Lights, Camera, Action ...

This one needs a bit of background explanation ...

A few weeks ago, Mother came over with a DVD given to her by my cousin, S. She had found an old film projector and film taken by my Grandfather between 1938 and 1953 and had transferred it to disk. Not knowing who was actually featured in the film, she asked Ma to have a look at it.

So Mother dutifully brought the DVD to us and with the words "you might find this a bit boring" screened the most fabulous, historical footage of Adelaide in the 1930's, the Voluntary Defence Corps (our version of Dad's Army) training down at West Beach, the Davis Cup (1952), the aftermath of the great Glenelg storm (1948), ANZAC Day march (1942) and much, much more. It even contained film of a tiny Mother competing in her school sports day circa 1939.

Stunned and open-mouthed, my Betrothed and I immediately agreed - this has to be made into a documentary. What film-maker could resist?

So my Betrothed has been spending every spare minute editing the footage, adding still photographs and soundtrack to make what promises to be a fascinating look into life over that period. So fascinating that a local TV program "Stateline" were immediately interested in doing a feature story on the finding and making of the documentary with interviews with my Betrothed and Mother.

The time was set and Ma and Pa dutifully arrived for the Big Day. While we're waiting for the Stateline team to arrive, my Betrothed casually comments that he hopes Q will be good and not bark at the camera.

"What camera?" says Mother.

"What do you mean, what camera?" says I. "The camera that the Stateline team will bring to film your interview, of course!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" is the frightened response. "I can't possibly go on camera! Oh, no ... they'll have to do something else."

After a moment of stunned silence my Betrothed asked the obvious question. "Well, what did you think they were going to do?"

"Well, I thought they'd look at the footage and ask me questions about it" says Mother, in ever more panicked tone. "You never told me they were going to put me on camera!"

The assembled company then got straight into reassurance mode. "You'll be great!". "You look lovely". "It's just like having a chat with someone - pretend the camera isn't there". "Don't worry, nobody watches the ABC!"

All of which, of course, fell on deaf ears. I suppose it is a big thing to have your screen debut at age 80 - but suggesting there would be no need for a wedding as our funerals would come first was going a bit too far.

At that point the TV crew arrives and Mother, by necessity of background and breeding, goes into 'welcome' mode. Fortunately, the cameraman spent quite a lot of time shooting various photographs for the setup and Mother had a chance to chat with the Presenter for quite some time. I still don't think she was completely reconciled when the dreaded moment came and she was led to her beautifully lit spot in front of our red curtain ... and that imposing camera. The comment "now I know how Anne Boleyn felt" sort of gave it away.

Of course, she did fabulously well and looked great on the small screen I was watching. But she still needed a large brandy to recover from the ordeal and was muttering dark curses on all of us all the way to the car ... Will she ever recover?

Karma

While I am not religious, do not believe in ghosts, UFO's and other like rubbish, I do believe there is Karma in the world.

Last night was a classic example. My Betrothed went for an excursion to the video shop to hire some entertainment for the night. Something nice. Something fun. Something suitable for a cold night at home curled up in front of the heater.

What did he come back with?

The first series of "Deadwood" and a Mel Gibson war movie. Boy choices.

Now I'm not adverse to a good drama and the word "gritty" does not send me screaming from the room. But I am not a fan of westerns and war movies leave me cold. As does Mel Gibson.

"Anything on the telly?" I enquired, with little hope (it was, after all, a Saturday night) so my Betrothed dutifully read out the offerings listed in the TV guide. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

So it was "Deadwood" that was chosen for viewing and two and a half episodes were duly watched.

Despite the quality of the production and the excellence of the acting, the storyline and genre really didn't do much for me. However, one endures ...

So we were watching away until our DVD player (a complete dud) decided to get temperamental and spit out the disk halfway through episode 3.

And guess what was just starting on TV as the DVD spat the dummy? Which Saturday night movie accidentally overlooked in the Guide?

Beaches.

Karma.

The Death of Theatre and other Tragedies ...

Last night I took my Betrothed off to see one of the great spectaculars of the modern stage - the Phantom of the Opera. We were fortunate that our friend, The Star, is one of the principals and managed to get us house seats at short notice. So we trooped off to join the madding crowds for a great night of entertainment ... we thought.

