Tomorrow it will be a week since I started my new job. In the four days that I've been there (we had a three day weekend), I'm thrilled to announce that I've:
1. Arrived late - twice.
2. Taken five minutes too many on a lunch break - once.

Apparently, these things matter when you work for the government. Even if you always make up the lost time, people conclude that you lack moral fibre or something. Of course these people always contain enough moral fibre to keep a truck full of constipated cattle regular for a month, and so can afford to let their work lie untended while they watch the clock to see what time lesser life-forms rock up in the morning. And that's the thing about government departments around the world -- they always seem to attract passionate, committed go-getters. The crème de la crème of the country's employable demographic flock to their doors in droves on a regular basis. And take careful note of what time everyone else arrives.

I try to care, I really do. I just seem to be missing a 'give a shit' gene when it comes to jobs, especially the sort I usually end up getting. I'm not sure who to accuse for this lack (other than myself, which simply will not do) so I'll blame the outmoded and totally unrealistic demands of the Protestant work ethic instead. Because I bloody well can.

I've spent most of my time at work so far trying not to laugh at everything that goes on. Despite my best efforts, a snort or snicker will sometimes escape and then I have to pretend that I have a terminal sinus condition.

Unless I'm watching the clock and frowning at late-comers, that is.

|

I say: deliver me from some Swedish furniture!

It looks as though our barely-functioning couch is about to be replaced. And about time, too. I was starting to think I'd never have a sex life again.

The Dreamboat emailed me this afternoon with the news that there is an Ikea agent in Perth. And for a sum of money that isn't quite 'princely' but still falls into the 'faded nobility' category, this agent will happily deliver to Karratha. According to Dreamboat logic, this means we should get value for our Delivery Dollars by purchasing a TV cabinet as well. Because we'll, like, save money. (The sense of this escaped me for a while until I translated it into pairs of shoes and now I understand his reasoning perfectly.)

Even through the screen his excitement was palpable and weirdly contagious. He's out of control, I tell you. Insatiable. I have dubbed him The Satyr of Hard and Soft Furnishings, so I guess that must make me The Cushion Nymph. The prospect of new furniture can do that to people -- make them all neo-Classical and pagan. I'm sure you've noticed this at play in your own lives.

So why (Fight Club to the contrary) embark on a Swedish furniture frenzy? Because what's currently on offer from Scandanavia is a damn sight better than the mini log cabins in floral upholstery that we looked at on the weekend. And because it's easy stuff to dismantle and transport around the country when you're itinerant like us. And because unless the business in Sacred Relic Hot Water Fridge Magnets™ picks up overnight, I'll never be able to afford Italian.

|

For the Girl Who Has Everything ...

It was Thursday night and members of the mighty Sand Fleas (indoor beach volleyball team par excellence) were celebrating yet another victory with lashings of amber liquid.

One of our team-mates was telling us about a present she'd received that day from an ardent admirer.

Team-Mate: I told him if he really wanted to impress me he wouldn't bother giving me any 'girlie' stuff. I'm not into that sort of thing. So he promised he wouldn't. But you're not gonna believe what he arranged to be delivered to my place this morning.

She told us. There were various exclamations of disbelief. She insisted she was telling the truth. A few people still looked dubious. She invited us around to her house to see for ourselves. The Dreamboat and I went. Sure enough, sitting in her front garden and gleaming faintly in the moonlight was a brand new ... backhoe.

And here it is - that very backhoe of which we speak:

As you can see, a backhoe is a fairly large and very expensive piece of earth-moving equipment. This model came complete with air-conditioning, CD player and auger. (An auger drills big holes in the ground. It no doubt drills big holes in other things too. But let's not go there.)

The Dreamboat immediately jumped inside, turned on the ignition and started to play, while the rest of us drank wine and looked on admiringly. If you peer at the base of the arm thing that does the digging/scooping, you might just be able to detect a small disturbance in the soil. This, should anyone require it, is proof positive that the Dreamboat does indeed know how to make the earth move.

Our team-mate has yet to decide what to do with her unusual pressie. She's probably wondering what to do with her unusual admirer as well, especially in view of her open admission:

"... and I haven't even slept with him yet!"

|

Yesterday's quest for a replacement Couch D'Amour took Your Correspondent and the Dreamboat into the very bowels of a ghastly netherworld where the furniture was too big, wooden, blocky and hideous to describe.

It appears that not only are the houses here built to withstand cyclones but the furniture is too. Entire families would have no trouble surviving the fury of a Category 5 monster if they'd simply lash themselves to their locally-purchased TV cabinets and a couple of wine racks. They'd emerge unscathed, blinking in the bright Karratha sunlight and grieving for less fortunate neighbours who'd foolishly relied on Ikea coffee tables for support.

We left the first shop feeling somewhat dispirited. The second shop was worse. We returned to the first place and left fifteen minutes later with a fancy new gas barbeque. It cheered us up no end.

The Dreamboat put his prodigious engineering skills to use and we are now able to sit on our stricken couch once more. Sitting only, though. Nothing more boisterous than that. When your lounge furniture is being held together by cable ties and blue plastic twine, you don't feel inclined to push your luck.

|

This morning we accidentally destroyed some furniture.

Niki: Now look what your bestial urges have done. We've broken the fucking couch.
Dreamboat: (lying in wreckage and shaking with laughter)

Karratha has only two furniture shops and, from the little I've seen, they both sell spectacularly ugly wares. Nevertheless, tomorrow we'll be paying them a visit. I really hope their Living-Room stock is sturdy.

|

I couldn't resist this.

Yes, it's another Pap smear story. I heard it from Janet over the road and simply had to share.

Janet's best friend lives in Perth. Let's pretend her name is 'Salome' (why the hell not?). She has a four year old daughter.

On the day in question, Sal asked her mother to come over in the morning and baby-sit the little girl while she went out. She returned home much later than originally planned, and realised she was in danger of missing her Pap smear appointment.

There was no time for a shower so she grabbed her daughter's face cloth, had a quick scrub, threw the cloth in the laundry and raced out the door.

After removing the appropriate bits of underwear and jumping up on the examination table, she steeled herself for the cold eye of medical scrutiny. The doctor approached, took one look at what she was displaying and raised an eyebrow.

"Wow," he said, "You really didn't have to go to all that trouble."

She didn't understand what he was on about and was too embarrassed to ask in case he launched into something graphic and slightly distasteful, so she said nothing. The doctor continued to give her quizzical and mildly amused looks for the rest of the consultation.

When she got home, she told her mother, who was quiet for a moment and then burst out laughing.

"Get a mirror and check yourself out," she said. "I think I know what happened."

She was right. Earlier in the day, Sal's mother had been helping her grand-daughter make pretty pictures. Glitter was involved. When the little girl knocked over the glitter container, they'd grabbed the first thing to hand to clean it all up - the kid's face cloth.

That doctor got to see the world's first Disco Fanny. Ponder this while I go off to get ready for my first day at work.

|

There's nothing like an ISP that's out of commission for 12 hours to remind one that one is back in the civilised world.

