Short and sweet & sour

Moving on

2011-07-06T21:20:00.006+10:00

Regular readers of this blog - that's all five of you - might remember The Great Job Move of 2010, when I changed jobs and defected to the Hospital Next Door. Well, it's been just over a year and it's time to move again.

I'm quite excited but ever so slightly petrified about this one, because it will be the first time in 25 years - yes, you read that correctly - that I will not be working in a hospital. My new role will see me working for an educational institution, a shiny office setting where people wear normal clothes and don't have to let someone know when they're going to the toilet. A place where lunch breaks can last for more than 29 minutes. A strange, new world.

I love hospitals. I feel at home in them. I understand the language. I know how things work. I know what hides behind doors, what things are kept under lock and key. I can work the equipment, silence those annoying alarms, make the backrest on the bed come out. I can make a bed in mere minutes. I can cast my eye over a clinical situation, assess it, prioritise the necessary actions, delegate, supervise and evaluate. I can do stuff, me. But I do that stuff in a hospital, my natural environment. It's been my only constant since I was nineteen years of age and now I'm leaving home.

And my patients. How can I leave them? It's been my privilege to care for people for so many years. I've been there for people when they're lonely, in pain, frightened, critically ill. I've delivered babies who came before their time. I've held the hand of the dying and sat with them as they took their last breath. I've wiped bums, washed faces, backs, feet, changed nighties and pyjamas, given injections, pushed wheelchairs, sat and listened, made thousands and thousands of cups of tea, looked after scared student nurses, looked after scared staff nurses, scared doctors, gone toe to toe with aggressive relatives, cried, laughed, laughed, cried and then laughed some more.

It's been hard and there were times when it nearly broke me. The pay isn't the best. The perks are practically non existent. But it's been my life for almost 25 years. Leaving it is going to break my heart.

Still, people have said some very nice things to me since I resigned. My current students are sad to see me go. My new graduate nurse is mildly horrified that I'm leaving. I'm mildy horrified for her.

So, that's it. Now it'll be normal clothes and a classroom, telling people what's out there. I'm not sure if I'll last but there's only one way to find out.

The Book

2011-06-01T18:40:00.003+10:00

I feel for my poor father. An avid sportsman, he had two children who showed minimal interest in any outdoor sports at all. I can still recall his frustration on warm summers days, when, keen to get out in the garden with a bat and ball he would attempt to evict his sluglike offspring from whichever nook or hiding place we had secreted ourselves. My brother would often join in with a game of cricket or some throw and catch before scuttling back to his Airfix models but I would resolutely refuse. It's hard to read in direct sunlight.

I've always been a bookworm. My mother taught me to read before I went to school. I devoured words. I would read the labels on shampoo bottles in the bath. I read every book in the school library before the 4th year. I read the childrens books at the local library and when I'd read all the ones I liked I moved into the grown up section. I have shelves full of books. Boxes full of books. A personalised signed Pratchett. I have a Kindle. I love reading, me.

I've read more books than I can count but if you asked me to pick a favourite I could do it in a heartbeat. It's not a highbrow masterpiece. It's not a Booker prize winner. It's a childrens book.

Charlie and The Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl sticks in my memory as being the most amazing book of my entire childhood. I doubt it will ever be replaced in my affections by any other. It conjured up vivid images in my imagination of little Charlie Bucket, his impoverished but proud family and most importantly of all, that river of chocolate.

I won't bore you all with the details as I'm sure you've all read it. (What? You haven't? Get thee to a bookshop!) Perhaps it was my sweet tooth that made me love it with such a passion but all I know is that Roald Dahl filled my head with pictures. It was more than just pictures, though. It was sounds and smells, imaginary places, magical little people, a glass elevator, and oh yes, a river of chocolate. Beautiful pictures, imaginary scents, grotesque baddies, a hero and his grandfather, a peculiar confectioner and a happy ending to boot.

Fast forward to 2011 and I'm having a conversation with my friends six year old son. He's a nice little boy, not too grubby and well behaved. We have funny little conversations which I generally enjoy, well, apart from the one where he told me that the reason I was so short was that I ate too many Sometimes Foods. I still think his mother was behind it. Anyhoo. We were having a nice little chat about books one day and I told him about Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He wanted to know more and so I downloaded a free sample to my Kindle before my next babysitting venture. Once the parents had gone out and the younger brother was safely tucked into bed, I began to read.

It's a lovely thing, reading to children. They go into a trancelike state. They sit still and pay attention. They are transported to another place. Their eyes might be staring at the words on the page but you know they're not reading them. And so it was with little Ted. By the end of the first chapter he was snuggled in so close that I could feel his breathing against my arm. I knew that the words I was reading out loud were filtering into his ears and sloshing around inside his mind. I knew he could see Grandpa Joe and Grandma Josephine, Grandpa George and Grandma Georgina squashed into the bed. I knew that in his minds eye he could see Prince Pondicherry in his chocolate palace. Charlie Bucket was alive inside someone elses head.

Little Ted was disappointed when the free sample ended and wanted to know what happened to Charlie Bucket. I went home the next day and visited www.bookdepository.co.uk. Within 10 minutes a copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory had been purchased and sent to a little boy.

About a week later I received a 'phone call. "Thank you for my book. It came today."

"You're welcome," I replied. "Did I tell you that it's my most favourite book in the whole wide world?"

"Yep," said Ted. "I'm going to get Mummy to read it to me tonight. Thank you so much. I love it."

People might think it's just a book. It cost less than ten dollars. But it's so much more than just a book. It's an introduction to the power of imagination. It's the front door to a world of magic and make believe, of little people, of gruesome children and their gruesome parents. It's about edible blades of grass and a river of chocolate.

It's the best gift I've ever given.

So, what's your book?

Goodbye, Sarah Jane Smith

2011-04-20T21:28:00.007+10:00

I wanted my next blog post to be a cheerful one, really, I did. I'd already started one about my afternoon at the Sydney Opera House with Sir Pterry Pratchett. It was going to be all cheerful and uplifting. Honest.

This morning I logged on to my favourite Doctor Who forum (oh come on, we all know I'm a geek) and read the terrible and shocking news that Elisabeth Sladen, the actress who had played Sarah Jane Smith, had passed away at the age of 63. Members of the forum were in shock. I was one of them. I immediately sent a text to my cousin. I updated my Facebook status. I posted on the forum. I cried. Twice.

Why is it that we feel this way about people that we've never met? We develop such intense and real attachments to characters - and that's what they are, not people, per se - that we genuinely mourn their passing when we've never met the people themselves. For me, with Elisabeth and Nicholas Courtney, I think it's because they are intrinsically linked with my childhood which was a happy time for me, all things considered. Sarah Jane Smith was an excellent role model for little girls in the 70s. She might have screamed a lot (she certainly screamed and fell over too much in Brain of Morbius) but even though she was afraid she stood her ground and did what needed to be done. She took on aliens. She faced off with Davros. She did battle alongside Jon Pertwee, Tom Baker, David Tennant and Matt Smith. A veteran visitor to the TARDIS, she also appeared in The Five Doctors where she met the first, second and fifth Doctor. Three decades of teaching little girls that they could do anything.

A few years ago I 'met' Sarah Jane again when she appeared alongside David Tennant in an episode called 'School Reunion.' I cried during that episode when K9, the brave tin robot dog, sacrificed himself to save the others. I'd never had a dog as a child and watching that episode as an adult, I wept as 'my' dog died.

I'm so terribly sad about Elisabeth's passing. Even though I never met her and only really knew her as Sarah Jane I'm pretty sure she was a warm, funny, delightful human being. Elisabeth Sladen leaves a husband, daughter, and millions of fans all over the world.

Five rounds rapid

2011-02-24T17:29:00.004+11:00

It's hard to pinpoint when your childhood ends and adulthood begins. One minute you're throwing your dolls out of trees on makeshift parachutes and the next you're wearing cherry flavoured lip gloss and mooning over a boy who doesn't know your name. One second later and you've got a mortgage, a credit card and a large collection of handbags, plus a few grey hairs thrown in for good measure.

But every now and then something takes you out of your grown up life and back to your younger days with a sudden jolt. A memory or a moment catches you unawares and reminds you that there was a time when monsters existed and the safest place was behind the settee.

I had one of those moments yesterday. Nicholas Courtney passed away yesterday at the age of 81 and he took another little piece of my childhood with him. Quite a big bit, actually. For the children of the Seventies Brigadier Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart was as synonymous with Doctor Who as the TARDIS or even the Doctor himself. The Brig, as he was affectionately known, led UNIT (United Nations Intelligence Taskforce) and thanks to the Doctor each time the UK hosted strange alien life forms the Brig was there to greet them with a mixture of bemusement and exasperation. Often he tried to shoot them. It wasn't always the most successful approach to defending the planet but he remained steadfast and unflappable as the stood alongside the Doctor - well, lots of them, actually - and faced danger head on, armed with his army issue pistol and his marvellously rich voice. With his calm demeanour, no nonsense approach, smart uniform and magnificent moustache, the Brig was the very epitome of a hero.

Yesterday, I found out that my childhood hero was no longer with us and I'm still a bit tearful today. I hadn't realised how much I loved The Brig. Jon Pertwee was my doctor but perhaps if I'm honest I loved The Brig more than any Doctor. He made it safe to come out from behind the settee on a Saturday night.

RIP Nick. Thank you for everything. Splendid fellow.

My blog mojo

2010-11-09T19:43:00.002+11:00

I seem to have lost the ability to write lately. I know I've neglected my dear little blog and you, my handful of loyal followers. I haven't forgotten you, honestly. I haven't even been busy for the most part. Sure, there have been periods of frantic academic activity as I struggled to finish the last two assignments for my graduate certificate. There have been times where I have forced myself off the sofa and fought with piles of long neglected paperwork. There have been several shopping trips on the internet for things I didn't need. There was even the time when I attempted - unsuccessfully - to sort out the wires for my set top box and DVD recorder. All of these times, dear readers, are times when I could have sat down and told you what was going on. Alas, I am a lazy moo, both on the surface and deep down. I'm sorry. I am a first class procrastinator.

I've had many thoughts and ideas for blog entries. I even tried to write an entry last week but I lost interest, stumbled across a bar of Green & Blacks chocolate and the rest is history. I had an idea when I was standing at the bus stop night. It had evaporated by the time I got home. I don't know what's wrong with me.

I'll try harder. Honest. But don't hold your breath. I'm a lazy moo, you know.

Moving

2010-09-09T16:54:00.002+10:00

So. The move.

It was torturous. My notoriously unreliable friend had promised to help me but I was feeling less than certain that she would appear. An enquiring text elicited a favourable response and I felt slightly easier. At 09.05am a the removal team arrived. Two men with limited English arrived to remove my copious belongings from the flat and secure them in a van. They had left the van outside of the driveway, which made it harder for them as it was a fair distance to travel back and forth but the apparent senior of the two managed to communicate that he didn't mind.

The notoriously unreliable friend rang at 09.10am to say she was in a suburb on the other side of The Bridge (the Anzac Bridge, not the one you see on the TV) to collect a tumble drier that someone had kindly donated to me. I screamed internally. She was bound to get stuck in traffic. Fortunately she didn't and burst into the flat in full Technicolour, roaring with delight at the scene of carnage.
"I thought you were soooooo organised," she trilled. "You're wearing rubber gloves! Not ready at all! I love it!!!!!"

I immediately sent her to get coffee from a local cafe. The man carried on packing. The place was an absolute bombsite. We did a carload of fragile stuff as well as things I couldn't be bothered to pack properly. We came back to find the men had finished. Off we went.

I felt sorry for the removalists when they realised that not only had they dragged all my possessions down a flight of stairs and up a driveway but that now they needed to get them across a road and down a narrow flight of stairs. The now reliable friend left me to collect her daughter and catch up on a few jobs. The men finished, I paid them and collapsed on my recently relocated settee.

The friend returned to take me back to the old place. That was when I did it. Locked the keys to the new place inside it, that is. We had to drive to the letting office, run in, collect the spares and go back. The friend left me with a cheery wave and a promise to return on Friday.

I went back to the old place to do some cleaning. I managed an hour and a half before the headache that I'd been brewing all day finally caught up with me, which wasn't surprising seeing as my days dietary intake was limited to one cup of tea, one coffee and a banana. I got a taxi 'home' and collapsed on the settee. I didn't have the energy to make a cup of tea, instead just getting up every now and then to take more Paracetamols. I finally dragged myself up this morning - still with a headache - to go to work. All set. But where were the keys?

In the lock. Outside. Where they had been all night.

It can only get better.

On the move

2010-09-06T18:44:00.002+10:00

Me again.

I'll spare you the excuses. Your correspondent is currently sitting in an apartment which resembles an explosion in a department store and wishing for some petrol and a box of matches.

You may remember - that's if I mentioned it - that I returned from my UK trip to the news that the apartment I rent is being sold. I finally managed to find a new flat to rent less than five minutes drive away. Not that I can drive, of course, but if I could....well, you get the picture. I've had the keys for over a week and still haven't moved in, mainly because I'm lazy but also because I had to pay rent on the current place for two weeks anyway. So, being stubborn - and lazy - I left it till the last minute.

I take no pleasure in moving. I don't know anyone who does, really, but I can't stand it. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I'd lived in three different houses before I was eight. I'm a creature of habit. I like to stay put. Strange, you might think, coming from someone who lives 12,000 miles away from the country of her birth, but there you go.

I bought a lovely flat in London and lived in it for some years until I moved to Australia. I think about it sometimes. I miss its large living room. I miss its massive kitchen/diner. I miss its quiet back garden. Most of all I miss putting the key in the front door and knowing that no one can tell me to move out of it.

I've moved a lot more since coming to Australia. Not counting the house in Canberra I've lived in seven different flats in the last 12 years. Sydney is a hard place to live. Renters can't afford to buy and so we live in other peoples flats, paying their mortgages and looking wishfully at the For Sale section of the newspapers.

The New Flat will be number 8. I'm looking for something to buy and am hoping that Number 9 will see my last foray into packing boxes and purging of book collections.

So, here I sit, surrounded by detritus and half packed boxes, waiting for a kind friend to come round and take some odds and sods round before the removal people come on Wednesday morning to shove my goods and chattels into the back of their van before depositing them in The New Flat. I've liked living here, not loved it, but liked it a lot. It's a small flat and The New Flat is much bigger. It's not as close to the beach but still walking distance. It's on a different and less frequent bus route. I just want to get in there and turn it into home.

They say moving house is one of the most stressful things that can happen to you in life. Aint that the truth.

What's next?

2010-08-01T15:19:00.003+10:00

Well.

Lots has happened since I was here last. I had my Big Holiday, which was nice. I spent lots of money, saw family (some nice, some not so nice) and friends (all nice), singlehandedly revived the economy -albeit temporarily - with my many trips to the shops, topped up my Oyster card repeatedly, got on trains, got off trains, got on buses, got off buses, slept in different beds, looked in bathroom cabinets - oh yes, if I've been in your house I've looked in your bathroom cabinet - watched mostly good television, consumed litres of Pimms, eaten too many Marks and Spencers Yum Yums, shopped again, marvelled at the English countryside whilst quietly congratulating myself on visiting the country of my birth during what turned out to be a glorious English summer. I defy anyone to say there is no more beautiful place to be than in an English garden when the sun is shining and you're eating raspberries and cream from Waitrose served in a Marks & Spencers meringue nest. Oh yes.

A lot happened in that holiday. My dear old dad was taken into hospital during the last week. I watched the nurses like a hawk. I ran a finger along the surfaces to check for dust. I straightened the sheets. I checked his observation chart. He's fine now, and was discharged before I flew back. I took him home in a taxi the day before I flew out. I made him a cup of tea and loaded the washing machine like a good daughter. I'm glad it happened when I was at home and not the week afterwards. It's a confronting thing when your parents get older. But that's a story for another day.

Anyway. I had a spectacularly good holiday. I spent lots of money. Lots. I had an uneventful flight back. The food was okay, the films were dull. I got back to Sydney, turned on my mobile phone and listened to my messages. One was from a friend welcoming me back. The other was from the letting agent. The flat I live in is being sold and I have to be out on the 9th of September. Arse.

So, I'm moving again. I'm looking for somewhere to buy but with the money I earn my choices are limited. I've loved living by the sea in my little shoebox but all good things come to an end. I can't afford to buy this place as it's been valued at $20,000 over my maximum budget. There's not much on the market but I'm hopeful something will turn up. In the meantime I have to look for somewhere to rent until I find something to buy.

So. That's me. How are the rest of you?

Point of origin

2010-07-01T19:01:00.003+10:00

Everything has been a bit of a whirlwind lately. There was the fuss of leaving the old job, starting the new job, inadequate packing for the UK trip (no shoes!) and the hour and a half I spent on the floor of a Virgin Atlantic aeroplane looking after a man who was having a suspected heart attack at 35,000 feet in US airspace. But that's another story for another day.

I firmly believe there is no finer place to be than England in the summertime. The sun is shining, the flowers are in bloom, people are happy and strawberries are half price at both Marks & Spencers and Waitrose. I've been busy going backwards and forwards during my UK holiday meeting old friends and family, sitting in various sunny gardens drinking Pimms and looking at flowers I haven't seen since I was a child. I spent a couple of days in the Lake District breathing in fresh air and marvelling at the scenery. I've seen more of the Essex countryside than I ever thought possible and anyone who makes jokes about Essex people should shut their mouths and open their eyes to how truly beautiful my home county is.

There was a point to this post but I have no idea what it was now. I suppose I just wanted to say that I'm home. It's good to be back and it's going to be hard to leave.

By the way, I'm sticking comment moderation on for a while as I seem to be getting a lot of spam. Please don't let it put you off commenting. Cheers.

Thank your lucky stars, Sisters.

2010-05-17T21:12:00.006+10:00

SSS is a feminist. Surprised, aren't you? I know. I blame my parents. And my grandparents, come to think of it. I grew up in an environment where I saw men do 'womens work' without a murmur of complaint or without looking for a pat on the back. In some respect this has spoiled me for the real world. But never mind.

I'm constantly bemused when I meet women who don't seem to understand how lucky they are. They don't seem to care about the sacrifices the Suffragettes made for the women to come after them. They think feminism is a dirty word. They have no concept of history. They've grown up with access to education and healthcare. They can wear what they want in public without a member of the police hitting them with a fucking big stick.

Tonight I watched a TV documentary which made me once again thank my lucky stars that I was born in a country where I could basically do what the hell I liked despite having a uterus.

Nel Hedayet is an Afghan born, British raised 21 year old girl who wanted to know more about the country of her birth. She travelled to Afghanistan to find out about her heritage and learn what life was really like for her sisters. What she found shocked her and reduced her to tears on several occasions. She found an Afghanistan where the Taliban may have been overthrown but where outside of the capital Kabul women are still forced to cover themselves from head to toe in the dreaded blue burkas. She met a 15 year old girl whose father had given her to a 60 year old man to take as his wife. She met another 15 year old whose father had married her off at the age of 12 and consigned her to a life of physical abuse from her inlaws, abuse so overwhelming that the child set fire to herself in order to escape. 15 years of age, languishing in a ward full of other married children who had resorted to self immolation to free themselves from their miserable existences. She met Afghan schoolgirls who risked their lives to go to school. Nel reflected on how angry she thought the girls would be to find out that their British counterparts squandered their own education opportunities and skipped school for no good reason. She met a girl with an enlightened and loving father. She met a 14 year old boy who would not 'allow' his older sister to appear on a local television show as it would be 'disrespectful' to him. She met many inspirational girls and women who are attempting to rail against the status quo of a country where the cards are stacked against them.

At the end of her trip she threw herself into the arms of her mother and told her that she finally understood why her parents had left their homeland. I wonder that it took her so long. I'm just glad she got there. And I'm glad she got out.

Never take your freedom for granted.

http://www.afghanaid.org.uk/

http://www.afghanistanwomencouncil.org/

The Hospital Next Door

2010-05-11T18:05:00.007+10:00

Last Friday was my final official shift at what I now call the 'old' place. It was an awful day, very busy and punctuated by annoying events. By 11.50 I was ready to walk out and tell them to shove their cake up their arse. Some kind souls had organised a farewell lunch for me but no one thought to tell the relief nurse who hadn't bothered to see me to arrange my lunch break some 20 minutes after starting her shift. This is the first thing the relief nurse is supposed to do when she starts work. Silly me for thinking that on my last day the relief nurse would come and see me to arrange my lunch break. I finally got into the tearoom for the lunch but felt sick and could only manage a cup of tea. I watched the British election results coming in on the TV and felt lost. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so low.

The farewell tea party came and went, I was dragged in to a round of applause. The tearoom wasn't as tidy as I would have had it - in fact the first thing I saw on arrival was the cake box and a work surface strewn with the detritus of lunch - and I had to turn the television off myself before the boss made her somewhat dull and emotionless speech. I remained dry eyed throughout. I said some stuff, said thanks, said I'd had some difficult times and some good times and that I would miss some people very much. I said something funny and that was it. I cut into the cake and asked someone else to cut it into slices. I then had to ask for a piece as they'd started to pass it round without offering me the first slice.

I might be coming across all Miss Jean Brodie here but I think after 7 years the least I could expect is the offer of a lunch break, a tidy tearoom, no TV and first offer of the orange and poppyseed cake. I suppose what it made me realise is that either a) I care too much about little stuff or b) no one pays attention to detail like I do. In fairness, most people were wonderful. I was given lots of little presents. There were tears and they weren't all mine. Some people said some lovely things in private. I felt appreciated by the staff if not by management.

In all honesty I'm glad it was a crappy day because it made it a lot easier to walk out of there. I cleaned out my locker, handed back the key, put my shoes in a plastic bag and walked out of the door.

Today I started at The Hospital Next Door. I had a good nights sleep last night and woke up at 06.30 instead of the usual 05.45. I only started to get nervous as I approached my usual coffee shop. The owner wished me good luck as he handed over my caffeine fix and I walked in the usual hospital front door. Instead of turning right I turned left.

All in all it was a good day. I got there nice and early, had a guided tour, met far too many people, received lots of information, did some reading, had more coffee, sent some 'I miss you but I'm fine' emails to some ex colleagues and shuffled some papers. I also saw about eight of my old doctors, which was absolutely lovely. I'm sharing an office with two of the managers. No one was doing much talking - I was too busy reading - but then someone came to talk to me and I laughed quite loudly. I don't have a pretty laugh and I think I startled them. Anyway, it broke the ice. They told me the last girl didn't talk much. They'll be sorry. My favourite moment was when I asked them if they minded me bringing in my collection of fluffy toys and picture of cats in amusing poses. They'll be sorry.

Of course the irony is that The Hospital Next Door is no longer really The Hospital Next Door as the Old Place holds that title now. I've been surprised at how easy it's been to let go.

It's a big job and I've got a lot of work ahead of me.

I think it's going to be okay.

Now, bonus points to anyone who can tell which episode of a popular TV programme this post has made me want to watch?

Counting down

2010-04-30T19:53:00.003+10:00

Just one week to go before I leave my current job and move to The Hospital Next Door. This morning I walked into the changing room to find a sign announcing my farewell and the associated celebrations - dinner next week, pub session the week after - and was touched to find it had been thoughtfully decorated with a lovely picture of David Tennant as The Doctor standing outside the TARDIS with a cheeky smile on his face. I was completely taken by surprise and it made me both happy and sad.

