Out of the mouths of babes

Every day I get at least one visit from the kids next door, asking if they can come in to play with our kittens. The little boy is ten and his sister is seven. Their family is living in the house while their cousins (the official tenants) are away.

It's patently obvious that the kittens are the real attraction where these kids are concerned but Your Correspondent has managed to make a small impression on them as well. I know this because on Thursday, after spending two and a half hours chatting to them and demonstrating that I could indeed moonwalk just like the infamous Mister You-Know-Who, the boy turned to me and said, "What's your name again?"

If that wasn't humbling enough, the following exchange took place earlier today:

Niki: Yes, you can come in but if the cats run into the laundry, don't follow them. I haven't cleaned out their toilet boxes yet and it might be a wee bit smelly in there.
(Half an hour later)
Little boy: Why do you have three cats?
Niki: I'm looking after them until they get permanent homes.
Little boy: Why don't you keep them?
Niki: Because we don't know where we'll be moving to next. We might end up living in an apartment where we can't have cats.
Little boy: But that'd be good, eh?
Niki: Why do you say that?
Little boy: Because then your house won't stink.

So if you ever come to visit and notice me sniffing the air every few minutes with a haunted-looking expression, you'll know why and you'll know who to thank ...

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The Karratha Imperial Palace's Open University is pleased to offer the following courses in 2004:

Higher learning with a distinctly local flavour.

1. Faculty of Arts

Languages
FYOU101: "Fuck Off, You Rotten Mongrel Bastard" - An Introduction to Construction-Speak.
FYOU201: Advanced Construction-Speak. Learn to swear in a variety of other languages, including Italian, Korean, Croatian and Texan.

Religious Studies
GODD104: "God/Jesus/The Universe/Your Guardian Angel Didn't Find Your Lost Car Keys, You Nong; You Did". A challenging course designed to prove beyond all doubt that a Creator does exist, while at the same time highlighting His/Her/Its complete lack of interest in you and your inconsequential life.
GODD105: Intoxication as a Key to Enlightenment. Topics include "Solving the World's Problems", "Spreading the Word Very Loudly" and "Punching Out Dissenters and Heretics".

2. Faculty of Business

Industrial Relations
SCAB105: How to Organise a Strike. Topics include "Capitalise on Dissatisfaction with Last Weekend's Footy Score to Help Stage a Walk-out", "Teach That Dirty Scab a Lesson" and "The Useful Art of Exploitation: Why Should Management Have All the Fun?"

Management Studies
ANAL204: Duck-Shoving for New Managers. Learn how to blame everyone else, never accept responsibility for anything and yet still retain that nice little pay packet. Topics include "Sitting in Your Office and Never Coming Out", "Refusing to Communicate" and "Be Anal About the Little Things and the Big Things Will Go Away By Themselves".

3. Community/General Interest Courses

Courses for Men
MATE101: Sorting Dirty Washing - An Introduction. Topics include "Delicates - What Are They?" and "Why It's Not a Good Idea to Wash Her Lingerie With the Dog's Blanket ... Twice". Case studies will be examined.
MATE202: Sorting Dirty Washing - Advanced. Main topic: "How to Convince Her that Oral Gratification is a Key Motivational Device". A 24-hour crisis line has been set up to provide support to course members.

Courses for Women
GRRL104: Introduction to Improving Self Esteem. Main topic: "You're Going to Become a Wrinkled Old Crone Like Every Other Woman Before You, So Just Deal With It".
GRRL202: Improving Self Esteem - Advanced. Examines the subtler side of esteem issues. Many useful modules, including the popular "Don't Apply Lipstick Before You Go to the Dentist or People Will Think You're Stupid".

Liberal Studies
HUNG683: How Hangovers Build Character. A practical course with much emphasis on experimentation.

Finally, as a result of overwhelming demand from certain elements in the community, we will be offering for the first time in 2004:

RACE487: Racism - An Introduction. How to ensure that family down the steet is quickly and efficiently removed, preferably when everyone else is at work or out on their boats. Topics include "Starting a Petition" (templates provided), "Enlisting the Support of Local Police" and "Pressuring Neighbours to Get Involved". All course members will be given their own copy of The Lexicon of Inflammatory Language, along with authentic-looking 'before' and 'after' crime statistics just in case there are leftie weaklings over the road who need 'persuading'.