I didn't want to return to civilisation. I wanted to stay in the Karijini National Park forever. I wanted to drop 20 years, develop skin that tans rather than freckles, acquire naturally wavy hair that agrees to grow down past my shoulder blades and is happy to supply its own highlights, and live a Noble Savage-type existence in one of the gorges. Maybe the gorge that houses this place - Fortescue Falls. Mind you, they'd have to 'up' the water temperature by at least 15 degrees.

I would survive on rare medicinal berries brought to me by adoring birds. The water I'd drink would be free from all taint. Animals of the 'hilarious' variety would let me skip past unmolested. Mosquitoes and sandflies would refuse to bite one so exquisite as I, opting instead to band together and form intricate mystical patterns in the air for my innocent enjoyment.

Tame kangaroos would weave a kind of basket arrangement by interlocking their forelegs, and transport me thusly to the shady haven of Gregory's Gorge whenever I expressed a wish to return there. They would bring me Thunder Eggs from Paraburdoo and I would know with an instinctual wisdom that these are mineral-filled volcanic bubbles and not, like I originally theorised, another name for farts.

Little three year-old boys camping with their families would sleep through the night and not wake everyone up around 3am by crying loudly and refusing to be pacified. Large 4WD vehicles towing trailers and containing four adults, two teenagers and a three year-old boy remarkably similar in every respect to the howlers previously mentioned would not get stuck in rivers. They would not need to be towed out by smirking onlookers who only offer to help on the condition that they could take a photo first.

These vehicles would not get lost when trying to leave the camping area and have to endure the humiliation of being walked out by an obliging fellow bushman. Their batteries wouldn't cut out twice, killing the engine at inconvenient moments. They would not get punctures 50km from the nearest town, necessitating a tyre change in searing heat with no shade.

Their bad luck would not rub off onto the truck travelling with them. The human contents of this second truck (being one (1) Dreamboat and one (1) author of an obscure little blog) would not awaken the next day to discover they, too, had a puncture. They would not have to drive nearly 80kms to town to get the tyre fixed, only to discover that no tyres are being fixed today because it's Easter Sunday and Jesus, or someone like Him, said tyre-fixing was off the day's agenda.

In my Karijini Reverie, everyone would be paid to camp for as long as they liked and the park ranger would personally deliver fresh supplies on a daily basis. He would not be a little odd.

It was the best camping trip ever. I loved every second of it, particularly the parts where things went wrong. And because today is officially my last day of freedom for the next four weeks (excluding weekends and Friday, which is a public holiday), and because I'm due to start a job that promises to be mind-numbingly boring, I'm feeling a tad wistful. Which, I guess, is how many people in the Real World feel, most of the time.

|

Important style tip for anyone considering camping in a place that has two billion years of accumulated red dust, particularly when a tyre change must be factored into the equation:

Don't. Wear. White.

More later.

|

"Hilarious Animals of North-Western Australia"

This book was given to me for my birthday by the Dreamboat. At 5.30am on my birthday, to be precise, after Your Correspondent had had exactly one and a half hours' sleep.

Sleepy Niki: (peering blearily at cover) 'Hilarious Animals of North-Western Australia'. Cool! Thanks.
Dreamboat: It's 'Hazardous Animals', babe. Not 'Hilarious'.
Sleepy Niki: Oh. Silly me. (falls into coma once more)

The Dreamboat is a kind and gentle soul (in a very manly and testosterone-fuelled sort of way, of course) but occasionally his sense of humour verges on the warped. I suspect he bought me this book so I could delight you folk with lurid accounts of everything that can kill one in this part of the world, but so far it's only succeeded in making me terrified to set foot outside the house.

Apart from the usual murderous and/or venemous creatures one associates with Australia (crocodiles - both fresh-water and 'salties'; snakes - both land and sea; sharks; assorted pestilential life-forms found in tropical waters, like stonefish and box jellyfish; spiders etc) I have, thanks to this vile publication, been introduced to a veritable host of others that I never knew existed. Things like 'fire coral' and 'stinging hydroids' and a bewildering array of ants and ticks.

It goes without saying that this reference book will be accompanying me this weekend when the Dreamboat and I go bush-camping for the first time since arriving in WA. We're heading out at 10am tomorrow with some of the Dreamboat's work colleagues. We'll be staying the night at Gregory's Gorge in the Millstream-Chichester National Park, and then heading on to the Karijini National Park, which by all accounts is spectacular. It contains some of the oldest land on earth and has incredible gorges, waterfalls and pools. It also, I understand, has an abundance of snakes.

We've put together a survival kit for the trip. This includes smoked salmon, chocolate, six bottles of red wine, lots of beer, some kick-ass music and sundry other items of a life-saving nature. It's nowhere near as impressive as the supply inventory our friends used to dream up when we all went camping in South Australia (which on one occasion included two whole snapper cooked over the fire with a saffron and pernod sauce) but it's adequate. With any luck we'll spend large parts of the weekend so off our faces that we won't notice any Hilarious Animals wending their sinister way through the campsite. And if you can't see 'em, they're not there.

Happy Easter. Back on Monday with lots of pics and interesting anecdotes. I hope.

|

Twelve Things I've Learned in the Last 36 Hours:

1. Zesters, such as the one pictured, are dangerous tools and should only be used by qualified gourmet chefs. Pretentious wannabe cooks like Your Correspondent should avoid zesters at all costs and just stick to normal graters. Too bad if one's rind ends up all pithy.

2. Not only do zesters make short work of citrus skin, they are extremely efficient at ripping off portions of human fingernail and a fair amount of the meaty stuff to which said fingernail previously adhered.

3. This injury produces enough blood to keep a leech colony alive for two weeks and hurts like absolute buggery.

4. Yelling at the finger - "Fuck, that hurts. Cut it out, do you hear me? Jesus Christ!" - doesn't help in the slightest.

5. It still hurts like absolute buggery the next day, as demonstrated by Your Correspondent's reaction in the shower when the maimed digit came into contact with water. The pain was so intense that she forgot to shave her other leg, an oversight she discovered a few hours later.

6. Although the application of iodine to said injury by a local doctor is excellent for preventing infection, gangrene and subsequent amputation, it is not an effective pain-relief procedure.

7. The speculum (evil device inserted into female nether regions when it's Pap smear time again) is available in a variety of sizes, ranging from 'Almost Manageable' to 'Bloody Hell, Are You Sure That Isn't the Trunk of a Sequoia Tree You Just Happened to Find Lying Around in the Surgery?'.

8. Developing a severe cramp in the back of one's leg while doctor is attempting to ram afore-mentioned sequoia into a place that's not designed to accommodate it is a Very Bad Idea.

9. In circumstances such as these, it is nigh-on impossible to obey the yelled commands of doctor ("Just relax now. Relax!") and his nurse ("Take deep breaths!"), no matter how much one wishes to oblige.

10. Small town life can be very rough on its medical professionals, as you discover when you drive in your fiery chariot to a local pharmacy and find out it's "closed due to a medical emergency". You recall a conversation with Janet (favourite groovy neighbour), who was recently obliged to visit one of the town's medical centres. It was running two and a half hours behind in its appointment schedule because one of the doctors had just had a heart attack, poor man.

