! Incoming! It's that yappy thing again. We're outta here ...

Actually, the cats have developed a sort of sixth sense and now vacate the premises before Q even arrives. Quite handy really, as I have realised that the mad rush for the cat door generally means that the Love Interest is about to pull up and Q is going to come bounding in with the eternal optimism of a small canine that this time the large hissy things might want to play ...

Of course the cats also know the instant that Q has left the building and return with yowls of reproach and expressions that say "how could you, mother" before reclaiming their rightful place on the bed and going to sleep.

I wonder what will happen if Q stays for a sleepover ...

A very queer week ...

The other week was a big one for the Queer community in Adelaide with not one, but two, star studded and glittering events making their way onto the social calendar.

Well, when I say glittering, I am perhaps stretching a point. In contrast to what one may expect of the queer scene in our fair city there was nary a false eyelash to be seen and a decided lack of sequins. Perhaps due to the fact that every drag queen in Adelaide had tottered off to Sydney for the DIVA awards (no relation to my DIVA) and were doubtless getting wasted at the Taxi Club or other like venue.

Not to be deterred, however, the Love Interest and I were invited to the launch of the Adelaide Queer Film Festival, an event to take place in September and featuring the best of queer film making that money didn't have to buy. Brought to you by Shoestrings-R-Us.

Actually that is being very unfair. A dear friend has worked tirelessly to bring this collection of films to Adelaide, joined by a number of enthusiasts in the hopes that this Festival will be the first of many and lead to great things. I sincerely hope it succeeds spectacularly ...

Considering the tight budget, the collection of films on offer seems impressive. We were treated to teaser clips from several offerings and were particularly impressed by a documentary the Middle East about living gay in an Islamic regime. There's been a lot of publicity about the lot of women under sha'aira law but this film gives another perspective and was, aparantly, made at considerable risk to the film-makers. Can't wait to see it.

There was also a romantic musical that appeared, to my untrained eye, to involve any number of excuses for boys who spend far to much time at the gym to take most of their clothes off, and what may become a cult classic featuring the ever glamorous RuPaul.

I was particularly interested, however, in the sneak peak of a film which featured a number of gay zombies munching their way through the masses. Probably fabulous - a sort of Hom-Zom-Rom-Com. I'm sure it will do famously.

Later in the week was a fundraiser for FEAST - a night of fabulous cabaret to mark the launch of the FEAST poster for 2008. At least that's what we were told ...

Now I will be the first to admit that one of the acts for the evening was worth the price of admission. The sensational Miaow Miaow was a knock out and had the crowd (what crowd?) on their feet immediately. Also moving the furniture to cater to the delightful Miss Miaow to the great consternation of the Norwood Concert Hall custodians who were almost beside themselves with anxiety lest some avid table mover scratch the floor ...

However, the rest of the line-up was less than impressive. There was a reasonably good belter to open the show, but she was unfortunately followed by an overly earnest girl group who sang a capella - a tuneful but overly long song about their mothers. Followed by another almost indistiguishable piece about their neices. Then grandmothers. Then the Great Aunt of the lady who used to live down the street. Followed by an encore ...

However, this was as nothing to the treat in store after interval! Bouncing (and I MEAN bouncing) on to stage was a leather queen with hairy chest, chaps and some flimsy lycra codpiece that left us in no doubt as to the nature of his three piece set. FAR more information than anyone at our table was really comfortable with. To make matters worse, he was accompanied by a group of middle aged lady line dancers who I'm sure had no idea what they were getting themselves into. Possibly he had a sister or cousin (or great aunt of a lady who used to live down the street) that had consented to this travesty and brought along her friends?

By this stage the cigarette breaks were coming at a frequency that suggested chain smoking, simply to escape from the horror. However we were not lucky enough to miss the speeches and the 'launch' of the fabulous FEAST poster.

WHAT WERE THEY THINKING!!!!!!!!!

Apologies to anyone who has a better eye for allusion and design, but to me it looks like an angel taking a crap!

And to make it worse, the words "Gay and Lesbian" (or indeed, "Lesbian and Gay") do not seem to appear. Anywhere.

Now it's all very well for various persons to bleat that everyone who SHOULD know, DOES know what FEAST is, but to my mind it seems just a tad less 'out and proud' than one might expect. Perhaps the sponsors didn't like it?