Enrol now, or our highly-trained team of academics will be forced to pay a little visit to your house and deliver a brief lecture on the disadvantages of being knee-capped.

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Things I've Never Been Able to Work Out: #73906

Sometimes when I yawn, drops of saliva kind of leap out of my mouth. What's the deal with that? Are they making some sort of bid for freedom? Is this normal? Does it happen to anyone else or is this yet another example of a freakish mutation that I must bear alone?

Any and all theories are welcome because I've been puzzling over this one for years. I kid you not.

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Three peeks into the wonderful world of radio:

Peek #1
It's a rare and special moment in the office because no-one is talking. The only sounds are the frenzied tapping of fingers on keyboards. Heads are bent. Shoulders are bowed with effort. Faces stare intently at computer screens. Scripts are being crafted. Some will be serious, some will be light-hearted, others might be controversial or confronting or boring as bat-shit, depending on the story. The scene is one of ferocious concentration. Suddenly, the loud voice of a colleague breaks the silence:

"Why don't they fucking put Angel and Buffy back on TV? It's not fair."

Peek #2
Your Correspondent is outside having a cigarette. She is joined by a workmate. A lively conversation ensues about the role The Universe does or doesn't play in our daily lives. Your Correspondent is of the opinion that The Universe doesn't give a shit. Her workmate's view:

"Oh, I definitely agree. I wouldn't have needed 'fat' jeans if The Universe cared."

Peek #3
Colleague: I've been tossing around this idea for a while that a few of us should get together and start a Think Tank. Are you interested?
Niki: Hell, yeah. What's involved?
Colleague: Well, I thought we could meet somewhere after work once a week and have a few drinks and come up with really useless ideas and tell each other, 'Hey, that's really cool'.
Niki: Kind of like an excuse to get pissed and talk shite?
Colleague: Yeah. We could start off by coming up with the best slogans to wear on t-shirts when you want to go out and pick someone up for the night. How about 'Don't spike my drink -- I'm easy'?
Niki: I love it. You're a genius.
Colleague: I can't take the credit. A friend of mine came up with it. But you get the gist ..?
Niki: Absolutely. Count me in.

Job heaven ... I'm totally in it.

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What everyone needs on a Monday morning:

Your Correspondent is at work ... which, if you're new to this site, happens to be a radio station. A very hairy middle-aged man walks through the main doors and up to the reception counter. He is wearing shorts and a blue t-shirt full of holes. Your Correspondent gets up from her desk to find out what he wants.

Niki: Hi. What can I do for you?
Man: Well, for a start you can tell me why you people insist on degrading the English language.
Niki: What do you mean?
Man: You're supposed to be setting a good example, not abusing the language ... referring to children as 'kids'. Children are not kids. Kids are animals.
Niki: (thinking, here we go) I see what you're saying, but I think you'll find the use of 'kids' is widely-accepted colloquial language.
Man: No, it's not.
Niki: (pulling out Complaints Book) Okay, so you'd like to register a formal complaint ... when did you hear this being used?
Man: All morning.
Niki: And on what show?
Man: (gives the name of a children's television programme)
Niki: Ah, I see. So you want to register a complaint about a television programme?
Man: Not just that. I also want to complain about community noticeboards in shopping malls and why they post notices with phone numbers that no-one ever answers. (Mentions a particular community group.)
Niki: And how will lodging a complaint with this station fix that?
Man: They advertise with you.
Niki: Actually, they don't. We have interviewed that group, though.
Man: Well, there you go, then.
Niki: I really don't see what we can do about that one. I think you'd have to take it up with the group concerned.

A further few minutes are then taken up with trying to get this person's details while he quibbles over both his own title ("It's not Mister B--; it's Master B--") and how I'm recording his complaint in the book (Niki: Perhaps, Master B--, you would like to dictate your complaint to me so I can be sure it's worded exactly how you want it?).

