Shorter

I wrote a story in my dream the other night, and all I can remember was that the beginning started "Herbert was thirty five and dressed it. He had spent much of his twenties preparing the not so silent art of old manhood - the hack and hoik, and the meaningful sniff, not to mention the muttering at inanimate objects - and now felt he could finally start to put it all to good use. 'The time' he said 'is right for plaid.'" And I can't remember the rest. I can't even remember if Herbert was to be my protaganist, or simply some random stranger (serving to start a scene, you see) to be killed off on page three (enter our wandering hero). But that's dreams for you. Ephemeral whosiewhatsits. Flowing through cupped hands like...you know. Stuff.
I used to think Camp Freddie was like Camp David. Somewhere the President went to relax and get back to nature. I suppose it still could be, really....
Saturday was full of the joys of fried foods and fermented beverages. Sunday began the time of mourning and rage, fasting and thin strips of humanity roasting over open fires. And today - today begins a blue underwater time of waiting. Counting ripples of information as they pass over my head and leave a shadow on the sandy floor of my brain. Little fish (the music guppies, remember?) swimming in the warm spot near where memories of red formica and Hawaii lie. Blue green. Algaefied. If I wait long enough this may become the evolutionary soup. With noodles.

Cheers

To the man who pulled his car over in the pouring rain, to dash across traffic and remove the upturned supermarket trolley lying in the middle of the opposite lane -
I'm sorry I glared at you when you hit your hazard lights and swung your car of the side of the road - I didn't see why at first. I hope you realise the smile I gave you as you ran across the road in front of my car was intended as a 'Thank-you' for doing such a nice, sensible, good thing. Not just because you had a cute bum and looked hot with rain slicked hair. I hope you heard me shouting 'You're my hero!' through the window and over the traffic noise.
You're lovely. And you looked like sex on legs. I hope good things happen to you.

In other news, boo hiss to colds. My vocab seems to be reduced to 'Uuughg' and *sniff*. I apparently sound like a Southern Belle on valium, and feel like my head is the size of one of those ginourmous pumpkins that turn up sporadically in the newspaper. As sort of an 'Oooh, look at the size of Mr Albert Fletcher, 76, 's pumpkin. Mr Fletcher has been growing pumpkins since the Boer War, and believes this is the largest yet. He says the secret is regular mulching, and burying his dead budgies in the pumpkin patch' filler for when there's no news.

Oh kom op scheidsrechter!

I've been musing on this for some time. I've tried listening quietly, intently, like I was at Bletchley Park in the 40's trying to figure out Enigma. I've tried singing along loudly and with enthusiasm, channeling my inner Brighton boy band and hoping the words will automatically flow out of me. I've asked other people's opinions, hoping someone in nuhziland can interpret britspeak. (Not unless it refers to sport, it appears. Kiwi fans are able to repeat 'Aw, come on ref!' in at least five languages, and perform the haka in nearly 30 english dialects, but would be unable to ask directions to the nearest library in Leatherhead or Statford on Avon.)
I refuse to resort to looking it up on Lyrics.com or its ilk. The last time I did that, I went around singing about stoic squirrels in Alanis Morissette's 'Uninvited'.
What the hell are the lyrics!?!
I know, she knows, that I'm not from the right school...
I know, she knows, that I'm not a fond rascal...
I know, she knows, that I'm not the Fonz on skis...

Aagh!

Blatant prejudice.

I am terrified. I am about to reveal the secret inner working of my soul here. Unbeknown to any, I have a small 'meeehh' to reveal. (Meeehh is pronounced in 'small squished meerkat trying hard not to let anyone else know its been squished' voice)
Ok. Here we go. Deep breaths, deep breaths.

I don't like Dutch people.

