The Great Easter Gutz Up

For an athiest, I'm very keen on Christian Festivals. Ignoring all religious significance with studied thoroughness, I just love a celebration! Any excuse ...

One of my favourites is Easter. Apart from the fabulous 4 day weekend, there's the excuse to eat CHOCOLATE! This must absolutely not be done in moderation. No - from Easter Sunday until the stocks runs out, one must gorge on chocolate until one makes oneself sick. It is, after all, the Great Easter Gutz Up!

This was not a tradition known to my Betrothed, but one he has embraced with unseemly enthusiasm. Strictly amateur at this stage, of course, with limited quantities required to induce queasiness. He hasn't had the years of training required to consume a really HUGE amount of chocolate before getting to the "one more bite and I'll throw up" stage. However, I have high hopes that he will quickly become a serious "Gutzer" ...


Even Q got into the act, but was very put out that she was required to pose for photos but not allowed to eat the bunny.

It does seem a little unfair, but everyone knows that little dogs can't eat chocolate. We'll make up for it with the roast at Christmas!

All good things must come to an end, and last night I snaffled the last of the Easter stocks (well there was only a little bit left) leaving my Betrothed with nothing but an old block of fruit and nut. He was not impressed.

Now there's the Easter spirit!!!!!

We're just wild about Harry ...

At first glance, one might be excused for not understanding the significance of this photo. Let me explain ...

My dear cousin, the Swizzle-Stick, has recently made some very big changes in her life. One of these has involved selling her house to move to a stylish waterside apartment. With less room. And no pets.

Thus a quandary. What to do with her ginger cat, Harry?

A plaintive appeal came our way so my Betrothed and I felt we had no choice but to adopt-a-cat and take Harry home to our little menagerie.

So last night we went over to the Swizzle-Stick's soon to be ex-home for dinner, assistance with her garage sale preparations ... and the cat carrier.

My Betrothed was brutally efficient with the labelling of garage sale items leaving the Swizzle-Stick and I nothing to do but have another drink. Between us we also managed to stack up a pile of things that will, sadly, never reach the garage sale having been loaded into the back of our car at bargain basement prices. Along with Harry.

Every buyer gets a cat!

Poor Harry was quite happy to get into the cat carrier and settle down, but less so about the ride home on my Beloved's knee. There was a significant amount of mewling, squeaking and otherwise making his dissatisfaction known. Fortunately it was a short trip.

Once home it was straight to the butter dish and a bit of dabbing on the paws - a method enthusiastically embraced by my Beloved and the Swizzle-Stick and, with somewhat more scepticism, by me. Then the door was opened and Harry was free to explore his new home.

Which leads us back to the photo ...

Harry - on a reconnaissance mission - wandering into the bedroom.

Fang - rudely awoken from sleep on the bed.

Q - hoping against hope that someone would want to play with her.

Three forces of nature coming together under our bed. Harry confused. Fang outraged. Q - hoping against hope that someone would want to play with her.

Such a shame that this blog doesn't have sound effects as the ensuing warbling/hissing/barking was something that had to be heard to be believed.

Let us just say that by the end of the night, Q was under the covers as usual. Harry had decided that 'bed cat' was a reasonable position and Fang had decamped to sleep 'al fresco' in disgust.

We'll keep you posted ...

The Bombay eBicycle Club

My Betrothed is in love. "Well, of course he is!" I hear you say and I should jolly well hope so. However, Q and I are afraid that we have been superceded in his affections since the recent purchase of his eBike.

And what, you may ask, is an eBike?

Well, it looks very much like a motor scooter ... with pedals. It is, in fact, a bicycle with an electric motor.

It buzzes along at a top speed of 30 km/h but has all the advantages of your traditional bicycle in that it can be ridden on bike tracks and footpaths and requires no registration or licence to operate. The electric motor is practically silent (a worry as my Betrothed can now sneak up on us) and costs approximately 10 cents a day in electricity to recharge.