I've been in my current position for just over seven years. It's the longest I've ever stayed with one employer and it's going to be a wrench to go. Don't get me wrong, I'm ready to leave. I've had a lot of issues with management - and some staff - during my time there, I know I've got no chance of progressing in my career and I've had it up to my eyeballs with a lot of the lazier, younger nurses. But I'm also going to miss a lot. I've met some amazing people. I've cared for some wonderful patients and their families. I've cried, I've shouted, I've slammed doors. I've told people to shove things where the sun doesn't shine. But I've laughed till I've cried. I've done good things. I've led by example. I've maintained high standards of professionalism. I've had some deep and meaningful conversations with the most unlikely people. I've held secrets, I've helped people - and been helped in return. I've spent too much time in the pub. I've met kindred spirits and I've made friends for life.

So, next Friday I'll have to submit to the ritual 'afternoon tea' that waits for all staff members who leave. At some point in the afternoon a nurse will take a sheet and place it over a table in the tearoom as a token tablecloth. A cake will be placed on the table, along with a farewell card, a bunch of flowers and a present of some description. Another nurse will be despatched to gather staff and they'll all sit in the tearoom and wait for me, chatting and giggling. Someone will want to sign the card at the last minute. The senior nurse will then come and find me, asking me to come for a walk. The walk will lead to the tearoom and I'll arrive to a round of applause and cheers. There will be a speech, thanking me for all my hard work and wishing me well. I'll probably cry. I'll thank everyone, cut into the cake and have a cup of tea.

At the end of the day I'll hand in my locker key and leave the changing room for the last time. I'm ready to go. I'm looking forward to the challenge ahead. But it's going to hurt all the same.

Jumping the gun

2010-04-19T14:46:00.003+10:00

I had an interview last Thursday at The Hospital Next Door for a job I really wanted. It went okay. Not brilliant, but okay. When Friday came and went without any news I managed to convince myself that I hadn't got the job. This isn't as paranoid as it sounds, honest. A previous interview at The Hospital Next Door recently was less than successful. I was heard to later remark that it couldn't have gone any worse if I'd stood on the table and done a big wee. Or something like that. Anyway, I didn't get it and the way I found out was by letter 10 days later. I mean, the penny had dropped well and truly before then but you get the picture.

At 7am this morning I was standing at the traffic lights, cup of coffee in hand, contemplating the day when a person appeared next to me. It was the boss from The Hospital Next Door.

"Sorry I haven't been in touch," says she. "I couldn't get hold of anyone I needed to speak to on Friday."

Yes, readers.

I got the job.

That'll teach me.

Fail

2010-04-16T18:06:00.000+10:00

So. I didn't get it.

Bugger.

Oh well.

On fence sitting and risk taking

2010-04-05T16:35:00.003+10:00

Yes. I chickened out of applying for the hospice job.

I wanted to, I really did. I was all fired up but my enthusiasm waned on a daily basis. I got cold feet. I thought about it long and hard but when the closing date passed I didn't feel a pang of regret. There's another potential escape route in sight, however, in the form of a nine month maternity relief position with a view to extend in The Hospital Next Door. It's a public hospital which scares me slightly as I've worked in the private sector for over 12 years now but maybe it's time to get out of my comfort zone. Yes, I know. We've all heard that one before and look what happened. Nothing.

I'm slightly torn about this one although I'm feeling more enthusiastic this time round. Without saying too much (you never know who's reading) it'd be a promotion. I emailed my CV and a covering letter last week and received an email the following day from the manager telling me my covering letter was missing some information and could I send it again, please? I didn't get the email till a couple of days later as I was in sunny South Australia in a house with two other adults, four children and a Red Setter. I came back to Sydney last night to two messages on my answerphone from the manager asking me to resend my letter. The closing date was originally the 31st of March and they've extended it by a week. So, she either really wants me to get it or no one else has applied for it. I'm somewhat worried about being unemployed in nine months time so I do have to really think about this but I'm going to apply and see what happens.

In other news - Adelaide was nice if not very noisy. The dog was the best behaved member of the entire family as well as having a shiny coat and an amazing tail. Dogs are much nicer than people, don't you think? I ate a lot of chocolate, too many hot cross buns and drank a moderate amount of South Australian rose.

Oh, and my computer died a couple of weeks ago. This blog is brought to you courtesy of my beautiful new MacBook Pro. It's hard to save money when you keep spending it but my, it's a wonderful thing. I am officially obsessed with widgets. And Red Setters. And chocolate.

The passing of a giant

2010-03-04T21:37:00.003+11:00

SSS was deeply saddened to learn that Michael Foot, Labour party legend, passed away yesterday at the ripe old age of 96. It is, as they say, a good innings. His death is hardly unexpected. His beloved wife Jill Craigie died some years ago and the couple had no children. So, who mourns him? I do.

I'm not going to give you a potted history of Mr Foot's life, most of the papers have excellent obituaries and the Beeb have some nice coverage. I don't even have a terribly interesting Michael Foot story. But I'm going to tell it anyway.

You will not be surprised to know that I was something of a militant student nurse. It was difficult not to be, training as a nurse in Thatchers NHS. I was a union steward and was reasonably active in rallying the troupes in the volatile days of the late 80s. There were public meetings, petitions, and marches. Lots of marches.

One such march was organised by the TUC. Thousands of the great unwashed massed at The Embankment to march for the NHS. The union advised us to march in full uniform and we did so, hats, dresses, capes and banners. We were angry. We were loud. We were on fire.

Whilst waiting to start walking I glanced around and spotted an older gentleman with a walking stick. He looked familiar. Suddenly, it dawned on me. "Come on," I shouted at my equally militant and similarly clad friend. "Michael Foot!"

We rushed towards him like excited spaniel puppies. Before the great man knew what had hit him we each grabbed an arm and planted a kiss on his cheek. The look on his face was priceless. We told him we loved him and thanked him for coming. He started laughing, as did everyone standing nearby. I don't think my feet touched the ground for most of the march.

I wonder if he ever remembered the day he was grabbed by two young nurses. I like to think he did. I know I'll never forget it.

Flash forward two decades and I found myself reading about his passing on the internet. Today I stood on the other side of the world and watched a British news item reporting his death with tears streaming down my cheeks. Even in death he was teaching me something. He reminded me that there was a time I cared passionately about something.

RIP, Mr Foot. Thank you for your service to the Labour party and to the country. Thank you for being that rarest of creatures, a decent politician. Thank you for being an inspiration.

An epiphany

2010-02-16T18:41:00.002+11:00

As most of you know, I am a nurse. Much as it pains me to admit it I have been a nurse for a very long time. 24 years of my life have been spent in a variety of different uniforms in a variety of different postcodes looking after a variety of different patients. I don't think it's a vocation, at least it isn't for me. I sort of fell into it after answering an ad in the local newspaper. I'd already had a few crappy little office jobs when I thought I should really do something proper and perhaps shag a good looking doctor/meet some interesting people at the same time. I went along to the interview and a short time later found myself in a classroom with 30 other would be nurses. Excellent. A real job.

St Florence's Hospital for the Perpetually Bewildered was a local busy district hospital. It was home to Britain's second busiest casualty department. It had Britain's second longest hospital corridor. It remains to date the busiest hospital I have ever worked in and the most fun I have ever had during my nursing career.

I had absolutely no idea what I was letting myself in for on that first day. I wrote my resignation letter at least three times in three years. I cried. A lot. I drank cheap cider, got food parcels from my grandparents and an aunt, cried some more, laughed more than I ever thought possible and developed a love for Marmite. I worked like a dog for a pittance. I worked with some amazing people. I cared for some amazing people. I would say I studied hard but that would be a blatant lie, instead winging exam success with a slightly better than average brain and pure chance. Three years and three months later, I got my nurse registration, a silver buckle for my new blue belt and a job on my favourite ward.

Twenty one years later and I've hit a brick wall. I'm bored. I'm not doing what I want to do. I'm not getting job satisfaction and I haven't done so for at least ten years. Lately I've been thinking more and more about moving into the field of palliative care. I thought about it when I was a student nurse and was all set to do an allocation in the hospitals own palliative care centre when a change in hospital policy put paid to my plans. A fellow classmate had what might be deemed as a mental breakdown during her own allocation there leading her to attempt suicide after a fight with her mum and sister. She's fine. At least she was then. I haven't seen her for a while. Truth be told she was always a little bit mad by her own admission. Anyway, to cut a long story short - and believe me, it is a long story - it was decided that she'd gone off the rails due to the death of her grandfather 4 months before. The school of nursing instigated a policy preventing student nurses from going to the palliative care centre if they had experienced a bereavement within the previous 12 months. Sadly, my own wonderful grandfather had died the month before hers had and I was transferred to another unit.

I qualified, got a job on a ward I loved and didn't look back. Every now and then I wondered about what would have happened if things had panned out differently. I always enjoyed looking after terminally ill patients on the ward, which I know sounds strange to non nurses, but I always saw it as a privilege to do so.

Fast forward to today and I've been thinking a lot about a move to the field of palliative care. Last week I was channel surfing when I came across a programme about a hospice, a hospice which just happens to be opposite my hospital. Today I was at a meeting where the palliative care clinical nurse consulant talked about her work. For the next half an hour I could think of nothing else but the hospice and how I wanted to work there. It was as though someone was standing in front of me saying, "Run. Run now. You hate what you're doing and you'd be really good at this. You'll love it. Run."

So, I'm thinking of taking up running. Matters are slightly complicated by the fact that I have an interview on Friday for a part time job in the Hospital Next Door as project nurse for 13 weeks which I'd quite like to get. If I get that, I'll stay put for a while. But if I don't, I'm going to pull on my trainers and run.

Distance

2010-01-25T19:00:00.003+11:00

I'm sorry to tell you that I'm feeling a little bit maudlin today. For some strange reason I want to call my grandmother tonight. I want to call and find out how long she had to wait for the bus to East Ham. I want to call and hear her tell me how terrible the television is. I want to call her and hear how much her feet hurt. I can't, of course. She died some years ago. I wanted to pick up the telephone and listen to her voice. It's come out of the blue and I don't know why. I just miss her tonight. I really do.

That's the thing about being apart from people. It causes you pain. It doesn't make it any easier when you've deliberately moved yourself away from people, regardless of what they might think. I'm planning a trip home this year and will be in sunny England - and possibly further afield - in June and July. I get to eat Marks and Spencers food, lard myself up with proper chips from the chippy, annoy friends and family by asking, "Who's that, then?" during soap operas and of course, see my dear old dad.

I was reduced to tears at work on Friday when one of the doctors asked me if I was going home this year. I said I was and that I was looking forward to seeing my dad.
"Do you know what it feels like for a father?" he asked. "Don't you know that when they're so far away it hurts? It really hurts. It gets you right here," and he pressed a hand against his chest.

I know. I do know. It hurts me too. Sometimes I sit here and I think about my dad sitting on his own on the other side of the world. I wonder if he ate properly today. I wonder if he spoke to anyone today. I wonder if he understands that it hurts me too. Not all the time, of course. But sometimes. Like today.

Still, I get to see him in about 16 weeks. I can pick up the telephone right now and hear his voice. I can't do that with my nan.

Ring someone you love today, if for no other reason than to hear their voice. You'll be glad you did.

Monday nights entertainment

2010-01-20T20:58:00.006+11:00

See this? Good, isn't it?

I love Sydney. I think I was born to live in a hot country and this one fits the bill. Good climate? Check. English speaking? Check. Doctor Who shown on terrestial TV? Check. Okay, so it's 12,000 miles from the country of my birth and there are times when I wish I didn't live so far away but for the most part it's great.

The picture above is a further indication of why Sydney is a great place to live. The Sydney Festival hits town in January. There's something to see and do most nights of the week. Some of the events are even free, which is a bonus considering how little free cash most of us have at this time of year.

One of my favourite things to do, however, is visit the Open Air Cinema at Lady Macquarie's Chair. Tickets are like hens teeth. I've been unsuccessful two years in a row but this year I managed to score two tickets for last Monday's performance of In The Loop. I know, it's been out for ages in the UK but we've only just got it and I thought it was the funniest thing I've seen in ages.

I'm not going to talk about the film. I just wanted to tell you all that I had a fabulous time. Yes, the seats were a bit hard and I was sitting right up the back directly under the fig trees, thus increasing the risk of ending up with batshit on my head. I didn't care.

Just look at that view.

Remember me?

2010-01-11T21:03:00.003+11:00

Hello, my name is SSS and I used to have a blog. I didn't have much of interest to say for a while, real life got in the way and I became morose and dull. I sought solace on the braindead pages of the Daily Mail, watched too many episodes of The West Wing, ate chocolate, drank tea. I procrastinated on a level never seen before.

Anyway, I thought I'd come back to my little blog. And here it is. Sad, neglected and a rather unattractive shade of blue. A bit like my old PE knickers, actually.

But enough of my knickers. I hope to have something witty, informative, hypertension inducing or hilarious for you soon. I just need to have one more cup of tea.........

Breakfast on the Bridge

2009-10-25T18:38:00.008+11:00

I know, I know. It's been ages. But I'm here now.

Today is Sunday. Most normal people get up at a reasonable hour on Sunday. They open their eyes, smile at the sight of the alarm clock and promptly roll back over. They get up when they feel like it.

Today my alarm clock went off at 5am. I was out of the house at 05.28 and standing at the bus stop with a friend. It was time for http://www.breakfastonthebridge.com/ .

This was a first for Sydney and I'm sure it won't be the last. 6000 people got up at a ridiculous hour and carted picnics to Milsons Point train station. After queuing for a suprisingly short time in an unutterably long queue we rounded the corner and set foot on the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

You've all seen it on the telly. Some of you have driven across it, walked over it and maybe even climbed it. But I bet none of you have taken off your shoes, put down a picnic rug and laid on your back on it like I did today.

It's a big bridge. It carries eight lanes of road traffic. It has two train lines, a footpath and a cycle lane. Today the road section was closed and turf was laid over a large section to allow NSW residents to have breakfast in style. The most entertaining thing for me was the milking cows which were eating hay and seemed oblivious to their surroundings.

The picnic was short but sweet. We settled down and unpacked our picnic at approximately 7am. I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to get my picture taken by the masses of photographers but to no avail. About half way through volunteers handed out baseball caps in yellow and green. I haven't seen an arial shot yet but I'm sure it'll be amazing.

We were asked to start packing up at 08.20. It felt like long enough, to be honest. I came away with a heavier bag than I arrived with due to obtaining a free loaf of bread, a small pot of yoghurt and a free canvas bag.

Getting off the bridge was incredibly easy. We walked onto it from the north end and walked off it to the south. This suited the group very well as we'd all crossed the bridge (a big thing in Sydney, let me tell you) to get to the picnic so getting home was a breeze.

I was home by 09.30 and asleep on the settee by 10.00. I awoke at midday to pouring rain, thunder and lightning. Perfect timing.

Would I do it again? Absolutely. And if you're in town next year you should do it too.

Star Trek and the Sydney Symphony Orchestra

2009-09-05T18:51:00.007+10:00

Life has been a bit ordinary lately. One of my best friends has moved to New Zealand, the workplace is full of adult women who have regressed to the age of 14, I broke a dish which belonged to my late grandmother and I'm another year older. So it was with much excitement that I headed to the Sydney Opera House for a performance by the Sydney Symphony Orchestra on Friday night.

I was trawling the internet on Thursday night when I remembered reading somewhere that the SSO were doing a performance of highlights from the Star Trek motion picture soundtracks. Google led me to the Opera House website where I discovered that the performance was the following evening. Surely it would be sold out? No. Just four tickets left. I hastily ordered myself a ticket - row A in the circle, almost smack bang in the middle. With booking fee the total cost was just over $106.00. I calculated it as just over 5 taxi rides home from work. Sold.

I was slightly apprehensive about going out on my own to such a fine venue on a Friday night, all Billy No Mates, until a friend pointed out that I would hardly be the only single attendee for a Star Trek event. Hrumph.

Anyway. I went. And it was Bloody Brilliant. Absolutely Bloody Brilliant.

The SSO were accompanied on stage by conductor Guy Noble. He kept us all entertained with his witty asides and by reading from his 'Captains Log'. I wasn't expecting him to be so communicative but I think he enjoyed the experience as much as the audience did.

A large screen was set up behind the orchestra and scenes from the various movies were shown with each piece of music.

The first half was non Trek stuff but still had a space theme. We started off with Sprach Zarathustra, the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey along with The Blue Danube from the same film. Next up was Holst's Mars from The Planets. I've always had a soft spot for Holst thanks to my old headmaster,Mr Windridge. He used to play classical music as we filed into assembly at primary school and make us think about what we were listening to. It was an awe inspiring experience listening to the same music over 30 years later on the other side of the planet. The main difference of course was the lack of record player and presence of a symphony orchestra.

Things really ramped up after the interval. Guy Noble reappeared in a classic Trek captains shirt, much to the delight of the audience. Clips from all eleven films appeared on the screen as the music filled the concert hall. There was a slight glitch when the wrong clip was shown for the wrong piece of music - just what it with the one with the whales anyway? - but it didn't detract from the sheer brilliance of the evening. The final piece came from the most recent Star Trek movie and the accompanying footage made me want to rush straight out and buy the DVD. I couldn't do that, of course. The shops were shut and it's not even out on DVD yet. But that's just detail.

I didn't fully appreciate the genius of Jerry Goldsmith until last night. Hearing the theme tune from the original movie - subsequently used as the theme for TNG - played by a full orchestra was a moment I will savour for a long time.

The seat next to me remained empty the entire night despite having been sold. Whoever had that ticket missed out on a truly magical night. As I walked out of the Opera House I looked up at the night sky and saw the full moon in all its glory. A perfect end to a wonderful night.

To my niece

2009-08-24T19:51:00.003+10:00

My dear niece,

Tomorrow is your 21st birthday. You arrived three days before my own 21st birthday all those years ago. I'd selfishly wished for you to stay where you were for a few more days so that we could have been linked forever by our special day. I remember the day you were born, not quite as though it was yesterday but it certainly doesn't feel as though this many years have passed. Your mother had been in labour for over 24 hours before you finally arrived and the grapes I'd bought for her on the way to the hospital never made it to the delivery suite. You were small and quiet when I met you, so light I hardly felt I had anything in my arms. I cried when I held you because I loved you so completely. At the same time I missed my mother so much I thought my heart might explode with pain. You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my entire life and to this day I have yet to experience that same feeling of pure joy.

You were the first baby in the family for many years. Everyone trooped up to the hospital to see you, hold you, marvel at your tiny fingers and toes. You were given your late grandmothers name for your middle name. Her father, your great grandfather, was quietly delighted. He died some six months after you were born and you were brought to the house after the funeral. I remember holding you and feeling sorry that you would never know him.

I left the country for the first time when you were two years old. I returned when you were three. You were still tiny, curly haired and serious looking. I fell in love with you all over again. I suppose if I'm honest you were a like a practice daughter for me, practice for a child it seems I'll never have. Family members commented on the resemblence and indeed photos of you at the age of three look similar to photos of me. Small, curly haired girls staring at the lens, a generation apart.

You were joined by a younger brother three years later and I would take you both out on day trips to all the usual places. You behaved on the Tube, did a small amount of pestering in shops and always seemed reluctant to go home.

I left again when you were almost ten. Your father drove me to the airport, I was surprised to see the whole family in the car. It was a difficult journey from Leytonstone to Heathrow. You were quiet in the car, I put it down to the fact that it was very early in the morning but when you cried at the airport I wanted to change my mind and stay with you. I didn't. I made the choice to change my life and move 12,000 miles away from all my friends and family.

Sometimes I regret that decision. Sometimes, but not often. Sometimes I wonder how things might have turned out if I'd taken that other job offer and stayed in sunny E11. But two years in Australia turned into a decade and in the time that I've been living here you and your brother have grown up and grown into people that I don't know. Is that my fault? I suppose so. You know I've tried to stay in touch, find out what you're doing, what you like, what you don't like, what you want to do with your life, what you had for dinner, what you bought at the shops last week. We made a few attempts but sadly we're left with what we have, which isn't a lot.

In the last couple of years our relationship has deteriorated to an all time low. I still don't understand why you felt the need to fall out with me over my changing my surname some two years before you were born. I explained that it was done to incorporate the surname of your late grandmother and your late great grandfather but you still interpreted it as being a slight on my father. Personally, I don't give a monkeys what you think about that subject. I'm still rankled at the way you addressed me thoughout the whole matter. I look back at the breathtakingly rude way you wrote to me - at me, it felt like - and the way that you rebuffed my attempts at acknowledging your feelings and extending the olive branch. Six months later and you deleted me as a Facebook friend. Whilst that seems such a small thing to some I saw it as a deliberate way of cutting me out of your life. I was saddened but not entirely surprised and had absolutely no desire to contact you to discuss it.

So, here we are. I'm just your fathers sister who lives in Australia. It's not the relationship I envisioned when you were put into my arms 21 years ago. We don't exchange emails or texts. I'm irrelevant to your life. That makes me sad but that's just the way things are. It's also made me examine the relationship I have with my own aunts and realise that I probably haven't been the niece they wanted either.

I wonder if you'll look back one day and wish things had been different. I wonder if you'll ever make an effort to get to know me for yourself instead of listening to various family members giving you their rather colourful opinions. I wonder if I'll still be there if you decide to do that.

Your birth remains one of the most amazing events of my life. I miss you. I wish you a long and happy life with many wonderful experiences.

Happy birthday, pet.

Father Time - the bastard.

2009-07-04T18:40:00.003+10:00

I'm not as young as I used to be. I'm no longer blonde, I left school decades ago and I can't drink more than three and a half units of alcohol before calling it a night. It's not that bad in lots of ways but in other ways it's unbearable.

I'm not coping very well with the ageing process, it has to be said. I have more grey hair at my current age than my dear grandmother had at the age of 83. Hair dye keeps the Cruella De Ville-esque streak at the top of my head at bay but the lines around my eyes are growing deeper and it's safe to say that my thighs are not what they used to be.

I can cope with all that, though. What really bothers me is the relentless onslaught of AALE syndrome. Some of you may also be sufferers without knowing it. It creeps up gradually then attacks with terrifying speed. It saddens me to say it but I will have to submit soon. It's just a matter of time.

What do you mean, you've never heard of it? Surely you're familiar with Arms Aren't Long Enough Syndrome? You know, someone gives you something to read and you have to pull it out of their hands and away from your face. You wiggle it about a bit until you can focus properly. It worsens in restaurants and in poor light. It makes you look old. Really old. You consider getting glasses but the thing that puts you off is a different kind of vanity. Nothing to do with men never making passes at women in glasses (which apparently isn't true) but rather that you don't want to be the person who has to fish in her handbag to locate her spectacles before she can look at the wine list.

It's alright for short sighted people. They wear their glasses for most of the time. For them, it's not an age thing, it's a seeing thing. Some of you reading this right now are probably short sighted and wondering the hell I'm going on about. I don't blame you. You're not the ones who are struggling with the fact that your current personal space is expanding by the day just to allow you to focus on the person talking to you.

I'm fighting a losing battle, dear readers. It's just a matter of time before I have to drag myself to the opticians and get myself a pair of specs. I just hope I don't have to pick up a tartan shopping trolley on the way home.

Smelly carpets and South Australia

2009-06-22T22:13:00.003+10:00

Three weeks. I really thought I would have had something of note to say by now.

I meant to post, I really did. I meant to but somehow I just didn't. I got in from work night after night, flopped in front of the TV, spent meaningless hours in front of the TV or wasting time on the internet and just didn't get round to it.