I know, I know, in todays PC society, the shock and horror you must be feeling right now to hear someone proclaiming her dislike for an entire nation of people. Allow to me to explain.
- First there was the crazy Dutch lady and her farmer husband who went insane (er) on me during my farm work experience, and chased me off the farm wielding a shotgun for asking no more than 'So, what are we doing today?"
- Then there was my flatmate K's husband A, who shagged round behind her back with various interbimbos. Dutch. (Him. Not sure about interbimbos).
- Every single dutchoid I have ever met has a bizarre sense of humour. Which seems to come across as a bizarre *lack* of humour, normally expressed in a clipped, curt, dutchy accent. It freaks me out. Seriously,maybe it's not so bad in A'dam when they can have all the pot and canals they want, maybe overseas they are suffering from tulip and clog deficiency and it turns them into fucktards.
- Tulips. I mean,seriously. Fields and fields of freaky tulips, and they can't manage to make a black one. And they've been trying for some time. I hate failure.
- Rembrant. Actually, scratch that, let's say the entire class of Dutch Masters. Paintings that only belong in a brown cafe, because they looked like they've alredy been smoked at for five hundred years. Brown, murky, realist paintings of ugly flowers, dead pheasants, and ugly dead people. Oh, also add horrible tiles and porcelain.
- Dykes. Small boys with fingers in. Canals. The entire fact that nature wants this country entirely under water should tell you something.
- The Dutch. Live in The Netherlands. Also known as Holland. What the Prague? They should be the Dutch from Dutchland, the Nethers from the Netherlands, or the Hollish from Holland. Seriously folks.

I will concede windmills, salt licorice, and cheese as exceptions to this rule.

How some owners see my life....

Ah, another day at work! What shall I do today, let me see, let me see. I might cuddle a kitten here, stop to pat a cute little puppy dog here, maybe tickle a fluffy bunny rabbit under its chin. Then I might inflict needless torture on some elderly pensioners pussy cat, and finish it off by putting down someone's dog they've had since they were six. Ahaha hahahaha! I shall skip home laughing and twirling my stethoscope around my finger, whistling merrily as I go! Knowing that tomorrow, I might get to kick a foal, or throw darts at an albatross!

Yes, thats right kids, the vet likes being mean to animals. We get a kick out of it. I mean, really, what's five years of study and a $60,000 student loan? Who minds long hours and sleepless nights? So what if we'll never get paid as much as doctors, dentists, electricians or IT geeks? We get to be mean to animals, and that makes it all worthwhile.

Sunday morning

A time for sleeping in. For recovering from Friday night (5am) and Saturday night (a more civilised 3am). For mumbling sleepily and moving the pillow over your head as the church bells across the road call those who care. For snuggling into the body curving behind your back. For skin on warm skin, sleepy sex. For the cup of coffee you had to have, growing cold on the bedside table as you fall back asleep in a post-orgasmic glow.
It is not for the boss to ring at 8am and ask you to come into work.

Movies

I'm sick. And have a day off. And am on cold and flu meds. A combination that has led me to the couch and watching the best that Sky has to offer. If movies are to be beleived (and the Codrol is making me suspect they are), then I have some serious changes to make.... of which the Top Ten are:

