Off The Rock

Today I will mostly be in Melbourne having managed to fly off the island despite pretty strong winds. The take off was surprisingly smooth and we didn't hit much turbulence until Tullamarine which was odd as I was being blown hither and thither on my way back from a dinner party the previous evening.

That's not to say that I'm complaining as the weather on Friday and Saturday was pretty much perfect and led to the inevitable questions concerning why I'm not more keen to live on the answered. The inveitable answer is that my work is shit and it's only sunny for a few days every year but still, I'm looking forward to debating quality of life issues with friends back in the UK.

Melbourne has been pretty unremarkable. I met up with Merdith for dinner and a drink and have mailed a pretty patheitc at Chrismas shopping. I think my problem is that I started at Myer in the baby department where it was all I could to keep myself from puking. Why anyone would want slogans and brand names emblazoned all over their 6 month old child is beyond me but I did manage to seek out an innofensive cardigan.

The sun is out now but it was windy and cool yesterday so I'm a little concerned as to the well being of the cheese we're planning to smuggle back into the UK. According to DEFRA we're not allowed to take any but we're going to give it a go.


Time for a coffee then it's ready, steady go to the airport bus and away.

Four More Days To Go

Only four more cheese days to go until I take off my hairnet for the last time this year.

I finish on Friday, leave the island on Sunday and meet my partner in Melbourne on Monday for the long flight oer sea and land to the cold but hopefully hospitable Northern Hemisphere.

That's hardly very interesting or noteworthy but it occupies my mind for most of the day so I thought I'd make a note.

Rehearsals tonight. I actually enjoyed the previous one and as this is the last proper one before I go I hope to enjoy this one too. I'm away for 6 weeks which makes me feel a bit guilty as there's only a month until the performances after I get back. Couldn't be helped though and I've promised to learn my lines while I'm away.

Apologies for the dull entry but al least it wasn't as morbid as usual.

Joan Emily Bequith Green

My Grandma died a few hours ago. She has been in several residential homes for a couple of years now and stopped walking, eating, drinking and speaking about a week ago. Her husband, Bill, died a couple of years ago and she seemed to be pretty tired of life after the rigours of his protracted death.

I was estranged from them for nearly a decade but made contact again a couple of years before Bill died. I'm very thankful that I did as they were a lovely couple who never showed me anything but love and were regrettably dragged into a family dispute which was none of their making.

The tragedy of the estrangement was that they wanted nothing more from life than to love their children and grandchildren but the break ups of their childrens marriages and the fact that three of their four children lived overseas meant that they were prevented from achieving such simple ambitions.

My fondest memories are of Christmas's past when we all gathered at their ramshackle house in South London to open presents and eat Grandmas fantastic feasts. They never owned their house and rented it from a Rachman style landlord until ill heath forced them to relocate to a sheltered flat. They had water pouring in from the roof and still heated the house with a pot bellied stove in the kitchen which was an unusual anachronism to say the least.

Needless to say the fire and my Grandfathers Heath Robinson contraptions which filled the home, coupled with the rabbits and chickens in the garden leant the house an feeling of fantasy which only seems noteworthy when I look back on it. I saw some old photo's recently of my young cousin standing on a chair to wash up after some celebratory dinner or other and seeing the familiar but forgotten paraphinalia which lined the walls made me think of them as a couple of before their time hippies.

Grandpop served in the army in India but was better known to us as a bus conductor on the familar red London buses. He was cruelly lampoooned prior to retirement for taking a job at a Police station where he cleaned the toilets but he seemed pretty happy with his lot as long as he had a few quid to lose on the horses.

Grandma was in service for most of her life. She worked in a stately home as a maid and a cook prior to meeting Grandpop but still cooked for some city gent in my lifetime. She had the appearance of a jovial cook being a very large woman who continually embarrased us Grandchildren by clutching us to her more than ample bosum as we were welcomed on the doorstep of her home.

Grandmas last months were probably spent largely alone as she slid away from life. This is a modern condition I regret which results in elderly people living longer but enjoying an increasingly poor quality of life. The body is tended to so that every last drop of life is wrung from it but the mind can't keep up and is allowed to fall into confusion and disrepair.

The elderly are no longer tended to by an unfortunate and noble member of the family but by well meaning and poorly paid immigrants, families move away from their origins to other towns, countries and continents and we generally seem to have less time for our elders than they had for us but that appears to be simply a fact of our time and isn't very high on the agenda when it comes to social ills.

I can't really criticise having ignored them for ten years and being on the other side of the world at the time of Grandmas death but it's a social issue which troubles me and I can't help but feel it's linked to other, more high profile issues of our day.

I have great difficulty teling people I love them but I think I told Grandma that when last we met and I believe I put in the subsequent correspondednce. I hope so because she deserves to know that she made a huge but understated impact on my life and no doubt on the lives of the other people lucky enough to be her grandchildren.

Home Alone

The missus has gone away for the week on a camping trip with her Year 9 class (she's a teacher rather than a pupil).

Experienced the usual feelings of looking forward to her going so I could have the place to myself and be done with the last minute packing and shopping followed by the equally familiar feeling of loss as soon as the plane leaves the runway.

Not quite sure what that means but it doesn't seem too bad at first glance.

Anyway, I've got a growing list of jobs totalling seven so far and hope to be a beacon of achievement over the coming days as there are only 18 more cheese-days until I leave.

I'm really looking forward to (a) stopping work, (b) leaving the island, (c) seeing friends and family, (d) having fun.

That's not to say that fun is a wholly alien concept, I had fun last night when we went out for a meal with Drew and Beck our most excellent neighbours. Roast quail followed by a fish platter featuring oysters, crayfish, prawns and some white fish. It was fun but it would be nice to be anonymous again for a while, go to a restaurant without meeting loads of people you know, go to the shops without chatting to a dozen people before you've got half way around.

I acknowledge that it is also a good thing but as I say with cheese related work, change is good. It may not mean that the thing your changing too is any better than that which you've come from but it sho is good to do something different.

No Comment

At the funeral last week of the young man killed in a car crash the choice of music was as follows.

1. Walk Like An Egyptian - The Bangles.

2. Who Let The Dogs Out - Baha Men.

Funereal

The funeral of the young man killed in the car accident over the weekend was held today. I had just finished work and had hitched a lift back to town only to find myself wandering infront of the funeral cortege. I almost ran to avoid it but I wondered afterwards why that is.

I think I didn't want to be seen in a relatively cheery state by the grieving families and friends but I also didn't wqnt to see them. I imagine that the driver of the car was among the mourners, possibly even in what appeared to be an honour guard of his footie club mates who were at the head of the mourners directly behind the hearse.

It made me feel sad again, not because I know him or anyone directly associated with the accident but because there will inevitably be so much pain and anger concentrated in such a small area.

Another Death

Another young man lost his life early on Sunday morning. He was a passenger in a car which hit a pole and I don't think it would be libellous to suggest that alcohol abuse was involved.

Without wishing to sound trite that's another couple of families left in tatters, another dead youth on an island with precious few young people, another man presumeably due to spend several years in prison, haunted by the sobering image of his dead friend.