Anyway, I'm here now. Nothing of note to say, mind you. The most interesting thing to happen to me was last Wednesday when I got home from work to find the bedroom had been flooded due to some interesting drain activity in the bathroom. This event was further complicated by me being due to get on a 'plane less than 24 hours later to fly to Adelaide. The short version - I still got on the 'plane, a man came to clean the carpet on Friday then a plumber came afterwards and flooded the bathroom again. I arrived back on Sunday to an incredibly stinky carpet and a filthy bathroom floor. I'll be sleeping on the settee until the letting agent either arranges to clean the carpet again or rips it up and replaces it.

Adelaide was lovely. The mornings and evenings were freezing but inbetween times the sun was warm and the air was clear. I stayed with an old friend who has a house on the edge of the hills. We drank wine, ate chocolate, laughed a lot and talked about times when we were younger, sillier, braver and relatively responsibility free. Three and a half days later and I'm back to rainy Sydney with a rotten head cold, I'm living in a stinky flat and I'm in a job I can't stand.

Ho hum. Still, there's always tomorrow.

Help

2009-05-27T21:18:00.002+10:00

A serious post today.

Three of my workmates are currently undergoing treatment for cancer. Three different women, three different cancers. 'Sophia' is a young, vibrant, funny, intelligent, crazy, lovable, generous woman. She's also facing cancer for the second time in a year. Her only hope of a cure is a stem cell transplant. She has no siblings and only has a 25% chance of a match with a parent. That's bad news for most of us but even worse for Sophia as she only has one parent.

I can't tell you how devastated we all are for Sophia. Not that we've given up and I know she certainly hasn't. She now has to start the search for a compatible donor and hopefully start the life saving treatment which will give her back the full life she so richly deserves.

Why am I telling you all this? I want you to help Sophia and all the other Sophias out there who need to find that person who can save their life.

I can't help. I can't donate blood in Australia due to the threat of CJD so I can't be tested to see if I can help Sophia or anyone else for that matter.

Please give blood. Please ask about other ways to help. Please. You might be able to save someones life.

http://www.blood.co.uk/pages/b5simple.html

http://www.cancerhelp.org.uk/help/default.asp?page=4852#choice

http://www.donateblood.com.au/

http://www.abmdr.org.au/dynamic_menus.php?id=1&subid=1&menuid=17&mainid=1&ssid=1

http://www.marrow.org/DONOR/When_You_re_Asked_to_Donate_fo/Donation_FAQs/index.html

Live long and prosper

2009-05-13T18:49:00.005+10:00

Two posts in one week. You lucky people.

Why I am bothering you again so soon? I don't know, really. Probably because I've annoyed everyone at work by talking about Star Trek and Doctor Who for the last three days so it's your turn.

So - Star Trek. Don't worry, I'm not going to talk about the plot. I would ask commenters to refrain from doing so at the moment as one of our regular readers is going tomorrow night and I don't want to spoil it for her.
What I will say is that I thought it was spectacularly good. I was a bit apprehensive but it grabbed me within the first ten minutes and I was there till the very end. I cried, I laughed, I jumped up and down in my seat, I clapped (quietly), I watched through my fingers, I laughed again, nodded approvingly and jumped up and down a bit more. I don't think that prior Trek knowledge is required but there are plenty of nods for the fans. I'm going to watch it again at the weekend.

I wasn't always a Star Trek fan. My older brother used to watch it but to be honest I found it all a bit boring. Star Trek (or TOS as it's known by the obsessives) always seemed quite sexist to me. Yes, there were a couple of women but they didn't really seem to do much. Uhura picked up signals via that massive earring and told the boys about them and they went to a strange planet, had a fight, won and came back. It didn't really grab me.

Star Trek - The Next Generation (yes, TNG) was more my cup of tea. Here was a Star Trek I liked, more equal, more cerebral, more interesting. Whilst the series hasn't stood the test of time it certainly had me hooked in the 90s. I loved Picard, had a strange crush on Worf and wanted to be an empath like Deanna Troi, even though I knew it wasn't possible. TNG gave us the irrepressible Q and the Borg, the most fearsome sci-fi enemy since the sinister plunger wielding pepperpots themselves.

Deep Space Nine was less than interesting to me, I never liked the idea of a fixed station and couldn't warm to the Bajorans, no matter how hard I tried. They had a silly way of clapping for starters. The Kardassians were just plain ugly and that Latinum loving Ferenghi was like a big eared toad. Worf was introduced as a regular and it picked up slightly but to be perfectly honest if they'd all been sucked into the wormhole I wouldn't have cared one iota.

Voyager. Finally, a captain I could relate to. Janeway tried diplomacy then theatened to blow any enemies to smithereens. Well, not always. But you knew she had it in her. We had the enigmatic Tuvok, so beautifully Vulcan in every way.I so desperately wanted them to get home safely even though I knew that would be the end of the story.

Enterprise. No. Sorry. I watched two episodes and that was two too many.

So here we are again in 2009 and a new Trek. The future is bright, people.

A walk down Memory Lane

2009-05-11T18:48:00.003+10:00

I really do seem to have slacked off here lately, don't I? I have no particular excuse. Work is annoying as always, I still work with a collection of psychopaths and lazy fuckers. Still, nothing will change short term so I continue to mutter darkly under my breath and plot their demise using the power of thought alone. I'll let you know how it goes.

I was thinking the other day about my old school. I had a great time at school, not so much at my second secondary (tricky, that) school but all the others were great.

I remember watching a TV programme once where a man had been held hostage for a prolonged period. He said he used to pass the time by retracing the route he used to take when walking to school as a boy. I've never forgotten this and from time to time I find myself picking one of my schools (I went to five in total) and walking there in my mind.

The least interesting of these trips is the one to my favourite primary school which basically involved leaving home, turning left and walking past three other dwellings before walking through the school gates. That one was particularly handy.

I suppose the longest one was to my first secondary school. The walk took just over 40 minutes at a brisk pace and slightly longer in winter due to the snow. I doubt todays schoolchildren would be able to accomplish such a feat without stopping for Coke and a Mars Bar at least twice along the way or calling their mothers on their fancy mobile 'phones and whining that their legs ached. Alas, a lift in a warm car was not an option for me and so after a bowl of Ready Brek I would set off, hoping that my face would not freeze and fall off before reaching my destination.

I can remember every step of that walk. Sometimes I lay in bed at night and walk to school in my mind. I pass the houses, cross the main road, pass a corner shop, walk down the 'cut' till I get to the Rec ground and walk over an unispiring field before reaching another main road. I plod down the main road before turning into a smaller street and see the school gates in front of me.

I went to the anal retentive lengths of digging out my A-Z and looking at my school route. It can't cover more than a mile. And yet surprisingly after all these years I was pretty spot on with a path that I only followed for just under a year over 30 years ago.

I don't 'walk to school' very often but when I do it always makes me feel melancholy. Sometimes I wish I didn't live so far away.

Intermission

2009-05-04T20:19:00.002+10:00

I know, I know. I'm a slack tart.

I do have an idea for a post but I don't have the concentration span at present. Here's a joke instead. You need to read it out loud.

Ready?

A chicken goes into a library and approaches the librarian.

"Book book?" he asks.

The librarian gives the chicken two books. The chicken leaves.

An hour later the chicken comes back into the library and puts the two books on the desk.

"Book book? Book book?" he asks.

The librarian gives the chicken four books. The chicken leaves.

An hour later the chicken comes back and puts the four books on the desk.

"Book book? Book book? Book book? he asks.

The librarian gives the chicken six books. The chicken leaves.

The librarian is understandingly curious about how the chicken is managing to read the books so quickly so he decides to follow the chicken and see what he's up to. He follows the chicken across the road - oh yes, I went there - and further along the road until the chicken reaches a pond. The librarian watches as the chicken places the books in front of a frog. The frog looks at each book and says,

"Read it. Read it."

Did you like it? You did, didn't you? You liked it. I knew you would.

Not happy

2009-04-15T20:27:00.003+10:00

I'm not happy, readers. Not one little bit.

The Devil has been using my handbag for his own defaecation lately and it's about time it stopped. I've had three episodes of bad luck recently and I'm hoping I've seen the end of it.

Episode one involved a rather nasty infection which saw me ending up spending 20 hours in hospital attached to a drip and being pumped full of antibiotics. I got no sleep, the food was atrocious (not that I had an appetite) and I was well and truly out of my comfort zone. All better now, though.

Episode two centres around a bizarre pain in my left foot. Don't expect to see me appearing in my own autobiographical film any time soon. It's been so painful that I've had to have time off work as I can't fully weight bear without swearing like a navvy. A scan result showed peroneal tendonosis (chronic degeneration) as well as a ganglion. I'm having an injection under Xray next week.

Episode three is the most painful. Without going into too much detail I have been successfully sued by a previous tenant of my spacious abode in sunny Leytonstone. It's all to do with damage caused, a deposit not refunded and some new law which means that the slack tart who caused the damage got not only her deposit returned but over £2000 to go with it. Yes, that's three zeros. The agent managed to fit himself out in a Teflon suit and got off Scott free. Needless to say I'm in the process of changing agents as I type.

A more minor irritation happened when I inadvertently wiped a couple of ring tones from my mobile. These included my TARDIS and 'exterminate' tones. I am not happy. Not.

Anyhoo. Let's end on a high. I leave you with Bizkit, the sleeping dog. He makes me happy.

"So, what have you been up to?"

2009-04-03T20:46:00.003+11:00

I received a message on Facebook the other day from 'Beth'. It asked if I was the SSS who'd worked at a particular hospital in the 80s and asked me to email her.

Beth and I were friends during our nurse training. She was the year behind me and lived in the same corridor in the nurses home. We talked about the usual things; crappy shifts, evil ward sisters, politics, the NHS and unreliable boyfriends. We drank hot chocolate and ate biscuits. Beth was a great friend during difficult times.

I met 'David' at a section house party on the Lea Bridge Road one alcohol fuelled evening in the late eighties. I had the hots for David's friend and he had the hots for one of my friends. Both relationships lasted all of five minutes and David and I continued to see each other as friends. It was a very easy friendship and nothing more.

One evening David came to see me but told me that he wasn't stopping, he was actually visiting someone else in the nurses home. It turned out that David and Beth had met at a party and hit it off. The relationship went well and finally they married. We kept in touch for a several years, they moved to Norfolk and I visited them there a few times. They moved house again, I didn't get a forwarding address, I made a couple of attempts at contact but failed. That was that.

About two years ago I received a friend request from David. He was still married to Beth and they still lived in Norfolk. I asked him about Beth and he said he'd tell her to contact me. She never did. He set his profile to private after about six months and he only reappeared a few months ago. And then last week I got the message from Beth.

What do you say? What can you possibly say when someone asks you to condense almost 20 years in an email?

'Well, I moved to Australia as you can see. I still work as a nurse. No husband, no kids. Forget what they say about those hunky Aussie males, nudge nudge, wink wink! I come back to the UK occasionally but not often. I'm still in contact with Anna but I no longer see Jane/Sarah/Natalie/Donna. Do you?

How are the kids? They must be so grown up now. Are you still nursing? What about David? Is he still with the police? Write soon and tell me all your news.'

Quite frankly, readers, I'd rather eat brussel sprouts with a cinammon topping than send that email. The very thought of it depresses me beyond words. And yet what do I do?

Naturally I'm curious about what she's been up to, how her life has changed, whether or not she's the same Beth who I used to walk round to the chip shop with after a late shift and discuss how much we hated our training. But where do we go after that first email? It'll just peter out and we'll be out of each others lives again.

I'll answer the email, of course. It'll go very much along the lines of the reply I outlined. I'll try to make it funny and interesting but that won't stop it from boiling down to 'still nursing, live in Australia, no not married and no kids.'

The children of Dunblane and the Express

2009-03-19T18:33:00.003+11:00

I'm spitting about this one, really spitting. The British press have always been a shower of shitheads but they've sunk to an all time low.

Dunblane is a small town in Scotland. It has four primary schools and one secondary school. Most people had never heard of Dunblane until the morning of 13th of March 1996. That was the day that Thomas Hamilton, a 43 year old local man, walked into Dunblane Primary School and shot 16 children and their teacher dead before turning the gun on himself. The children were in the gymnasium. Some of them tried to run away. Some were injured. They were aged between 5 and 6 years old.

I still remember where I was when I heard the news. I cried that day for those children, their teacher, their friends and family. Thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes. I can't begin to articulate how I felt and still do. Anniversaries have been and gone and I've wondered about the parents of the murdered children. I've also wondered about those who survived, hoping they've been able to get on with their lives after such unspeakable trauma.

Seems I'm not the only one who wondered. There's a shitstorm brewing over a venomous - and pointless - article which was published in the Sunday Express. The front page story alleged that survivors of the massacre had "shamed" the memory of their dead friends by boasting about drunken nights out on social networking websites.

Paula Murray, the Express hack in question, used the headline "Anniversary shame of Dunblane: internet boasts of sex, drink and violence as youngsters hit 18". The article was published on the 8th of March, one week before the anniversary. Its premise was that some of those who witnessed the massacre first-hand had "posted shocking blogs and photographs of themselves on the internet, 13 years after being sheltered from public view in the aftermath of the atrocity".

The main crime committed by these private citizens who had one suffered the trauma of being shot at whilst in their PE kit seemed to be that one of them - who had been injured in the massacre - making posts on a networking site, which it claimed showed them making "rude gestures" in pictures and boasting of "drunken nights out".

Well, fuck me. Teenagers acting like teenagers. Who'd have thought it? What did Paula Murray think they were going to do? Don sackcloth and ashes? Spend the rest of their lives in quiet contemplation? Stay home and cry every day?

The Express has since quietly withdrawn the story from its website but the cat is out of the bag and it's screaming its head off. Here's a link to an excellent piece by Graham Linehan, including a PDF of the original front page. Here's another cracking piece where a Blogger examines the personal life of the author of the pile of shit. There's also a Facebook group with over 3000 members.

Quite why someone thought it would be a good idea to publish a story about a group of eighteen year olds drinking alcohol, having sex and generally behaving like teenagers is beyond me. I would imagine that both Paula Murray and the editor of the Express will have plenty of time to reflect on whether it was worth invading the privacy of young people who had once feared for their lives at an age where the rest of us were worrying about whether or not our mothers had remembered to pick up our favourite comic from the newsagents.

Oh Happy Day

2009-03-17T20:25:00.002+11:00

I have loved these women for years. Years and years. Female comedians in a mans industry and not only that but really, really funny female comedians. From their early work on The Comic Strip Presents to Girls on Top and then to their own series French and Saunders I watched with pride as they became high profile comedians up on the same level - if not higher - with some of the boys at the time. They were my favourites on Comic Relief. I remember watching the original sketch which was the inspiration for Absolutely Fabulous. I loved the Vicar of Dibley. I loved it all.

Now they've announced the end of their touring days and predictable tickets are rarer than hens teeth. I spent fruitless hours on the internet yesterday trying to get through but to no avail. Today I thought I'd give it one last go.

Guess who's got two tickets to see French and Saunders on the 1st of July at 8pm then?

Chocolate is an everyday food. Discuss.

2009-03-12T17:15:00.003+11:00

A report of a most alarming nature caught my eye today. I don't mind telling you, dear readers, that I'm quite distraught. If Dr David Walker gets his way we're all doomed.

David Walker? Who's he? He's a Scottish GP who wants to bring misery to millions by taxing chocolate.

Oh yes, your eyes are not deceiving you. This white coated wowser wants to make us pay more for what is essentially an entire good group.

'Dr Walker, who is also a trained food scientist and nutritionist, told the BBC news website: "Obesity is a mushrooming problem. We are heading the same way as the United States.
"There is an explosion of obesity and the related medical conditions, like type 2 diabetes. I see chocolate as a major player in this, and I think a tax on products containing chocolate could make a real difference." '

Difference to the tax coffers, yes. Does he really think anyone is going to think twice before buying that bag of Revels or that delicious Twix?

Not surprisingly the idea has ready met with some resistance.

'Julian Hunt, of the Food and Drink Federation, said: "Introducing regressive taxes on the foods that consumers love would result only in lighter wallets, not smaller waists - particularly as we already have to pay VAT on all our chocolate purchases. '

But don't panic. Dr Walker will be taking his proposal to a British Medical Assocation meeting in Scotland where it will be discussed then pushed to one side. I can't really see it going anywhere.

You might want to stock up at the weekend, though. Just in case.

Fast Food - It's an Emergency

2009-03-05T20:47:00.006+11:00

Anyone here ever called 999? 000? 911? 112 (or whatever the European number is)?

I have. I called for the fire brigade once. I was just leaving the Alfred Hitchcock pub after having a couple of medicinal G&Ts and some cheese & onion crisps when I noticed what seemed to be a medium sized fire on the land straight opposite. Oooh, I thought, a real emergency. I dialled 999 and a very nice person answered, I told them what I needed to and they sent a nice, shiny fire engine. That was that.

So, what would make you call? A fire? A car accident? Someone having a heart attack? What about if the people at McDonalds took your money and wouldn't give it back?

That's exactly what this woman did. Twenty seven year old Florida resident Latreasa Goodman resorted to calling 911 when a transaction at her local McDonalds failed to go her way. Apparently the cashier took her order for chicken nuggets as well as her cash but refused to refund the money when the nuggets ran out, offering an alternative meal instead.

When told by the police that failure to obtain the junk food hit of her choice was not an emergency, the young chicken fan replied, "This is an emergency. If I would have known they didn't have McNuggets, I wouldn't have given my money, and now she wants to give me a McDouble, but I don't want one. This is an emergency."

It wasn't the nuggets, it was the principle. "When you feel that you've been mistreated or misused or robbed out of your money, you have the right to call 911," Goodman opined. "That's the purpose of 911, so I thought."

Sometimes you just can't make it up. She's twenty seven years old and she's using the police in a way that an eight year old would use their mummy. I'm sure I'd be annoyed if the staff wouldn't give me a refund but I'd have to be either wildly hormonal or incredibly stoopid to call the emergency services to sort it out. Imagine the call.

"Help, I need an urgent response from the police. Ronald McDonald has got my $2.50 and he won't give it back. Send a SWAT team and maybe get them to stop by another McDonalds. I need me some chicken nuggets."

Apparently she's facing a fine for inappropriate use of the emergency services. She called 3 times. Three times. Must've been really hungry.

Just popping in

2009-03-03T21:40:00.003+11:00

Sorry, everyone. I've been rather slack.

I don't have anything to say today, I was sort of formulating a post in my head today when I was walking along the beautiful coastline (had to get that in) but I don't have an ending.

I can't even post a LOLcat. My skills have all deserted me. I'll try and come up with something by the end of the week.

Anyway, how are the rest of you?

Normal service has been resumed

2009-02-18T21:48:00.003+11:00

Back at work for three days and the urge to kill is at an all time peak. Oh yes. I'm back.

Monday wasn't too bad, almost pleasant. Tuesday started with a row of epic proportions with the departments biggest fuckwit. I ended up raising my voice to another human being at 2 minutes to 8 due to being subjected to a barrage of fuckwittage - details if I can be arsed later - which was compounded 2 minutes after that when I entered my department to be confronted by two people looking for something which should have been done during my holiday.

*Brief explanation needed - a new theatre was opened which had a drug safe installed. The safe has a key. Each theatre has two keys, one for the drug safe and one for a central cupboard which contains another drug. No one had obtained a key for the central cupboard in the last two weeks.*

I felt justified in blowing up at this point - what was it, two minutes past eight - at being asked about the whereabouts of a key that some fucker could have organised two weeks ago. Needless to say I put the key onto the key chain myself this very afternoon.

Tuesday just got worse, v busy and lots of people going on about another thing that should have been done during my holiday in December, if you don't mind. It's been dealt with today.

I was late for work this morning due to my own slackness but I was even later than I should have been as the next bus was late and came with a companion bus. To top off my distress I had to wait 35 - count them - 35 minutes before I could even get on a bus to get home. I walked in, turned the TV on to watch The Biggest Loser and promptly rang out for a pizza.

Still, on a positive note, tomorrow is Thursday. Nearly Friday. I can't wait.

Out of the darkness

2009-02-12T10:57:00.004+11:00

It's been a difficult week here for Australians.

I'm sure you've all seen the news about the recent bushfires and the horrific loss of 181 lives. Thousands of people are homeless. Communities are broken. And yet in all of this darkness and misery there are rays of light.

$53 million dollars has been raised since Sunday to go towards helping those who suffered get back on their feet. Children have given their pocket money. Banks have chipped in, concerts have given their nights takings, sporting events have handed over their takings and team fees. Most supermarkets have collection boxes at the till and people are stuffing them with notes and small change. We've all forgotten about the economic crisis and we've focused on what matters. Each other.

And finally, more koalas. Sam nearly died but she was one of the lucky ones. She's safe and she's even found herself a boyfriend. The video shows her initial rescue. I defy you to watch the clip and not smile.

If you haven't already given, please do so if you can.

Red Cross

Bendigo Bank

Wildlife Victoria

Victorian Dog Rescue

Thanks to ms crankypants for the animal links.

Sick.

2009-02-09T11:22:00.006+11:00

Bloody typical. Here I am off on holiday and I find myself struck down with the lurgy.

It started innocently enough. A bit of a runny nose on Wednesday, sore throat on Thursday, swollen glands and continued sore throat on Friday, runny nose, sore throat and headache on Saturday, cough and general malaise on Saturday night to DETH by snot accompanied by a dry, sore persistent cough on Sunday morning.

I made an emergency 'cereal, milk and Sunday papers' call to a friend in the morning. She arrived within the hour and had thoughtfully included a packet of chocolate biscuits to the order which she thrust towards me at arms length. "You look terrible," she muttered as she ran towards her car.

I spent the morning alternating between shivering and sweating, blowing my nose and moaning softly with self pity. Later in the day I called a doctor friend and threw myself on her mercy. "You sound terrible," she said. "My daughter is upstairs in bed with the same thing. She's like death." She came with antibiotics* and delivered them with the same arms length approach. "It'll be about a week!" she called cheerily over her shoulder as I wobbled back towards the settee.

I think I've given off enough heat in the last 24 hours to power a small village. I've had litres of water from my little Tupperware drinking bottle. I've had more Paracetamol than I should have and the pain in my ears is driving me insane. I'm staying away from members of the public due to a) my infectious status b) my general patheticness and c) I'm breathing through my mouth and it makes me look stoopid.

I don't mind being sick. That's not to say that I like it but I recognise that illness is par for the course. What I do mind is being sick when I'm off on annual leave and particularly because my cousin and her husband are here from the UK and I'm stuck here filling up tissues and coughing like a consumptive.

I wasn't sick much when I was a kid but I have fond memories of being looked after. Clean sheets, boiled lemonade, jelly and evaporated milk and a cool hand on my brow. Fast forward 30 years and I'm putting my own sheets in the washing machine and have no one to boil my lemonade or make my favourite food. Bummer.

Oh well. I've got some chocolate biscuits and four Doctor Who box sets. I'm going to bed in clean sheets and I've got those nice tissues with aloe vera and eucalyptus in them. Things could be a lot worse. And I've taken the liberty of using this bout of lurgy to post gratuitous pictures of my favourite doctors. I'm sure they will assist with my recovery. I can dream, can't I?

*yes, I know, I shouldn't really be taking antibiotics but I want to get well as soon as possible and I haven't taken them for absolutely years. There. I've rationalised it all quite nicely.

Friday funnies

2009-02-06T07:27:00.005+11:00

Just a little peace offering after not posting for ages. I got these in emails yesterday. Don't you just love his little furry face? They're out of synch in the post but you get the idea.

These are sentences allegedly typed by medical secretaries. I've heard a couple before but they're still funny. To me, anyway............