Anyway, by the time the final act pranced onto stage, our group had decided to high tail it out of there and go get shit-faced at the local pub instead.

Can't wait to see the program!

Going to a ball, Cinders?

The primary fundraiser in our annual calendar of events is the Glittering Charity Ball which was held last week. It's a large affair with over 500 people in attendance, 80 auction items, a 'wall of wine' kindly donated and sold off in mystery lots to the punters, raffles, prizes and much more.

Takes a little organising, of course, which is why my blogging has suffered over the last couple of weeks (mea culpa, dear readers). Amongst all the running around and endless preparation, there comes a moment when the single most burning question just cannot be put off any longer - what the hell am I going to wear?

I had not really put my mind to the question at all, thinking vaguely that I could pull out the standard red satin jacket and put it over something or another when it was brought gently, but firmly to my attention that THIS WOULD NOT DO! While not said in so many words, the Love Interest made it perfectly clear that if he was to attend as my escort I would need to smarten up my act and not even consider any of the crap currently adorning my wardrobe.

Fair enough - one does have an image to maintain after all. But where to find a suitable ball dress in 4 days?

Naturally, I asked the DIVA whose knowledge and ingenuity in such things in legendary. "I may have something for you" she said, after some consideration. "I'll pop it in a bag and post it over." The 'something' turned out to be a hand-me-down from one of the DIVA's internationally successful opera buddies, purchased in London for an extraordinary sum and currently in service as the DIVA's standard function frock. I should note here that the DIVA and I are very used to borrowing from each other's wardrobes and have an almost annual ritual of handing clothes over (or back) depending on the current fluctuations of our waist lines.

"Fabulous" thought I and waited in eager anticipation for the parcel to arrive the following day. It was not an inspiring sight - the mind fairly boggling at how any sort of ball dress could possibly be shoved into a medium sized post pack. The contents, once revealed, were even more unprepossessing. A two piece creation in some sort of weird knitted fabric that looked, frankly, more like an Osti Frock than haute couture. Perhaps the DIVA had run mad?

No time to speculate with auction booklets to finish, seating plans to arrange and only two shopping days remaining before the BIG NIGHT. But it was with a sense of impending doom that I donned the outfit for inspection by Arizaphale and Baby Angel, in the certain knowledge that there would be no quarter given in terms of an honest appraisal.

The funny thing was that as soon as I put the damn thing on it felt fabulous. Somehow the strange fabric seemed to mould itself into a shape that accentuated the good curves and hid the bad while making legs suddenly appear about 6 inches longer. Could be why it had a 2,000 pound price tag in the first place ...

Having gained the seal of approval from Arizaphale, it was simply a matter of finding some bling, painting both sets of nails (not without some difficulty and, in the end, assistance) and heading off for the event, accompanied by a most debonnaire Love Interest and feeling, if not the belle of the ball, at least not one of the ugly sisters ...

Careless Drivers ...

Bowled into the office yesterday after a very successful Sunday spruiking at the footy (selling Crows flags for charity - will it ever end?) to find something different about my workplace ...

Suddenly there seemed to be more light, more movement, more junk and NO FENCE!!! It appears that in the early hours of Monday morning some idiot had come tearing around the corner, fishtailed out of control and driven through our fence.

In the process he managed to:

1. Knock down the corner post holding the verandah up
2. Knock over the gas metre and associated pipes
3. Flatten the drain pipe from the roof
4. Leave an 8 foot gap in our fence, allowing access to the unprotected rear of the building for one and all.

Just what I wanted to deal with on a Monday morning!

First things first - get the emergency gas people around to avoid asphyxiation of the local community and unintential immolation of the first smoker to wander past. Of course, the emergency gas people can only stop the leak. You need to get a PLUMBER to actually put it all back together again. No worries - the emergency gas guy has a friend...

Friend plumber arrives to assess the mayhem. "No problems, luv. Can fix everything for the very reasonable price of $(insert your own outrageous amount)."

"But not until tomorrow."

In the meantime, he courteously removed all exposed copper piping to avoid it being ripped off by the unwashed masses that inhabit our neck of the woods. Obviously copper can be sold for it's weight in smack these days ...

Now on to the fence itself. Surely there would be some keen handyperson ready to leap to the rescue of a Charity in Distress? Maybe not. After trawling through the yellow pages and contacting several contractors who sell, but do not install, fencing and would certainly not be interested in something so banal as a repair job I lighted upon Jim's Fencing.

