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!!
Thursday, 15 January 2009
Monday, 5 January 2009
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!
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!
Wednesday, 31 December 2008
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 ...
Tuesday, 30 December 2008
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!
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!
Wednesday, 24 December 2008
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!
Saturday, 20 December 2008
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!
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!
Thursday, 18 December 2008
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 ...
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 ...
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