1. The patient has no previous history of suicides.

2. Patient has left her white blood cells at another hospital.

3. Patient's medical history has been remarkably insignificant with only a 40 pound weight gain in the past three days.
4. She has no rigors or shaking chills, but her husband states she was very hot in bed last night.

5. Patient has chest pain if she lies on her left side for over a year.

6. On the second day the knee was better and on the third day it disappeared.

7. The patient is tearful and crying constantly. She also appears to be depressed.

8. The patient has been depressed since she began seeing me in 1993.

9. Discharge status:- Alive, but without my permission.

10. Healthy appearing decrepit 69-year old male, mentally alert, but forgetful.

11. Patient had waffles for breakfast and anorexia for lunch.

12. She is numb from her toes down.

13. While in ER, she was examined, x-rated and sent home.

14. The skin was moist and dry.

15. Occasional, constant infrequent headaches.

16. Patient was alert and unresponsive.

17. Rectal examination revealed a normal size thyroid.

18. She stated that she had been constipated for most of her life until she got a divorce.

19. Both breasts are equal and reactive to light and accommodation.

20 Examination of genitalia reveals that he is circus sized.

21. The lab test indicated abnormal lover function.

22. Skin: somewhat pale, but present.

23. The pelvic exam will be done later on the floor.

24. Large brown stool ambulating in the hall.

25. Patient has two teenage children, but no other abnormalities

26. When she fainted, her eyes rolled around the room.

27. The patient was in his usual state of good health until his airplane ran out of fuel andcrashed.

28. Between you and me, we ought to be able to get this lady pregnant.

39. She slipped on the ice and apparently her legs went in separate directions in earlyDecember.

30. Patient was seen in consultation by Dr. Smith, who felt we should sit on the abdomen andI agree.

31. The patient was to have a bowel resection. However, he took a job as a stock brokerinstead.

32. By the time he was admitted, his rapid heart had stopped, and he was feeling better.

Happy Holidays - again

2009-02-04T18:07:00.004+11:00

Sorry, folks. I've been a bit slack with updates. What can I say? It's summer, it's hot, I'm not snowed in.........

Alright. That was a bit mean. So, what have I been up to? Not a lot. My return to work was a rude awakening, the first shift turned unexpectedly from 8 hours into 12 long hours of working non stop and resulted in very tired and aching legs . The following day two people were off sick, requiring some reprioritising and juggling. The third day was a blur and the fourth day found half the nursing staff in the pub at days end, myself being the first one in there. Which was nice.

I'm on holiday again now as one of my cousins is visiting the fair city of Sydney along with her husband. It's an excellent excuse to take more time off work to make myself 'available' for sightseeing and ad hoc tour guide duties. The weather has been perfect and they're enjoying themselves immensely. The three of us are off on a wine tasting trip tomorrow to the Hunter Valley with lunch being held at one of my favourite breweries. They do the best - and the only - alcoholic ginger beer I've ever tasted.

There was something I was going to go on about today but I wouldn't have a clue what it was. That's the thing about summertime. It turns me into a complete sloth. My moments of rage fade rapidly because I'm too hot to stay annoyed. A great loss to the blog, I feel but it's wonderful for my blood pressure.

I'll try and get annoyed by something soon, I promise.

Spare some change, guv?

2009-01-23T19:46:00.002+11:00

I'm warning you all now that this post is a shameless plug for one of my favourite charities.

Children and animals, they're my weak spot. Show me an animal suffering and I'll weep like a baby. Show me a child suffering and I'll weep and get mad.

Plan International is a non religious charity which offers child sponsorship in developing countries. I'd heard of them some years ago but they came to prominence with the release of the film About Schmidt. Jack Nicholson's character sponsors a child in Tanzania and writes her bizarre, rambling letters. Being a cold, hard atheist I liked the idea of a secular charity and indeed Plan are able to work with children in some countries where religious charities have no access. Win win, I thought, and so I took the plunge.

I've been sponsoring a little girl called Nadia for some time now. Nadia is the youngest of three daughters and lives in a Bangladeshi village. She's never going to have the opportunities that I had and I can't think of many worse things than being a girl in a country where boys are seen as prized possessions.

I've never received begging letters from Plan asking for more money and I've only ever received two 'phone calls. One was a call welcoming me and thanking me for sponsoring Nadia. I waited for the person at the other end of the line to ask me for more money but they didn't. They just wanted to say thank you. I was incredibly touched.

The second call came last week. The man at the other end thanked me for my continued support and hesitated a bit. I knew what was coming. "I wouldn't ask," he said, "but do you think there's any chance you could take on another sponsorship? We've lost a lot of sponsors lately."

I told him that I would look into my finances and see if I can take on another child. I also told him that I would spread the word and ask my friends, family and workmates if they were interested. I'm also asking you, dear readers. If you can't help, ask a friend. I know money is tight for all of us this year but I hate to see a wonderful charity who never hassle me go short.

I hate to ask. I just don't like to think of all those children who don't have anyone to care. If any of you have a few spare bob - and it's really not that much - please think about sponsoring a child.

Thank you. Plug over.

Tony Hart RIP

2009-01-19T08:43:00.004+11:00

Another childhood icon has shuffled off this mortal coil. Tony Hart has died at the age of 83 and the world is poorer for his passing.

As children most of the TV we watched was on the BBC. Not for us the trendy Magpie but programmes such as sensible but informative Blue Peter with its gentle tones, sticky back plastic and pets and the excellent Vision On with Tony Hart. It was a revolutionary show for its time because it was a show specifically for deaf children. There weren't that many shows in the seventies which featured a woman doing sign language at peak viewing time and I was transfixed. There was Pat Keysall, mime artists (including Sylvester McCoy) and artwork but more importantly there was Tony and his art.

A gentle and friendly soul, Tony worked his magic on the screen and his artwork held me spellbound. I was never much good in the art department, unco ordinated and with an attention span the size of a full stop, I could never make anything that even I found attractive but that didn't stop me watching Tony and wanting to try that little bit harder. Each week I would watch the gallery of childrens pictures flash past and wish that I could make something worthy of being shown on the screen. Sadly, my cackhanded attempts with string, glitter and glue were....well quite frankly they were crap but at least I had a go. Tony moved on from Vision On with Take Hart and we met Morph, his plasticine friend. Tony would talk to Morph and he would respond in an incomprehensible language but I knew what he was saying.

All over the internet people are talking about Tony and how he inspired them. There's an army of grown up children of the seventies who were as art challenged as me but who watched his shows and wanted to try harder. I think I may have said the same thing about Oliver Postgate last year but I hope Tony realised just what a huge impact he had on us all and how we loved him.

The picture in todays post is doing the rounds. It choked me up. Silly, isn't it? Bet I'm not the only one.

RIP, Tony. Thanks for everything.

Nothing to see here

2009-01-17T09:03:00.004+11:00

Yes, I'm still here. This lengthy holiday is definately agreeing with me. I'm much less irritable - although I did have a shouting match a couple of weeks ago with a man who was beeping his horn at someone else but annoyed me in the process - and sleeping much better. I sleep past 7am and go to bed late because, well, because I can, really. As predicted I've done as little as possible and I still have a week to go. I've struggled with the crossword, had too many cups of coffee, made a couple of pathetic attempts at housework, read a couple of books, painted my nails, caught up with friends, gone to the cinema a couple of times and had a couple of very damp paddling sessions with a friends children. It's all been quite lovely.

I went to the zoo last week with another friend and her two daughters. It was incredibly hot, the children wanted to run between exhibits with no discernable plan or pattern and as a result we missed the seal show. Here's a couple of shots. The giraffes have the best view in Sydney. And who doesn't love koalas?

My morning walk

2009-01-06T12:42:00.002+11:00

Ah, Sydney in the summertime. This is why I live where I do, readers. All of these shots were taken this morning when I went for a little stroll in the sunshine.

The most popular coastal walk in the Eastern Suburbs is the Bondi to Bronte. Some of you may have done this walk. It's a nice walk. It's very busy and you stand a high chance of being shoved out of the way by a fitness fanatic/serious exercise type who will hurtle past you with a sense of entitlement - don't you know only the serious exercise people have got the right to do the Bondi to Bronte - but yes, it's a lovely walk.

There's also the Bronte to Coogee walk which in my opinion is much nicer. It's also more challenging as there's more of the uphill stuff going on but it's also quieter as most of the 'serious exercise' types only do the Bondi to Bronte because that's the place to be seen. That suits the rest of us just fine. If you're really serious you can do the Coogee to Bondi walk with the added bonus of being able to fall into one of Bondi's many watering holes at the end of it.

There's also a more gentle walk which is ideal for those days when the temperature is 30 degrees and that's the walk I did this morning. It's probably only a couple of kilometres but the Coogee to Maroubra walk is very scenic. Quite flat but very nice. I did part of it this morning and here are the shots. The very first shot is Coogee beach.

Okay, so I'm no photographer but I think I've done a reasonable job with my mobile 'phone. I hope you like them.

And the winner is........

2009-01-04T18:35:00.004+11:00

Matt Smith. A 26 year old from Northampton will be the 11th actor to play the 903 year old lonely Time Lord from Gallifrey. The news broke yesterday and the geek forums are in meltdown. And yes, I was on one of them just after 5am this morning.

Hmmm. My first impression is that he's a little young, in fact I'm old enough to be his mother (if I'd been one of those girls at school who took Sex Education way too far) but from what I've seen of his acting I think he'll do well. David Tennant is going to be hard act to follow.

Good luck, Matt. See you in 2010.

Update from Lazybones

2009-01-03T19:22:00.003+11:00

And so this is Christmas, and what have you done, another year over.......oh, hang on, we've done that bit.

Well, here we are in 2009 and I am completely lacking in inspiration. My clothes are all tight, the floor needs Hoovering and I haven't left the house before 11am in the last fortnight. How is it? Blissful.

I'm not one of those people who make New Years resolutions, nor do I sit down and the start of the year and make a list of goals. I'm way too lazy for that. My sole contribution to personal organisation 2009 stylie has been to organise the massive pile of papers that had been growing on the kitchen table as well as going through a stack of DVDs in the vain hope of finding a couple of blank ones. This mammoth task occured today. By 3pm the place looked like a bomb had gone off in a recycling factory. I chose this time to try the pomegranate juice I'd bought the other day (it looked interesting) and watch some very bad TV. After an hour of procrastination I started again. I'm still not finished. There's a lot of stuff scattered across the floor but I'm loathe to pick it up because then I'll be reminded that the carpet needs Hoovering and I don't have the inclination to do that for at least a couple of days. There are bad things about living alone and there are good things. Not having to tidy up if you don't feel like it is a Very Good Thing.

In other news, marvellous news in the form of a knighthood for Terry Pratchett. Terry is one of my favourite authors and I like to see people I like getting nice things. It's as simple as that.

Secondly, I'm waiting for The Announcement. I've had some time to get used to the idea that David Tennant is going and I'm looking forward to finding out who will piloting the TARDIS in 2010. By the time most of you read this the announcement will have been made. I have absolutely no idea who it will be.

What else......not a lot, really. There's been nothing happening so there's nothing to say. Now if you'll excuse me I've got a sinkful of washing up to ignore.

Hot in the city

2008-12-28T19:38:00.003+11:00

Christ on a bike it's hot. Sorry, I know the UK and other non Antipodean people didn't need to know that but it is. Phew, what a scorcher, as The Currant Bun would say. I've had the fan on for most of the afternoon, it's after 8pm and it's still on. Not that I'm complaining, oh no. Well, maybe just a bit.

What I do want to complain about - and I am fully aware of the hypocrisy of the whinge - is the bloody backpackers and other beach invaders who, tempted by the promise of sand without shingle, ice cold water and a veritable fleshfest, invade the beach during the holiday season. They drive me insane.

Yes, yes, I can hear you now. Listen to Little Miss 'I Grew up in the Midlands Absobloodylutely Miles from The Sea and Now I Live by The Beach, Yes, Only Two Roads Back and Yes I Can See the Sea from the Bus Stop' SSS. And you'd be right. I did indeed grow up nowhere near a beach and yes, you'd think I'd be more than happy to welcome other visitors to my little piece of Paradise. Not bloody likely.

Firstly, these interlopers have no idea how to use public transport. They generally travel in packs and without fail the first pink faced sunseeker will ask the driver if the bus goes to Chigley*. Yes, fuckwit, the bus goes to Chigley, it says so on the front. So far so good. How much is it to go to Chigley? $3.00. Pinkface gets out his wallet and struggles to locate the fare. Are his fellow sunseekers at this very moment outside the bus getting their money out? No. Will at least three more of them ask if the bus goes to Chigley? Yes. Can you numpties not communicate with each other? And why are you all paying separately? Why the fuck can't one of your group pay everyones fare then give the three bucks back on the bus? No, far too straightforward, far too efficient. Meanwhile, the rest of us (I've already dipped my ticket and am on the bus sitting down) have to wait like roasting chickens while you all giggle and take your time boarding.

And another thing. Don't sit at the front. Those seats are for people who really need them, not for you great lumps to sit taking up two seats per person by stretching your legs out and putting your dirty trotters up next to you. Move to the back. Don't you dare sit there laughing and pretending you can't see the old ladies and gents who look at you with dismay then stagger uncomfortably further along. Unless you're 7 months pregnant or in plaster I don't want to see you down front.

Your bag doesn't need a seat. I don't care if it's heavy, I really don't. People shouldn't stand up just because you can't afford the taxi fare to the train station. Get your effing backpack off the seat and let someone put their arse down.

Once at the beach, please observe the etiquette. It makes life more pleasant for everyone and makes you look less like a dickhead. Mind you, the nylon football shirt you're wearing marks you out straight away but we can overlook that. Having said that, quite why the four Irish girls who live in the flat upstairs went out in their on Christmas Day is beyond me. Wouldn't you make more of an effort at Christmas?

Anyway, back to the matter at hand.

1. Don't get drunk and go into the sea. You're not at Southend now. Yes, it looks inviting but jump in there with a belly full of booze and you'll get into trouble. The lifesavers don't really want to rescue stupid 15 stone oafs whose sole swimming experience is managing to do a length of the pool at primary school then doing nothing but divebombing the pool in Tenerife . And if you're sober, please swim between the flags. Not that I'm suggesting you can get drunk and get into trouble in the patrolled area but it certainly makes life easier for the people who give up their own time to make sure you don't drown.

2. Don't play football where little kids are making sandcastles. Bugger off up to the grassed area and do it.

3. Please take your rubbish with you when you stagger back up to the bus stop. That goes for the locals too.

4. Don't get outrageously drunk in the local pub and start fights. It's embarrassing and unnecessary.

And for crying out loud, use sunscreen. Yes, you do need factor 30. Much as the locals find the steady procession of bright red people entertaining, it can't make sleeping easy, not to mention the fact that you might end up with skin cancer.

Sorry, my lovelies. Do come and visit. Just watch out for a short, tanned brunette giving you the evil eye. You'll be breaking a rule without even knowing it.

You can see that the heat makes me just a little bit tetchy, can't you? Mind you, on an entertaining note, it's making me nice and brown and yes, I'm taking my own advice and wearing sunscreen. I got a good laugh when someone asked me what number spraytan I was wearing. I didn't even know spraytans had numbers. And I got a good result in the sales when I bought a skirt for $33.00. I bought the same one in a different colour not three weeks ago and it cost $99.00. Now, if I could just eat enough lettuce to get it to fit I'd be even happier.

Ho ho ho

2008-12-24T21:24:00.002+11:00

Just a quick post from me today. It's Christmas Eve, 9.30pm and I'm alternating between wrapping presents and making tomorrows trifle. Sadly the custard making didn't go to plan and I ended up shoving it through a sieve. Oh, the shame. And no, I couldn't buy the ready made stuff because it's the wrong consistency. Still, it's going to taste nice and I've got a Flake ready to crumble over the top when the cream goes on. Mmmmmm.

Still. Here I am, a confirmed atheist preparing for a Christian festival. I console myself with the knowledge that the Christians just plonked it on top of the original Midwinter fun n' frolics so as far as I'm concerned that's okay. Besides, it's a chance to eat like there's no tomorrow. I'll be spending the day with friends but I have a small jar of pickled onions and a packet of Ritz crackers to eat at my leisure.

I hope you all have a lovely time over the next few days and here's to 2009, whatever it may bring.

Hurrah!

2008-12-13T20:30:00.004+11:00

This post is brought to you from a very happy SSS. Yesterday was my last day of work for 2008 and I don't return to St Elsewhere until the 27th of January 2009. On top of this I shall only be returning to work for four whole days before taking a further two weeks off. I will happily be meeting up with regular reader/occasional commenter Ambridge Fan of Chelmsford, who is leaving chilly Essex for some Australian sunshine. Fear not, dear readers, she's not a cyberstalker but a much loved relative. There will be walking, shopping, sightseeing and we may even watch the odd episode of Doctor Who together. I'd like her to do the Bridge Climb with me but for some reason she doesn't want to. Something to do with fear of heights. I'm calling chicken.

So, what will I be doing with myself with all this time off? As little as possible, that's what. I fly to Adelaide tomorrow for a week of doing nothing and then I shall return to Sydney. I plan to read good books, drink coffee, sit in the sun, go for long walks, take my friends children for a paddle or two, sleep in the middle of the afternoon, meet up with my good friend Foodycat for high tea (with a little alcohol thrown in for good measure),attend some of the events at the Sydney Festival, follow my favourite blogs, paint my nails and.....that's about it.

See you all next week!

Oliver Postgate

2008-12-09T20:36:00.007+11:00

I was going to post a rant today. After all, it's well overdue, I've had a shocking few days at work and no one had told me that I'd been appointed Stupid Person Magnet. I was all set to come home and make with the vitriol. That was until I visited the BBC website.

Oliver Postgate has passed away at the age of 83. He may be less familiar to our Australian readers but Mr Postgate was responsible for bringing happiness to generations of British children. Working with Peter Firmin he created much loved childrens characters such as Noggin the Nog, Ivor the Engine, Bagpuss and of course The Clangers.

If memory serves me well, the programmes were approximately 5 minutes in length and mostly appeared just before the six o'clock news. Five whole minutes of wonder whizzed by as we went back in time with Noggin and his uncle Nogbad the Bad, travelled to Wales with Ivor as well as travelling far, far away to visit woollen whistling mice.

The Clangers were pink knitted rodents who lived on another planet. They wore outfits which seemed to have been manufactured entirely from milk bottle tops. Instead of talking,they whistled at each other. I always thought I knew exactly what they were saying. Their companions were the Soup Dragon (yes, just that), a musical cloud, the Iron Chicken and the Froglets.

Bagpuss was a large pink and white striped cat who lived with Emily. Emily owned a shop and people would bring things in even if they were broken. Bagpuss would come to life when Emily left, as did his group of friends.
We met the mice from the organ, a wooden woodpecker called Professor Yaffle and Madeline, a rag doll. The broken item would be fixed, much fun would be had and then when all was done everyone fell asleep again.

And when Bagpuss was asleep,
All his friends were asleep.
The mice were ornaments on the mouse organ.
Gabriel and Madeleine were just dolls.
Professor Yaffle was just an old wooden bookend in the shape of a woodpecker.
Even Bagpuss himself, once he was asleep, was just an old, saggy cloth cat,
Baggy, and a bit loose at the seams,
But Emily loved him.

Me too, Oliver. Me too.

On the eighth day of Christmas

2008-12-09T00:17:00.005+11:00

Christ on a bike (in a baby basket), the month is eight days old and I've yet to make a new post.
Well, don't expect too much tonight. I'm just writing to say that I'm going to write something soon. Prepare yourselves for a lecture on the origin of Christmas and mass consumerism.

Just for now, though - a festive LOLcat.

Cheats never prosper. Discuss.

2008-11-30T19:06:00.004+11:00

Gordon 'Fuck Me' Ramsey has been in the press quite a lot recently, but his culinary skills aren't what's got him there. It's alleged that he has been doing the horizontal tango with a woman other than his wife.

The whole thing is distasteful in the extreme. The 'other woman' has sold her story - and her soul if she had one - to the News of the World. Full details of the story are here but I've picked a couple of extracts.

When she met Ramsay at London club Chinawhite in October 2001 she was under no illusion about what he wanted. The attraction was mutual.
“Gordon was just about to open his restaurant in Claridges. I was working in the hospitality business,” says Sarah. “He found me physically and mentally attractive. I thought he had charisma. When he asked for my number I gladly gave it to him even though I knew he was married from the publicity he’d done. He started calling me often. His marriage was unhappy. Things were so bad he was contemplating getting an apartment with a friend.”

Of course he told you his marriage was unhappy, you dozy cow. He wanted to get into your knickers. The affair 'allegedly' continues.

“Gordon told me he was planning to rent a house in LA and be here more long term because the TV show was going well—and that meant I could stay with him more regularly.”
But in the same month, things cooled dramatically between the pair following a row in Gordon’s hotel room at the Chateau Marmont on Sunset Boulevard. Sarah says: “Gordon had reportedly punched one of the contestants on the set of Hell’s Kitchen. When I asked him about it, he got very defensive. We rowed and I walked out. We let our friendship slide and I got serious with another married man.”

Another married man. Well aren't you just a charming member of the sisterhood? Ever tried building a relationship with a man who was free?

Over the next few weeks, Ramsay called Sarah frequently. “He wanted sex,” she says. On November 23, they met at her flat in LA.
“We had a wonderful night,” she says. “We talked about my book and discussed spin-off projects. “He thought I was sassy and clever and wanted to mentor me. I was flattered. When he leaned over to kiss me, it was very natural. He wanted to take his time and was very loving. We got into bed like an old married couple.” After that tryst Ramsay was busy on Hell’s Kitchen. “We spoke on the phone every night,” she adds. “I was his ‘source of comfort’ after a hard day.
“But he’d also go on and on about what he wanted to do to me so much it started to make me feel cheap.”

Started to make you feel cheap? It took that long for you to realise that this man was using you for your body and nothing more?

I don't know if Gordon Ramsey cheated on his wife. The only people who know that are him and the woman he did it with. If he did it he's a complete and utter arsewipe and he should crawl over hot coals to apologise to his wife and children. But women around the country will be saving their vitriol for the mistress. Is this fair? After all, it takes two to tango. But I have to say that after reading this sad little tale I know which guilty party comes out looking worse than the other.

Symonds is a self confessed serial mistress. She appeared on the Oprah show spruiking her guide to having an affair and has admitted to having affairs with other high profile man. She will no doubt have been paid a large sum of money for this story. I bet she asked for quite a packet to set him up and the cash she got for todays tell all trash. I hope she thinks it's worth all the pain she's caused by her inability to keep her hands off things which don't belong to her.

As for Gordon, I suggest he keeps his hands to himself in future. Oh, and it'd be a good idea to put all the sharp knives out of reach. If I was his wife I know what I'd be tempted to do.

http://www.newsoftheworld.co.uk/

On being a loose woman

2008-11-28T21:32:00.003+11:00

Ha, that got your attention. It's not quite what it seems though. SSS is currently suffering again with a problem in the shoulder area. Those of you out there with memories like elephants (and hopefully without bottoms to match) will remember that I had a little mishap back in February. I managed to dislocate my shoulder - a posterior dislocation, which of course only happens in 5% of cases - and have it suck itself back into the socket in a matter of 60 seconds or so. I swore, my friend completely ignored me and I thought I was overreacting until a very expensive scan confirmed I had indeed sustained A Very Hurty Injury which required me to have several weeks off work.

Anyway, this week I'm back in a sling. Same sling, different shoulder. I'm glad I kept it, all I had to do was swap the velcro thingy to the other side and Bob's yer uncle, Fanny's yer aunt. I hate it just as much this time as I did the last.