It's part of the culture I'm told and while the police are concentrating their efforts on the no doubt admirable (although entirely futile) aim of stopping young people drinking and taking drugs they may do better to encourage the adults to moderate their behaviour and set a good example.

I sound like an old tosser.

Why is that I wonder?

Correction

After all that it was apparently a Sea Elephant so it should really have looked like one of these. But it didn't have the elepahntine nose which means it's probably female.
Or male.
Or young.
Or old.
Or a southern sea elephant.
Or a deformed sea elephant.
Or a sea elephant with an exceptionally small nose.
Or a post rhinoplastic surgery sea elephant.

Last I heard it was still alive which will come as a great relief all the sea elephant lovers tuning in. Apparently there's a fairly good chance people have been harming it. It's eye was puffed up one day and a previous visitor to these shores was shot dead, presumeably by someone with a sea elephant grudge.

Asking for it he was.

Sea Lion

After a glorious day of de-hooping, cutting half mooms, salting, turning and stirring down (in that order) I went to the beach to see a sea lion. It was a bloody monster, I've no idea how much it weighed but it was about 10 foot long and probably about five foot wide at it's largest point.

It's been there for some time and pretty much everyone on the island appears to have visited (according to the tyre marks along the beach) but no seems able to agree on whether he's dying or just relaxing.

He's losing his fur which would probably be about right for the time of year but he seems to be uncomfortable which may be becuase people like myself keep going up to him and pointing cameras at him. His eyes are bloodhsot and his arse-end is covered in an orangey pooh but otherwise he seems pretty neat and tidy.

He looks a bit like this but once we get the pictures developed I'll upload a more personal image.

I hope he's alright (he may actually be a lady lion as he had a fuuny hole).

It's a disgrace

I know, I know.

I've no excuse for failing to add to my previous entries but I just haven't felt inspired and have felt time to be a rather more precious commodity of late.

I seem to recall making a list of future areas of exploration and for want of something better I'll start with the first one which was Death On The Island.

I was being driven to work just after 5.30 on the morning after the AFL Grand Final. We had only been driving for two minutes when we came to a Police roadblock which may be a familiar sight to those of you living in communities with more than one Police car but around here it is quite something. We we're turned around and told to take a detour as the road was closed. Sarah, who was giving me a lift, asked what had happened and was told that there had been a hit and run.

I assumed that it was one of the casual workers who stand on that section of road every morning in the hope of thumbing a lift from one of the line of cheese workers fortunate enough to have a car but once we arrived at the factory no one in my department was unaccounted for.

News trickled in as the day progressed. We heard first that the victim as dead and subsequently that he was a thirty six year old man. We also heard that he had been hit at around three in the morning but hadn't died until five. This was gruesome news but seemed unlikely as it would be hard to verify as the driver had not been found.

For someone in such a small community to hit a pedestrian and not stop is quite unbelievable, the chances of getting away with it must be pretty much nil as there is no way to get a car off the island other than on a weekly cargo ship and judging by the paint markings which the Police used to illustrate the path of the deceased's body the car would be clearly damaged. (Having said that, most of the cars here are fitted with roo-bars so perhaps there wouldn't be too many indications of the event).

We break for lunch at around ten and it was then that the news started to go around that it was a cheese factory worker who had been killed. I didn't know him but he was called Boags, named after a Tasmania beer. Although scant details have been published of the case it appears he was making his way back from the pub sometime after 3.00 am and was hit by someone leaving town, possibly coming from the same pub.

Drink-driving is pretty much accepted over here. I don't like it as I've been successfully indoctrinated by the many drink-driving ad campaigns in the UK but no one here seems to give it a second thought. Several people are caught and banned but I've heard rumours that they are repeat offenders or behaved in such a way as to give the Police no choice in the matter. One friend of mine told me that he was driving from the pub to the club (which is a distance of something like fifty meters) when he was stopped and when asked to get out of the vehicle he was unable to stand up. It would have been a bit difficult to turn a blind eye to such excess but as there is no public transport and only one cab people who live out of the main town have little choice if they want to drink and get home.

Boags' girlfriend worked in the factory also so there were quite a few upset people once the news started to spread, I decided to finish my lunch early and get back on the factory floor and out of the way.

We were called in for a "huddle" which is (in my opinion) a reprehensible euphemism for a meeting and were told by the manager that we should look out for one another and that anyone feeling unable to work should speak to their boss and then go home.

On the next day they organised for someone from the hospital together with the local vicar to come and give a talk on grief counseling. The counselors were rather taken aback with the number of people who attended the meeting and opened with a comment about how popular Boags must have been, little did they realise that we weren't told it was a meeting about Boags, we were just told to go to another 'huddle'. I was impressed however with the effort put in as it wasn't what I expected from the management of the factory.

It was a couple of days later that the driver was revealed. He was a local man (as opposed to Boags who hadn't lived here for the mandatory five generations in order to qualify as local) and unsurprisingly used to work at the cheese factory also. We've not heard anything since so I presume more will be revealed when it goes to court.

Boags' funeral was in Tasmania and a couple of the workers attended. They also had a ceremony for him down at the dock which was apparently pretty well attended. I haven't heard his name mentioned since although it's still written in pen on his locker.

Cheese Pump

I don't why but I just find something about the term cheese pump to be amusing.

That's about the best I can come up with at present.

How Many Lives Does A Dog Have?

Not only did the neighbours dog get knocked over again this weekbut I've also just retreived her from the vets where she has been kept under observation for the past hour.

She was seen by her owner to be barking at something in the long grass outside their home which upon closer inspection appeared to be a ruddy great snake. She did what any sane person would do and came to get me for my expert knowledge of canine snake bites and their symptoms and how to identify and rid the immediate area of snakes.

Being from that there London town I've a broad depth of experience when it comes to snakes so I peered at it and swore. Because it was fat.

We took the dog to the vets and left here there in case of mouth foaming, paralysis or any other likely reaction which would result in the use of an anti-venom (which costs A$800) and headed home to ask our manly neighbour to kill it for us. Armed with shovels and a fence post we tried to locate it before I saw it dissapear down it's hole. Snakes don't have holes apparently but we doused the whole area with petrol and set it alight just to be on the safe side. Burnt like billy-o and sure enough it forced out a guilty looking, non-venomous, Blue Tongued Lizard which as you see does look vaguely snake-like.

Raced back to the vets to save said dog from expensive injection and further vetinary fees.

Mission accomplished.

Coming Soon

• Death On The Island.
• My Friend Peter.
• My Partner Peta.
• More Cheese News.
• Rehearsals.

Mouth watering isn't it?

Apocapalypticist

I was wondering today what you would call someone who always imagined situations working out in the worst possible manner. Like I do. Sometimes.

Been having quite a lot of trouble emotionally and physically. Nothing too serious (unless you're an apocalypticist) but I'm tired from working on a factory floor six days a week and coming home to a problematic relationship.

Which is basically why I've been absent.

Too tired and too emotional.

Spoke to my friend Peter again yesterday. He sounded quite well but my brother tells me that he's a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown which may be my brother suggesting that he's had enough of living with him or may be an accurate assesment of the situation as Peter is in a bit of a predicament.

