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 ...