Now hat's off to Jim! It started as Jim's Mowing and progressed to Jim's Antennas, Jim's Handymen, Jim's Cleaning, Jim's Bin Cleaning, Jim's Bookkeeping, Jim's Building Maintenance, Jim's Carpet Cleaning, Jim's Car Cleaning, Jim's Computer Services, Jim's Dogwash, Jim's Finance Professionals, Jim's Floors, Jim's Graffiti Solutions, Jim's Painting, Jim's Paving, Jim's Pergolas, Jim's Plumbing, Jim's Pool Care, Jim's Roofing, Jim's Skip Bins, Jim's Test and Tag, Jim's Trees, Jim's Window Cleaning and Jim's Windscreens.

Is there anything that Jim can't do?

I can't wait for Jim's Sperm Donation and Jim's Feminine Hygiene Products to come on line ...

But I digress.

The delightful man at Jim's Fencing told me that OF COURSE he could help with our little problem. But not until tomorrow.

Which left me with no option but to engage a security guard to stay on premises for the night (you will note that there is no Jim's Security in their suite of products. Probably an oversight.)

The security person was supposed to arrive at 7.00pm at the conclusion of one of my interminable Monday meetings, but no sign of him. A call at 7.10 suggested that he was having a little difficulty finding the address. I gave him careful instructions. Still no sign.

A further call at 7.25 elicited the following probable cause for the problem ...

Me: "It's on the western side of W Square and on the southern side of the cross street."

Him: "Well that's where I am and I can't find you."

Me: "The lights are on and there are a number of people waving from the front door."

Him: "No, you're not there."

Me: "Er, we are here. Perhaps you're not?"

Him: "I'm a professional, Ma'am (at least it wasn't Luv!) I know my way around this city and you are not on the street that goes through W Square."

Me: "There is no street going through W Square - you have to go around it."

Him: "Oh ..."

Having established that he was, in fact, at another location entirely it was then only a matter of minutes before he made his belated appearance and settled in for the night. Time to go home ...

I am pleased to report that today the plumbers came and finished their connection, Jim's Fencing came and repaired the fence and all bills are going to the landlord. Oh, and according to the neighbouring coffee shop, the driver of the offending vehicle was taken off in an ambulance.

Nothing too serious, I hope :-)

Buns of Steel ... Not!

The trouble with working for Charity is that you spend half your life asking people for things.

"Hey Buddy! Congratulations on winning that great raffle prize! Can I have it?"

Now normally I am not one for making requests - the Parental Body drilled the old maxim of "it's rude to ask, wait until it's offered" into my fundamental psyche at an early age (with not universally positive results, I must say!).

However "wait until it's offered" just does not cut it in the highly competitive Charity market and while I wouldn't dream of asking for something for myself, when it's for the poor, sick kiddies one learns to be shameless.

Of course asking for things can have unexpected results ...

The other night I was at a networking function and asked the incomparable Simon whether he'd give me a free gym membership to auction off at our Ball.

"Sure" says he. "Glad to help. But speaking of the gym, you look like you could do with a little training yourself - how about it?"

Oh my God! Trapped! Nothing to do but accept gracefully that I've been out-manouvered and sign up for a course of personal training sessions. And, after all, the old gluteus is getting a bit too maximus so it's probably just as well.

So off I tottered at lunchtime today for my first session with Simon. I have to say here that Simon is a SERIOUSLY good looking man. I recall seeing him at a Slime Ball once dressed in nothing but a white hip wrap and body paint and I still haven't quite recovered.

"Miss Betty!" he cried as I staggered in, panting slightly from the 10 minute walk and small flight of stairs negotiated on the way. "Now don't you worry. We're going to take it nice and gently for your first visit - just 6 apparatus and nice low weights. You'll be fine!".

"No sweat" I think as I squeeze myself into the first contraption - the design of which I can only imagine was copied from pictures of the Spanish Inquisition. And he's right! The first couple of leg extensions are remarkably easy. Piece of pie! Easy as cake! And how many, exactly, am I supposed to do?

The answer, apparently, was 12 and by around the number 8 I was fast losing that false sense of security. And then there was the next fiendish machine ...