My brothers name is Gaz by the way.

My Friend Peter

I spoke to my friend Peter last night and he was a little bit sad.

I want to write about him and I'm thinking about telling him about my blog.

In fact I'm thinking of coming out and telling all my friends about it.

But tonight I'm knackered so I'll do it tomorrow.

Change

Today I didn't turn cheese.

I thought for a while that all my hopes of a better life away from the tedium of cheese turning we're in vain as hoop washing was not initially quite as scintillating as it sounds.

But persistence paid off and after the initial shock of the new came the warming glow of satisfaction from doing something different for the first time in two weeks.

It was, as I had been warned, much more strenuous than turning but it proved to be less of a strain on my back which is good, very good in fact.

I was working with Daniel and we alternated between either putting the hoops into one end of the machine or taking them out of the other. I know it doesn't sound like much when you write down like that but believe me it was a welcome respite from turning, turning, turning.

Overheard II

At a little after six in the morning as the first cheeses are being dehooped by hand.

Barney - "Muzza?"

Muzza - "What?"

Barney - "If you were a 17th century Irish robber who would you be?"

Made me laugh.

Baby George

I was bent double over one of my 954 racks of cheese this morning, trying to think of something positive to write about in order to take my mind of the pain in my back.

Luckily it took no more than a few seconds as last night I watched a video sent to me by my sister of her new baby. I've seen photos attached to emails but they all look pretty similar to all the other baby photos that proud parents send out to their entire address list in the first flush of parenthood.

To see him on video was not in itself illuminating as he is only six weeks old and does little other than recline in a regal manner befitting his grand name but to see him with his family, being bathed, being cuddled, being cooed at gave him so much more context and brought him alive to me as a real person with whom I'll have a relationship before too long.

That's all.

Made me happier than I expected.

Otherwise everything's shit.

It's the Weekend!

All day.

How can I be expected to fit two days of weekend like activities involvling relaxation and inspiration into one day.

Especially when I need to go to bed early in order to be up before 5.00 to hitch my way to work.

And I'm strating to piss people off by being so negative.

And I've got to work for another 3 weeks before I've paid off the loan I had in order to get a visa which would allow me to work.

And I was laying in bed this morning thinking about cheese turning.

And I need to get a grip of myself.

Pizza

What a dreadful taste that whole experience left in my mouth.

Where else would a taste be left I wonder?

Papa what-his-name can forget any repeat business and as for the hat!

I read recently that men fart twice as often as women which in itself isn't a remarkable fact. I think it was something like 14 times a day for women and 28 for men although I couldn't be sure and in the interest of science have taken to counting my farts in an effort to establish whether I fart more than is normal and acceptable and whether this is caused by my diet or just good genes.

Yesterday I got up to 20 before I lost count and today I forgot after my first one of the day.

Not exactly Stephen Hawking I know.

Got paid today and (not) coincidentally had my best day. Even found the cheese turning bearable today which is fortunate as I was doing it all day. My co-workers have been revealing the tried and trusted cheese turning secrets which have proved to be pretty succesful in helping me to speed up and keep my spirits elevated.

It's not much I know but I'm grateful for the respite from self pity as that wasn't getting me anywhere.

Tonight I dine on steak to celebrate (and to hopefully redress some of the cheese - beef imbalance).

The First Time

This is the first time I've thought about writing a blog and then sat here looking into space, exhaling loudly and rubbing my chin in a ponderous manner.

Does this suggest that I'm done with this thing?

Has my brain turned to cheese after too many hours turning, turning and turning cheese?

Am I feeling sorry for myself and proving to the world what a pathetic character I am?

I've been meaning for a while to introduce you to my partner. Here name is Peta and she's gone to Melbourne to get her hair-cut.

That's it for now, further information will be released on a strict need to know basis.

I thought I had dinner sorted by cleverly saving the leftovers of last nights noodle triumph.

Then I remembered we don't have a microwave.

The shops all shut at 6.00 so I'm half an hour late.

Hey wait a minute!

Didn't someone with foresight and great self knowledge but a frozen pizza at the weekend?

Papa Guiseppi, you are the man, not only have you allowed me to eat a filling and nutritious meal but you have also provided me with a cut-out-and-keep chefs hat. "To make my hat simply cut around the dotted line and run strings through the holes at the bottom. Tie the string behind your head and hey presto...YOU'RE THE PAPA!"

If his pizza's are anything like his hats I'm in for quite a night. You'll have to excuse me while I return said masterpiece to the freezer as the Papa say's it's best cooked from frozen and I've yet to have my bath.

Oooh look Papa, there's a beer in the fridge. That's just asking for trouble.

well I do feel better already.

Pizza and beer, the salve for everyday maladies.

I may be thousands of miles from home, my relationship may be in tatters, I may be working at a cheese factory and it may be raining and cold but with Guiseppi by my side, a watery beer in my hand and the prospect of a languish in the bath while reading a lame excuse for a newspaper I can conquer the world. I will save our relationship, I will turn cheese, the sun will come out, I'll get used to this beer if I have another one - soon - in the bath maybe.

The Sunday Night Feeling

First time for a while I've had that fear and dread at the end of the weekend.

Problem is it's only Saturday.

I've got to start work at 6.00 on a Sunday morning.

Bob Geldof

Overheard in the canteen -

Muzza - That Bob Geldofs daughter's fit.

Daniel - Who's Bob Geldof?

Muzza - He was in that band, U2 wasn't it?

Me - No, it was the Boomtown Rats.

Daniel - Never heard of them.

Muzza - You know that bird Paula Yates?

Daniel - Nah.

Muzza - She was married to Michael Hutchence.

Daniel - I've heard of him, who is he?

2.

Cameron - Are you going to see Starsky and Hutch on Saturday?

Spike - Is it on?

Cameron - Yeah, at the town hall.

Spike - Is it a cartoon or something?

Cameron - It's an old skool cop show.

Ira - They used to drive a red car or something.


Are they just doing this to me to make me feel older and more depressed?

Is it not enough that I'm the new boy among a largely young male workforce?

They have their lives ahead of them, mine is largely spent and still they taunt me.

Loading

Here's what I did this afternoon.

Load hoop.

Load hoop.

Load hoop.

Load hoop.

Load hoop.

Load hoop.

Load hoop.

Load hoop.

Load hoop.

Load hoop.

Push base to new position.

Spray base.

Load hoop.

Load hoop.

Load hoop.

Load hoop.

Load hoop.

Return to base and load onto runners.

Press button.

Collect new hoops.

(Repeat roughly 40 times until tearful)

Hoop Washing

In my last post I made a dreadful faux pas for which I must apologise.

It has been brought to my attention that in the 5th paragraph I referred to a cheese "mould" in respect of a plastic mould in which the curd is moulded overnight into the finely moulded and easily recognisable circular shape found in cheese shops and all good retailers.

However, it appears that in the cheese making world the term 'mould' has a rather different and fundamentally important meaning so to avoid confusion the mould is actually referred to as a hoop.

I would like to take this opportunity to apologise for any embarrassment I may have caused the cheese making fraternity and can only claim in mitigation that I am new to this brotherhood and will strive to bring no further shame on my employers.