11. A closed pharmacy creates all sorts of havoc for its needy customers. Case in point: a woman who rocked up at the same time as Your Correspondent.
Woman: Is it closed?
Niki: Yeah.
Woman: Damn. There goes my chocolate bar for the day.
Niki: You come to the pharmacy every day to buy chocolate?
Woman: Yep.

12. It is difficult to type when one has a bulky dressing on one's finger and bruised organs of procreation, but one makes an heroic effort and is rewarded with a work of great beauty and skill, just like the one you're reading right now.

|

Disposable Income, and Plenty of it:

I decided a couple of months ago that I wanted some filthy lucre. To be accurate, I realised I needed, coveted and craved some filthy lucre. Like the sullen daughter in Kath and Kim, I yearn to be "effluent". Which meant that, short of winning a lottery (something I've never bought into) or being offered obscene amounts of money to write masterpieces (it's not too late, all you Loaded Patrons of Fine Literature), I would have to once more throw in my lot with the rest of the human race and get a job. Being a Kept Woman definitely has its pluses but now that my savings have run out, the idea of asking the Dreamboat for the money to buy him a birthday present fills me with horror and self-loathing.

So when a local institute of higher learning advertised at the beginning of February for expressions of interest in casual administration work, I immediately galvanised myself into action and spent a month thinking about it.

In early March I rang them to inquire if they were still accepting applications. They were. It only took me three weeks to update my CV (it needed four new lines), a further week to get around to posting it and then I promptly forgot about it. Until last Friday, when I had a phone call from a Human Resources lady inviting me in for an interview. This was conducted on Monday.

I arrived 10 minutes late because I got lost. (Dreamboat: On campus, you mean? Niki: Well, yeah, that too. But I also got lost driving there. Dreamboat: But it's on a main road. We drive past it all the time. Niki: But always from the other direction. From the town side. I'm not used to coming at it from the other way. Dreamboat: [looks heavenward])

I was interviewed by two very nice women who'd both started in the particular role they'd brought me in to discuss. I guess it's what you'd call an 'entry level' position. They went to great pains to tell me how much they'd both enjoyed doing it and I understood the pain it must have caused them to move on to more responsible and stressful duties.

After half an hour or so, they dismissed me with the promise of ringing me later in the day to let me know if I was suitable. Sure enough, I got the congratulatory phone call a few hours later.

So now I have the prospect of four weeks' paid employment to look forward to. I'll be working in the HR department. I made a point of telling the Two Nice Ladies that I'm not looking for anything permanent and they looked kind of sorry for me because I'll miss out on all the benefits that permanent staff employed by the Education Ministry enjoy, like having a 42 minute lunch break (precisely). But I did my best to reassure them that I'll cope.

The money's a lot better than I thought it would be, so at least the Dreamboat will receive a birthday present he wasn't obliged to fund. And it'll be good to be an independent workin' gal again, if only for a month. I can handle 8.00am starts for that long. I think. I can live for four weeks without Tuesday morning gym sessions, Friday lunches with the girls and every second afternoon spent at the local pool. I hope. I can work hard and make a good impression and not fuck anything up for that short period of time. I pray.

|

The Torrid Tale of the Draconian Dunny Ban - Final Instalment

The Body Corporate's ten page document seemed standard enough to begin with. There were the usual rules and prohibitions to do with:

1. Guests and parties ("We don't want you to have any friends at all. We haven't got any, so we don't see why you should. You certainly don't deserve them, considering you're renting rather than buying and at your age too, you total loser. But if you insist on having a few fellow drop-kicks around, make sure they bugger off back to their own psychedelic picture-hook havens at a reasonable hour.")
2. Pets ("We hate animals even more than we hate human beings. So you can't have any. No, not even intestinal parasites.")
3. Rubbish disposal ("If we catch you dumping your empty wine bottles in the bin belonging to Apartment 10 one more time, we will find out where your parents/employer/former spouse live and inform them in writing of your alcohol-dependency problem.")

... but it was when my eyes found themselves two-thirds of the way down Page 5 that things really got interesting. I can't remember the exact wording but this is a fair approximation:

18. Due to noise considerations resulting from the age of the building and its plumbing, residents are not to use washing machines after 8pm. Furthermore, residents are not permitted to shower, fill baths or flush toilets between the hours of 11pm and 7am unless in an emergency.

Which begged the question: what, exactly, constituted an 'emergency'? War? Famine? Severe dysentery? Big night out on the grog with imminent vom-voms? Bad hair day?

What made it worse was that we were obliged to sign a piece of paper saying we'd read, understood and agreed with all stated strictures, including Article 18.

Your Correspondent was ever so slightly mortified and communicated this to the Chubby Psychotic. As far as he was concerned, we had no option but to comply. He didn't have any scruples about lying to all and sundry regarding his marital status, but was a pillar of righteousness when it came to obeying rules invented by mad old people.

Niki: If I'd known this was coming, I'd never have moved here in the first place. And if you seriously think I'm going to allow someone to dictate when I can and can't flush the bog, you're as mad as they are. It's unhygienic. It's draconian. It's fucking insane. I'm not doing it.
CP: You have to do it.
Niki: Excuse me, I don't think I do. The lease isn't with these people, it's with the owner, who has quite understandably opted not to live in this madhouse. We signed the lease and paid the bond without being made aware of all the conditions. Therefore, fuck 'em. I'll flush when I damn well please.
CP: If we lose the flat because of this, I'll ...
Niki: 'Divorce' me? Oh please ... (laughs wildly)

And in this fashion did Your Correspondent declare war on the Body Corporate. I flushed, alright. Every chance I got. Sometimes I'd flush more than once, just for the hell of it. Just to show how much of a Code Red Emergency it was. The Chubby Psychotic, emboldened by the lack of reprisals, flushed too. It was Cistern Anarchy. Until we got The Warning.

I'd gone back to NZ for Christmas. The Chubby Psychotic stayed home and played host to his brother, who had paused long enough in his stated objective ("... to sleep with every woman under 50 in South America ...") to pay a flying visit to his family in Sydney. ("Hair As Relevance" rating: none, but I'll give him tousled blonde tresses because he was a very nice guy.)

They drank beer. Lots of beer every night. They flushed, and thought they flushed with impunity. They were wrong.

We wish to remind all residents of their responsibilities as outlined in blah blah blah with particular regard to Article 18 which states blah blah blah ...

The Warning had its effect. It caused the Chubby Psychotic to tow the line and it stiffened Your Correspondent's resolve to defy it. Mind you, I didn't use the washing machine after 8pm. I didn't have late-night showers or baths. But I flushed that damned dunny for all it was worth.

I became an expert at finding my way to the bathroom in total darkness. After all, it wasn't advisable to turn on the light because one could never be sure what was lurking there under the lid. Hence, the creation of the 'Before and After' flush. It was their own fault. They brought it on themselves.