It was crap. Pure unadulterated crap. The extent of its awfulness almost defies description, it was just that crappy.

And why, you may ask, would one deliver such a harsh judgement on possibly the most successful musical of all time?

Well, it wasn't the cast. The Star was fabulous and the great Anthony Warlow brilliant.

It wasn't the production as staging and effects were of the highest order and costumes spectacular.

It wasn't the music which, while not to everyone's taste (certainly not my Betrothed's) was well played and effective.

No. It was the venue.

WHAT WERE THEY THINKING PUTTING A STAGE PRODUCTION IN A BARN!!!!!!!!

Now I have seen Phantom some 11 or 12 times over the last 15 years, in 4 countries and at least 6 cities. It has always been brilliant and I have always enjoyed it. But then, it has always been in a theatre.

The decision by the producers to stage Phantom in the Adelaide Entertainment Centre - a venue perfectly designed for rock concerts and basketball matches - was borne out of pure greed. Cram as many people as possible into the space, halve the length of the run (hence having to pay your artists for 50% less performances) and to hell with Art.

The normally spectacular stage was, from our vantage point, like a pimple on a pumpkin. About 90% of the effect of the performance was lost simply due to perspective and scale.

Obviously the producers had realised that of the 3,000 people crammed into the venue, 2,500 would be unable to see what was going on so 2 giant screens had been erected to broadcast the live action. These were incredibly distracting and made you feel like you had paid $120 to go to a really bad drive in. Unfortunately, you had to watch the screens if you wanted to have any idea what was going on as the actors were so far away from the majority of the audience that features and expressions were impossible to see, costumes were simply a colourful blur and the masterpiece of staging completely compromised.

It was a disgrace.

Arena spectaculars may be fine for shows specifically designed for that forum. But please, Mr Producers, never, never, never do this to another great show. We will certtainly stay well away.

A bad day ...

There are some days that one just shouldn't get out of bed.

Yesterday was one of those for my Betrothed who managed to blunder his way through a series of ... erm ... incidents that must have made him wish that he'd just skipped the day altogether.

Actually, it started the evening before when we dropped into a friend's birthday party. He had specifically asked if my Betrothed could do a bit of an act so, not wanting to offend, the fire clubs were loaded up and the birthday boy invited to participate in a small routine. This is a fairly passive exercise for the victim ... erm, sorry ... participant as all that is required is to lie on the ground and let fire be juggled over your head. I know. I've been there - and very spectacular it is too.

Just a shame on this occasion that the lighting was poor, the ground uneven and the dog barking. A combination of factors which caused my Betrothed to do what he never does and drop the fire clubs on the Birthday Boy's head. Whoops. No permanent damage done ... we hope.

So it was, perhaps, not surprising that he should want a little lie in the following day. We had the parental body coming over for lunch to catch up with an old friend we haven't seen in ages. He's one of the principal characters in 'Phantom of the Opera' so we had to have an early lunch to allow him to get back to the theatre in time for his matinee.

Anyway, I had been up and about for some time when the hour had progressed sufficiently to rouse my Betrothed so he could get ready for the day. However, he refused to be roused on the slim pretext of being on strike.

The strike was called in protest over my not looking sufficiently girlie. Now it is no secret that my Betrothed is fond of 'la difference' and would prefer that I not wear jeans and RM's all the time. As I do, actually, get away with this outfit often, I thought it was not unreasonable to comply and go put on a skirt. And anyway, a little more shut-eye wouldn't hurt him ...

Meanwhile the phone rang, the luncheon needed stirring etc. etc. so we were running a little behind by the time I had donned skirt and heels and was back out to the studio to try the rousing routine a second time.

While the strike was abandoned, my Betrothed was still being a little difficult and it was only my statement that the parental body would be here any minute that got him moving, striding across the short stretch of garden between studio and house on his way to the shower. Naked. And in full view of the parental body who had just that instant driven into the carport.

So my poor Betrothed was caught like a rabbit in the headlights, stark naked in front of his prospective in-laws, before gathering his wits (and who knows what else) and streaking into the laundry calling hysterically for a towel.