The error was highlighted when next weeks rota was issued and I noticed that this week I have been cutting and loading whereas next week I will be turning and hoop washing. Hitherto I had thought of a hoop as a euphemism for the anus and I will do my very best to rid my mind of such contaminants.

For those of you who are ill informed concerning the subject of cheese I will endeavour to bring you closer to this wonderful world over the coming weeks.

Perhaps this could culminate in a small quiz after which a certificate could be issued to those attaining respectable scores.

Who Cut The Cheese?

I did!

Roughly 700 of them to be imprecise.

Didn't much care for it as a job and am thinking of starting a campaign against selling / buying half moon cheeses. If you like it why not buy a whole one and share it with a friend.

I'm not talking about the big 2 kilo monsters, just 600 measly grammes.

My shift starts at 6.00 am which is when the cheeses put in the mould on the previous day have set and are ready to be placed on racks for some process shoruded in mystery but which I believe involves salt.

I spent the post-lunch shift loading the moulds to a conveyor belt, roughly 10,000 cheese are made on my shift, I don't play ahuge part in this but I do play an integral part which is what job satisfaction is all about.

The main problem I have is not being able to fart in the factory. Apparently it's as good as airbourne excrement so one has to hold it in until the next 2 hourly fart break comes around. I'm not very good at this and tend to suffer from stomach pains as a consequence.

Perhaps I fart more than the average person as I don't notice anyone else making smells or looking uncomfortably inflated. Men fart almost twice as often as women and the factory is largely populated by men but perhaps they have trained their bowels to expel air only at break time.

But it doesn't smell in the canteen either?

Perhaps I'm onto something regarding smelly cheese. It seems like too much of a coincidence otherwise.

I'm working Sunday too.

At 6.00am.

Blessed Are The Cheesemakers

First day at the cheese factory today and I hardly know where to start. There was so much fun to be had and too many tales to tell so I'll avoid them all and focus on the DRAMA of the weekend which involved me looking after our neighbours dog for a week while they holidayed in Melbourne.

They left on Saturday and Molly was run over on Sunday. I don't wish to shirk the responsibility inherent in dog-minding but I was not driving the car and was not officially in control of the dog at the time of the said knocking-over.

I had ventured to the shops in order to purchase materials with which to make breakfast: bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes (we already had a full complement of eggs at our disposal and had no need for any additional supplies).

I was approaching town on foot when Molly arrived without a lead or a care in the world. I removed my belt and tied her up outside the post office to prevent her from intuding on the supermarket and causing a bit of a to do.

However, upon leaving the shop I set her free, assuming that as I did not bring her town I was not responsible for her actions and as she had proved herself capable of reaching town without mishap then presemueably she was capable of returning in a similar fashion.

I was wrong.

She heard a dog bark.

Didn't see the car.

I saw it.

I shouted.

She heeded me not.

She was knocked down.

She's not dead.

It had to be a major news event to knock cheese off the agenda and indeed it was.

More cheese new tomorrow...beeep...beep...beep...

That It Should Come To This

This was the title of the post I tried to write after my induction at the cheese factory yesterday. I was feeling very sorry for myself after a morning of mind numbing health and safety videos followed by infantile quizzes.

I didn't really feel optimistic about my ability to work there while managing to simultaneously preserve my mental health.

I didn't write anything as I wasn't inspired to submit a self pitying rant when things could obviously be a great deal worse.

Thiis morning I'm off to work at the water factory which is a far more attractive proposition (although not exactly stimulating or challenging) so I thought I'd write an optimistic suymmary of yesterday's activities.

Needless to say as soon as I logged on I learned what had happened overnight in North Ossetia and feet even more self obsessed.

Last night we went around to our neighbours to watch the first preliminary AFL final featuring St Kilda and the Brisbane Lions. There was a news break at half time and I was dissapointed to see the stand off in Russia had fallen from the news agenda and had been replaced by what seemed to me to be mindless, parochial, local news stories.

I mentioned this and everyone agreed that the stuation in Russia was more important than anything on the news but it made me think about why it's important. Why should people in a remote Australian community care about what happens to a couple of hundred Russian schoolchildren?

No matter how many deaths occur the only impact it will have is via newspaper reports and pictures of the bloodied bodies of children carried in arm by rescue workers splashed momentarily on the TV news.

Would the people of North Ossetia care about a similar event on this island? Would the people of this island expect the world to take notice of hundreds of their children being held captive and murdered? Is the news coverage merely sensationalist story telling or does it serve a greater purpose?

Coincidentally one of the stories on last nights news-lite concerened a video of Martin Bryant shooting dead tens of Tasmanians during the Port Arthur Massacre. I'm know that event was given a great deal of coverage in the UK and probably around the world but I'm not sure whether the people of Tasmania would have wanted that any more than they would want to hear about the tragic deaths of Russian schoolchildren.

Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin

In darker moments such as these I turn to the words of Brillat-Savarin for comfort. He was born in France on April 1st 1755 (which is exactly 249 years before I arrived on this island) and has been referred to as the "greatest gastronome the world has ever known."

I prefer to think of him as one of the worlds foremost motivational speakers for the brotherhood of cheese workers, a group whose number it appears I am about to join.

Tomorrow I have been invited to make my way to the cheese factory where I will don the ancient costume of the cheese worker before watching a health and safety video.

This is but the start of my induction, revealing more would be most improper and could lead to fatal repercussions. Who can forget the case of Dave Ostrander who allegedly fell on a cheese and pineapple hedgehog at the launch party of his notorious book, 'Cheese Secrets'?

I will not be making the same mistake but I hope that relative anonymity and a certain delicacy may allow me to hint at the splendours that await me at 8.00am tomorrow.

Let me end with the inspirational words of Brillat-Savarin, "A dinner which ends without cheese is like a beautiful woman with only one eye."

Carnage

DDA (Daily Dead Animals) = ?

Due to circumstances beyond my control I am unable to give an accurate assessment of the number of dead animals I've seen in the last 24 hours.

If a rough figure will suffice then I'm probably in a position to provide it although I feel that recently received correspondence would suggest that 'rough' is less than is expected from such an otherwise exact and scientific study of life.

I spotted one dead wallaby by the side of the road yesterday afternoon, I also spotted a black fish washed up on the shore (I'm going to allow this one as although it only had a diameter of about 6cms it was in excess of a meter in length and therefore qualifies as noteworthy over and above insects and other very small, expendable creatures like plankton and budgerigars.

Part of me would like to include the squashed worm handed to me by my niece(ish) this morning as she clearly found it to be far from expendable but rules are rules so that sad death will be yet another futile annelidian gesture.

As you can tell my DDA count is a serious business so why, I hear you ask, is there such confusion over today's total?

Regrettably I'm unable to provide a pictorial explanation for my shortcomings as I don't own a digital camera and mere words will fail to do justice to the sight which greeted me outside the Co-Op as I popped in to buy an ice lolly for my niece(ish).

There was a blue open back van (I believe they are called Utes in Australia which is short for utility, utilitarianism or utopian) which was loaded with the split and bloody carcasses of several kangaroos.