I vaguely remember getting a bit creative on a couple of occasions following after-work liquid refreshments. It involved yelling, "Incoming!" at the top of one's voice after the Before flush but before the After flush. Which led to The Second Warning:

It has been brought to our attention that residents in one of the top-floor apartments have been disregarding Article 18 in blah blah blah. This total lack of consideration for other residents blah blah blah. This situation is unacceptable and we must remind residents blah blah blah ...

They eventually worked out which apartment was to blame. George stopped trying to collar me every night while I tried to fight my way up the stairs through the usual miasma of boiling offal. The two old sisters in one of the ground-floor apartments twitched their curtains in a decidedly irritated manner whenever I walked past. Such is the price exacted by war.

This went on for a whole year. I could've kept it up longer, but by then the Chubby Psychotic and I had decided it was best to part company before one of us caused grievous bodily harm to the other.

It's probably still going on. The building's older, its plumbing is older, the members of the Body Corporate are older and in a third-floor apartment in Hornsby, someone is no doubt reading a list of rules and regulations and gasping in horror. Hopefully, they'll decide to fight on the side of freedom and hygiene. Hopefully, they'll flush at will.

|

The Torrid Tale of the Draconian Dunny Ban - Continued

If you're a newcomer to this site and plan to stick around for more than ten seconds, I recommend reading the last couple of days first before tackling what follows. Consider it a quick dip in the soothing waters of Comprehension.

And I'm really sorry I wasn't able to oblige the person who came up with this search request. Of all the Big Asks that have led people here over the last few months, that one is definitely my favourite.

Welcome to the Hell-Mouth
My first couple of weeks living in the totally hairless suburb of Hornsby were mainly taken up with close encounters of the huntsman spider variety and fending off increasingly desperate marriage proposals from the Chubby Psychotic whenever he dropped by with more of his worldly goods.

Our apartment was a triumph of 1970s interior design. The kitchen was plastered in wallpaper that just shrieked 'acid trip', and not a very good one at that. The colours were straight out of the 'kama citrus' catalogue - lime, tangerine and grapefruit. It didn't bode well for all the hungover mornings I'd been anticipating.

The living room was very long and narrow. It was also very dark and disturbing. Green synthetic carpet covered the floor and the walls boasted dingy white wallpaper printed with lots of brown, busy things that I was too frightened to study in more detail.

Apart from the plumbing (which I'll get to later), the scariest thing about this apartment was the picture hooks left by the previous tenants. The bloody things were everywhere. Not one wall had been spared. I counted over two dozen in the living/dining room alone, and they'd been attached to the walls in a deliberately wavy line. The Chubby Psychotic liked this. He thought it was creative, and speculated that one of the former residents had been a keen amateur artist or photographer. I didn't like it all. I thought it was demented, and speculated that a previous tenant, driven mad by the wallpaper and the fact that the apartment was obviously possessed, had seen out their days obsessively trying to attach picture hooks to walls that bulged at inopportune moments à la The Frighteners. How else could you explain all those little hooks I saw at knee height in the hallway?

The Events Leading Up To That Document
Less than 24 hours after the Chubby Psychotic had officially moved in, I was already prepared to do almost anything to get away from him. For starters, the guy was only three years older than me but had the most disgusting music collection of anyone I've ever met. That might sound harsh, but just you try being forced to put up with the Lawrence of Arabia soundtrack and something along the lines of 20 Solid Gold Hits for Bagpipes before lunch-time on a Saturday. Not good, kiddies.

But it quickly got worse. The real estate agent who was administering the lease dropped by with a spare key. ("Hair as Relevance" Scale: a couple of salt-and-pepper tufts.) I opened the door.

Real Estate Guy: Ah, you made it! You must be Niki. How was your flight?
Niki: (thinking,'what the fuck ..?!') Uhhhh ... Come in.
Real Estate Guy: Thanks. Can't stay long. Just wanted to make sure you had this (hands over key). Your husband here told me you were flying over from NZ to join him. Settling in OK?
Niki: Uhhhh ... (pointed look at Chubby Psychotic, who indicates he suddenly has something urgent to do in another room)
Real Estate Guy: He was really keen to get the apartment sorted out before you arrived. (leans towards me and lowers his voice) You've got yourself a good bloke there.
Niki: Yeah, he's a prince alright.
Real Estate Guy: I hope you two are very happy here. The last tenants were.
Niki: I can tell. There's a definite vibe in the place.

After he left, I conducted a prolonged discussion with the Chubby Psychotic, making good use of the strong language and strident tone I employ when I'm moderately furious. It turned out he'd told his bullshit story not only to the real estate guy, but also to the owners of the local Chinese takeaway and to George, five-star general of the Body Corporate. Who happened to be the next door-knocker. The Chubby Psychotic admitted him. He walked in carrying a sheaf of papers and wearing an ingratiating smile.

George: (yelling to the Chubby Psychotic while the Everley Brothers whine at Little Susie to Wake Up!) Here are the rules and requirements I mentioned. (spotting me) So this is the wife I've heard so much about. Hello, dear. My name is George.
Niki: Hi. Excuse me. I have to go out for a while. (exits)

Have you ever had one of those 'what the hell am I doing here' moments? Well, I was having millions of them all at once. But the very worst was yet to come and it had a lot to do with a little something buried in the midst of that sheaf of papers.

To be continued ...

|

The Torrid Tale of the Draconian Dunny Ban - Introduction

I once shared an apartment for a year with a chubby psychotic in one of Sydney's northernmost suburbs. The event I'm soon to relate took place in this circumstance, but before we get to the meat of it, here's some background pastry.

If you haven't read yesterday's "Hair as Relevance" post, I suggest you do that first, but only if you're interested in understanding what follows. If you're not, it's probably best to just dive in and feel confused, or perhaps wander off and have some sex or something.

Dramatis Personae

1. The Chubby Psychotic
I could keep hot water going for the next month on stories about this individual alone, but for everyone's sake I'll restrain myself. Suffice it to say that the Chubby Psychotic was an acquaintance I'd met in NZ. He moved to Australia four years before I did and looked me up when he heard through mutual friends that I'd come to Sydney.

Although he was definitely packing a fair bit of extra tonnage, I use the 'chubby' adjective mainly to distinguish him from all the other psychos I've met.

Back then I didn't know he was psychotic, but in hindsight I should've suspected something the second time we saw each other in Sydney. He asked me to marry him and actually meant it. This, despite us hardly knowing each other. This, despite his being aware that I was only six weeks removed from a broken marriage and somewhat slightly devastated. That period of my life wasn't exactly characterised by clear thinking, but at least I had sense enough to turn him down.

"Hair As Relevance" Scale: The Chubby Psychotic gets a "receding mullet with lots of split ends" rating, but only for the purposes of this particular story.

2. The Body Corporate
Your Correspondent had never lived in an apartment block before, so these guys came as something of a surprise. It didn't take long to deduce that they were a bunch of bored, elderly owner/residents who spent their time creeping around in soft-soled footwear, peering out from behind their closed blinds and dreaming up nonsense like Draconian Dunny Bans.