But I persevered! I made it through all 6 exercises without seriously damaging myself or others and was quietly congratulating myself on a job well done when Simon chirped up with "That was great! Now we're going to do 2 more circuits, but this time with 20 reps each!"

It was then that I realised that while Simon might appear to be a nice boy with a great bod, he was in reality A DEMON FROM THE ABYSS OF HELL!!!!!

30 sweaty and pain filled minutes later, it was time to leave and this time I was not fooled by the wide smile and cheery wave that accompanied the fatal words "See you next week!".

Charity is tough!

Klutz-R-Us

I have said it before - there are some people who glide elegantly through life, perfectly groomed, poised and graceful at all times. They are the type that will emerge from a train wreck with nary a scratch and not a hair out of place. Perhaps some designer smudge to mark the ordeal.

And then there's me.

If there is a stone on the path, a pole on the pavement or a hole in the road I will inevitably trip over it, smack into it or fall down it. This is the evidence of my latest foray into the Land of Klutz:


This is the result of a small altercation with my bedroom door in the wee small hours of Friday morning. I had been out for a delightful but somewhat emotional evening with the recently acquired Love Interest (more of him later, I hope!), had thrown off the clothes (note not folded and hung up - perhaps there is a clue here?) and dived into bed as usual. Sometime later, when nature called, I prepared to make a quick dash to the loo - only to trip of the shoes I'd carelessly left just by the bed and smash head first into the side of the door.

The cut, fortunately, did not need stitches. The delightful people at the RAH simply whacked a bit of glue on it the next morning (I kid you not!). The black eye, which currently is an almost attractive shade of pink, is destined to turn a darker hue sometime before fading to that lovely mottled green/yellow colour - one you may recognise from the picture of my left buttock after it was bitten by a large dog last year.

You see what I mean ...

Just a few highlights of my career as a klutzorama:

Dad teaching me how to ride a horse. Horse startled by traffic. Threw me. Broke wrist.

Riding with Hired Hand on the ranch. He decided to do trick manouvre involving me withouth mentioning it to me first. Fell off horse into patch of star thistle. Tweezers for days.

Was persuaded to participate in a 'friendly' 10 minute soccer match against the Med School girls in my final year at Law School. Fell over, broke (same) wrist.

Having a delightful time at a dinner party at the DIVA's house. Located previously unidentified hole in their back yard. Fell in it. Broke ankle.

Went on holidays to Mykonos with Twinks and Trev. First night slipped on cobblestones. Fell over. Sprained wrist. Had to ask the very nice Canadian couple in the next room to tie shoe laces (him) and do up bra (her).

Arizaphale will say it's god's punishment for being a heathen, but I think maybe it's genetic ... Sigh ...

Miss Betty and her Last Straight Male Friend

Perhaps I should expand upon my history as a serious 'fag hag' (hate that term, but don't have another one readily available). It probably began in my youth where the Parental Body surrounded me with a variety of interesting people who were to me simply "friends of the parents". The fact that "Bob and Cathy" were of different genders and "David and John" were not made absolutely no difference in my world view at that time. Actually, it still doesn't and I have a great deal of difficulty with people who make distinctions on these superficial grounds.

However, I took issue with unkind people at university who said to me "Betty - you have no straight male friends!" "Nonsense" I would reply, and refer them to my dear freind Headbang8 as an example. I should mention here that my definition of "straight male friend" is someone who:

a) is not a partner of an existiing girlfriend: and
b) I haven't slept with/am not planning to sleep with

Fairly simple paramaters I think.

Anyway, I will put here the item written by Headbang8 sometime after the occasion of his coming out. Remember, these are his words ...

Blog Title - High Maintenance Hags

OK, you're a single female. You have a gay male friend, in fact, you have several. Does that make you a fag hag? Almost, according to my Hag Numero Uno, Miss Betty Fjord.

"Well, that does it!" she replied after I came out to her. "Whenever anyone said 'Betty, all your male friend are gay', I could say, 'No, there's Headbang'. She sucked deeply and theatrically on a Marlboro Light, and stared into the middle distance. "I'm officially a fag hag".

I put my arm around her shoulder, conscious that this gesture no longer counted as flirting. "Haven't left you much wriggle room, I guess."

It took only a nanosecond for her to move into action. "You're 35. It's a little late. You want to be gay, sunshine? You'll have to shape up. I got my work cut out for me."