So, what did I do to it? Nothing. Nichts. Rien. Nada. Cock all. It'd been sore for a couple of days for no good reason and doesn't feel particularly stable. I went to see my orthopaedic doctor (a man almost as handsome as David Tennant) who pulled my arms about a bit, made me scream in pain then gave me a certificate for a few days off work. I felt a bit sorry for him, when I screamed he looked really concerned and couldn't stop apologising. I must admit the pain took my breath away almost as much as the sight of him in his white coat. Neither of us know what's wrong with it in the absence of any injury so it's being put down to my having loose shoulders. They go along with the thumbs which bend backwards.

Today was my first sick day. It was incredibly uneventful. I went to the beach, drank coffee, came home, watched three episodes of The West Wing (the ones where Josh got shot), cooked dinner (chicken with boiled pototoes, peas and gravy) and read a book. Maybe tomorrow I'll push the boat out and do the washing up.

Six things you never knew about me.

2008-11-22T15:22:00.009+11:00

A dull week here. I haven't been sleeping very well and I've got no idea why. It's not as though anything is worrying me, I just can't get off to sleep. Anyway, I'm a bit addled and unable to post anything too sensible. Instead, I've decided to 'treat' you all to some facts about me.

1. I can't ride a bicycle. I never had one as a child. I didn't want one. My brother had a Chopper but I was never game enough to get on it. It's entirely possible that a) he wouldn't let me and b) my legs would have been too short anyway. None of my childhood friends had bikes either, I'm sure that has a lot to do with it. Friends have offered to teach me but I'm not interested. I'm too scared I'll fall off and graze my arms and legs.

2. I've never been on the back of a motorbike. I'm too scared I'll fall off and graze my arms and legs at high speed. If I could ride a bicycle I'm sure I'd have been on a motorbike by now but that's not happening.

3. I've never seen a James Bond film. I've seen bits of them but I've never seen one all the way through. Everyone tells me I'm mad. I've never seen Titanic either and I'm happy to keep it that way.

4. I've failed three driving tests. Still haven't passed one, either. Trust me, it's safer for all concerned if it stays that way. I still remember my last ever driving lesson. Bonfire Night, 1996. The driver of the car behind me had been right up my arse for about 10 minutes, there was nowhere to go as the road was packed. I still remember the colour draining out of his face when I slammed on the brakes, turned round and started abusing him. That was my last time behind the wheel.

5. I can make my thumb touch my wrist. Try it yourself, but do stop if you hear a crack or feel intense pain.

6. My pet tortoise died on a Sunday. I know it was a Sunday because we were having Sunday tea and I remember crying so hard that I couldn't eat my jelly. Sunday tea was always crab paste sandwiches followed by jelly and evaporated milk. Bath and a hairwash before school on Monday and a glass of lemonade if you'd been good. Oh for the halcyon days of childhood.

Tortoises are great pets. You don't have to take them for a walk, they don't eat much and they don't bark. Our tortoise was called Himmel. He was named by my father, something to do with a German helmet, I think. Himmel lived with the rabbit, Tog. Tog was completely crazy and bit anyone who touched him. I think we gave him to the milkman in the end. Anyway, back to Himmel. Tortoises hibernate during the winter and whilst Himmel had previously managed to have a big, long sleep it seemed that he wasn't managing to nod off in the winter of 1973. My dad took him to the vet, who advised him to put the reluctant tortoise in a dark, quiet, warm spot and wait for him to go to sleep. He was duly placed in a box which was then put on a shelf in the garage. Unfortunately Himmel started to move about in the box (which clearly hadn't been secured properly by my neglectful father) and he met his demise when the shelf fell off the box and landed on the garage floor.

Anyway, my dad came to tell us at the dinner table and my brother and I sobbed for what seemed like hours. There was no chance to say goodbye, I like to think that my dad buried him in the same spot as Honey the hamster (death due to natural causes some time previously). I don't dare ask him what happened to the body in case he tells me that poor Himmel ended up in the dustbin. I still remember the loss of Himmel as being my first real experience of grief.

I wasn't told the full story of his death until I was at least 28. I think I laughed and cried at the same time. Poor Himmel. At least my current insomnia won't lead to death from multiple fractures.

Surprising, really, that someone with such limited mobility as myself managed to make it to the end of the main road, let alone the other side of the world.

If anyone has an interesting fact, please make your way to the comments section.

(and yes, I edited this late at night. Can't sleep, you know.)

Fantastic plastic

2008-11-16T20:41:00.005+11:00

Apologies for the delay in posting. I'd started something in the week but it was so depressing that I decided to scrap it completely.

It's the end of the weekend and I'm sitting here with one eye on the tv - A Room With A View starring that Barry from Auf Wiedersehen Pet - and the other eye on the contents of a simmering saucepan - two minute noodles - and trying to come up with a witty and informative blog post. Sadly, I'm not feeling wildly inspired but I feel duty bound to tell you all about the Tupperware party I attended this afternoon.

Yes, I said Tupperware. Tupperware is the new black. Well, it's more just an excuse to have all female gatherings with cheese, wine, beer and lots of cackling. Oh yes, and the demonstration of plastic containers.

I say plastic containers but there's a bit more to it than that. Sandwich boxes, plastic drinks bottles, Lazy Susans, picnic sets, knives, cutting boards, vegetable peelers, stacking storage containers, ice lolly moulds, the list goes on. Something for everyone, and of course, everyone got something.

The Happy Chopper is the jewel in the Tupperware crown . Our party consisted of 9 giggling women and 5 of us bought a Happy Chopper. A small, handheld device containing fiendishly sharp blades, it was the hit of the party. A quartered onion, a couple of twists of the wrist and hey presto! Finely chopped sans tears.

Tupperware is hardly new, in fact I wouldn't be surprised if most of us have some hiding in the kitchen somewhere. During the 70s the SSS household kept the budgie seed in a Tupperware container and I'm pretty sure our picnic beakers were as well.

It seems that Tupperware has fallen out of vogue in the UK, although a cursory search did prove that those little plastic tubs are available for purchase in the Sceptred Isle. Indeed, it was during an internet search and an international 'phone call that I discovered the entertainingly named Stuffable, which for some reason had me in hysterics. Stuffable. The very word makes me smirk. Sadly, the Stuffable is an innocent little container with a non leak lid but I still can't think about it without smiling in a Carry On type way.

Anyway. Tupperware isn't cheap but it's useful stuff and it has a lifetime guarantee. Today was my second party in 4 weeks and I've been pressganged into attending two more in the next six weeks.

After the last plastic container had been returned to its storage bag and whisked away in the demonstrators car the real entertainment began in the form of a Wii session. I'd never played before and had no idea how addictive it would be or how much my arms would ache afterwards. I must have another go as soon as possible.

Five hours, ten women, several bottles of beer and wine, three packets of crackers, a bowl of guacamole (made with the help of the Happy Chopper), 5 blocks of cheese, a punnet of chocolate dipped strawberries and almost $2000 worth of Tupperware sales. Not bad for a Sunday afternoon.

Wrong day, wrong nurse

2008-11-05T20:37:00.002+11:00

Patients lie. Oh yes. But more on that in a moment.

Today started out quite nicely, I woke up in my own sweet time and had a nice cup of tea. A friend called round and we did the local coastal walk in the morning sunshine. Apparently I didn't draw breath for just under an hour. Well, I had a lot to say. I got to work with time to spare and so had a nice gossip with another friend before I started work. All in all it went well. The shift was due to finish at 8pm and it was all on track.

There now follows a short explanation of our discharge protocol.

Patients cannot leave the department unescorted if they have had either an assisted local or general anaesthetic. They will have had opiates/benzodiazepine drug/sedative agents and can't be trusted to cross the road on their own in case they end up under the wheels of a vehicle or fall arse over tit. All patients are informed of this 24 hours prior to admission during a telephone conversation with a senior nurse. All patients are required to provide the telephone number of the person who will be taking them home when they are admitted. This can sometimes be waived if the patient remains in the department for a miniumum of 4 hours post procedure (usually only after an ALA) and has been seen by the anaesthetist and assessed as being fit. Thems the rules.

The last patient, Sillynuts, was due to arrive in Recovery at 7pm. 7pm turned into 7.30pm but this still wasn't a problem as the patient had only had an assisted local anaesthetic (otherwise known as twilight sedation) and was due to be collected and taken home by his mother. He arrived looking bleary eyed but awake and pain free. So far, so good.

"We're calling your mum to come and get you," I told him. He looked at me with a big smile. "Oh, I told her not to come and get me. I'll get the train to Camberwick Green*. I'll be fine."

Knob. The department closes in 30 minutes. Obviously we were looking more at 8.30pm than 8 but this was a major spanner in the works. Camberwick Green* is on the other side of Sydney. There is now way this joker can go home by himself by train at this hour. He happily informed us that he had called his mother earlier in the day and told her that he would take himself home. So, in the words of Gregory House, patients lie.

I won't give you the exact speech I gave him but suffice to say he was suitably informed of my opinion on his breathtaking arrogance. I didn't use those words but I think my face might have. The anaesthetist stood at the end of the bed and smirked as I told Sillynuts that if he left and fell under the wheels of a train we would all be sued by his grieving mother and that I wanted to keep the small amount of money I had. He was told that he was staying in the hospital overnight and that was it. End of discussion.

"I've done it before," he spluttered. "I drove meself home after I had a pin and plate taken outta me foot. I felt great."

Sure, I bet you did. You were under the influence of drugs. Your car insurance was null and void and if you'd gone up the kerb and killed a small child you would have been in jail right now.

After again being on the receiving end of my thoughts he was swiftly transferred to a bed on a ward. I condidently expect him to attempt to leg it in about oooh, an hour. Here is a man who thinks he can drive a car after his body has been pumped full of drugs. There's no way he's going to spend a night in a hospital bed when he could be out there weaving in and out of the traffic.

Look out, readers. The stupid people are walking amongst us.

Melbourne Cup

2008-11-04T20:42:00.002+11:00

Today is the first Tuesday in November, and all Australians know that means. Race 9 at Flemington, 3pm. Melbourne Cup. It's the day an entire nation stops what they're doing to watch horses and their jockeys run full pelt round a racetrack; where millions of dollars get spent at the track and at the TAB, where women start out wearing hats and fascinators and their boyfriends end the day with them on top of their heads, where hopes are raised and dashed in the final furlong. The champagne flows, the shoes come off. You get the idea.

SSS had a less than successful Cup day. It started out with a short (but torturous) 6 hour shift during which time I organised three sweeps of varying amounts and sold tickets with an alarming vigour. I left work dead on 1pm and met a friend. We dashed straight to the TAB. 1.30pm and it already looked like a bombsite. I frantically filled in a few betting slips and got into the queue where the bastards shortchanged me AND TOOK $12 OF MY CASH BUT I'M OVER IT NOW. Or am I? Wicked, tricksy, hobbits. On top of all that I managed to leave my cashpoint card at home and had fairly limited funds left with which to gamble like a mad woman. In hindsight this was probably a good thing as it prevented me from withdrawing funds and gambling like a mad woman.

I employ a sophisticated and scientific approach to picking horses. Name, colour of jockeys silk and attractiveness of the horse. That's all you need. I'm usually really good if I can see the horse in the flesh first, if it's pretty I back it. Hey, don't knock it. On a recent trip to the track that method had a 100% success rate.

Anyway, being short on cash my fellow punter and I went with our best option - the local club. I might have been sans cashcard but I had my gym membership keyring which doubles as my club membership card. We were in. Cheap beer - a perk of being a member - no drunken youths (but plenty of old people) and a couple of comfy chairs in front of a flat screen TV. Result.

Well, not much of a result for either of us. I got third place and my friend got nothing. But that's the Melbourne Cup for you.

Oh, and todays tip? Don't run across the road to get the bus when you've been drinking all afternoon. The bus driver might give you a lecture and everyone will look at you.

So long, and thanks for all the squeee

2008-10-30T21:24:00.005+11:00

SSS is in deep mourning today. It has been announced that David Tennant has decided not to continue in the role of Doctor Who.

I have to say the news was not altogether unexpected. DT recently completed his third series as the Doctor and during this time he's proved himself to be one of the finest actors of his generation. It's only natural that he should want to spread his wings and explore new roles. There's only so many alien species you can make friends with, so many Daleks and Cybermen you can defeat, so many companions whose heart you can break.

I remember watching Doctor Who as a young girl on Saturday nights. I'm not sure I managed to watch an entire episode without leaving the room to 'go to the loo', or closing my eyes/hiding my face with a cushion/sitting in my mothers/fathers lap or in extreme cases hiding behind the settee. On special Saturdays I would watch the Doctor with my grandfather. He always managed to make me feel safe, regardless of whichever monster the Doctor was currently doing battle with.

Most Doctor Who fans have an actor who is 'their' Doctor. Mine is Jon Pertwee. Slightly austere but kindly at the same time, he wore frilly shirts and velvet jackets in a way few straight men could have done. Stuck on Earth after a run in with the Time Lords, he drove a car called Bessie and sparred with the Master. The Third Doctor had three companions but the one I remember was Sarah Jane Smith. She was young, impulsive and brave. After five years JP met his end after a battle with a giant spider and Tom Baker's Doctor entered the Whoinverse. I liked Tom, I did. But Jon Pertwee was my Doctor.

I watched Tom Baker for a while but I think I stopped watched when he regenerated and became Peter Davison. Maybe it was because I was growing up. Maybe I couldn't take him seriously with a leek on his lapel. Either way, I left Doctor Who. I missed Colin Baker and Sylvester McCoy, although mercifully this meant missing out on Bonnie Langford's spell as a companion.

And that was that. The Doctor was a happy memory from my childhood and nothing more. But in 2005 the BBC resurrected the show with a Northern actor called Christopher Eccleston in the lead role. I found myself on the other side of the world man, watching Doctor Who on a Saturday night, listening to the same theme tune and still being scared of the Daleks.

After just one series Eccleston quit the role, presumably from fear of becoming typecast and David Tennant assumed the mantle. I don't have the time or the words to truly express how I feel about his portrayal but let's try with just one word - brilliant.

He's battled the Cybermen and the Daleks. He fought the Master and won. He saved Queen Victoria from being killed by a werewolf. He was reunited with Sarah Jane Smith and mended K9. He's broken the heart of at least two women and wiped the memories of a third. He's saved billions of people.He's certainly been the best looking Doctor ever. He's reduced me to tears on more than one occasion and I don't know what I'm going to do without him. I'm prepared to go out on a limb here and say that David Tennant is now my Doctor and always will be.

Thank you, David. You've given more pleasure to people than you'll ever know. We will miss you.

Poopgate

2008-10-27T17:43:00.003+11:00

I know, I know. It was only ever called Watergate because that was the name of the hotel and 'gate' doesn't mean anything, but I'm going to use it anyway.

One of Sydney's top news stories at the moment is the tale of the Whyte family and their experience in a well known eastern suburbs pub. Jessica and Steve Whyte recently took their children along to spend an afternoon in the newly renovated Coogee Bay Hotel. The Coogee Bay Hotel was named the second most violent pub in NSW in 2008 and has long been a magnet for alcohol fuelled violence. CBH managment have spent more than a few quid in the hope of smartening the place up and attracting a different clientele in preference to the usual pissed up backpacker and opportunist Aussie male. In particular the beer garden has been redesigned in order to make it family friendly. The Whyte family were exactly the sort of customers the pub was trying to attract. Weeks after the grand re opening and all Sydney is talking about the tale of the poo in the gelato.

It's fair to say that it wasn't the best of afternoons. After a series of complaints from Mr Whyte, a bowl of complimentary ice cream was served to the family. It is alleged that the ice cream contained faecal matter. The Whytes were less than impressed, words were exchanged, the offending bowl and its contents were removed by the Whytes and subjected to independent testing, which is said to prove that the ice cream did indeed contain human excreta.

It's reported that the pub manager, Tony Williams, offered the couple $5000 to drop the complaint. The couple refused and sought legal advice, threatening to sue the pub for up to $1,000,000. Williams took this as an exortion attempt. Both sides have spent the last 24 hours accusing and counter accusing.

As for the locals, well, we're torn between being highly amused and extremely nauseated. The CBH isn't the classiest of joints and local police are on first name terms with most of the bouncers but it's not the sort of thing you'd expect......well.....from anyone, really.

It'll be a while before the truth is known. But if one thing has come from Poopgate, it'll be that waitstaff will be experiencing a dramatic reduction in customer complaints for the foreseeable future.

Grandmothers

2008-10-26T11:23:00.002+11:00

SSS received news yesterday that a friend has recently lost her much loved grandmother. I know that sadly many of you out there will know the pain of such a loss.

Much has been made of US presidential hopeful Barack Obama's decision to take a break from campaigning this week in order to visit his grandmother. Is it a cynical move on his part? Some would say yes but personally I think it's admirable. Here is someone who has his priorities right. He publically acknowledges the debt he owes to the woman who was instrumental in making him what he is today.

For my part, I only ever knew one of my grandmothers. I was lucky enough to have her in my life for over 30 years. Some say that parents love unconditionally, grandparents do not. Perhaps grandparents are able to take a more objective view of the person that we become. Anyway, I loved my grandmother and she loved me.

I have many happy memories of the woman I called Nan. She told me once that she would have preferred the title Gran as Nan made her think of a nanny goat. I told her that Gran was too old sounding and that she wasn't old. Her reply was that I was 'giving her a load of old flannel', a typical response. I could write a book about her but suffice it to say that for me she was one of the most wonderful women I have ever known. She was to all intents and purposes just an ordinary woman from the East End of London; leaving school with only a basic education, having a series of mundane jobs, marrying and having three children, six grandchildren and four great grandchildren at her time of death. She buried both a daughter and her husband. She lived through the Blitz and coped with two small children on her own when her husband was drafted to 'to his bit' during World War Two. No more or less than many other women in her position. But she was my Nan and she was amazing. My life is all the richer for having her in it, and all the poorer for losing her.

Is Obama using his grandmother to further his political career? No. He's doing the right thing. And if I could have just one more minute with my own grandmother I'd sell my soul to the Devil to get it.

Don't insult my intelligence

2008-10-16T20:12:00.004+11:00

See this girl? She looks hungry, doesn't she? Her name is Sophie Monk and she's a singer of sorts. Her main claim to fame in her native Australia is being a member of the all girl band - oh look, I can't even remember what they were called but I think they won some sort of Pop Idol thing. Anyhoo, she's blonde and skinny. So why is it that this Chupa Chub lookalike was chosen to spearhead the Australian launch of new 'suck in yer gut underwear range called Hollywood Fashion Shapes? Clearly this teeny weeny little thing wouldn't have a clue what it's like to put on a dress only to find it makes you look 7 months pregnant. Her arse would probably fit into a small hankie. The manufacturers of these groundbreaking, gravity defying, respiration restricting garments clearly think we're going to look at their knickers and think, "I bet I'll look just like Skinny Minny here if I buy these heavy duty elastic drawers." I'm sure I can't be the only one who looked, laughed and reached for the Green and Blacks.

Why not use a woman with a few curves, a bit of back fat, a bit of a gut instead? Yes, she might have a BMI of over 19 but she'd show what the product can actually do on the sort of woman who might be thinking about buying it. Using a model who looks like she stopped eating in 1998 isn't exactly smart, it's actually fucking stupid. I hope they don't sell a single pair.

The Sound of Music

2008-10-11T19:18:00.007+11:00

Can you believe it? I actually know someone who has never seen the Sound of Music.

But first, a short backtrack. SSS has experienced two freakish work days in rapid succession. A combination of school holidays, Yom Kippur and an overseas junket for the worlds most odious orthopaedic surgeon meant that my workplace has been deathly quiet (ha ha ha) for two days in a row. The team took full advantage of this downtime with some productive cleaning on Thursday - instigated by yours truly - and some time wasting/tomfoolery on Friday. It's amazing just how much fun there is to be had with the internet, a colour printer and a laminator at your disposal.

I decided that Friday was a day to be nice to myself. To that end my entire dietary and fluid intake was as follows -
Pre breakfast - cup of tea
Breakfast - large skim flat white coffee and double egg roll.
Mid morning - large skim flat white coffee (purchased from same coffee shop as earlier one by workmate who was running late and knows how to get round me)
Lunch - chips, gravy and three pieces of white bread = 3 chip butties
Dinner - wedges in pub accompanied by 4 beers.

Now that's what I call a fine days intake.

I'll take advantage of your stunned silence/quiet admiration to tell the Sound of Music story. I was in the pub with another workmate and her nurse friend (we all stick together) and for some reason the Sound of Music came up as a topic of conversation. I was telling them how many years ago I'd been to the old Valhalla cinema in Glebe to see the Singalonga Sound of Music and won a prize for being the best dressed nun. The prize was of course a CD of the soundtrack to the Rodgers and Hammerstein masterpiece. One of my fellow drinkers confessed to never having seen the movie. I was incredulous, as was our other drinking partner, although it turned out that she thought the film finished with the wedding. I spent the next couple of hours singing snippets to my less than impressed friend as well as giving her a brief synopsis of the story. Consequently she now has absolutely no intention of ever seeing the film. I would like to take this opportunity to present to you my very own version of The Sound of Music. You might want to get a cup of tea before you start, it's a bit long and may contain more than a bit of poetic licence.

MARIA: Lalalalalalalala! How I love these hills of Austria, they make me want to sing! Ooof, better get back to the penguins, they're always telling me off for being late and singing. Lalalalalalalala! LOL!

HEAD NUN: Maria, you're always late and you're always singing. Do you really want to be a nun? Why not be a nanny for a bit? There's a bit of top totty in town, his wife carked it and left him with loads of shitty children. Go on, it'll be fun.

CAPTAIN VON TRAPP: Hello, I am the father of the children. I am handsome and brooding with a cruel smile. I use a whistle to summon teh kiddies. You will do the same.

MARIA: Oh noez. They are children, not dogs. You must love them. I shall love them. There will be no norty step here.

TEH KIDDIES: We are teh kiddies and we are evils. LOL. Also the boys look like those blonde freaks from Village of the Damned. We are norty but it is only because no one loves us. We sing away our sadness. But first, a practical trick to make the nun run away.

MARIA: Ha! I laff in the face of your trick. As a punishment I shall dress you all in curtains. Bend to my will.

TEH KIDDIES: Oh noez. It's a fair cop, guv. Besides, we like u more than that gold digging whore the Baroness.

BARONESS: I am the Baroness Schraeder and I am a cold, hard bitch. I will marry the Captain and sell teh kiddies into white slavery. Madonna might want one or two. Muahahaha.

UNCLE MAX: Hello, I am Uncle Max and I may or may not be a paedophile. My, teh kiddies can sing.

CAPTAIN: Oh hai Maria. You are doing a top job with teh kiddies. Fancy a shag?

MARIA: WTF? I'm training to be a nun. You're a bit hot, though. Maybe later?

LIESEL: Oh hai. I am the oldest kiddie. I luff the Aryan telegraph boi, Rolf. Dad hates him and says he is a Nazi but he is well wrong.

NAZIS: Achtung. We are teh Nazis. Wo sind seine Swastika flag?

CAPTAIN: Take yer flag, take yer goose stepping and shove 'em up yer arse. Altogether now, Edelweiss, Edelweiss, who do you think you are kidding, Mr Hitler, if you think old Austria's done..........

Cut to the garden

BARONESS: Oh hai Maria. You luff the Captain, don't you? You want to marry him. Run along, bitch, you've been pwned.

MARIA: Fuckit. I thought I was in there. (runs back to nunnery).

Back to the garden

TEH KIDDIES: WAHHHHHHH. WE WANT MARIA.