"Hair As Relevance" Scale: The Body Corporate only gets a rating of "three nylon strands plucked from one of their granddaughter's dolls. Each member is permitted to wear these for one (1) week only before passing them on to the next." And they should consider themselves bloody lucky.

3. George
Chief Body Corporate spokesman and tyrant who had me completely fooled to begin with. He was a very handsome and (seemingly) charming old Irishman with a full mane of white hair (but not for long. Ha!). George's favourite pastime was pushing threatening-sounding letters under the door. These were always composed on an antiquated typewriter that had at least four slipped keys.

I also suspect it was George who rang the police the Friday night I came home plastered, snapped off my key in the lock, curled up on the floor in front of my door and fell asleep while waiting for the Chubby Psychotic to come home. (As you do.) I awoke to a torch being shone in my face and two cops standing well back from the fumes.

"Hair As Relevance" Scale: George rates "twelve hairs, each half a metre long and arranged on the scalp in a spiralling comb-over".

4. Me
"Hair As Relevance" Scale: Rapunzel. With a beard. And sideburns à la Elvis just before he carked it.

5. Hornsby
This is a place rather than a character, which is just as well because "Hornsby" and "character" are mutually exclusive concepts.

To the truly dedicated Sydneysider, Hornsby is as far north as you can go before you fall off the edge of the world. It's like a Last Outpost. Train lines terminate there. A lot of things terminate there. For example, one night a couple of weeks after I moved there, I got an excited phone call from the Dowager Empress:

DE: I was just watching Water Rats [a now-defunct Aussie crime drama] and they mentioned Hornsby!
Niki: Yeah? What did they say?
DE: They were chasing this bad guy all over Sydney - it was really exciting! - and then one of them got a radio call saying he'd been caught. Guess where?

Which about sums it up.

To be fair, there are two parts to Hornsby. One ("Hornsby Heights") features rolling bush-clad hills and nice houses. I lived in the other part, a couple of blocks away from the train station. It features apartments built on the cheap in the 1970s and a discarded supermarket trolley in every garden.

"Hair as Relevance" Scale: I think it's fair to say that in this and any other instance, the suburb of Hornsby has no hair.

Introduction now completed. Story comes next.

To be continued ...

|

Hair as a Useful Indicator of Relevance:

Those of you who've been reading hot water for any length of time will know I derive great inspiration from my sister Jo. We share the same sense of humour and a useless talent for remembering terrible songs that were hits when we were kids. Like this, for instance. Which is why a waiter in a Christchurch restaurant last year was mystified to hear Jo declaring, "Cancer, and my name is Larry" and see Your Correspondent struggling to staunch the red wine issuing forth from her nose.

When she was around 12, my sister decided to embark on a literary career. She and a school friend slaved for about half an hour to this end and eventually came up with what has gone down in family history as "The Bum Joke". I don't have the skill to do justice to its subtle nuances here, but what has always stuck in my mind is the stick-figure cartoon strip they prepared to illustrate it.

You weren't allowed to hear any part of the joke without studying its accompanying picture. In many ways, the illustrations were better than the joke itself. Take the last picture in the series, for example: the plucky little heroine, having not been able to procure any meat for her father's dinner for two nights in a row, has been forced to cut off her bum so that Dad may dine and now has to lie on her chair instead of sitting on it. The back of her head rests on the back of the chair. Her feet don't touch the ground. The rest of the family around the table are seated upright. None of them have faces. And, as was stressed to me in no uncertain terms, none of them except the little girl and her father have any hair. This is because they weren't main characters.

The surly butcher (Little Girl: Got any meat? Surly Butcher: Nah) wasn't permitted locks. Not even the mother, who had actual lines to say instead of monosyllabic grunts (Mother: Go get some meat), was allowed the grace of a few stray filaments. My sister and her friend were as implacable as only pre-pubescent girls can be. If you weren't important to the story, you went sans hair.

This philosophy inevitably spilled over into real life. Hair, or its lack, became a sort of code. Former boyfriends, teachers, anyone who was no longer considered a main character in our lives suddenly became as bald as plums. Hairless Wonders. This was a bit confusing for anyone who hadn't heard the Bum Joke, but if they hadn't heard it there must've been a good reason. Namely, that in our eyes they were shedding all over the place and were soon fated to swell the ranks of all the other figurative alopecia sufferers.

Of course it worked the other way too. The Dreamboat, for instance, has taken on the elevated stature of a musk ox in my eyes, because these are the hairiest animals alive. There is no higher compliment I can give. Well, there probably is, but not in this context.

So now you're in on the 'hair as indicator of relevance' code, which is a good thing because henceforward I'm going to use it more often. And when I get around to introducing The Torrid Tale of the Draconian Dunny Ban, your advance knowledge will come in handy. Trust me.

|

Post Cyclone Depression:

Dumb hurricanes that promise much and cause you to wax effusive on your website, but then fizzle out in an experience so anti-climactic it's reminiscent of Wedding Night #1 when you wanted to go to the pub instead of the Honeymoon Suite ...

That horrible orchestral version of the theme song to Titanic that you happened to hear today and which brought tears to your eyes because Céline Dion wasn't mangling it and it's actually, you realise, quite a beautiful piece of music ...

Stupid cyclone shutters that get dragged back into their customary positions and cause you to feel kind of empty and hollow inside, like when the Christmas tree gets taken down, or when there's no possible justification for keeping your birthday cards on the bookshelf any longer because they've already been on display for over two weeks ...

It's enough to make a primate shove a digit in her mouth and never risk opening it again. (The mouth, that is. Not the digit. That would just be plain stupid, Noddy.)

But fortunately, I am not that primate. It's back to business as usual, my pixies. You can be sure I'll find another disappointing something else to make a very big deal about real soon.

|

Cyclone Update #2

1.00am: Cyclone Inigo is downgraded to Category Two.

6.00am: The wind wakes me up. Not because it's strong, but because it's actually there. It died down around 2.30am.

11.30am: I am experiencing feelings of deep disgust. This is not quite the apocalyptic event I'd been hoping for. The bloody sun's out, for god's sake. The Dreamboat and I start making disparaging remarks like, "Call this a cyclone? It's pathetic!" and "A good howling southerly in Wellington/nor'west gale in Canterbury [both in NZ] would put this to shame."

12.30pm: There are two things you're not supposed to do in a cyclone. The first is to leave your home and go driving around sight-seeing. So we decide that's exactly what we'll do. It's very hot and oppressively humid. As soon as we go outside, the wind picks up. There's traffic everywhere. We drive to the hills behind the town and then walk up to a look-out point. We estimate the wind-speed to be around 100km/hr. This is more like it. We lean into the wind with our arms outstretched while Your Correspondent starts wailing that hideous theme-song from Titanic. We take photos. The Dreamboat's favourite is one of Your Correspondent with clothes a-flapping and her hair standing on end.