It really is something special and my Betrothed is completely infatuated with it.

I am taking full advantage of this by making hay while the sun shines.

"We need some milk, honey" says I. "No problem" says he, gleefully. "I'll just ride down to the shop." Yay!

Given the number of our friends who have ... ahem ... fallen foul of the constabulary in the matter of having a few too many while behind the wheel, it seems likely that the eBike shop will avoid the economic downturn and be besieged by customers. They have already decided to call themselves the Bombay eBicycle Club and are planning expeditions of increasingly unlikely proportions.

The big question is whether a gopher qualifies for membership? Perhaps one shouldn't ask ...

Killer Dog

Now does this look like a vicious animal? A killer dog that would threaten the life of anyone who came in her path? No? Well, you'd be wrong ...

This is, of course, Q - our pet jack russell. On the occasion of this photo she had been dressed up funny by her dad in honour of Australia Day - and not very happy about the whole thing. But still not actively dangerous ...

However, the other day we found out just how terrifying she could be.

My Betrothed has a little ritual we go through everytime we leave Q at home. He tells her she's the best dog in the world and that while we're gone she's in charge. She's to look after the house and look after the cat and be a good girl until we get home.

She obviously takes this responsibility very seriously as we found out when the cleaner rang last Monday evening.

"Hello - this is Dragica here" (Imagine heavy eastern European accent!). "Ve come to clean the house today, but the little dog, she vill not let us."

"The little dog, she vants to bite me so ve go home. Ven would be good time to come back?"

Yes, indeed. Our small hero had protected the house against these nasty intruders and chased two grown people (one of them a strapping 6 foot man) off the premises.

Good dog!

All things Fringe

One of the reasons I've been so silent over the last several weeks is that the Betrothed and I have been participating in the Adelaide Fringe Festival. For those that are not ofay with this annual event, it is a 3 week rollercoaster ride of unmoderated shows, exhibitions and events with (this year) 517 acts on offer. Whew!

Now the last time that I participated in a Fringe was 1984 while still at University. So it's been a while. My Betrothed, however, is a Fringe stalwart and determined to produce a show again this year. Having had a critically successful but exhausting season last year, he was determined to do something a little easier so when, last year, a 6 piece rhythm and blues band sort of dropped in his lap he thought it would be a good idea to incorporate them into a cabaret-style show. While he was at it, he signed up as their manager in order to book them into various functions and venues.

Great in theory. But I don't think either of us were prepared for the work involved in managing a bunch of musicians.

Now we are not talking kids here - these guys are veteran performers that should (theoretically) know their way around a professional gig. It is to laugh ... In reality the process has been more difficult than herding cats and the level of interaction between them at approximately that of pre-schoolers.

Gig 1. Pub. Set up at 7.00pm for 8.00pm start. 7.50pm. Where's the trombone player? Frantic text messaging. Nothing. Frantic phone calling. "Oh, sorry. I was asleep. Be there soon". Grrrr.

Gig 2. Private function at prestigeous yacht club dinner dance. 4.00pm set up for 8.00pm start. "But WHY do we have to get there so EARLY? WHY can't we set up while they're having DINNER?" "I don't WANT to go all the way there and home and back!" Whine, whine. Moan, moan.

Fringe. Rehearsal in venue. Only opportunity to sound check, set lights and run show before opening night. Set up requires stage. Builder band member has had 2 months to build stage. No stage. Band go home.

***sigh***

Then, of course, there are the interminable text messages and phone calls daily to my Betrothed with the most stupid of questions and bitching about everyone behind their backs. Classy.


Despite all of this, my Beloved managed to constuct a show full of music, magic and comedy that was well reviewed and much appreciated by our audiences.

And me? Well, I did the tech and a warm up spot with my old party piece - McAurthur's Fart. It was good to be on stage again if only for a little while. And the fringe opening parade, in classic mustang with 110,000 people lining the streets? Priceless ...