Production Numbers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karaoke Queen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what a roll it was!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Update for All!

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

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

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

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

I love being able to share good news!

Feeling blue ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some people are just like that. Sigh ...

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

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

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

You can't.

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

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

Not so as you'd notice.

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

Sunny Sunday

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We will overcome ...

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

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

Fang has taken a different approach.



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

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

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



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

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

So sorry ...

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