The second thing you're not supposed to do is go to the beach. So we do that too. Half the town seems to have had the same idea. The water's rough but not overly high, and is coming in a few metres further up the beach than the usual high tide mark. Three teenagers in wetsuits are riding boogie boards in amongst the mangroves. Two little kids are swimming near the breakwater. It's not exactly gripping stuff.

While driving around, I take note of the following:
1. An older woman power-walking down the road
2. A guy throwing a frisbee to his dog in a park
3. A man out in his garden. He hasn't removed any of the large rock features, so can't have been too concerned about their becoming lethal projectiles in the event of a cyclone. However, he is obviously deeply upset by the twigs and small bits of foliage that have blown into his garden because he is picking them all up, one by one.
4. Our neighbour's 4WD out on the driveway, which is slick with water. It appears he's made the most of his day off work by washing his truck.

Remember, all of these activities are going on in the middle of a supposed cyclone. I pause for a moment to admire the foolhardiness of these small-town, West Australian folk.

1.55pm: We're back home and the Dreamboat has finally read the instructions for the cyclone shutters. It appears we'd been trying to put the pins in the wrong holes. Ahem.

2.20pm: The Dreamboat is bored. He looks around the living room, and notices a blackish deposit on the ceiling near the air-con vent. "I think it's the filter," say I, my voice heavy with meaning because the filter is supposed to be cleaned weekly by the afore-mentioned Dreamboat, who hasn't got around to doing it for the last couple of weeks.

He decides that now is a good time to go outside, remove the air-con filter, bring it inside, clean it, take it back outside and affix it to the brackets inside its cabinet once more.
Niki: Are you kidding? In that wind? Don't do it now.
DB: Nah, it'll be OK.
Niki: God, you're stubborn. I know exactly what you're going to be like when you retire. You're going to be one of those pain-in-the-arse bored old guys who spend all their time poking their nose into how the housework's done and coming up with new ways to improve efficiency. Believe me, you won't die a natural death because I'll probably kill you first.
DB: (grinning) Oh really?
Niki: (grinning back) Yeah.

He still cleans the air-con filter. But he also cleans the crud off the ceiling, so I'll refrain from killing him just yet.

2.30pm: I log onto the Bureau of Meteorology site to check on Inigo's progress. And lo and behold ... it's all over. He basically just disintegrated back into a common low-pressure system when he got close to the coast. He is no more. He's officially called Ex-Tropical Cyclone Inigo now, and all alerts and warnings are cancelled. How low hath the mighty fallen.

So it looks as if our friend Jas was right again (see his comments after the 'satellite map' post). How the hell does he do that? Ironically, though, right now it's stormier outside than it was over the last 24 hours when Inigo was still a viable entity. But that doesn't excuse the disappointing lack of drama.

How embarrassing. Please return to more important things like monitoring the war and the spread of SARS disease while I slink off to drain my water cache from the washing machine.

|

Cyclone Update

Developments since last post:

4.30pm: Karratha goes to Yellow Alert. Your Correspondent drives in a hasty fashion to the local bottle store. It's total bedlam. People are literally diving through the doors and grabbing beer, wine, spirits and those awful bacardi cooler things by the armful. I take my modest four bottles of wine up to the counter.
Niki: Is it always like this at this time on a Monday, or does it have something to do with cyclone supplies?
Harrassed Girl Behind Counter: Cyclone supplies. Definitely cyclone supplies.
Masculine Shopper Next To Me: Absolutely. Otherwise, I'll have to do without a drink for at least 12 hours.
(Niki and Harrassed Girl Behind Counter nod sagely. We feel his pain.)

4.45pm: Your Correspondent returns home to find the heroic Dreamboat already there, waiting.

5.00pm: None of the pins designed to secure our cyclone shutters to their tracks actually fit. We can't get them into the holes. The Dreamboat storms into the shed to look for cable ties and screws. He is using a lot of Very Bad Words.

5.30pm: The Dreamboat has decided we need beer. He screeches away in the fiery chariot.

5.45pm: He returns safely and reports that the forecourt of the local Caltex station is choked with vehicles getting last-minute fuel. He sorted this out for our own vehicle on Saturday. The fiery chariot has a full tank and a half-full auxilliary tank. The Dreamboat is looking very smug.

6.00pm:
Niki: When can we start drinking?

Everything is organised. We've stored 40 litres of drinking water. The washing machine is filled with cold water if we get desperate for wet stuff to wash in. Before I go to bed tonight, I'll be filling the bath, the laundry tub and all available buckets as well. This is because when properly motivated, I'm wont to opt for over-achievement.

Unfortunately, nothing much is happening. I realise that I'm still going to have to cook dinner because there's no excuse yet to just eat chocolate.

7.30pm: The sky is filled with lightning.

8.00pm: A violent squall is in progress. The wind is whistling through the cyclone shutters. In times like this, one's mind automatically turns to matters of love.

The Dreamboat puts on a DVD.

11.35pm: (right now) It's been raining heavily for the last hour and a half and is windy, but not gale-force yet. We have sunk our first bottle of wine - a Cloudy Bay chardonnay. Nothing but a good kiwi white will suffice when one is sitting through powerful displays of nature.

All the neighbouring houses are dark. Everyone else in our street appears to be in bed, having Cyclone Sex. They have no self-control. The Dreamboat and I concluded this when we stood under cover in our car-port having a Cyclone Cigarette.

According to the latest predictions, Inigo will cross the coast about 50km north of Karratha. It's going to get interesting here in about five or six hours. Our favourite Spanish weather phenomenon has speeded up. He's now motoring towards the coast at 25km/hr and is still a Category Three mutha.

More later - as and when ...

|

This is a satellite image of Australia. Obviously. The pretty fuschia-pink dot signifies Karratha - not drawn to scale, of course. The fluffy white thing approaching the pretty fuschia-pink dot is Severe Tropical Cyclone Inigo. These two are destined to meet each other in 16-20 hours.

I was very good on the weekend. Very restrained. I didn't race to post any waffle about yet another cyclone headed this way until I was sure it wasn't going to change its mind and fuck off elsewhere. We've all been disappointed too many times over the last three months and I didn't want to tax your patience further. But now it's looking like a dead cert.

Up until midnight Saturday, Inigo was a Category Five cyclone, 800km in diameter. Even I'm not stupid enough to crave experience of one of those. Since then, he's weakened to Category Three status - still considered "severe" and still powerful enough to do a lot of damage. It's expected he'll weaken further to Category Two by the time he crosses the coast.

Based on Inigo's current movement, it looks as if the eye will pass directly over Karratha sometime between 7am and midday tomorrow. You can find updates on Inigo's progress and track here. His projected path is shown here.

Karratha and other coastal towns in the region have been placed on Blue Alert and we're expecting to go to Yellow around 6pm. Here's the alert system and what it means:

Blue
There is a cyclone coming, so pretty yourself up and tidy your yard. Store or tie down anything that can blow away. Yes, even those bricks lying on the ground. I don't care if there are spiders and lizards living underneath them. Buy some tinned and/or dried food. Fill up gas bottles and water containers. Do not, under any circumstances, confuse the two. Top up your vehicle with fuel. Ensure you have spare batteries for portable radios and torches so that you can play shadow games on the wall while listening to some soothing light jazz. Procure a great deal of alcohol and chocolate.