BARONESS: Shut it, you chavs. Wait till I marry yer dad and you're all off to a boarding school and it aint Hogwarts.

Teh kiddies run to the nunnery.

TEH KIDDIES: We want to see Maria

TEH NUNS: Take her. She's shit and she sings too much.

CAPTAIN: Oh hai Maria. You're back. You're hot. Laters, Baroness.

BARONESS: FUCK. Epic fail. Oh wells, good luck bitch.

Maria and the Captain get married in the nunnery.

INTERVAL

NAZIS: Oh hai Captain. We are the Nazis and we are teh evils. Ur Anschluss? We haz it. You've been drafted into the Navy. We want you, we want you, we want you as a new recruit. Muahahaha.

CAPTAIN: Fuckit. Maria, get teh kiddies, we're going to scarper. Aint gonna be Hitlers bitch.

UNCLE MAX: Pop Idol is on at the Town Hall. What about getting you, the wife and teh kiddies to sing? We could win and do personal appearances at Lakeside and Westfield shopping centres for teh win.

At Pop Idol

THE VON TRAPPS: Good evening, Salzburg. We are not intimidated by the fact that teh Nazis has the theatre surrounded. Lalalalalalalalalala.

Lots of applause.

CAPTAIN: LEGGIT. The nuns have come to help us.

ANNOUNCER: The Von Trapps FTW. Oh noez, they've dun a runner. Call teh Nazi rozzers.

The Von Trapps run to the nunnery and hide but teh Nazis come.

ROLF: Oh hai Liesel. I can't see you. Nothing to see here.

TEH VON TRAPPS: HUZZAH! We will run across the border. Then we will flee to the good old U S of A and get jobs in Vegas. Epic win!

THE END.

Crossing the line

2008-10-07T21:47:00.002+11:00

SSS isn't paying all that much attention to the forthcoming US Presidential election but let's face it, you'd have to be living on Mars to avoid the coverage. For the last couple of weeks the spotlight has been well and truly focused on Sarah Palin. Readers, she scares the living daylights out of me. Palin is pro gun and anti abortion, even in cases of rape and incest. Not exactly my type of gal. Certainly not the sort of person I want to see as being one heartbeat away from the President of the United States, because let's face it, the person in the top job will affect of of us whether we like it or not.

Today I found this story, thanks to Santiago Dreaming. Charging the victims of sexual assaults for their rape kits is one of the most piss poor things I have ever heard. She may well not have been the architect of this policy but it happened when she was in charge. I can't believe that she wasn't approached by at least one angry taxpayer and I can't believe that she didn't do anything to reverse the decision.

The cynic in me says that Palin has been chosen to appeal both the religious Right and women. I hope no woman is stupid enough to vote for another woman purely because they have the same reproductive organs. And not when that woman clearly doesn't support the rights of other women.

Bondi Chicks

2008-10-05T13:36:00.005+11:00

SSS went to a wedding yesterday. It was quite lovely. The bride looked beautiful, the groom was slightly nervous but excited, no one objected and it was all sealed with a kiss. There was much rejoicing, eating, drinking, dancing and laughing. It was a wonderful day.

The celebrations took place in Bondi. Bondi Beach is one of the most famous places in Australia. The beach is long and beautiful (although quite frankly it's not the best in Sydney). The area is home to trendy shops, bars, cafes and so called beautiful people. Now, I have to confess at this point that I'm not a Bondi person. I don't mean that I wasn't born there but I'm just not 'Bondi'. Now, there are some normal people in Bondi and I want to make it quite clear that the following post is not about them. This post isn't about the people who don't get dressed in expensive yet casual finery to go out for coffee. This is about the Bondi chicks.

Bondi chicks (you wouldn't call them girls, women or ladies) are almost always blonde. Blonde, blowdried, tanned, face full of make up, they perch on high heels and wear teeny tiny dresses and vacant expressions. They think nothing of spending over $500 on sunglasses and shop in all the right places. They smile at you as they flick their eyes over your appearance, summing you up in seconds before dismissing you as being from another (lesser) species then moving on. They have ridiculously good looking boyfriends who are equally tanned and vacant looking. The boyfriends wear designer clothes with an air of casual arrogance and stand around looking at everyone with a smug look of self satisfaction. Readers, they make me want to vomit.

Imagine my discomfort then, when I was thrown together with Bondi chicks not once but twice in the last two weeks. The first meeting was at the obligatory hens party, held in Bondi. They stayed at one end of the very long table, the 'not Bondi's' stayed at the other. They smiled at us whilst looking just slightly past us, we smiled at them then grouped to bitch about their extensions, nails and bad tans. We ate and drank then complained about the tightness of our clothes, they drank and made frequent trips to the toilet.

Not much had changed this week when the same people regrouped this week for the wedding. Fortunately the two groups were seated on the opposite sides of the room so we didn't have to listen to them and they were spared the sight of normal sized people eating and drinking and keeping it all down.

They reminded me of the 'popular' girls from school. I'm fairly sure each school had a group. The leader was the Queen Bee and her gang consisted of girls just like her but just ever so slightly less confident. Pretty, wearing the latest fashions and make up, they patrolled the school corridors in their little cliques. The Queen Bee was the first girl in the year to get a boyfriend and naturally he was the best looking and most popular boy. Laughing at anyone with brains and sneering at those other girls with unemployed parents, they made many a girls life hell. They mostly left me alone which suited me just fine. I loathed them but secretly I wanted them to like me. As the school years wore on, however, I realised that I didn't want them to like me at all. They were shallow, cruel and self centred. They were obsessed with what people looked like, how much pocket money they had and how rich their friends parents were.

I left school a long time ago and never had cause to meet the Queen Bee or any of her gang. I heard on the grapevine that the queen ended up doing a little bit of time behind bars for her part in a robbery on a local jewellers which made me laugh as well as giving me a warm feeling inside.

Looking at the Bondi chicks I realise why I don't like them. They're all Queen Bees. Stuck in their adolescent state, here they are in their early thirties and nothing seems to have changed. They airkiss each other and declare how beautiful the other looks then bitch in the toilet. They smile but it never quite reaches their eyes. They talk about themselves but never quite seem to listen when someone is talking.

I'm so glad I'm not a Bondi chick.

Nothing to see here

2008-10-01T21:22:00.003+10:00

Just a gossipy little post this week. I don't have much to say but as you all know, every time I say that I always end up posting some sort of massive ramble. I fear today will be no different.

I've been a very busy person the last couple of days. A good friend is getting married and I have nothing to wear. Well, that's not true. I do have something to wear but I was looking for something better.

Yesterday saw me on a mission to find said better dress. I got up reasonably early and set off. Local dress shops - epic fail. Shops in town - epic fail. Shops in Balmain - epic fail. The day picked up slightly when I popped into a friends house in Balmain under the pretext of using her toilet and managed to walk out with a silver handbag to go with the less than desirable dress. Back into town to find shoes to go with said dress - epic fail. Slight win on purchasing nice black top down from $140 to $80. I need another item of black clothing like a hole in the head but I was powerless in the face of such a bargain.

Today - up and out early looking for shoes to go with less than desirable dress. Find perfect shoes on sale but in wrong colour. Decide to purchase them anyway. Half price. Epic win. I need another pair of black shoes like a hole in the head but.......oh well, you know. Leave queue after paying for shoes and spy silver shoes. Try them on, buy them. Epic win.

So, a few losses and two wins. Swings and roundabouts. I have resigned myself to wearing the quite lovely but boring navy dress. It still needs to be altered, I have no time to take it to the tailors and the wedding is on Saturday but I do love to leave everything to the last minute.

On a slightly less shallow note, I watched a documentary recently about this wonderful hospital. They do amazing work and change the lives of many women. I was reminded once more just how lucky I was to have been born in the UK and to have had parents who were equally delighted to have had both a son and a daughter. Women have no value in some societies and this programme brought that home to me. Please help them if you can.

Stereotypes

2008-09-24T20:50:00.002+10:00

This is only going to be a short post as I'm tired and I have a very short attention oooh, look, there's some chocolate over there......sorry, attention span tonight but I heard something hilarious this evening and I just want to pass it on to you, my four readers.

Stereotypes are funny, aren't they? As an English person I'm supposed to be cold, unemotional and unclean, apparently. As a female who happened to be born in Essex I'm supposed to be a right old slapper. As a nurse I'm supposed to be either an angel or a right old slapper.

But I digress.

I work with a Chinese nurse who lives close by, occasionally if we're on the same shift she gives me a lift home. We have a little chat and tonight we were discussing Chinese food. Earlier in the day I'd told one of the other nurses that I fancied an egg roll. She was confused because she didn't know what I meant as she'd heard about egg rolls on the TV in American shows and she didn't know what they were. I told her that I didn't know what they were either and it was highly unlikely that I wanted something that I didn't know what it was.

Are you still with me? Good. I repeated this conversation to my Chinese colleague during the shift and we Googled 'egg roll' only to find out that it's a spring roll. Later in the car we were rehashing the whole Chinese food thing and I was telling her how my chopstick technique was somewhat unorthodox but effective. She was telling me how she usually ate noodles or rice for her evening meal as well as for lunch. She paused for a moment then said, "I don't like to eat sandwiches. You eat one then half an hour later you're hungry again."

Come on. It's not just me, is it?

Bill Bailey - Tinselworm

2008-09-17T18:56:00.004+10:00

A review of the Bill Bailey show has been requested and who am I to say no?

Last nights show was a sellout. Bill has added a couple of extra dates to some locations so look out, you might be lucky. Anyway, back to the show.

It was fantastic. Fantastic. Hilarious, clever, fast paced, bilingual in parts and just downright brilliant. Bill started the evening by deciding to call us 'Tuesday' instead of the more generic Sydney. He began with his idea of the London 2012 Olympic ceremony; an inflatable Winston Churchill, a robot Queen with a Pez head and flying Corgis featured heavily.

My favourite moment was when Bill gave us his interpretation of Australian evening news themes. It's not every day you see a 44 year old man leaping around a stage waving ribbons on sticks to the tune from ABC 7 o'clock news. If I'd laughed any harder I'd have spontaneously combusted on the spot.

Bill mused on changing the British national anthem to the Pink Panther tune and analysed song lyrics from Lionel Richie to The Killers. 'I've got soul but I'm not a soldier' could just have well been 'I've got ham but I'm not a hamster', he thought.

All up he was on stage for two hours. Obviously the show isn't the same as the UK one but I think he filled in the gaps quite nicely.

Finally, I'd like to leave you with a song. It's the song Bill sang to say goodbye to Tuesday. I hope you love it as much as we did.

But on that subject...........

2008-09-16T18:49:00.002+10:00

Anyone been watching the Paralympics? Outstanding stuff. These athletes are bloody outstanding. Great Britain has 41 golds. 41. 96 medals in total. Australia has a very healthy 20 golds and 71 medals in total and it's not over yet.

Naturally, the athletes will be having parades to welcome them home and celebrate their magnificent achievements. Oh, wait a minute. Australia had a ticker tape parade on Monday for the Olympians. Couldn't wait for the others to come home? Britain is having a celebration for both groups at the same time.

Quite right.

Australian Olympic Committee? Get it right in 2012.

Can't stop

2008-09-16T18:27:00.002+10:00

Hello, dear readers.

Just a very quick update.

People have been driving me mad. I think they've been inspired by the full moon. Anyway, I'm just watching the wheelchair rugby semi final between Australia and Canada and then I'm off out to see the superb Bill Bailey. If that doesn't improve my mood there's no hope for me.

I have the day off tomorrow so hopefully I'll have some time to post a long, rambling post about not much in particular.

Cheerio!

Right to vote

2008-09-08T19:41:00.004+10:00

Now then, if any female over the age of 18 reading this doesn't know who that woman is you should be asking yourself what you actually learned at school. That, my dear sisters, is Emmeline Pankhurst and without her and women like her you'd still be the property of a man.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Christ on a bike, it's going to be one of those feminist rants. I'll come back when she posts more LOLcats." You're wrong. It's not. It's a rant about voting.

We have local elections on Saturday and voting is compulsory. That's right, compulsory. I have to get up, get dressed, leave the comfort of my coccoon and turn up at the local primary school to pick which buffoon is going to have a say in what happens in my local area. Whoop de fucking do.

Don't get me wrong, I think voting is fantastic. I am eternally grateful to those brave women (and men) who gave so much in order that I might be able to go and put a cross in a box. I just don't think I should have to do it. The way I see it, voting is a right, not a duty or a responsibility. I know others see it differently but that's just my view and I don't think it will ever change. Making it compulsory takes away my right and turns it into something else.

"But what if no one voted?" I hear the Aussies say. Well, someone would still get elected. Voter turnout to me gives a good insight into the mood of the people. Low turnout? People don't give a shit. Major apathy. Things aren't going well. The politicians are more than a little bit crap. High turnout? Oooh, the public are pissed off and they're exercising their democratic right to show it.

"But you don't have to vote. You can spoil your paper." That's not the point. You've already made me get up, get dressed, leave the cococon and turn up. There's no bloody point not voting once I'm there, is there? I object to being made to turn up in the first place.

Gah. So, who to pick? Being an ex card carrying member of the British Labour Party (hey, don't blame me, I cancelled my membership in 1998) you'd think I'd vote Labour here. Well, no. I don't know why I won't. It might well have something to do with not being able to bring myself to vote for a party which can't even spell its own name properly. Anyway, I've seen a picture of the candidate and he's a shifty looking bugger if I ever saw one. It's bad enough that my local MP is that tall, bald geezer from a rock band. The Liberals? I Googled the local candidates and the first link I got was from a gay website telling me how all three candidates were openly gay. What they do and who they do it with isn't going to get me to vote for them but it makes a refreshing change from all the closet homosexuality in the Tory party.

Green? Dunno. I'll have to look into their policies. There's an Independent candidate, he looks alright. Besides, he wants to put a mobile police station outside the local pub on Friday and Saturday nights. Now that's a vote winner.

I used to love voting in the UK. I wanted to vote. I couldn't wait to turn eighteen so that I could finally make my voice heard. I took pleasure in taking my ballot card down to the local primary school and getting my name marked off. I'd take my voting paper into the polling booth and mark a big X next to the name of the local Labour (see, that's how to spell it) candidate. I'd walk out, go home and have a cup of tea, silently thanking the Suffragettes. I don't feel thay way now. I don't know if that's partly the fact that I don't feel I have a vested interest in Australian politics or the child in me doesn't like being told what to do.

So there you are. I have to vote and I'm not happy.

Dear Diary

2008-09-07T22:11:00.005+10:00

Another weekend draws to a close and what have I done? Not a lot, actually. I delayed getting dressed until 1.30pm on Saturday then went out in the driving rain to look at settees. I had to wait at the bus stop with a massive group of English backpackers. Christ, they're annoying. Loud and annoying. After that I popped in to visit a friend in Kensington. She kindly gave me a lift home which saved me from getting soaked to the skin. Actually, that reminds me, I walked past the butchers shop and meant to go back and get my goat. Not on my goat. Read here for further details. See that, that's me, that is. Please give Ask Foodycat a go. I have a dull palate and am going to be very unlikely to present any challenge.

Sunday (today), I got dressed at 8.30am and walked up to Clovelly to meet a friend for coffee and to loan her my Flight of the Conchords DVD. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the area let me tell you that it involved a walk up a very, very, very steep hill. I thought I might need oxygen at the top. Fortunately the walk back down was much more pleasant. I then spent an hour or so bitching at another beachside location with a good friend. The area was full of English people again. Don't get me wrong - I'm aware of the double standard I'm about to present - but do all of the 1 million English people in Australia have to live near me or use my bus stop? I shouldn't complain but they're just so loud. Not like me and my dulcet, well modulated tones. Finally came home to read the paper and listen to some more Stephen Fry's podcasts. I found them at about 7am today. Why have I not discovered these before? I was listening to one of them on my iPod as I wheezed up the hill this morning. I'm not sure I would have made it without dear Stephen and his rant.

Had a little nap, made an apple crumble, watched Doctor Who. Now that's what I call a weekend.

Hopefully I'll have something more interesting for you to read later in the week. Who knows, at this rate it'll probably be a piece on my double standards. Ooh, and don't forget to watch the Paralympics.

*Just in case anyone in the UK is interested, the Doctor Who episode we had tonight was Midnight. Bloody amazing. Three episodes to go and Rose is back next week. I am deeply distressed by this turn of events. Donna is an excellent companion and I really, really don't want anything bad to happen. Post spoilers in the comments section and I will hunt you down and kill you.*

I'm using yumour, Kimmy, yumour!

2008-09-04T21:01:00.005+10:00

I don't have much to report today but I thought I'd tell you a joke. I've edited it from its first posting to make more sense.

A man and woman in their late 60s meet through a dating website. Their first date is a boat trip. They set off in a two man boat and are having a very pleasant time. Eventually, they come to a fork in the river. "Up or down?" asks the man. The woman suddenly tears her clothes off, jumps on top of him and they have mad, passionate sex. He's a bit puzzled but the sex was amazing so he doesn't complain. They carry on along the river until they come to another fork. "Up or down?" he asks again. The same thing happens. The woman jumps on him and they have another session. He doesn't complain and thinks the date one of the best he's ever had. At the end of the day, they say goodbye and the man goes home feeling like the king of the world.

He rings the woman later in the week and arranges another date, out in the boat again. They meet, get in and set off. They arrive at the first fork. "Up or down?" he asks. "Oh, I don't mind." says the woman. The man is a bit puzzled but they carry on. Soon they reach the second fork. "Up or down?" he asks. "Oh, wherever. I'm not fussed." answers the woman. The man is a bit confused. They paddle on for a while but the mans curiosity gets the better of him. "Are you not having a good time?" "Yes," she replies. "Why, aren't you?"

"Well, yes, but I'm just wondering why this date is so different. Last time we had mad passionate sex and this week you don't seem interested."

"Oh. Well, last week I wasn't wearing my hearing aid. When you said 'up or down' I thought you were saying 'fuck or drown!"

Of course, if you haven't seen Kath & Kim then the title will mean nothing. Then again if you haven't seen Kath & Kim the question is why the bloody hell not?

A lovely little book

2008-09-01T22:34:00.003+10:00

Pinch, punch, first day of the month. Speaking of punching, if the people in the flat above me don't stop making all that noise I might go up there and threaten them with a wallop.

Right. What was it I was going to talk to you about? Can't remember. I'll tell you about the book I've just read instead.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society is a lovely little book. This must be true as three people have said it. One is the person who sent it to me, my favourite cousin, (waves in general direction of central London) who shares my taste in books so completely that it's almost as though we were hatched from the same pod. It arrived shortly before my birthday with a Post It note informing me that 'it really is a lovely little book'. It took me about 6 hours to read it and I concur. I was telling one of my work colleagues about it today when one of my nurse friends walked in. "Are you talking about The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society? I've read that. It's a lovely little book." So there you have it. Funnily enough my friend told me that she'd planned on giving it to me for my birthday but when she went into the book shop near her home they didn't have any.

The main character is Juliet, a writer living in post war London. She wrote a column for a London newspaper during the war and is struggling with writers block. The book is based on the letters which pass between Juliet, her good friend Sophie, her friend and publisher Sidney and various residents on the island of Guernsey. Her correspondence with the Islanders starts when she receives a letter from a Dawsey Adams. He owns a second hand book about an author which used to belong to Juliet. She had written her name and address on the inside cover and he writes to her in the hope that as she can help him locate other books by the same author. He explains that it's hard to come by books on Guernsey and hopes that as she lives in London she can help.

A brief history lesson now follows - Guernsey is one of the Channel Islands. The others are Jersey, Alderney and Sark. They were occupied by the Germans from 1940 to 1945. They are the only parts of Britain to have been occupied. Technically they're not part of the UK as such but it's late and I can't get my head round it at the moment.

And we're back. Juliet starts to correspond with Dawsey and through this she learns about what life was like for the Islanders. Dawsey tells her about The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, a book club started by some of the Islanders in order to escape the curfew. Juliet is intrigued. Well, let's face it, who wouldn't be with a title like that?

Her interest in the history of the Islanders piqued, she decides to pay a visit to Guernsey to learn more. Once there she meets the Society members and seems to melt effortlessly into their day to day lives.

I won't say too much in case you decide to read it. I will say that it reminded me of 84 Charing Cross Road. They're both based on letters and they're both love stories, although not necessarily in the sense of romance.

Sadly, the book was the authors first and last. Mary Ann Shaffer died last year. She only began writing in her 60s after being encouraged to do so by members of her book club. It's a great shame that she didn't start sooner.

Do read it. It's not Proust but it is a lovely little book.

Rolf Harris has a lot to answer for

2008-08-30T20:18:00.003+10:00

I was wasting time on one of the forums I frequent today - yes, I'm an Internet geek - when I stumbled across a thread extolling the virtues of the Stylophone.

The Stylophone was a miniature synthesiser which was operated by a stylus. Small, battery operated and annoyingly loud, it became a 'must have' Christmas gift for the children of Britain. Rolf Harris was the face of Stylophone. Each new item came with a floppy disc with Rolf taking the owner through the instructions in his excited Australian accent. I can't remember what year it exploded on the UK market, suffice it to say that I'm pretty sure it was somewhere between 1973 and 1976. Every kid wanted one and my brother Mark and I were no different.

Presents were not put under the tree and opened as a family in the SSS household. An ordinary pillowcase was stuffed with presents and every now and then a handful of Quality Street sweets were thrown in. There was also a Selection Box and an annual of some description. Father Christmas (aka Dad) used to leave our presents in our bedrooms. When questioned on this he says it's what his parents did when he was a boy but I strongly suspect it was a ploy on the part of our parents to be able to sleep in past 6am on Christmas morning. Generally it worked. Not, however, in the Year of the Stylophone.

I have no idea what time it was when I woke that Christmas morning but I think it was probably around 4am. I switched on the light, saw the presents and got stuck in. About a third of the way into the pile I found it. My Stylophone. I immediately rushed into my brothers bedroom clutching my electronic musicmaker. Mark was hard at work, ripping into paper and eating sweets.

"Quick," I shouted. "Look for this. You must have one!" He rummaged about for a bit then found his Stylophone. Foolishly, my parents had given us both batteries. Initially we just ran the stylet up and down the keyboard but after only a short period we were able to play something which bore more than a passing resemblence to The Death March. We played and played and played.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open and a wild looking man wearing pyjamas started shouting at us. It seemed that our parents had taken exception to being woken in the early hours of the morning to the garbled funeral dirge. I was lifted by the scruff of my dressing gown and deposited back in my own room. The Stylophones were confiscated and we were warned not to move from our rooms until daylight.

I don't remember much else about that Christmas or many others from my childhood but I'll never forget that moment.

Happy Birthday to me

2008-08-28T11:31:00.003+10:00

It's my birthday. I am now officially *cough cough* years of age.

Looking back at last year I think my report card should say 'must try harder'.

And now, I'm off to spend some money!

An excellent day

2008-08-25T21:14:00.007+10:00

I had a nice day today. Quite unusual for a Monday but hey, I'll take my good days where I can get them.

I spent the afternoon as part of the studio audience for Enough Rope. I pricked up my ears last week when I heard an announcement at the end of a TV programme asking for audience members for a show starring Bill Bailey. Did I want to see Bill Bailey? Does the Queen have corgis? I rang the very next morning and scored two tickets.