I don't think my Ma and Pa have laughed so much for ages - as my Betrothed, with the sounds of mirth following him, ran into what became an inordinately long shower. The parental body were, of course, very good sports about the whole thing and promised not to tell anyone. Well, almost anyone. Well, not everyone. Oh dear.

Recovering with aplomb from this most embarrassing incident, we all settled in to have a nice lunch. My friend, The Star, was in fine form and a good time was being had by all. My Betrothed enquired, as you do, about how The Star and I had become friends and I informed him that he had been long time partner to The Banker, the two of them breaking up some years ago.

This connection established, my Betrothed started his next sentence with "So, Banker, how are you enjoying Adelaide?" Whoops.

However, it didn't end there. The Star enquired, on recalling that my birthday was fast approaching, how old I would be this year. 29 and some months? I responded that I would, sadly, be turning 48.

My Betrothed (for the third time that day) turned slightly pale. "48?" he asked. "Well, yes" I responded. "You did know that I was slightly older than yourself."

The paleness continued, and I had a horrid moment thinking that he had, in fact, thought I was only 29 and some months when the truth came out.

"I thought you were turning 50" he whispered. "I think I'd better make some calls."

Now I don't know exactly what he had planned, but suspect that some lovely confection with 'Happy 50th Birthday' may have featured. And may not have been appreciated to quite the extent that such thoughtfulness would otherwise have warranted.

All in all, it was a good thing when our visitors left and we were able to return to our normal state of domestic bliss. And giggling. Well, I was anyway. I'm sure he'll see the funny side eventually ...

A good day ...

Well, dear reader, it was a busy day last Saturday with a double celebration being held at chez nous ... my Mother's 80th birthday combined with our Engagement Party! We had decided that as there was basically the same invitation list for each event we'd save everyone trouble and hold both celebrations together, and what a lovely day it was!


At first Mother was somewhat concerned about having a 'do' to mark this milestone birthday, proclaiming that her friends were of such a number that a small phone booth would be sufficient to contain her party. What rot! Given her vast popularity with her friends, her family, my friends and, now, the friends of my Betrothed we were not letting her get away with some shabby affair such as the morning tea she had (hesitantly) proposed. Not on our watch!



And how right we were. She was absolutely thrilled to have so many family and friends in attendance - some of whom we haven't seen for ages - and so uplifted by everyone's kind wishes and lovely gifts that she didn't have to wear a bra for 3 days. Or so she says ...

Anyway, everyone agrees that she's looking absolutely fabulous for 80 (there were several "are you sure?" type comments to be heard). My Betrothed made a lovely speech in proposing a toast to the octogenerian and a fine time was had by all.


There was also the small matter of our Engagement to celebrate, with friends still slightly shell-shocked and family all agog to meet 'The Man'. All were suitably impressed, of course, although my Betrothed swears all he did all day was say "Hello, lovely to meet you. Would you like a drink?"


Nothing more likely to endear him to our mob ...

So we all had a wonderful time as the BBQ ran hot, the drinks ran cold and everyone helped celebrate the moment when two confirmed Singletons, previously known for classic statements such as "Me? Get married? I'd rather take a gun and shoot myself ...", threw caution to the wind and made it all official.

Bring on November!

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 ...

Upgrades ...

Apologies, Dear Reader for my prolonged absence! One might have thought that Miss Betty did not live at all but had shuffled off this mortal coil given the amount of time that has elapsed since my last post. But not so! In fact, there have been momentous events and I shall attempt to bring you up to date with some of them.

Let me start with the most important ...

Close to a year ago I introduced you, somewhat hesitantly, to the Love Interest. As many of you know, my forays into romance over the last decade have been few, far between and ... disastrous. Suddenly, Mr Tall Dark and Handsome comes into my life from nowhere and you will forgive me for being a bit sceptical about my chances. The fact that we met as the only two straight people at a gay networking function perhaps shows that luck was finally on my side?

Anyway, the Love Interest was fairly quickly upgraded to my Beloved and now we have upgrade #2. My Beloved has become my Betrothed with a further upgrade scheduled for 1st November this year. Who would have thought it?


We even have the ring to prove it, having gone shopping on Valentines Day for said object. This, I thought, might be a difficult outing but turned out to be extraordinarily easy.