Yellow
The cyclone is nearly here. Secure your cyclone shutters over windows and doors. Unpin your hair and allow it to cascade freely down your back in a shower of gleaming curls. Put on your sexiest clothes.

Red
It's here! Disconnect electrical appliances. Turn off the air-conditioning. If you are outside, immediately seek shelter in a safe place like a pub and be prepared to sit it out. If indoors, resign yourself to the fact that there's nothing further you can do except draw your blinds and play Nekkid Twister until the All Clear signal is given.

Outside at the moment it's very grey and incredibly humid. The first few spits of rain are falling. The breeze is picking up. All the larger birds have buggered off inland. I'm about to take the fiery chariot for a spin to the nearest retail liquor outlet.

I may post once more today, but that'll be it until everything's over. There's a possibility that we'll lose electricity for a couple of days and we may have floods. Workers from the local Council have been out today deepening the flood channels in town. Apparently, the young local guys surf down them when they're full. I'd be tempted to try it myself, provided the water was sterilised and free of raw sewage - not likely, methinks.

I'm going to keep a written journal of what transpires. If it's interesting enough and I can't sell it to a print magazine for an exorbitant amount of money, I'll post it here and let you experience the thrills, spills and diverting sight of supermarket trolleys flying through the air for yourselves. Til later ...

|

More on the "What's In A Fucked-Up Name?" Topic:

Example #1
My Uncle John and Auntie Jean named their kids John, Jean, James and Jenny. For a very brief time, there was also a Kevin. He slotted in between James and Jenny, but lived for only a few days. I was very young at the time and was convinced he died because he didn't have a name that started with J. I still wonder about that.

Example #2
My very first ballroom partner was called Robin, so obviously he simply had to marry a Robyn. If you've ever seen Monty Python's "Life of Brian", you might remember that scene where Brian has finally been given a reprieve from crucifixion and the Roman soldiers come to take him down from the cross. The only problem is, there are dozens and dozens of other people being crucified as well. When the soldiers start calling for Brian, everyone begins to claim Brianship. One older and aristocratic Englishman called Gregory yells out, "I'm Brian and so's my wife."

So whenever the subject of my first dancing partner came up at home, my sister and I would exchange looks, simultaneously shriek, "I'm Robin O. and so's my wife" and fall about in mindless hysterics.

You kind of had to be there.

Example #3
'Niki' is not the name my parents gave me. It's actually supposed to be Nichola, but no-one - repeat, no-one - is permitted to use it. And as you are no doubt aware, Nichola is the feminine form of Nicholas. But as I recently discovered, my middle name - Colette - is also a feminine form of Nicholas. So in effect, I have the girlie version of the same blokes' name twice.

Example #4
When I was 15 I decided it was time to change my name, because that's the sort of thing you do when you're 15, bored and killing time until you're legally able to lose your virginity. My first choice was Prue because I hated it and thought it would be fun to have a horrible name. When I tired of that, I became Ratri for a while. Ratri is the name of the Hindu goddess of night and it suited my conceited little sensibilities and awful angst-ridden poetry. After this, the names got progressively dumber until a bunch of guys at school and I formed the Amateur Mafia and I was known only as The Hitperson. Finally, I settled on the Maori spelling of Nicky and have kept it ever since.

This arbitrary system of nomenclature drove my friends, family and teachers wild because I refused to answer to anything other than the particular name I was in love with at the time. It all came to a head one day in an English class. The name I was using came from a Kate Bush song. It wasn't until much later when I bothered to read the lyrics that I discovered the subject was actually a gay man, but at the time I loved it.

So Your Correspondent was seated down the back of the room with a couple of fellow miscreants in Mrs M's English class, smoking. Mrs M was a rather sweet woman, but a totally ineffectual teacher. Her students had more respect for their own acne. She was also heavily pregnant, a fact which Your Correspondent took full advantage of by starting up a sweepstake. Would Mrs M go into labour at school? And if so, would it be in one of our classes? And if so, what would trigger it? You get the picture.

Mrs M eventually noticed that the room was filling up with cigarette smoke and pin-pointed Your Correspondent as the primary culprit.
Mrs M: Nichola F! Put that out now!
Niki: (ignores her and continues smoking)
Mrs M: Did you hear me? Put that cigarette out now. I'm warning you.
Niki: (ignores her and continues smoking)
Mrs M: Nichola F!
Niki: (looks up, all innocent-like) Oh, is it me you were talking to?
Mrs M: I don't see any other Nichola Fs in the room.
Niki: Well, sorry, Mrs M, but that's not my name anymore. If you want to talk to me, you'll have to address me by the new one.
Mrs M: (drawn into it against her will) Which is ..?
Niki: Kashka From Baghdad.
Mrs M: Get out. Get out!
Niki: (shrugs, stubs out cigarette on desk top, smirks at friends, wonders if any breaking-of-waters action is imminent and ambles out)

I was a total little shit, I admit it, and I only avoided being suspended for this episode because the principal - a middle-aged nun built like a side of pork - secretly rather liked me.
Principal: So what are we going to do with you? Perhaps I'll write to your parents.
Niki: Nah, Sister.
Principal: Why not?
Niki: Because they wouldn't like it.
Principal: It goes without saying that if I ever see you with a cigarette in your hand again or even hear you cough in my presence, you'll be suspended.
Niki: Yes, Sister.
Principal: A month's detention after school. And consider yourself very lucky, Miss F.
Niki: (muttering) It's Kashka From Baghdad.
Principal: Don't test my patience, Miss F. Now get out of my sight, please.

I gave up changing my name for a few years until I was older and started collecting surnames instead. But that's another story.

|

From the "How Fucked Up Is That?" Department:

It was Tuesday evening. I was blatting along the outskirts of Karratha in the fiery chariot, desperately trying not to be late for my appointment with a massage table and a skilled pair of hands (birthday present from Sam, my trainer - two 45 minute sessions of Swedish massage-type bliss).

I was listening to Triple J. The peppy female announcer was taking requests and talking on air to the occasional listener. And then there was this:
Announcer: I've got Kelly on the line. She's requesting a song for her sister. Isn't that right, Kelly?
Kelly: Yes.
Announcer: And she's your twin sister, isn't she?
Kelly: That's right.
Announcer: And what's your twin sister's name?
Kelly: Kellie.
Announcer: So you're twins and you're both called Kelly(ie)?
Kelly: Yeah, but I'm Kelly with a 'y' and she's Kellie with an 'i'.
Announcer: What made your parents decide to give you the same name?
Niki: (aloud) Yeah ... tell us. What the fuck were they on?
Kellie: (comes on the line) It's Kellie with an 'i' here. They just both always loved the name, and when we were born they didn't want to call one of us something else.
Announcer: So, are you identical?
Both: Oh no. We're not identical.
Niki: (aloud) What the hell would it matter? It's not like there's any danger of getting the name wrong ...
Announcer: How old are you?
Both: Sixteen.