Has anyone been in a studio audience before? Blimey, isn't it knackering? My friend and I arrived at 2pm, 15 minutes earlier than than the required time to find a massive queue waiting for us. Well, that isn't actually true. I arrived at 1.45pm because I am anally retentive and have an overwhelming fear of being late for events. My friend (Yummy Mummy, a fellow nurse) arrived at 2.10pm because a) she does not share my anxiety disorder and b) she has a small child to look after. Anyway, after queueing, being checked off on a list and being corralled into a small area we were finally allowed into the studio at 3pm. It was very exciting. The warm up chappie was highly entertaining. He asked the audience a few standard questions, where were people from, who'd come the furthest etc. as well as asking if any groups were in. Yes, there was a group from somewhere (I have to say I can't remember where) but the second group to identify themselves were from the New South Wales Nurses Association. They got a big cheer and round of applause. Clearly, nurses are popular. Yummy and I felt a little embarrassed as we didn't join in the big clap and cheer. We both felt as though we would have been patting ourselves on the back but then we realised that we just looked like a couple of nurse haters. I had no idea whether to bask in the mass glory or applaud my colleagues two rows above. Ho hum.

We had a great afternoon. We finally got out at 6pm and our moment of fame will be broadcast next week. I'll leave you with a couple of my favourite Bill Bailey moments. The first one will make no sense if you don't know who Billy Bragg is but I hope you like it. The second one will make no sense if you're a) not British or b) haven't lived in the UK for a reasonable period of time. Watch them anyway. I'm sure you'll like them.

Cordial relations and sour grapes

2008-08-24T13:29:00.004+10:00

Well, the Olympics are drawing to an end. David Beckham is preparing for his role in the closing ceremony and the factories of Beijing are getting ready to recommence churning all that crap out into the atmosphere. Pity the Paralympians who are going to have to breathe in shitty air.

The Olympics has brought out the best and the worst in people. I was particularly entertained by this little piece in todays Sun Herald newspaper. Paul Connolly wrote an article called 'Moments to Remember'. This is what he had to say about Britain.

6. The Empire Strikes Back. We may well remember Beijing for all the childish bickering it prompted between Britain (well, the English part of the union) and Australia. "Ner ner, we won more gold than you!" Only cause you roped in the Scots, Welsh and Northern Irish. "Whinge, whinge, we even snatched some gold in the pool off you!" Not bad for a country that has very few swimming pools - and not much soap. Actually, that last, less than original comment was made by AOC chief John "Shit Happens" Coates.

Schoolyard stuff.

Gee, Paul, do you think so? Quite frankly, I think you're talking out of your arse. I haven't heard too much gloating from the British at all. We're too busy being surprised and pleased. If there is any gloating (and I'd be surprised if there wasn't any), well, Australians like you (not all Aussies, obviously) only have yourselves to blame. The jingoist Aussie as just as real as his Union Jack waving counterpart. It's little wonder that Australians are seen as bad winners and bad losers by other countries.

Schoolyard stuff, whines Paul. I remember when England - and yes, that's England and not Britain this time - were playing Australia in the Rugby World Cup in 2003. One of the newspapers here published the name of hotel where the England team was staying and encouraged their readers to beep their car horns outside and keep the team awake. Apparently several knuckledraggers did just that. Classic bad sportsmanship as well as a surefire way to annoy the local residents. We're not the only ones in the playground.

What's the problem, Paul? Australia didn't get as many medals as you thought? You didn't get to wiggle your arse in the face of the Motherland and have a 'ner ner' moment of your own? There's finally a bit of competition? If people like you hadn't spent so much time delighting in the sporting losses of Britain (and yes, that's England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland) you might not be feeling like a kid with a puncture in his favourite football right now. If any Brits are having a gloat then you only have yourselves to blame for continually calling us crap. Gracelessness in defeat is something that so called sporting Australians excel at. "Oh, the Poms (again, people, it's Great Britain, not just England) only won at the sitting down sports. They only won with Aussie coaches. " So, it's not Australia who have a Kiwi as a coach for their rugby team? My mistake.

I mentioned a while ago that I've now lived in Australia for ten years. For the most part I love it. But it seems to me that it's okay to be abusive to the English in a way that no other nationality cops it and at times it goes past being a friendly joke.

A few years ago the Sunday Telegraph newspaper had a memorable headline. 'Filthy Poms' screamed out from the front page. English backpackers were being held entirely responsible for the amount of litter being left on Bondi Beach. Imagine the outcry if the headline had said 'Filthy Lebs' or 'Filthy Japs' or some other nationality. But no, because we're English (not Scottish or Welsh or from Northern Ireland) it's okay to insult us because it's just a joke and Pom is an affectionate term and hey, if you can't take a joke why don't you just fuck off back to England where it's cold and wet, you Pommy bastard?

You know what, Paul Connolly? I wasn't gloating. I was happy to see the country of my birth do well for once on the international sporting stage. But people like you make me want to take my Union Jack flag and shove it right up your arse. Anything to stop a repeat of the drivel that comes out of it would be a start.

Look, I know it goes both ways. I know Aussie friends of mine in London get called 'convicts'. Friends, with my hand on my European passport I apologise for their stupidity. For every person who has asked you if Skippy really delivers the post I've had ten people express surprise at my ability to get a suntan because, as we all know, the English don't get suntans. Apparently. For every person who has asked you if Australia is really like Neighbours (well, clearly not because everyone in Neighbours is white) I've had to bite my tongue when Australians express surprise that I feel the cold, because I'm English and I should be used to it. Perhaps Aussies think we all have cold blood to match our stiff upper lips and 'reserved' behaviour.

Now, what was that medal count again?............

SSS and the Transport Minister

2008-08-16T12:35:00.003+10:00

Over three months ago I sent an email off to Morris Iemma, the useless Premier of New South Wales. I'd spent almost an hour trying to get home from work after a ten hour shift and was ready to explode with anger over the transport system. Here's the letter, which was sent on the 7th of May. Buses and locations have been disguised.

Dear Mr Iemma,

I am writing to you about the abysmal service provided by Sydney Buses for commuters to Chigley.

I am sick and tired of standing at a bus stop in the evening waiting to get home. I get on my bus just before Albert Square. If I leave work at 17.30 it is not unusual for me to wait in excess of thirty minutes. 123 buses are almost always full at this point in the route and will not stop. The last thing I want to do at the end of the working day is to stand on Oxford St breathing in traffic fumes and watching packed buses drive past. Regardless of what the bus timetable says there are not enough buses. There is no room on any 123 or 124 between 17.45 and approximately 18.30. This evening I waited for over 30 minutes before admitting defeat and getting a taxi. I work as a nurse, most of the day is spent on my feet and I'm tired of it. The colder weather is approaching and I have better things to do with my time than stand around getting cold and annoyed.

Whatever you are doing is not enough. There are simply not enough buses to cope with the volume of passengers to Chigley and Trumpton. I see that the 333 Bondi buses are a great success. These buses have double the passenger capacity. What plans are there to extend this to the express buses which serve Chigley and Trumpton?
The public are encouraged to use public transport to help the environment and the breathtaking arrogance with which we are treated by Sydney buses never ceases to amaze me.

You are in your second term as Premier and I am yet to see any tangible improvement in services. I don't want excuses or platitudes. I don't want spending figures. I want a bus. I want to be able to get on a bus within 30 minutes of arriving at the stop. I don't even expect a seat. I just want to get on it and get home.

Yours

SSS

Approximately six weeks later I received a reply from the Premiers office telling me that they had forwarded my letter to the Minister for Transport. Yesterday I received a response. Here it is.

Dear SSS

I refer to your correspondence received by the Minister for Transport concerning the 123 and 124 routes. The Minister has asked me to reply on his behalf. I apologise for the delay in responding.

Passenger loading and timing checks are conducted on outbound services on 123 and 124 services operating through Albert Square between 5.30pm and 6.30pm on weekdays generally indicate sufficient accommodation is available for passenger demand.

There are, however, instances where services may be disrupted due to traffic congestion encountered en route. This scenario usually affects normal loading patterns and it may be difficult for passengers to gain accommodation. However, the high frequency of services during the PM peak period ensures minimum waiting times.

Additionally, the service checks identified certain services on other bus routes which appear to be under utilised during this time. Investigations are now being undertaken to examine the possibility of relocating these resources as a means to supplement Chigley services.

In the meantime, services will continue to be monitored......oh, blah blah blah. that's me, readers, not the Goverment lackey.

Phew. Well that was useful and informative. It's all in my fucking imagination. There are buses, lots of them. The peak time service ensures minimum waiting times. Silly me. I suppose it depends on whether or not you consider a waiting time of half an hour before being able to board a bus is acceptable or not. The response tells me that the service is adequate yet in the next breath I'm being told they are looking at ways to supplement the current service. Well bugger me. Good old Sydney buses. That should be their new slogan - Improving on the already adequate. This will probably involve taking away some other poor sods bus off them and making them wait for 45 minutes.

And they want people to stop using their cars? Fat chance.

The true Olympic spirit

2008-08-16T09:21:00.006+10:00

Ehem. I'm not quite sure what happened to the LOLcats on the last post. It looks fine when I see it in preview. Anyhoo, the second cat is sitting on the step with spooky eyes and says 'disrupt'. It's really funny. Hilarious.

So, today I'd like to talk to you about the other Olympics. The Paralympics will kick off in just 21 days. Less able bodied athletes get to push themselves to the limits and show the world there's more to disabled sport than just wheelchair basketball.

The history of the games dates back to just after World War Two. Ludwig Guttman was a Jewish German and a leading neurosurgeon. He fled Germany in 1939 and settled in the UK. In 1944 the British Government asked him to lead a new hospital unit to cope with the young soldiers who were returning from the war with spinal injuries. The unit was - and still is - at the now world famous Stoke Mandeville Hospital in Buckinghamshire. The first Stoke Mandeville Games were organised in 1948 by Dr Guttman as part of ongoing therapy for his patients, raising both their stamina and self respect. In 1952 Britain was joined in the games by the Netherlands, taking it to an international level. 1960 saw the competition move to Rome, where the games were held after the Olympics had finished. The Paralympics were born. Dr Guttman founded the British Sports Association for the Disabled in the same year. In 1966 Dr Guttman was recognised for his massive contribution to British medicine and sport and was knighted, becoming Sir Ludwig Guttman. He died in 1980, aged 80.

The British Paralympics team are sending athletes out to compete after the able bodied men and women have finished splashing, running and rowing. Here's a look at the Aussies and the US to show just three countries teams.

A variety of events will be contested. Wheelchair rugby, otherwise known as Murderball, is one of the roughest and most exciting games played with the funny shaped ball. Typically played by young men who have sustained spinal injuries in accidents, they're mad as hell, go in hard and change wheels up to 6 times in a game because they've smashed them to buggery. Medals will be awarded in archery, athletics, boccia (a game designed for people with altered motor skills) cycling, equestrian events, football (that's soccer to some of you but you know what, you kick the ball with your foot, so, you know, let's all call it football) , judo, powerlifting, sailing, swimming, and table tennis to name but a few. Oh yes, and wheelchair basketball.

I went to the Paralympics when they were in Sydney in 2000. I wanted to go to the wheelchair rugby but it had sold out within about an hour of the tickets being released so I ended up watching the swimming. It was one of the most fantastic sporting events I've ever been to. The atmosphere was electric. The volunteers were brilliant. The swimming was great fun to watch and I was literally jumping out of my seat throughout most of the races. I got to stand for my national anthem way more times than I expected and waved my British flag so many times I thought the man next to me was going to take it off me and threaten to lodge it somewhere rather uncomfortable.

Over 4,000 athletes from 136 countries competed at the 2004 Athens Paralympics. No doubt there will be more at Beijing. All this from a German Jew who escaped Hitler in 1939. Now that's what I can a legacy.

Urge to kill rising

2008-08-14T21:37:00.006+10:00

I have had two shitty days at work in a row. Both were made worse by the fact that I work with some completely selfish, self centred, seemingly stupid cretins with poor time management skills coupled with a complete failure to prioritise and/or see what's going on just slightly out of their line of vision.

I won't go on about it (it'll give me a stroke) but all I will say is that when I say, "I need you now." it doesn't mean "o hai, I can has talk to you laters, k?" It means "Get your effing arse here right now!"

And now, some kitties.

more cat pictures

A perfect moment

2008-08-12T19:38:00.003+10:00

I'm feeling quite flat this week. Nothing terrible has happened to me personally but there have been a couple of sad stories in the news and they made me think about the random nature of life. The first story makes me particularly sad as it happened a stones throw from my home. I walked past as the fireman were hosing the poor mans blood off the street. Misery is everywhere.

And yet. Misery might be there but there is happy stuff as well. After a particularly shitty day at work yesterday I was trying to think one perfect moment in time. And I found one.

Many years ago I was a staff nurse at a busy district general hospital in East London. When I say busy I mean busy. It had few redeeming features; it was set close to a remnant of Epping Forest and had a rather good chip shop close by. Entertainment was found at 999 parties and by watching the cows who found their way over the cattle grids and wandered aimlessly through the grounds. Anyway, it was extremely busy and we worked like carthorses. It was common for patients to leave us chocolates as thank you gifts but one week in the summer of 1989 we cared for a woman whose husband was a greengrocer. When she was discharged her husband gave us the most amazing amount of juicy strawberries. It wasn't just a couple of punnets, it was more like twenty. It was a beautiful summers day and for once it was quiet. My friend and I made a pot of tea and took some strawberries outside with a couple of rickety old chairs. We drank tea and ate strawberries. We laughed about nothing in particular. We sat back and felt the sun on our faces. It was a perfect moment.

How's that? It was probably 20 minutes in total and I can still remember it now. Tea, strawberries, sunshine and a good friend. Life has shitty moments and it has perfect ones. The key is not to let the former overrun the latter.

On to Olympicwatch. Team GB has two golds, one silver and one bronze. And this weeks Twat of the Week? This cretin. UK readers might be surprised to hear that Australians don't think the British wash. Clearly they never met my dear old grandfather, who would have said that cleanliness was next to Godliness. Well, he would have if he hadn't been the worlds biggest atheist. Sod off, Coates. I bet I smell better than you.

On a happier note......

2008-08-11T21:24:00.003+10:00

I'm not too interested in the Olympics. The only thing I want to watch is the gymnastics, to be honest. But I live in sport obsessed Australia. I work with Australians, and there's not much more the Aussies love than winding up the English with sport related jibes. (the fact that we beat them in the Rugby World Cup in 2003 and the fact that we got to the finals again last year and they didn't is a thorn in their side but that's besides the point)

Anyhoo, I was in the tearoom today, having a well deserved cup of tea (two teabags because quite frankly the tea is like piss) and to my surprise the swimming was on the tv. I sat next to one of my favourite anaesthetists and began to ridicule the British swimming team. "We learn breaststroke at school, you know," I informed him. "We're not that good in the water. In fact, we haven't won anything since that bald bloke. What was his name?" "Not that fellow from Little Britain?" queried the doc. "I thought it was his mate who was the swimmer."

It sort of went a bit like that for a while and then the race began. And bugger me, we won! The British team won gold and bronze! I actually jumped out of my chair and did a little dance on the spot.

Congratulations, Rebecca Adlington! Our first female Olympic swimming champion in 48 years. And congratulations to her team mate Jo Jackson for getting bronze in the same race. You made your nation proud. And you made me eat my words.

Would you?

2008-08-11T21:05:00.003+10:00

Now, look. I know it's a story from the Daily Mail. But really, what's the point of this one?

Melissa Bowmer was diagnosed with cancer and needed chemotherapy. By a cruel twist of fate, her four year old son was diagnosed with a different type of cancer only weeks later. Mrs Bowmer delayed commencing her own treatment to be able to sit at her sons bedside and help him through. The story reports that both mother and son are now free of the disease, although interestingly it states that Mrs Bowmer is still receiving chemo.

Is it just me? I mean, I know I'm not a mother or anything and I don't understand that maternal need to protect your child over everything else. But isn't it, oooh, I don't know, a teensy bit selfish of her to risk her own life? That's what she did. She delayed her own treatment to sit at her sons bedside. What the bloody hell was wrong with her husband? Are fathers so useless? Could her husband not have sat with their son?

There are two ways of looking at this story. The Mail version. Selfless mother. Risks own life to save son. Goes bald in solidarity with child. They all live happily ever after.

The other way to look at it? Woman not thinking straight, risks own life unnecessarily to provide care for son which could have come from the other parent. The story says that doctors warned Mrs Dowmer that a delay in treatment could be fatal. Who knows if her treatment will be successful? I know this sounds harsh but I bloody well hope she doesn't end up dead in a few years time because she delayed her treatment out of some misguided belief that she needed to be able to hold her sons hand.

No, I'm not speaking from my own personal experience. But I've seen it. I've seen young women die after putting things off.

Life is precious. We are here for all too short a time. Don't take risks with your health. If the doctor says you need treatment, guess what? You need treatment. NOW. Not when you think you need it.

Other peoples lives

2008-08-08T18:42:00.004+10:00

The nurse looks at the mans arm. "That's a big tattoo. What does it mean?"

"It's my sons name. He was killed last year. His mother ran him over with the car."

Silence from the nurse and the anaesthetist as they exchange glances. "I'm so sorry to hear that, "says the anaesthetist. "There's not much you can say to that."

"We're divorced now. I still have a daughter, I see her every other weekend."

Later in the operating theatre the tattoo was discussed. Apparently the man, *Bill, had had a similar conversation with his surgeon a few weeks ago. Last year Bills wife had been reversing the car in the driveway and hadn't realised that their son was playing behind the car. The tattoo starts at Bills elbow and takes up two thirds of his inner arm. It's startling obvious. Some felt it was a touching tribute to his three year old son. Some felt it was too big. Another felt it was morbid.

What do I think? I think it's sad that his marriage hadn't survived what had been a tragic accident. I think it's heartbreaking that neither of these parents are going to be able to get past this. I wonder if the mother will ever be able to forgive herself. I wonder if the father will ever forgive the mother. It's a tragedy that their surviving child has lost not only her brother but her family unit as well. I understand Bills need to remember his son and mark his passing but I also wonder if getting such a large and conspicuous tattoo in such a prominent place was the best way to do it. Every time someone says, "that's an unusual name, who is it?" he tells that story. He has to go through that pain every day of his life. I think he's punishing himself with that tattoo.

Interesting Fact Number One

2008-08-05T17:53:00.005+10:00

Guess what? I learned something today. Kafka was German.

This stunning revelation came about when I was having a very pleasant conversation with one of my patients. I noticed he had Dr as his title and asked if he was a GP. Well, he looked like one. No, he replied, he had a PhD. " Ah, a real doctor" I said and we both had a good laugh. Few things needle a medical doctor more than pointing out that they aren't real doctors. It turned out that he was a doctor of German Literature. Well, as you know, I do like a good read and I pressed him for more information. We had a chat about why German literature has such a low profile as opposed to English or Russian. He felt that a lot of it was due to the whole guilt/World War 2/mass horror/warmongering image that Germany had. I told him that I didn't know any German authors. "Have you heard of Kafka?" he asked. Well yes, but I thought he was Russian. He told me that Kafka was a German Jew who lived in Prague but wrote all of his books in German. We went on to have a nice conversation about Metamorphosis and I asked if he could recommend a good German novel. Without hesitation he told me to look for Tin Drum by Gunter Grass. I popped into a bookshop on the way home. "Ah, Gunter Grass." confirmed the man in the bookshop. "Possibly my favourite book ever. The film is really good but it's not a patch on the book. No. Out of stock. Has been for ages." Super. He's ordering a copy for me and it should arrive from the US in 3 weeks.

Strangely enough, I was having another pleasant conversation with another patient later in the day. She was a German teacher and told me that Kafka was Czech but did indeed write all of his books in German. I came home and checked my own battered copy of Metamorphosis and Other Stories. Turns out he was Czech after all.

So, the Germans have claimed Kafka, son of a Czech Jew as their own. That's just the sort of thing that Australia does all the time. Aussie Joe Bugner, anyone? And Britain has done it too. Zola Budd, the barefoot South African runner whose great granny spent a weekend in Worthing during the summer of 1862. Okay, it wasn't that but it was some sort of tenuous link. She got a British passport in record time to enable her to run for Great Britain in the Olympics and what did she do? Tripped over a Yank, jogged in last to the boos of the crowd, got disqualified and never ran again. Actually, did you know that she didn't trip Mary Decker? The footage proved it and she was reinstated but the legend stands.

Where was I? I really do have the attention span of a three year old at times. Oh yes, Kafka. Read Metamorphosis. It's really quite good.

**UPDATED**
I did a bit of Googling and it turns out that Prague belonged to Austria when Kafka was born. You just have to love those mobile European borders.

Daffodil Day

2008-08-03T15:12:00.003+10:00

Just a little public service announcement today. I want to remind you all that 22nd of August is Daffodil Day.

Apparently 1 in 3 of us with either be diagnosed with cancer, or have a close family member diagnosed. I don't know anyone who hasn't been touched by cancer in one way or another. I have lost both of my grandfathers to this terrible disease, one to stomach cancer and one to prostate and bowel cancer. Two years ago my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Fortunately he has been cleared by his oncologist after months of treatment. I have known too many women who have succumbed to breast cancer. I have looked after countless patients of all ages who have had their bodies and lives invaded by cancer. I am tired of young lives being snuffed out in their prime.

It's a shitty, hateful, painful, merciless disease. I want it gone. I don't want to lose anymore friends or family members. Please, buy a pen or badge or something. Drop a gold coin in a collection box. Every little helps.

What else can you do? Limit your exposure to the sun. A tan might look healthy but you'll end up with skin like a handbag and/or skin cancer. Stop smoking. Exercise. Eat fruit and vegetables. Ladies, have a smear test. No, it's not nice but neither is cervical cancer. Get your GP to investigate any unusual breast lumps. Boys, have a regular feel of your testicles. Not like you need to be told to do that since most men can't keep their hands off them at the best of times, but if you find a lump, go to your doctor. Dying from embarrassment isn't just a figure of speech.
Blood in your poo? Unusual bowel movements? See your doctor.

Look after yourselves. And spare a few bob for those whose lives have been turned upside down.

Mentioned in dispatches

2008-07-31T21:45:00.003+10:00

I've just been over to Diamond Geezer. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that this humble blog, read by 4 people, is mentioned as being one of the 186 blogs with DG on their blogroll.

Anyway, if you've come from there, I'm usually much more interesting. Oh yes. Edgy. Controversial. Wickedly sarcastic. Funny, funny, funny. No, really, come back in a month or so and you'll be addicted.

Would anyone like to see Christian the lion again?

Reasons to be cheerful.

2008-07-31T20:41:00.003+10:00

In an attempt to be less sour and more sweet I have dedicated this post to all things cheerful.

Okay, so the first one isn't exactly a reason to be cheerful but it warmed the cockles of my heart.

Marie and Frank Cotton were married for 65 years. They died on the same day in the nursing home where they had spent the last three years of their lives. Frank just couldn't live without his wife. I can't contemplate spending that many years with one person. Losing a partner after spending over two thirds of your life with them would be unimaginable. I know it sounds strange but the story made me smile. I'm glad that Marie and Frank got to toddle off towards eternity together.

Reason two - Christian the lion. If you are one of the few people on the planet who haven't heard this one then go to Youtube and watch the footage. I defy you not to cry. Christian was a lion who was bought from Harrods by two Aussies who were living in London in 1969. Well, I imagine it seemed like a good idea at the time. After 3 years of sharing their flat in the Kings Road, it was decided that Christian should go off to Kenya and live the life a lion was meant to live. Just under a year later, the men went to find him.

I watched this today and it made me laugh and cry at the same time. Truly beautiful.