I would have liked to have the time at my disposal to rebuild them in order to perform a reliable count for today but I had a dog in one hand and a niece(ish) in the other and couldn't quite work out the logistics.

In the name of science I'll call it three dissected roos making a grand total for the day of 5.

Freak!

Stick out do they?

I'll give her stick out next time I see her (which judging by these articles is when I attend the first of my three free physio sessions kindly donated by the benelovant cheese factory).

Why would sticky-outie shoulder blades make me feel depressed?

Maybe it's the weather?

It's raining again.

And the washing's out.


Or maybe it's the football results?

One win, one loss and two draws.

But I resolved not to let that affect my mental well being so that can't be it.

Full moon anyone?

Winged Scapula

Despite my improved mood of late I couldn’t help a momentary slump yesterday afternoon following my cheese medical.

I’m quite impressed that they go to all the trouble of checking out their prospective employees in order to assess their suitability for the work (or more pertinently to minimise the risk of litigation) but I couldn’t help feeling like the proverbial piece of meat, the proverbial small cog in the big wheel of industry and the proverbial fish out of water.

It’s all very well being resolute in the pursuit of fiscal reward but I don’t really want to work in a factory, I’m pretty sure I’ll hate it and it will make me depressed. I’ve grown to like doing chores around the house, sitting at my laptop, walking the dogs, intermittent child minding and food shopping, I’m pretty sure I won’t like cheese turning.

Cheese turning is apparently what tall people end up doing. I can’t explain it to you just yet but I’m sure that a full and detailed description of why cheese turners being tall is as logical as chimney sweeps being small and Father Christmas’ being fat will be posted here once I’m in the know.

It was only a temporary depression. I had the walk back to think my way out of it and last night I spoke to some friends back home and reminded myself that my wages will not only be set against my ever increasing debt but will also be used to visit said friends at the end of the year. Nearly September now…home at the end of December…15 weeks…not that likely to top myself am I?

Anyway, the physiotherapist who prodded me and ummed and arghed said that I had Winged Scapula. Something to do with my shoulder-blades which I’ll look up later in case it’s anything terminal (which might get me out of having to turn cheese).

Stand Up, Stand Up For Cheesus

Everywhere I look I see them.

Surely it can't be just a coincidence?

It's becoming increasingly clear to me that I have been wandering in the wilderness for too long and only now is Cheesus revealing to me the path my life must follow.

The signs were there if only I had eyes to see them.

First school trip?
Cheddar Gorge

Favourite aids related film of 1993?
Philadelphia.

The list is almost completely without beginning and wholly without merit.

The rind has fallen from my eyes and I'm set free from earthly shackles. Cheese sets too, can't think of anything shackly about them but that would be too weird for words.

Thank you Cheesus, from this day forth I will follow only thee.

DDA count

DDA (Daily Dead Animals) = 1

Just a penguin today, was hoping to be able to add a roo or a small calf but it was all pretty much over before it began.

Better luck tomorrow.

Cheese-World Edges Closer

Shouldn't be long now cheese lovers!

Had a phone call this morning from the cheese factory to inform me that they've received my job application (and are sufficiently excited my my cheese-credentials to call me up on a Sunday morning.)

I need to report for a cheese related medical tomorrow morning so will spend the rest of the day swotting up on cheese-facts in case they try to spring a test on me during the medical.

Luckily I had Washed Rind and Brie for dinner last night so with cheddar cheese on toast for lunch I should have suffient cheese matter in my blood to get through although I'm not sure I agree with compulsory cheese testing outside of the sporting arena.

North rest easy

North won at a canter, too many good players apparently.

It was another beautiful day and we drove past the oval on the way to bottling to see the cars already parked up ready to be sat in later in the day.

No other news from the match other than to say that my brother-in-law-ish thought he may have broken his leg in a tackle. He's subseuntly had it checked out and it's just a sprained ankle.

He wasn't playing, just drunk.

Grand Final Weekend

Tomorrow is grand final day for the local football (Aussie Rules) league. Regrettably I'll have my nose pressed to the something-or-other at the water factory all day which will result in me missing the sporting event of the year.

The final has a familiar look to it being as how the same two teams have slogged it out for at least the past 6 years with North (boo!) winning them all since 1998.

This year doesn't really look like being any different (so I'm told) as North finished top of the ladder again to earn their passage to the Grand Final. It may sound like North are a bit of a Man Utd or a Real Madrid but the fact is that there are only three teams in the league which increases North's odd's of making it to the final each year considerably.

This is expecially true when you consider that the team which failed to make it to the grand final this year struggles to gather enough players for a match on a pretty regaular basis. I suppose having a population of 1,800 must make that a fairly likely scenario on a wet winters day.

The local school was due to set up some stalls as part of their enterprise project but they lacked the entrepreneurial drive to organise it so I gather it's been cancelled.

Thank goodness for the local hip-hop dance class which have come through with an offering of at least three dances which should enliven proceedings.

At that time however I'll be up to my elbows in water so I'll not be in a position to report live from the event but I will bring you the scores just as soon as they get into the sports desk.

Hold the front page just in case there's a shock result.

Weed Group Meeting

Just to let you know that despite being personally uninspired with regard to detailing the contents of the local paper I feel a dutious urge to pass on at least one important date for your diary.

The local weed group is meeting on Thursday 26th August at 4.00pm. "Express your concerns, make suggestions, plan activities, identification and mapping opportunity".

I know it's short notice (at least I do now having checked today's date) but I thought it only fair to give you the opportunity.

And they say there's nothing for young people to do on the island. School finishes at 3.00 for crying out loud. Don't try to tell the kids don't have opinions about weeds because I hear them talking about it all the time. Fact.

One is coming around tonight and I'll ask her straight out.

Then you'll see.

Everyone's so young

If I'm supposed to feel like part of a community by starting this blog then I'll need to find something more suitable for the elderly.

I've been looking at plenty of admirable blogs over the past couple of days but they're written by people who appear to be so young. I can barely understand what they're saying and will need to refer in future to the excellent Urban Dictionary for enlightenment.

I've even send some amusing links (this one and that one) to my friend who chastised me for rehashing old jokes, calling me a, "fucking idiot" and a, "loser".

But what happened to me, I've only been here for 6 months and already I feel like I've dropped off the edge of the cultural world.

Of course, despite jokes to the contrary there is still a rich and vibrant culture in Australia. I hardly need mention the upcoming Wild Goose Chase being produced by the local amatuer dramatic society and only this week I learnt that there's an annual nude race on the island as part of an annual festival.

Surely I can't have become a completely old twat in less than 6 months. Maybe I was already heading that way and was only deluding myself, maybe I've long been past it and was laughed at by those-in-the-know for my pathetic attempts to stay groovy and hip.

I'VE GOT SOME RAP RECORDS MP3'S FOR CHRISTSAKE!

I BOUGHT THE STREETS' FIRST ALBUM AND LIKED AT LEAST ONE TRACK!

I USED TO TAKE DRUGS!

DOES LONGEVITY COUNT FOR NOTHING NOWADAYS?

Actually I'm feeling a bit depressed today anyway.