Since she had great experience of quality gay men, I listened. Her insta-Gay program included:

* No beer
* Nightly chardonnay
* shave head ("Only straight guys keep the Einsten wings after they go bald, Headbang. Use my Nair.")
* No watching team sports
* Matching cutlery
* Matching socks
* Tighter underwear ("Only straight guys hide their dicks behind the drapes, Headdy. Go out and bulge!")
* Get rid of the Land Rover
* Move in to her spare room

Over several years, I did all of these, under her close supervision (except the Nair). She particularly loved supervising the chardonnay, which needed to be chilled just so, and could contain no traces of oak, lest it butch up a perfectly poofy drink. She would suffer no butch affectations amongst her fags.

"But Betty," I protested. "I'm doing invert 101 at the Gay Men's Health Centre, and my teacher said there are actually some quite butch homosexuals, you know, with jeans and flannel shirts and stuff. Why can't I be one of those?"

"Of course there are butch homosexuals. They're called lesbians. And sometimes," she said wistfully, "I wish I were one of them."

"As a fag buddy, you realise that it's your duty to comfort me whenever a guy is thoughtless, inattentive, or dumps me for no good reason."

That would turn out to be often, so I felt if better to just move in.

*************

So said Headbang8 some years ago and the situation has hardly improved. I can say, however, that I DO have one straight male friend. It is Steve, the Delightful Accountant who might not qualify for the b) list if it were not for his wife J, who has credibly promised to eviscerate anyone who comes near him with lascivious intent. ANYONE!

The story of Headbang8 and Steve the Delightful Accountant and the Night of the Mistaken Bed Arrangements must be left for another time ...

Tips for the observant ...

Well I have been a busy girl, haven't I?

The observant will note that I seem to have written a multitude of blog entries today ... but the even more observant will note that they span a passage of time which is none too recent.

The answer, dear friends, is that I had been blogging some time ago but was rudely interrupted by a pack I shall simply call the Hounds from Hell.

Well, I'm back - and having deleted all "controversial" content have reinstated some of the blog entries from last year.

You can't keep a good woman down ... :-D Stay tuned!

The School Fete

"You're doing what?" shrieked the DIVA over the phone this morning as I advised her of my plans for the day.

"I am going to Tabular Christian College School Fete" I replied, stoicly. This, of course, is the school attended by Baby Angel, and as she had spent the night at my place (see the Bestie's latest blog entry for all the details) and had been telling me all about the hours spent wrapping sweeties in cellophane for her class stall, I couldn't be so churlish as to inform her that I'd rather stick pins in my eyes than attend.

Peals of laughter were the response from the DIVA. "Well make sure you buy something appropriate" she said. "Like a crucifix made of play doh!"

"And baked!" laughed I.

Famous last words ...



Yes, here it is. The "salt dough" crucifix made by some righteous third grader, cunningly festooned with cloves and topped with a ribbon to allow hanging on someone's christmas tree. Possibly not mine.

But wait - there's more! How about these treasures ...



Obviously made by the same artist - I could not resist adding the interesting sculpture (Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No! It's .... erm...) and the Mick Jagger look-a-like fridge magnet to my stash. 60 cents for the set of three is what I call money well spent!

Hat's off, however, to the innovative pre-school teacher who has found a use for all that finger painting. Roll up several sheets, put a ribbon around it and sell it as Christmas wrapping paper! At three rolls for a dollar, neither the Bestie nor I could resist.

And then there was the sausage sizzle. How could the DIVA think that I would not have a good time?

Garden Success!

I am home early today, mainly because half my staff and practically none of my volunteers turned up at the COMPULSORY workshop today. Grrrrmph! I shall have words with several tomorrow ...

Anyway, the up side is that it is a glorious warm day and the garden is looking beautiful! It's only been a year since the delighful landscape people took a very large portion of my bank balance and transformed a hideous, scraggy mess into the delight we see today.



And I am especially impressed with my flowering "bird of paradise". Just look!




Of course, we must all enjoy it while we can as water restrictions are going to play havoc with beautiful gardens over the next several months. However, with drippers now allowed for 3 hours a week (woo hoo!!!) I have some expectation that my plants will survive.

And the lawn? Tough as old nails - it'll be back next year!

Decor ...

Last night, several gay men came to my house and re-arranged my lounge room furniture.