Reason to be cheerful part three - did you see what I did there? - is this charming little activity sent to me by the recently missing in action Ambridge fan of Chelmford. Nothing quite like spending some time dropping angry little blue men from trees.

There. Not always whinging, am I?

I aint'nt ded

2008-07-28T19:37:00.003+10:00

Or something like that. Frankly, I can't be arsed to leave the comfort of the settee to get a book from the shelf to check the quote. Answers in the comment box, please. Oh yes, it's the blog with homework.

So, what have I been up to? Not a lot, to be honest. It's been a less than exciting week. Nothing has happened to raise my blood pressure and nothing in the news has caused me to a) throw the paper to the floor and swear or b)shout at the television and turn over. It's either old age or it truly has been a slow week.

Ooh, that's a bit of a fib. Last week marked the ten year anniversary of the arrival of SSS in Australia. It wasn't my first visit but it's certainly been the longest. I'd started a post about it but it sort of veered off into the Marks and Spencers food hall and I never managed to get it back on track. I might try later. I celebrated the only way an Englishwoman with a decade of Australian life under her belt could - I went to the pub. Much alcohol, telling of very bad jokes and cackling was had. Nutritional needs were met by a couple of bags of crisps, or chips as the Aussies insist on calling them. What I wouldn't give for a good old fashioned bag of chips from the chippy on Lea Bridge Road, but there you go.

There are good things and bad things about being in Oz right now. (again, a more detailed post on this subject will follow at some point). The bad - we are way behind with Doctor Who. My spoiler embargo continues, I've taken steep measures including avoiding the entertainment news on the Beeb site and disabling signatures and avatars on the Doctor Who forum. No, I won't tell you who I am over there. It has been pointed out to me that I am in fact lucky because I still have it all to look forward to when the UK fans won't get any new Who for over a year. I'm just worried I won't make it to the end without some well (or ill) meaning cretin spoiling it for me. Still, I'll try my best.

Another bad thing. It's winter. Not the winters of my childhood in Warwickshire but a Sydney winter with temps between 4 and 10 degrees. I know that seems like nothing to those sweltering in the UK at the moment but trust me, it's cold. Sydney homes aren't designed for the cold weather in the same way that homes in the Uk aren't designed for the summer. Mind you, you could argue that the English summer consists of possibly 1o days of real heat and a couple of months of drizzle and cloud. I am so cold this evening. The heater is on full blast, I'm no more than 10 inches away it and my nose is cold.

A good thing? Well, we get Top Gear. And Doctor Who. And our summer is weeks away. Okay, probably 12 weeks away. Maybe 16. But it's coming.

Just another Sunday in Sydney

2008-07-20T19:20:00.003+10:00

Would you believe it? Today was World Youth Day. SSS, a confirmed atheist, saw not only the empty Popemobile but the Pope-ocade as it whizzed down Oxford St after todays Mass.

It was all accidental but not entirely unlikely. I went to see Mamma Mia last week (go and see it, it's fantastic) and they were giving out free tickets to a screening of The Savages which was taking placetoday. I was at a loose end this morning and it was a toss up between the gym and the film. Clearly the freebie was a more attractive proposition. The cinema is located on Oxford St which would be fine if the epicentre of World Youth Day wasn't directly between my house and my chosen destination. Anyway, I took the bus and arrived in good time for the screening thanks to the diversion. I was sipping my coffee and flicking through the Sunday papers when I heard the screaming of police sirens. I looked out of the window to see the empty Popemobile tearing down Oxford St accompanied by 4 - yes, 4 - police bikes.

After watching the film (more on that in a minute) I wandered down Oxford St to meet a friend for lunch and was loitering outside our chosen meeting place when I heard the now familiar sound of police sirens. The traffic was stopped and police cars, white limos, a black limo with darkened windows(could have been a Roller or Daimler, not sure), two ambulances and a very large black van screamed past. I rang my Irish Catholic friend this evening and she laughingly suggested that that God was reaching out to me. I won't tell you what I said in reply.

So, back to the film. Wendy and Jon Savage are brother and sister. They've been estranged from their elderly father for some years when a call comes to inform them that he's about to be made homeless and is suffering from dementia. They're placed in the position of caring for a parent who doesn't seem to have done a very good job of caring for them.

I'll be honest. This film isn't easy to watch. The subject matter is uncomfortable, to say the least. Laura Linney is outstanding as the slightly neurotic younger sister who works as a temp but longs to become a successful playright. Her only relationships are with her cat and her married neighbour. Phillip Seymour Hoffman is Jon, a drama professor with a PhD and a seeming inability to commit to his long term girlfriend. Philip Bosco plays their father, Lenny. He doesn't seem to realise what's going on half the time and thinks the nursing home is a hotel. There's no affection shown between the family members. We're not told exactly why Wendy and Jon became estranged from their father but we're left with the distinct impression that there's no love or affection between parent and children. Indeed, both siblings seem to resent the intrusion into their lives yet it's Laura who seems to make more of a sacrifice. I met two friends at the screening and I asked them for their impressions. Neither of them were particularly impressed. One of them said that he 'didn't need to see that sort of thing in a film.' As I said, it's not easy to watch. I certainly squirmed a bit. But it made me think about when children grow older and take on the role of a parent. It would be hard enough to do but imagine if you didn't particularly like the parent you were doing it for. There are moments of humour but I filled with a sadness that stayed with me for some time. Don't go and see it if you're feeling sad.

Well. The Pope flies out tomorrow. Whatever shall I complain about now?

The retail invisibility cloak

2008-07-19T17:09:00.004+10:00

Bloody electrical stores. Grrrr. Tell me, what is it about my uterus that makes me invisible to male sales assistants? I walked into three electrical stores today in my search for a set top box. I loitered near the television sets in all three stores waiting for someone to come and offer assistance. Fat chance. All the spotty little boys were waiting for men to help. In the third store I practically stomped out as three young men stood idly chatting at the till. One of them had the nerve to stare at my breasts as I left. Yes, you fucking little shit, I have boobs. I also have a brain and I have money, money which I won't be spending in your bloody shop. You can shove your technical knowledge right up your arse.

I don't know why they ignore me. I don't dress like a bag lady. I'm short but I'm not fucking knee height. I don't smell. I'm standing in a retail outlet looking at goods. This in itself indicates that I might like to leave with something. So why don't they come up to me?

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Why didn't you just go up and ask one of them for help?" Good point, well made. It's always been my experience that male -and they nearly always are male - sales assistants ignore me. They see me in a sort of vague way but never come up and offer help and yet they bound up to men. If it's good enough to approach men they should make an effort with their female customers as well. Anecdotal evidence from friends show it's not just me. Christ knows why it happens, you'd think they'd come up to women in an attempt to baffle us with science/bullshit. I've got a good mind to write letters to the managers of all three stores but feel that's just a bit too much.

So, Harvey Norman, Dick Smith and Bing Lee, you're not getting my money. I'll do some internet research and get it that way. I don't even have to get dressed, stand at a bus stop, put up with the general public or be ignored. Google here I come.

So.......does anyone know anything about set top boxes?

If you can't say something nice........

2008-07-18T17:18:00.002+10:00

....post LOLcats.

Pilgrims Progress

2008-07-15T18:31:00.004+10:00

They're here. The World Youth Day/Week/Whatever it is juggernaut is rolling onwards. Hundreds of pilgrims are arriving on the streets on Sydney at what seems like an hourly rate. Hoards of happy, smiling young people are wandering the streets of the Emerald City wearing backpacks, massive grins, national flags and inappropriate weather for winter.

I've already seen quite a few of them out and about. A largish group descended on Coogee beach on Saturday. They were sitting on the sand, Bibles in hand, spaced out like carefully planted seeds. At 11am they rose and gathered in a circle for what looked like a group prayer before leaving as peacefully as they arrived. No mess, nothing but footprints and possibly bottom shaped indentations as evidence of their visit. A rather more civilised group of young people than the drunken mess which is found in and around the drinking establishments of the area on the same Saturday night, half dressed drunken backpackers and young Irishmen in nylon football shirts. At least the pilgrims aren't vomiting and falling over.

Mind you, my pilgrims were silent. A work colleague reported today that she'd been on Bondi beach at 8am and groups of pilgrims were there singing and bashing tambourines. At 8o'clock in the morning! This was news to the rest of us as we were under the impression that the pilgrims wouldn't be on the loose before 10am. We'd all fallen victim to this misapprehension as all travel advice to commuters and Sydney residents is for us to make our journeys between 7 and 10am if our aim is minimum inconvenience. Obviously the tales of a Catholic curfew were greatly exaggerated.

Anyhoo. They're not hurting anyone. Sure, they're clogging up the footpaths and they look far too happy for this misery guts but they've been nicely behaved so far. Not everyone is chuffed with the constant singing, dancing and bashing of noisy musical instruments but I suppose they're all going on Monday, at least they'd better be. I did catch the tail end of a news report tonight that said someone had sprayed religious slogans on the War Memorial but that's all. I'm sure the Catholic Church will be more than happy to pay for the graffiti to be removed as soon as possible - in fact it'd better be gone already, Georgie Boy - as you don't touch the War Memorial, you just don't.

So, why is it that I still find myself watching World Youth Day coverage with a look of horror on my face? I know it's there, I have to close my mouth after each news report. What is it about these religious people that's getting right under my skin? Could it be that George Pell, a single, unmarried and childless man announced this week that we should all have more children? Fuck off and have your own, George. No, there must be more to it than that. Am I allergic to happy clappy Christians? Am I naturally suspicious of cheerful people? Did my 70s primary school teacher scar me for life with her renditions of Kumbaya? Have I inherited an anti religion gene? Maybe I'm just an intolerant bigot.

Moving swiftly on........the good news is that the annoyance laws were overturned this afternoon. The bad news is that the numpty to the right in this picture was seen by yours truly on this evenings news exercising her right to hand out condoms to Catholic pilgrims. Handing them out to children. Two of the girls she buttonholed were 13 and 14. Not clever, love, just more inflammatory than neccessary.

5 more days. Just 5 more days.

A Winters Day

2008-07-05T21:46:00.002+10:00

It's winter here in Sydney. There's not much to complain about, however, it's nothing like the freezing winters of my Coventry childhood. It's not even a patch on winter in Canberra or Tasmania. Early morning is chilly and it's certainly cool when the sun goes down but inbetween times it's quite lovely. Todays picture was taken during a stroll through Centennial Park. It's a beautiful public space. Within 5 minutes of leaving the hustle and bustle of Oxford St you can enter an oasis of piece and quiet. Just watch out for the Eastern Suburbs yummy mummies and their ubiquitous Bugaboo prams. Keep walking past the Sass & Bide jeans, GHDd highlights, Pandora bracelets and babychino brigade and you'll lose yourself in two square kilometres of parkland. Formal gardens with old English style statues share space with duck ponds, playing fields and horse riders. There's a dedicated cycling track which was used during the 2000 Sydney Olympics. (SSS went to see the male trampolining during the Olympics, the official line is that everything else was sold out.)

Even though I live near the beach I prefer to be near the tranquility of forests and trees. One of the things I liked best about my former home in East London was its close proximity to an old remnant of Epping Forest. It only took a short walk from my front door I was able to find sanctuary in woodland. The sound of the traffic was reduced to a distant hum and the only sounds were made by squirrels darting about on the forest floor. It was cool, dark and peaceful. Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine I'm there. Fortunately I can go here and picture myself strolling towards the trees to the left. People may mock East London and Essex but let me tell you, if you want peace and quiet in ancient forest you won't be disappointed. Sometimes the best things in life really are free.

The Catholic Roadshow

2008-07-05T19:24:00.006+10:00

*WARNING. THIS POST CONTAINS SENTIMENTS THAT MAY BE OFFENSIVE TO MEMBERS OF THE CATHOLIC FAITH. THE AUTHOR MAKES NO APOLOGIES FOR THE CONTENT. ALL VIEWS ARE PERSONAL. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED*

So, the Pope is coming to town. World Youth Week is about to hit Sydney and the locals are bracing themselves for inconvenience of a magnitude last experienced during the 2000 'best ever' Olympic Games. The main event will be happening at Randwick Racecourse. The season is over for the winter, thoroughbred horses have been moved to alternative stables and the site is being transformed from a place of hedonism to a place of worship. Latest estimates put the cost of World Youth Week at $150 million costs for the Catholic Church and $86 million costs for the NSW taxpayers. And yes, I'm sure the pilgrims will bring money with them. But let's face it, it's World Youth Week. How much money do you think these teenagers can spend on t shirts and Pokemons?

Cardinal George Pell is the head of the Catholic Church in Australia. He is, readers, a man with the charm and charisma of a wet paper bag. I have been in his presence and let me tell you he didn't have much of one. But I digress. Today Georgie boy presided over the official opening of a souvenir tent opposite St Margarets Cathedral. Obviously we're not talking about a two man tent here, it's a great big thing and it's on public property, sitting loud and proud in Hyde Park. Products on sale include t shirts, rosary beads, baseball caps but sadly no Pope on a Rope soaps will be available. Shame.

Now, then. I'm not a Catholic. I don't have a religion. I try to be respectful to the belief systems of others. Personally, I think religion amounts to nothing more than people having an imaginary friend but I don't openly voice this opinion unless someone is trying to ram their personal beliefs/imaginary friend down my throat.The Catholic Church in particular gets right on my goat. AIDs is a pandemic, it's killing people and nowhere is its spread more prevelant than Africa. But does the Catholic Church sanction contraception? Noooooo. Has it considered, oooh, I don't know, having a rethink on the 'every sperm is sacred' approach, even though some sperm is deadly? Hell, no. Instead it teaches abstinence. It's a successful approach, isn't it? People are still becoming HIV positive, children, women and men are still dying. But the Church says contraception is wrong and so that's that. And what's with this confession bollocks? Do something wrong, go and sit in a box, tell a man in a dress that you did something terrible. He makes you say sorry, say a couple of prayers and you're done and dusted. And the Pope. An unmarried, celibate man. Elected by unmarried, celibate men. Need I say more?

Anyway, back to a more positive approach. Oooh, look. There's an Olympic Catholic torch. I particularly like this bit -

WYD ’08 Coordinator Bishop Anthony Fisher said: “The purpose of the WYD cross, Icon and Message Stick are to invite young people to World Youth Day and to spread a message of hope, peace and Christ’s love for humanity.”
“Sydneysiders will again feel the excitement of an international event, as they did during the Olympics.”

No, Anthony. We're all bloody well dreading it. We're dreading the inconvenience of disruption to public transport for a week. We're dreading the road closures. We're dreading trees being chopped down so that they don't get in the way of the pilgrims. We're dreading the taxpayers bill that will come with this event, despite Catholics only making up 25% of the Australian population. We're dreading the closure of the Harbour Bridge so that thousands of pilgrims can walk across it. We, the people of the areas encompassing Centennial Park, Randwick, Clovelly and Coogee are dreading being stuck for the weekend due to the closure of a major road, again so the pilgrims can walk to the racecourse. Oh, and special thanks from me for deciding to start night roadworks to get the road ready to be trampled. 11pm is a great time to start. After all, Anzac Parade is as busy at 11pm at night as it is at 6pm in the evening. I'm sure my taxi driver enjoyed the extra $15.00 that was added to my fare by sitting in the 4 lanes into 1 chaos of last night.

And now we're being told we're not allowed to annoy or inconvenience the pilgrims. Hilarious new infringements of our human rights have been introduced. If, for instance, I approach a group of pilgrims and attempt to give them free condoms, I could be arrested. To add to the ridiculousness of the situation I can be arrested by a member of the police, or a member of the fire brigade or even a volunteer with the SES. So, Colin from Caringbah can detain me for dishing out free rubber johnnies and I can be fined $5,5oo. Yet far from being deterred from annoying the followers of Pope Benny, the great NSW public are gearing up to push the powers that be to the limits on this one. Here's a selection of the latest t shirt slogans -

- You can fine me $5,500… But I still won’t believe in God
-WYD08: We close 300 roads so 300,000 can close their minds
- Good luck Pope – I've been waiting for a miracle at Randwick for years
- "and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who wear t-shirts that cause annoyance or inconvenience..."
- I survived a Christian Brothers education
- Oh no, I stepped in Dogma
- Too many Christians, not enough lions
– Randwick 2008 - annoying & inconvenient
- I've been touched by the Catholic Church, so where's my $2 billion?
- World Youth Day: You can cross yourself, but not the city

Look. I don't dislike Catholics. Some of my best friends are Catholics. But I'm mightily pissed off at the inconvenience. I'm mightily pissed off at the use of public spaces at taxpayers expense. I'm mightily pissed off at my civil rights being further eroded and all of this because of an outdated, out of touch, prohibitive, anti female cult. What? You think cult is a bit strong? Here's a definition of a cult - typically a cohesive social group devoted to beliefs or practices that the surrounding population considers to be outside the mainstream. I don't know about you but I'd say believing that IVF is wrong isn't exactly mainstream these days. I'd also wager that most people wouldn't agree that representatives of a chosen religion should have to remain celibate and single in order to serve the community.

What's the point of all this? I'm buggered if I know. What I do know is that I'll be doing my best to be miles away when the show hits town. And I'll be wearing a t shirt with an offensive slogan.

Suffer the little children

2008-06-29T18:38:00.003+10:00

It's happened again. Another father has killed himself and taken his children with him. This excuse for a man killed his three children by drugging and gassing them. He had a history of violence. Here's another one. And another one. And another one. The last two killed their children on Fathers Day. This one rang the childrens mother and told her what he was doing, 'allowing' her to listen to her children as they died.

Before we go any further let me make something clear. I do not approve of women - or men - who use their children to hurt their partners. I do not approve of women who refuse to allow children to see their fathers for no reason other than their own hurt feelings. Children are not soldiers in a war. They are to be protected as much as possible during the breakdown of a relationship. I'm sure it hurts if your husband cheated on you/gambled away your home/just didn't measure up but unless he has harmed you or the children then they still get to see Daddy.

It's not just men who kill their children, women do it too. In 2001 Andrea Yates drowned her five children. This is a woman who had been diagnosed with postnatal depression after the birth of her fourth child and has also attempted suicide twice. Her psychiatrist testified at the trial that she had urged both Mr and Mrs Yates not to have any further children due to the extreme likelihood of further psychotic depression. The Yates' went on to have another child within a year of Andrea's discharge from psychiatric care and her mental illnes resurfaced within three months of the birth of the 5th child. Despite this, the prosecution asked - unsuccessfully - for the death penalty. Alison Davies killed both herself her 12 year old son Ryan. Ms Davies had a long history of mental health problems. In all the research - okay, Googling - I did for this post I couldn't find much in the way of high profile cases where a mother had killed a child to hurt an ex husband or partner. I'm sure it exists, but I doubt it's in any way comparable with men who kill their children to hurt the mother.

Some might argue that fathers must be mentally ill to kill their own children. I disagree. I think in these cases the men were complete and utter evil bastards. Maybe their ex wives knew this. Maybe if the ex wives were trying to limit the fathers access visits to the children they were right to do so in these cases. Maybe these women saw what no one else did. That these weren't vulnerable men who were being denied visitation rights to their children because their ex partners were vindictive bitches but instead that these women realised the men were evil fuckers who would stop at nothing to get 'even'. I don't care how pissed off you are at your ex missus. You don't take the lives of your own flesh and blood. No real man would do that.

Now you don't

2008-06-28T14:03:00.005+10:00

Oh dear. It's done. I have to confess that I cried in the hairdressers. I wasn't upset, I think I was just in shock. It's gone. Well, sort of. There's still lots of it left and I know some of you are thinking, 'what's wrong with the silly cow, she's still got more hair than Paul Daniels/Bert Newton. All the same, I shed a few tears.

So, here it is, my idea of short hair. The hairdresser was keen to chop more off and feels I'd suit a bob. We decided, however, that 5 or 6 inches was a good start. You can't see from the picture but she's cut loads of the sides and I now have a long fringe. Before today my 'fringe' was about 6 inches longer. I was given a lock of hair in an envelope to take with me as a souvenir of my visit. I may need to look at it later.

I went shopping afterwards and bought a new Oroton handbag, a black felt hat (oh, the bitter irony), a pack of blank DVDs (Doctor Who starts again tomorrow), the new Paul Weller CD, two Peter Kay DVDs and a Bill Bailey DVD. All in all it was the most expensive trip to the hairdressers I've ever had.

Still, it's done now and if truth be told, I quite like it. It's going to take some getting used to but I like it.

NB - if anyone posts a Doctor Who spoiler in the comment box I will hunt you down and kill you. Thanks ever so.

Now you see it.......

2008-06-28T08:19:00.005+10:00

My hairdresser is eight months pregnant. She's a woman on the edge. Worse than that, she's a woman on the edge with a pair of scissors. She's been wanting to cut inches off my hair for years and I have a feeling that today is the day. It's true, I have too much hair and I know it needs to be shorter but I'm scared! The cut needs to happen today before she starts her maternity leave. I've posted a picture of the back of my head so that you will all be able to see if I chickened out. I'll be leaving the house in under an hour. If I never post again you'll know I'm in some sort of hair related traumatic shock.

Wish me luck.

Fancy a cuppa?

2008-06-24T20:22:00.002+10:00

There's no real point to todays post. I just wanted to lighten the 'doom and gloom'.

Tea. I love it. I have very fond childhood memories of my grandmother making tea. She used real leaves, you understand, a nice silver (not real) teapot which was covered with an ancient tea cosy and left until the tea was brewed. She then poured it through a strainer into my special, personal mug (we all had one) and there was always several biscuits to go with it. Two sugars, lots of milk and lots of biscuits.

These days there's no sugar, less milk and no biscuits. I don't buy biscuits because I eat them and if you don't understand that logic I can only guess that you're male.

I became estranged from tea for some years. My love affair with instant coffee lasted for about 15 years. I started out with Maxwell House - UK readers will remember the ad with Gareth 'Gambit' Hunt and his handful of beans - before realising that drinking water with a handful of dirt stirred in would have more taste. Nescafe was next on the list but soon fell off the drinking list when a student midwife friend informed me of the evils of its parent company, Nabisco. From there it was onto Kenco. I had a happy relationship with Kenco, going through all the different coloured lids before falling upon Carte Noir. An exotic instant blend, the adverts always led me to believe that drinking it would lead to lots of hot, steamy sex. It didn't, of course, but I liked the taste so decided to stick with it.

When I came to Australia I scoured the supermarkets looking for my favourite brand. No Carte Noir, no Kenco. Nescafe, of course but nothing I recognised. I went through all the jars but found nothing I liked. ( I did the same thing with mayonnaise as well but that's another story). Gradually I fell into more 'grown up' coffee from cafes and left the world of instant behind. It was at this time that I came back to tea.

Again, I went to the supermarkets. No PG Tips but plenty of Twinings, which was good. Expensive, but good. Tetleys was a good find. I tried Australian brands but found they just weren't strong enough. At work I became a two bag girl and was mocked for dark colour of my brew. A fellow ex pat put me on to the UK speciality shops, where for the price of a kidney I could procure PG Tips Pyramid bags. Trips to the UK saw me coming back laden with Twinings Everday teabags. My latest tipple is Twinings Everyday Tea, a blend specifically designed for the Australian palate. It's not as strong as Twinings English Breakfast, not as strong as PG Tips but stronger than the other local brands. 3 minutes in boiling water, a dash of milk and Bob's your uncle.

Now I consider myself to be an addict. I open my eyes in the morning, stumble into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I come home from work, throw my bag on the floor and put the kettle on. I finish my blog, get up and put the kettle on. I have about 8-10 cups a day. I'd rather drink tea than have the finest champagne. Well, maybe that's pushing it. But I do love my tea.