I've been through several possible reasons for this which include my Nan's poor health, a lack of alcohol, bad dreams last night, the realisation that I'm a complete and utter failure, Palace being beaten by Chelsea, coming last in the fantasy league, clouds, metal in the water, too much tea, too much youth in the world, dandruff and having to apply for a job in a bank to name but a few.

And I still haven't got around to detailing the highlights of the local paper.

I must be depressed.

Nice Neice

Hey guess what?
I can hardly adam and eve it myself but I'm currently sitting outside writing this...in the sun!
This place is without doubt beautiful but the seemingly incessant wind and rain mean that the beauty is rather less transparent than other spots which leap to mind when one thinks of beauty. The beaches of South East Asia, the Ngoro Ngoro basin and the rolling hills of the Peak District are rather more obvious choices in a top 10 list but given time and windproof clothing this is certainly an acquired taste which rewards the investment.
Add a dash of sun and turn the wind down a notch or two and you've got yourself beaches here which are every bit as inviting as any I've had the pleasure of visiting. Soft sand, clear water, some of the best waves for surfing in the world and an absolute lack of development result in a beach-time bonanza.
Last night I went to a small beach a short drive away to watch the sunset and to roll around on a sand dune, today I walked with my three year old niece(ish) to the nearest beach and tonight I may wander down there again, it's only about a ten minute walk away so why not.
Speaking of my niece we sat outside the bakers for a little chat today while she nibbled at a cheese and asparagus pie. We were talking about Mums and Dads and she asked me what my Dad's name is. I told her and that I hadn't seen him for a while, she asked me if he was a little bit angry, I said I supposed he was, she asked me if he was far away and I said he was and she said he must be a little bit sad which again, I supposed he was. I haven't seen my Dad for about 15 years and a little three year old seemed to have it all worked out.
I suppose that may be one of those things that's only interesting to a doting Uncle(ish) but it just seemed a bit odd.
Anyway, I was meaning to detail the edited highlights of the local paper which hit the streets yesterday. You may think that not much happens in a place with only 1800 residents but you'd be terribly, terribly mistaken in your estimation. I don't want to give too much away now so I'll get back to you later with all the news.

Broccoli - the return

Just testing out w.bloggar and it appears to be terribly clever although in my idiocy I wasn't able to change the settings as directed under the FAQ's.

Anyway, that's not very interesting so I'll return to the stimulating subject offered previously and cruelly withdrawn without a by your leave.

Do you remember the glory days of August 2004, the 17th I think it was? I was about to launch into an invigorating and enlightening tale concerning the well known and much loved vegetable, broccoli when I was stopped in my tracks by the sighting of a very dead dog.

Well, several readers have writen in begging me to reveal the mysteries of the familar green vegetable and being a chap who responds well to repeated pleas for mercy I'll lay my vegetable related cards on the table right now.

Not 6 months ago, soon after arrival on this charming island I was caught up in a whirlwind of enthusiasm for rural pursuits and decided to prepare a likely looking vegetable patch for planting. Said patch was left by the previous occupant of our hill-top residence and even to my novice gardeners eye (would that be a green-green eye?) had all the hallmarks of a rich and fertile soil. It was brown.

No sooner had I cleared the area of a particularly persistent grass than my little, chubby legs were pounding towards the local seed purveyor with a few moist coins clasped in my sausage like fingers. Radishes, silver beet (don't ask me), dill, beetroot and rocket were all tilled and trowled and left to spring to life in the miraculous way that the good lord intended.

As indicated on the packet it only took 8 short weeks...for nothing to happen so I trudged back to the previously mentioned shop and cheated with some seedlings. The silverbeet variety also died a slow death but the broccoli, being full of iron, sprang to life and stands proudly to attention out there as I write. even cut a couple of the heads off the other day and they tasted great. Well, I say that but they tasted pretty much like the broccoli purchased from a shop but they were certainly greener.

So there you have it.

And now, the sun is shining, more shoots are peering out to see what the world has to offer, I've shared my broccoli story and can now bring this interminable saga to a close. Just wait until I get going with the parsely cuttings. You ain't read nuffink yet. (Doom, doom, B.B.B.B.Baby)

More water

Beautiful day today so I took the opportunity to clean out the water tank. The local water supply is apparently of a pretty poor quality so a tank outside our kitchen window collects all the rainwater from the roof which is fed into a tap by the sink.

I’ve long harboured suspicions concerning the quality of this water as there is always a thin skim of red particles floating on top of the water in the kettle and a reddish glow to a glass of water drawn from said tap.

So today I drained the tank before turning it on its side in order to flush out any rust which may have accumulated at the bottom of the tank. Imagine my surprise as gallons of black, stinking mud splattered onto the lawn (and over me). I still smell of it actually and it can’t have done much good to my intestines in the six months or so I’ve been drinking from it.

I imagine that will explain the excessive flatulence I’ve been experiencing since I arrived although all I need to do now is to come up with a reason for a similar complaint in pretty much all of my previous residences.

Anyway, drained it, squirted it, drained it, squirted it, drained it, squirted it, drained it, squirted it, drained it, squirted it, drained it, squirted it, until the water started to run clear (or until I got bored which was luckily enough around the time the water became ‘acceptably’ clear).

All back in place now and waiting for rain….

Shouldn’t be too long now…

I’ll keep you posted.

What's A Metaphor?

Yesterday I went for a late afternoon stroll to the beach with a nameless four legged friend. We had a nice enough time I suppose, explored another section of river, sheltered from some rain, threw things in the water, that sort of thing.

On the way back we emerged from dense bush onto a cleared section which is presumeably a firebreak to protect the downtown area from the ravages of an unlikely fire. I've studied this area previously as it's soil is very similar to our garden (sandy) so I contemplated taking small bushes and the like and transplanting them at home in the hope that something may live for more than a day or two. Imagine my surprise as my eye was caught by a small but perfectly formed plant at my feet, only an inch or two in height with four or five white trumpet like flowers amongst strong looking green leaves.

It looked very much like the minature death lilies which appear to grow in wet soil on the island but which are more usually several feet high. I grabbed a piece of wood and started to gently probe the ground around the base of the plant in order to remove it, roots and all, from the soil.

It appeared to come away quite easily and I reached for the base to avoid any brekages and clasped a single piece of wire. Yes, it was plastic.

Great.

Wild Goose Chase

Imagine my surprise yesterday as I heard a familar knock, knock at the door and hollered to welcome in the usual post-school coffee drinkers and biscuit eaters only to find an unfamilar visitor entering via the back door.

'Twas the Director of the local Dramatic Society no less, script in hand, cards on the table and down to business.

I'd previously agreed to accept a small role in the play (scheduled for next March) without knowing much about it but reckoning that it would probably be a bit of a hoot one way or another. However, it appears that the leading ACTOR from previous productions is unavailable and I was to be offered the opportunity to step into the breach (as 'twer).

Don't want to give too much away at this stage (and I've only read the first act) but it's a farce, set in a castle and involves a great many of the familiar farcical devices of mistaken identity, missing telegrams, senile old men and general madcap humour. I'll tell you more once I've finished the script.