We made a beeline to the jewellers that had been recommended to me and were immediately charmed by the fact that there was a violinist busking outside (romantic music anyone?). A tray of rings was duly presented and almost the first one I tried on was a perfect fit and looked gorgeous. Reasonably priced, too (although I'm not sure this fact was fully appreciated by my Betrothed who seemed to have a completely different ballpark in mind. To his credit he moved almost seamlessly into the required playing field with only a slightly stunned expression to mark the transition.)

We felt compelled to visit another couple of shops and try their wares, but we were sold on the first one - a fact which one saleslady suggested was an excellent omen for our marriage.

All in all, the ring shopping expedition took less than an hour and the result was a gorgeous, sparkling new ring on a slightly less then gorgeous and sadly old hand. No matter, it's fabulous!

So now there are not only daily events to report, but the preparations for the wedding of the century (well, it is for us!) to report on. No more excuses!

Party revisited ...

You will, dear reader, recall the mysterious case of the frilly knickers found behind the hedge the day after our Christmas Party. The culprit has never been found, although the variety of characters who have claimed responsibility is quite extensive!

However, it now appears that there were more shenanigans going on that day, and perhaps we have identified a new suspect.


"What's this?" you say. "What possible mischief could a happy Winnie get up to?"

Well, perhaps not so innocent after all. The following incriminating photo has come to light, shocking us all. Please read no further unless you have a strong stomach and no concern about your childhood illusions being shattered ...


Perhaps the case of the frilly knickers has been solved after all ...

An excerpt from Mumford's diary ...

Thursday ...

Masculinity diminishing at an alrming rate as my beloved demonstrates her handywoman skills.

Let me explain.

I finished a full morning being a responsible business person and executing my daily duties, took a call from my gay radio announcer friend and chewed the fat, poured a fine chilled red made by a collegue's father and caught up on all the local gossip.

Meanwhile, herself had been down to bunnings and had messaged to inform me of her intention to erect a new wall-to-wall work space in the study ...

I informed my gay friend that, no, I couldn’t come out to play as I was waiting for my girlfriend to come home and we were going to put up shelves. Shrieks were heard from the other end of the phone as my claim "no, really – I am straight” in this town diminished.

Now that herself is at home - as I write - she drills, sockets and tinkers away with the enthusiasm of a tradesman complete with bum-crack.

It would not be so bad if it were not for the fact that each request she makes for me to “hold this” or "bring me some more dynabolts” only serves to reveal me as the completely non-blokey, non-handy, scared-of-power-tools-for-fear-of-cutting-my-hand-off, kind of guy.

The dog betrayed me at first, hanging out with mum, until the power tools scared her and she sought refuge with the women in the studio whilst mens' work was being done in the study.

Problem is, I was in the studio.

Alone.

First, the man bag. Now this.

Just great.

I am straight I tell you!!

A Sentimental Bloke

This afternoon my Beloved and I were watching a lovely little movie - Creator. This is a largely ignored and seriously under-rated film from the '80's starring an eccentric Peter O'Toole, a young Virginia Masden and a gorgeous Vincent Spano (what ever happened to him?).

It's all about love, loss and the meaning of life and is guaranteed to make the most cold hearted cynic melt into a sentimental puddle. I was actually very surprised when Mumford picked it out of the library as I thought I was one of only about 7 people world wide who had every heard of the movie, let alone watched it! However, pick it out he did and we proceeded to spend the next couple of hours alternately laughing, sighing and having a bit of a blubber.

Yes, indeed. The tissues were out, and not just for me ...

The remarkable thing, however, was what happened next.

Having wiped his eyes and blown his nose, my Beloved suddenly turned into Uber Bloke.

The washing machine was doing its usual unbalanced thing and making a racket, so Uber Mumford leapt immediately to the shed to retrieve the shifting spanner and fix the problem.

Not enough. Testosterone levels obviously still required some topping up, so the next thing I know he's out changing the oil and water in the car. And washing it. Inside and out.

All this followed by a prolonged piss in the back yard to really show who's boss.

So this is my advice to all you girls out there who need something manly done around the house. Show your bloke an incredibly soppy, guaranteed three hankie movie and not only are your troubles over, your drains are unclogged, your roof is fixed and your garden watered. Brilliant!

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?