10. Its completely normal for a mole to change from one side of my face to the other, for my shirt buttons operate of their own free will, or for my hair to re-arrange itself wildly in the space of a few seconds. No-one will comment or look strangely at me, or point out that I appear to have been the victim of an invisible stylist.
9. When I have finished a phone conversation, I must take the receiver from my ear and look intently at it for a few seconds, before replacing it on the cradle.
8. Men have nipples but no chest hair. Women have no nipples, and no body hair at all. When lying in bed, the sheet must reach the waist of the lad, and the armpits of the lass. I need to go out and purchase movie sheets. I'll consider the radical surgery/hair removal options later.
7. Whenever two people kiss, the music that has been playing softly in the background should swell to a sudden crescendo. We all need to start wearing headphones all the time, and reach for the volume control at the moment of lip lock.
6.My morning bedhead is never out of control, but is always cute in a kind of girlishly messy way. It needs to be, because the man must to smile at me in a tender loving way, and ruffle it. I am not allowed to smack him at this point.
5. Drugs are bad, apart from marijuana, which is merely amusing. Cigarettes are kind of cool, but immediately identify me as a potential bad girl, or a good girl in need of a savior. Alcohol is ok, but only one glass. Any more than that, and the film/life will involve Alcoholica Anonyma.
4.Which is ok, because that's a great place too. Within a week, I will realise what a mess my life has become and manage to completely turn it around, with the help of a handsome brooding artist/scruffy rock god/geeky intellectual type, with whom I shall then live happily ever after with, in a booze free, higher power lovin', twelve steppin' life. Word.
3.Anybody speaking in a foreign accent needs to be closely monitored. I'm not saying they are a spy. Or a terrorist. Or a member of a foreign royal family. But the fact remains that I need to treat them as if they are, because that's the only way to lull the *real* spies/terrorists/royalty into a false sense of security, and bring them out of hiding. The real spies/terrorists/royalty will then speak in their true, foreign accent, which they were taught to hide at spy/terrorist/royalty school, and can be identified. And tortured/shot/married.
2. Identify the country you live in. In America, the lead character is entitled to a vanilla happy ending. In the UK, they may be bound for despair, but they'll get there with humour and irony, which has its advantages from an aesthetic point of view. In India, the ability to break into mass song and dance routines is mandatory. In NZ, it's a bit of a lottery. You may end up losing a finger, your entire family, swinging from the Empire States building, wrestling with a camp hobbit, running mad in a yellow mini, or just getting very, very very drunk. I may move to France, where I'll be very unhappy, but look ever so stylish.
1. As a female of a scientific persuasion, I am letting my side down. I apologise profusely, and shall henceforth go out and practise in my tailored labcoat, designer skirt, long loose hair and expensive glasses. I have taken Physics for Veterinary Studies 101, which equips me to dismantle an atomic bomb, jump start a lambourgini, and hack into the security system of the UN and Interpol. I vow to always look serious or concerned, as a true scientist should. I am only allowed to smile at the end of the movie, when I turn up the volume on my headphones.

I'm turning the TV off now.

Le Fromage

Because sometimes going to the supermarket is too much trouble. Because there's nothing like creative mold farming at home. And because dicing with fungal spores (Toxic? Non toxic? Let's spin the wheel!) is more fun than showing your red bikini clad ass to the Pamplona bulls....
Lets make blue cheese at home!

(I particularly love the fact that making cheese at home apparently requires vodka, handkerchiefs, and a phillips screwdriver. So does my favorite party game, come to that.)

Cheers.

Mmmm. Red wine. Lovely, lovely red wine. Well, nasty, cheapy red wine, actually, being that I was on rather a budget when I visited the local House O'Red Wine. Still, after three glasses I am pleasantly suprised to find that with the slightly swimmy floaty head sensation is also coming an unclenching of teeth, a relaxing of muscles, and a general 'thank fuck that week is over' feeling.

Still, it realy wasn't that bad a week. Animals were saved, some of them with all limbs intact. Some of them will have to wear fluorescent bandages on their legs, like bad 80's leg warmers. Some of them have pins and wires sticking out of them, like someone sterilised a Meccano set for me to fix 'em up with. But apart from the crazy lady who was grumpy at me because I managed to save her cat's tooth ("I would never have had the dental done unless he needed a tooth out!"), I think I leave the week with people happy, animals wagging or purring, according to their genetic preferences (though not sure what noise Ruby, the snake necked tortoise is making), and everyone still alive.

That'll do, Pig. That'll do.

Arrr.

My pirate name is:

Black Morgan Bonney

Like anyone confronted with the harshness of robbery on the high seas, you can be pessimistic at times. You can be a little bit unpredictable, but a pirate's life is far from full of certainties, so that fits in pretty well. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from fidius.org.

Maps and messes.

"What's wrong?" he says.
I have a big tangled knot in my head, like a snarl of wool. How do I know which of the loose ends is the one that leads to the problem?
In his head he has a neat pattern, little streets signposted, red and blue cars driving on the correct side of the road, obeying traffic signals and the road code. If something was wrong with him, which there isn't, and I asked, which I don't, he could tell me.
"Nothing" I say.

I wonder if they make Johnson and Johnson's No More Tears for the mind?