Not only that but I've also taken the opportunity to have a look at the jobs available on www.jobsearch.gov.au and it appears there are no less than 10 food processing positions currently available on the island. The advert reads, "Staff required in the Smithton area for sea food processing. Working within a team, experience not essential. Must be keen and enjoy repetitive work."

They make it sound very alluring with their sparse prose but I don't want to get my hopes up too much as there's nowhere on the island by the name of Smithton so it may well transpire to be some dreadful mistake. I'll give them a call and try to clarify the position but if anyone else out there is excited by the prospect of repetitive work with seafood then they should delay not.

Call 03 64316485 and quote job ID 88800832.

Maybe see you there.

Gaz Would Be Proud

Been playing with my template today (using HTML!) and aside from one obvious error (which I'll remedy tomorrow) I'm rather pleased with the additional information on the sidebar.

Other news includes

• Mowed the lawn.
• No new dead animals.
• No employment.
• Becoming obsessed with lists.

Dead Dog

What a day! I started to write earlier before the rest of the day intervened and the topic du jour was going to be broccoli.

I think I’ll hold that one in abeyance for a quiet news day as events have arisen which will regrettably force the subject of vegetables eaten for dinner last night right off the news agenda.

Firstly my temporary visa came through today which means that I can work. More precisely it means I can work legally. To be exact, I could apply for legal work if there was any available on the island.

Last week a job in the supermarket was snatched from under my nose and I narrowly (and thankfully) missed out on a job as a deck hand on a fishing boat.

But lo and behold today I picked up the local paper and flicked straight through to the classifieds section and found one singular, solitary, sole entry which is as a milker for 800 cows. There’s no mention of the pay but I imagine that milking 800 cows would command a fair price, perhaps you get paid by the udder. I’m not what you’d call over qualified but I do have my own stool and a bucket (plastic unfortunately but once I’ve been paid for my first week I’ll splash out on a metal pail or two and one of those wooden things that place behind your neck when carrying said pails).

From what I can remember of milking I should think that each cow will take about 15 minutes once I’ve got into the swing of it so that means in an 8 hour day I should be able to do 32 and I’ll have the remaining 768 done in 24 working days so allowing for sick days and holidays I should be able to get them all done in little over a month. Perfect! I’ll call them up later tonight.

Not only that but I also saw a dead dog today.

It was under a bush and appeared to have a broken neck. I saw it at the start of my walk and suspected the worse but continued on to the beach taking the precaution if hunting out a dead-dog-poking-stick for use on the way back. I thought it may be deaf or very poorly and didn’t like the thought of leaving it out in the cold when I could whisk it away to someone who knows about such things. I poked it and it failed to move but thankfully it held together as I’d have been most perturbed were its leg to be prodded off.

As I withdrew the stick and myself from beneath the bush I couldn’t help noticing several sun bleached bones scattered around the general area. Perhaps, I thought, this is buy the most recent in a long line of dead dogs, a canine version of an elephants graveyard. Or perhaps a large predator broke it’s neck and left it there for consumption at a later date. Or maybe it’s neck was broken in a domestic incident and it has been disposed of in haste to avoid upsetting the children.

I’ll keep an eye on it and let you know.

So you see. How could broccoli compete with another dead animal to add to the glorious list of dead animals spotted on my travels. There’s reportedly been a sperm whale washed up on a beach not too far from here. That would be one for the album.

Broccoli? Pah!

Relief all round

Over the last couple of weeks I've taken to exploring the course of a local river from where it enters the sea at Big Beach up towards town and out into the hinterland beyond. There seems to be no access to the river until about a kilometer upstream where it meets a road and enters a picnic area.

The river is only a meter or two wide and never that deep so it could hardly be described as one of the last great frontiers but for someone who passes the time by imagining breaking a leg and surviving on the few provisions purchased from the local supermarket it offers some sort of a challenge.

The reason for mentioning this otherwise dull pastime is that at places where the water has cause to tumble over rocks on its meandering path to the sea large mounds of foam form. Being a city boy and well used to a wide vaiety of pollutants this would ordinarily not cause me any concern but this island is basically free of industry (other than a cheese factory and an abattoir). I therefore assumed it was some sort of a natural phenomena but being unfamiliar with the ways of nature I couldn't come up with a plausible explanation.

About the closest I could get was come sort of a frog spawn but as I've not heard anything about plagues of 6 feet tall frogs I didn't think that would suffice so I put it to a local who informed me that it could be due to the use of phosphates in farming.

This came as a bit of a blow I don't mind telling you. It's all very well living in a cold and wet climate with very little to do for amusement other than drinking alcohol and watching TV but to find that the place is also bad for ones health seemed a bit much to take.

Imagine my relief therefore when I found an entirely natural, additive free explanation for this unsightly mess. Apparently, when small aquatic plants die they decompose and release fatty acids into the water. This is apparently something similar to soap so, hey presto, bubbles form.

While on the subject of additives to water, did you know that holy water has salt in it?

I wonder why the sudden fascination with water and realise that in my efforts not to mention the three things I said previously that I mention too much (D & C & the W) I'm left with only water.

No wonder I'm depressed, this whole bloody thing was supposed to be an amusing slice of life and it's turned into a pitiful expose of how dreary and pathetic my life has become.

I'd like to write more about the people I've met since I came to this island as they're much more interesting than me but everything about them which strikes me as noteworthy is usually something which highlights a negative aspect of their personality and I don't want to appear as someone who is bitter, negative and nasty. Perhaps more importantly they're mostly bigger than me and as there are only 1,800 people on the island it will be hard to avoid them.

Not that anyone is reading this of course. Why would you? It's about water.

So either I keep writing about water, D's, C and the W and bore myself stupid or I risk offending people who are bigger than me. Therein lies the problem.

Cloud Juice

Yesterday I went to work at a water factory which is not where water is made but where previously made water is bottled. Specifically it's rain water which is collected on a plastic roof at the south of the island, transported to a part-time milk factory before being cleansed and decanted into plastic or glass bottles.

I should point out for any immigration officers reading this that I don't gain any financial reward for this work although I hope to do so in the future once my work visa comes through. The time I spend at the factory is a combination of work-experience and the giving of assistance to a friend (Duncan the "proud father" of the company).

On reflection I can't think of anything interesting to say about my day yesterday so I'll forget it.

Feeling a bit funny today, started good, went rapidly downhill before breakfast and have fluctuated between positivity and negativity since then.

No hair

Shaved all my hair off on Friday.

Needless to say this event was not unrelated to the fact that I had temporarily suspended my non-drinking ban two hours previously but it was not a wholly impetuous act.

My hair and I have become increasingly estranged over the past few years and as I believe it has become almost obligatory for balding men of a certain age to shave their heads it is an act I have contemplated for some time.

I wouldn't ordinarily have chosen to fulfill such cultural obligations in the middle of winter but my hair was becoming increasingly unruly and children were beginning to point so I decided to pocket the $10.00 dollars it would have cost to have the job done professionally and set the clippers to work.

I had of course realised that it would be cold without hair and have taken the precaution of wearing a hat when outside but I wasn't quite prepared for the chill wind blowing around my head whilst in bed last night. I suppose I could wear a hat in bed too but it doesn't really seem right.