Obviously, there were some great drugs around in Australia sixteen years ago.

|

Spoken in the Piping Treble of a Pre-Schooler:

A couple of hours ago, my mobile phone rang. This is a rare event. I didn't recognise the caller's number, but was hankering to hear the sound of another human voice, so I pounced on the phone and answered. Here's what followed:

Niki: (disbelieving but thrilled) Hello ..?
Older Cockney Man: Hello. (pause) How are you?
Niki: Good, thanks. How are you? (slight giggle because I have an English friend in Sydney who occasionally rings me and speaks in strange accents and I suspect it's him)
Older Cockney Man: I'm fine, thank you.
(pause)
Older Cockney Man: Is your Mum or your Dad around?
Niki: I think you have the wrong number.

So even total strangers know I'm childish. Great. Just great.

|

Happy Birthday to My Parents

My father was never sure of his actual date of birth because his birth certificate and the hospital records differed. The former recorded his birthday as 3 April, but it also misspelt his name so it wasn't exactly what you'd term a definitive document. The latter insisted that the blessed event occurred on 2 April.

Either he wasn't interested in finding out for sure or was too distracted by his alcoholic father's drunken rampages to pursue the matter further, but when he met the Dowager Empress and found out her birthday was 2 April, he simply said, "That's mine too." And from that point forward, 2 April it was.

He never seemed bothered by the uncertainty. It would drive me crazy, not knowing. Mind you, we're talking about the man who, when he decided to leave Ireland and couldn't make up his mind whether to emigrate to New Zealand or Canada, settled the matter by flipping a coin. My dad, god rest his fox-trotting soul, was very cool like that.

The Dowager Empress is a different kettle of shamrocks altogether. There has never been a skerrick of doubt about the date of her birth. The confusion lies in how old she is.

Let's get something straight: my mother is a saint. Or, at the very least, a deacon. That's what her parish priest calls her - "my deacon" - and it makes her go all squidgy inside when he says it. I've recently heard it's a fact universally acknowledged by everyone in her church that she could quite capably run the whole show by herself. The point being that the Dowager Empress' godly-goodness cup definitely runneth over and pooleth all over the floor and maketh a big sparkly mess.

But even she has her tiny imperfections. Two of them, to be exact. The first is that she adores the Dreamboat to the point where she cannot be relied upon to take my side in any difference of opinion he and I might have. In my view, loyalty should be staunch and compulsory when genetic material has been transferred.

Even my brother Steve (the cutie on the Dowager Empress' knee) has noticed this one. When he first met the Dreamboat he said to him, "Not since the priest have I seen Mum so taken with a bloke". Which is great, really, but it also means I'm constantly in receipt of advice like, "try and watch your tongue" or "don't you go messing things up, now". It's a tad worrisome.

The second flaw is a bit more serious because it involves deceit - a practice which, last time I checked, is frowned upon in saintly circles. For as long as I can remember, the naughty old pirate has lied about her age. Not even her closest friends know how old she truly is. When asked, she'll look the questioner in the eye, give them a holy smile and softly make a reply with a few of the less-memorable years conveniently shaved off.

She's got away with it so far because she's always looked younger than she is, but I suspect she's about to be sprung. You see, a couple of years ago she reached one of those "milestone" ages ... the sort where people throw huge congratulatory parties and assure you that you'll be around for dozens more to come. And, of course, no-one except her offspring knew. So now she's terrified that a couple of her cronies might have done some maths and, having mistakenly concluded that this year is the big one, are planning to throw a surprise bash in her honour.

They might not, of course, but she's paralysed with guilt at the thought of people going to all that trouble to celebrate something that happened two years ago.

"What will you do?" I asked her on the phone.
"I just won't go out for a week," she said. "Anyway, I've been telling them all for months that I hate surprises so maybe they'll get the hint."
"Serve you right if they don't. These are the wages of sin, Mum. This is what you get for telling fibs."
"Get away with ye, now. That's not fibbing. That's just a wee white lie. God doesn't mind that sort of thing."

And she'd probably know, because if anyone has a direct line to the Creator, it's my mother.

Oh, and by the way ... that demure little maiden with the hairy salad roll perched atop her cranium and showing a bit of leg - c'est moi.

|

Yesterday I went to pay homage at that glittering temple of retail excellence known as K-Mart. The ostensible reason for this holy pilgrimage was the acquisition of some CD labels. Because I really needed them. An hour later, I left with the labels. I also left with the following additional items. Because I really needed them more:

Inkjet Business Cards
If I ever do go into business, I think these will come in really handy. I like to be prepared for any eventuality, no matter how unlikely or laughable. And to that end, I wasted invested a large part of yesterday afternoon in playing around with designs, printing them out and coaxing them to almost-but-not-quite sit inside the perforations.

Of course, I don't currently have a job title to put after my name, so I had to make one up. I narrowed the list down to "Adventuress" and "Professional Wine Taster", but this morning's fatness assessment at the gym gave rise to a late entry: "Custodian of 17.6% Body Fat". (This has gone down from 23.5% in three months. And I hasten to reassure readers that no alcoholic beverage was sacrificed in the making of this New Me.)

A Baby Fern
To join a couple of its fellows in what I suspect will eventually turn out to be a long, lingering group death in my bathroom. But one can still dream of a verdant tropical jungle in one's ablution area, can't one? Is that too much to ask?

And finally ... the coup de grâce:

A Set of Printable Fridge Magnets
For merchandising, of course, when this blog becomes deservedly famous and I turn into an overnight sensation. As I said, I like to be prepared. Once I get on the talk-show circuit I won't have time to do anything except revel in all the attention and be witty and gorgeous, so I'm planning in advance how to milk my readership for all they're worth. Selling cheap, tacky shit on my site is the obvious answer.

Just think ... every time you opened your fridge for a brewski you could look at your very own Hot Water fridge magnet depicting a harrowing image from Your Correspondent's life and think to yourself, "I'm sinkin' this one for you, Niki babe, out of heart-felt gratitude for all the joy and laughter you've brought into my miserable existence." Then you could drink said brewski, go to the fridge for another and repeat the performance. I wouldn't mind. Honestly.

I could even be persuaded to take a couple of advance orders as a very special favour to a select few who I deem worthy. This would have to involve a great deal of insistence and grovelling on your part and some impressively wily bargaining on mine, but I'm sure we could come to an arrangement that is heavily weighted in my favour. Oh, and 10 cents from every fridge magnet sold will not go to charity. Are you kidding?

Failing that, you could just wait until I am already a superstar and then rush to purchase a Sacred Relic Hot Water Fridge Magnet™ with the rest of the common rabble. It's up to you. Just don't be surprised if your fridge doesn't mysteriously fill up with chardonnay and brewskis every night like the fridges of the True Believers Who Got In Early do. Them's the breaks.

|

So it's April Fools' Day. Speaking as someone who strives with great dedication to be ridiculous every day of the year, I thumb my nose at those half-arsed dilettantes who only make an effort on April 1st. For shame.

Happy Birthday to Karen, by the way. You know who you are!

|