What more can I say?

The long weekend

What a fabulous weekend it has been! Last week I had blocked out Thursday and Friday to attend a work-related course. On Tuesday, the course was cancelled - but having made no appointments for those days I thought I'd take a some annual leave and have a bit of a mini-break.

On Thursday I met up with my Cousin for a gourmet burger down at the Bay. A couple of years ago, the Adelaide entrant in a reality show called My Restaurant Rules won the series and their restaurant, The Greedy Goose, is still going strong and remains one of my favourite eateries. This year they've opened up a gourmet burger restaurant at Glenelg and so far I've sampled a couple of varieties. The 'beef and brie' was gorgeous, but I think Thursday's Lamb with roasted shallots, salami, slow roasted tomatoes, rocket and goats curd was even better. Add a couple of glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and non-stop conversation (this is my family we're talking about) and it's the recipe for a great afternoon.

This was followed on Thursday evening by a wonderful and somewhat drunken evening with the Bestie and The DIVA - in town for a family reunion. The DIVA had escaped husband and children and was in fine form, downing champagne like there was no tomorrow. Although we were denied a lounge-room performance on this occasion (generally possible after the application of a judicious quantity of bubbles and a carefully chosen CD), we did get to practice explosive pelvic floor exercises and generally have a fine old time.

The Bestie - freed from the rigours of parenthood for the week with Baby Angel off in Fiji with her Father - was able to have a sleepover! We were a little bleary eyed the following day, but a breakfast of pancakes soon fixed that and we sallied forth for a long walk by the Torrens River and trip to the Zoo. It was a glorious day, and a number of animals that are generally sleeping in a corner whenever I visit were up and about - most notably the red pandas and the beavers which I have never seen before! We had a lovely day - only managing to see about half the zoo in the time available - and have vowed to return soon... The strategy of parking the car 3 km from the zoo also paid off with no option but to walk off the chips and ice-cream on our way back to the car. All in the interests of developing Buns of Steel! Or at least silly putty...

Saturday was going to be my rest day with nothing particular planned. However, I thought I would go to one of our local electrical retailers and have a look at DVD recorders as I'd promised the parental body I would bequeath them my old DVD/amplifier/surround sound system. Well they didn't have a DVD I liked - but there was this fabulous flat panel LCD TV at an absolute bargain price that it would have been a crime not to buy ...

Of course, then I had to get the wall bracket, a new (and smaller) TV stand, a DVD recorder from another store and the cabling to make it all work ...

"Right" thought I, after managing to unload this booty from the car. "Let's get out the power drill and get the wall mounting unit in place!" Easier said than done as it turned out... First, of course, I had to unplug the old system and get it ready for transport to the Parental's. Then if was a matter of moving the furniture and getting rid of (now) extraneous items. Then vacuum 3 years worth of accumulated dust.

Then find out that the bricks used to build my back room are possibly the hardest and most durable variety in the universe. Instructions said to drill 6 holes to 60mm depth with 12mm masonary drill bit. Fine. Measuring up was fine. Marking the position of 6 holes was fine. Drilling into the wall was not fine - it defeated my cordless drill and almost burnt out the motor of my high speed hammer drill. When this started shooting sparks at my head I decided it was time to quit - with not one of the holes more than 30mm deep.

Time to get a little man in ...

Actually, when I'd set up the TV in its temporary location, it actually looked fine and worked well in the space.

Time to get out the spakfilla...

Sunday morning was spent getting rid of boxes, packing materials, drills bits, screws and other paraphernalia in anticipation of a visit from the Parental Body, The DIVA and her entire brood for a barbeque tea. It was a lovely afternoon with the Parental Body (Dear Old Dad in particular) being most taken with new flat panel LCD TV and re-thinking whether they really needed 45 kilos of old fashioned tele... By the end of the afternoon, we all thought not.

Little Lord Fauntleroy was hugely entertained by "Back to the Future" in the cinema room, Hamster and Little Miss were on their best behaviour (thank goodness for high chairs!) and the whole occasion passed off very enjoyably and without a hissy fit from anyone. Yeah!!!

To round off the weekend, the Bestie and her GG popped in after the SA Grand Final (sadly not winners as I'm sure you will read in her blog) for a couple of quickies between functions and the opportunity to slag off and the Australian Idol contestants.

Do weekends get any better?