I suppose I'm pretty pleased with the results. Several people have said I look younger which may be one of those things you have to say when someone looks oddly different and you're not quite sure why.

No one said I look at bit peaky yet which was a concern. I'm quite thin and worried about looking undernourished but as only two sober people have seen my naked head I suppose I should give it time. This is the shortest it's been since I was born but is probably quite a dull thing to go on about so I'll tell you about my day yesterday instead.

After I've got myself a beer.

Farewell My Concubine

Not only did I give up smoking three weeks ago (to mark the birth of my nephew - hi George) but I've also been without alcohol for more than three days now. More than anything this has served to demonstrate how dreadful it is to have to watch TV while sober, I've even had to turn it off a couple of times to read a book.

Not that I've anything against reading, in fact it would probably be true to say that I would prefer to read but I do like my TV and to find that I don't like it without the aid of one drug or other has come as a bit of a disappointment I don't mind telling you.

This problem is of course exacerbated by the fact that the day drags on for ever without a squirt or two from the box of red (kept furtively concealed in a cupboard in case the wine police come a knocking). In days of yore (Monday) it felt as though I had hardly settled down into the uncomfy chair before my lids were drooping and the electric blanket was turned up to the max in readiness for the inevitable. Now the washing-up is done, the room is tidied, I've done my exercises (yoga and press ups) and it's barely dark.

Yes, yes, I should take up knitting or write to an African child but there still comes a time when I want nothing more to settle down in front of the television for a mindless moment or two and the fact is there's nothing on. I've even tried dance classes but that proved to be too awful for words without first consuming some sort of alcoholic drink. Wendy and Michael who live next door but one drank a bottle of champagne and a bottle of wine respectively prior to attending and they seemed to have a lovely time. So, should I wish to continue this extensive period of abstemiousness, the answer lies not in Salsa.

Some of the students at the local school have taken to chroming which is apparently what solvent abuse is called now it's undergone a rebranding exercise to make it more attractive to the kids. I wonder whether Ab Fab would be amusing with a canister of insecticide rammed up me hooter. That will be something to ponder next week for today is Friday which means the beer will flow freely, I'll be surprised and shocked by the denoument of Taggart and I'll have a jolly good laugh at Dead Ringers

Molly and Rusty

One of the problems with sitting around at home all day is that people tend to think you’ve nothing better to do than look after their children and dogs. I believe I introduced you to Molly yesterday. She’s allegedly a cross between a Rhodesian Ridgeback and a Staffordshire Bull-Terrier which sounds to me like a fairly unpleasant combination but I’m pleased to tell you that she’s a perfectly even tempered dog.

Having said that another dog has just been left in my care. This is Rusty and he’s a Kelpie. I’ve no idea what that means either but they are apparently very good farm dogs. I’ve been informed by one who should know (a farmer) that they do something clever which involves running across the back of cattle. It doesn’t sound terribly clever now I must admit but I’ll do some more research and get back to you with the missing details which will no doubt reveal Kelpies to be among the intellectual giants of the canine kingdom.

Anyway, Rusty didn’t seem to want to sit patiently at my feet so I’ve thrown him into Molly’s pen next door where he is usually savaged for a couple of hours until the radio no longer drowns out the noise of his crying and I reluctantly retrieve him from Molly’s slavering jaws. I was told last week about another dog in a similar situation who plucked out the eye of his playtime companion. That would be embarrassing. For all concerned I imagine.

That’s pretty much the sum of my life at present. Other people’s dogs, other people’s children and the weather. In fact I can’t believe that I’m writing my third entry and I’ve yet to mention the weath…oh no, I went on about it in the last one didn’t I, storms, wind, waves and that sort of thing. Well, I’ve not mentioned any children yet have I? There’s one coming around tonight before she goes to dance classes. We live next door to the school and her parents live about half an hour away so she comes around here for an hour or so before she heads off to her hip-hop classes. Her name is Laura.

Not that I’m complaining, I like children and dogs (and weather?), it’s just that I feel I spend too much of my life talking about them. Having said that the radio is turned up as high as it goes and I can still hear the crying from next door so I’d better carry out my heroic pet rescue.

Making the best of it

...And make the best of it I did by taking the neighbours’ dog out for our daily constitutional.

Popped down to town to pick up the paper and a few supplies before taking the high road through Bicentennial Park where we once again enjoyed the local wildlife. On this occasion it was a wallaby with a beautifully sleek head but with it’s rib cage exposed to the world, all red and bloody but remarkably intact. No sign of the signature springy legs but good to see none the less.

Molly (said dog) and I like nothing more than spotting wildlife on our travels, we’ve seen and sniffed all sorts. Today’s was probably the most visceral and penguin’s are the most collectable but we like our wildlife any way it comes just so long as it’s dead and preferably putrescent.

The wind was up so we were battered and beaten by the onshore gale and soaked by the resultant spray so turned inland with some relief as we continued our walk down the bucolically named Tip Road where you’ll be surprised to hear, the local rubbish tip is located.

I hesitate to mention the tip as it’s a bit of a “local issue” as regular readers will probably know (yes, yes, pedant!). Apparently they want to move it somewhere else but someone else doesn’t want them to and I’m not sure whether they is the council, a local pressure group or a local busy-body. Anyway, the usual NIMBIE’s are involved and we’re all up in arms about it as a cursory look at the local paper will tell you. I was even stopped outside the bakers by a local child who was conducting a lame excuse for a survey.

“Do you think the tip should move?” Of course I didn’t want to appear ignorant but despite closely following the issue I’m not sure whether the goodies or the baddies want to move it, I don’t know where they want to move it to and I don’t know why they want to move it. Why not leave it there? What will they call Tip Road if it doesn’t have a tip on it? Anyway, being a person of some conviction I opted for change and told him I think it should move, luckily the survey ended pretty much as soon as it began and I wasn’t pressed on my reasoning. I can only hope it was the right answer.

Bored?

There's probably some rule about starting on a positive note or not being introspective but I haven't even received a confirmation email in which one might suppose such rules would be detailed. There was probably something I had to agree to while setting this up but I can't believe that anyone reads those so any rules in there would be just plain wasteful.

Can that really be all I have to offer. Last night in bed when I decided to start writing this my mind was chock-a-block full of profound witticisms but that may have more to do with not drinking alcohol for once and desperatley trying to fill my mind with anything other than worry about having to lie there for hour after hour. Not that it would really matter if I did lie there for hours on end, unable to sleep, as I've nothing to get up for anyway.

I'm between jobs at present you see and my usual raison d'etre is rising to do the washing-up of a morning but thanks to the lack of alcohol last night I took advantage of all that wonderful time and gathered the soapy rosebuds of opportunity right there and then.

I was so bored after that I watched The Bill. My mind was screaming in agony even as I reached for the remote but thanks to my Zen-like powers of self control I managed to sit all the way through it and believe that I came out the other side a better, wiser and stronger person who will not do drugs, will not be violent towards my partner and who has a new-found respect for the Police as they just want to help and have feelings too you know.

Today however is another day and I intend to use it wisely.