He eventually starts walking out the door, only to turn around with this:

Man: And what about idols and graven images in churches? Why are churches full of them when there are not meant to be any idols or graven images in any churches at all?
Niki: Uhhh ... you probably need to ask the Catholic church about that. We can't really help you there.
Man: He's dying, you know ... the Pope.
Niki: Uh-huh ...
Man: I saw him last night.
Niki: (thinking a long overdue okayyyyy) I'm sorry?
Man: Yes, I saw him last night. I have the gift of astral travelling, handed down to me by my father when I was seven years old. And who else can do that, eh? No-one. Why do you think that is?
Niki: (stares without bothering to answer)
Man: I met a man recently. Some people would call him God. I saw his driving licence. The first name on it was Jesus.
Niki: ...

He eventually leaves. Two of my colleagues have been sitting at their desks listening. One of them says, "Congratulations. We've all had our fair share of nutcases and you've just had your first."

And right at the beginning of the week, too. I think I deserve a prize. Not a commemorative plaque or anything, although that would be a nice touch. No, I think my prize should be something in the order of an exemption from any further dealings with local loonies. At least, not on Mondays, which are taxing enough as it is. Thursday afternoons would be OK, though. They're generally fairly relaxed. Local loonies, take note.

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Recent Achievements:

1. Media Whoring Mission Complete
After Monday's TV appearance and Wednesday's newspaper feature, Your Correspondent rounded off the week by being interviewed on Friday's radio show. Apparently, I sounded great. Let's just gloss over the fact that this comment came from the Dreamboat, who knows it's in his own interests to say such things if fun activities like sex are to continue as a regular feature of life at the Karratha Imperial Palace.

2. Surviving the Rugby World Cup Final
It took a lot of alcohol and the company of good friends, but we made it through one of the biggest nail-biters I've ever witnessed. Congratulations to everyone involved -- especially me, for managing to get most of the housework done before the first drink.

3. Messing About in Boats
On Friday night we went sailing. On a real yacht . It had stuff like a tiller and a rudder and a keel and sails and everything. It even had a name -- Obelix. I haven't ridden much on boats (Dreamboat excepted), and had never before been on a yacht, so this was very exciting.

We tacked and, like, leaned back and shit. We raced other people in boats and came second-to-last, but those guys we did beat had to eat some serious wake. We also consumed alcoholic beverages, causing Your Correspondent to reflect on how versatile a pastime drinking beer actually is. It's just a shame that trying to pee into a bucket behind one's fiance on a pitching vessel while two other guys politely look away is such hard work.

We were invited back out today, which was very kind of Scott (the boat's owner and taker of the above pic) given Your Correspondent's talent for turning the rudder the wrong way and prompting much frenzied tacking to get us back on course.

It was a glorious day. We sailed, we snorkelled, and Your Correspondent even managed to get her head stuck between the boat's sun-awning supports while Scott was in the process of folding them back. The guys found this rather funny. I was too busy rubbing my neck and thinking, 'this would never fucking happen to anyone else' to fully appreciate the joke.

So now -- sunburned, encrusted with salt and having slept most of the evening on the couch -- I can see why people find sailing so addictive. I really hope we get the chance to do a lot more of it. I just wish I could work out how to stop this damned room rolling from side to side ...

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Dear All Blacks

You won against France! Yay! You were brilliant! We love you! Congratulations!

Congratulations also on being voted Team of the Year by the International Rugby Players' Association.

I think it was very sweet of you to win so decisively against France on the same day Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II is celebrating her fifty-sixth wedding anniversay. I can just picture big-hearted Joe Rokocoko now ... mighty muscled thighs pumping as he powers down the field, ball clutched firmly under his arm, one thought and one thought only on his mind: "Hey, Liz and Phil. I'm dedicating this try to you fellas because you've been married for heaps of years and you don't get to see much exciting rugby at home."

It's enough to bring a tear to the eye. The unselfishness of the man, putting aside his own worldly ambitions and all thoughts of personal glory, to cross the line in honour of his beloved monarch's marital longevity.

If any of the seventy-four toasters Her Majesty received on her wedding day are still lying around Buck House somewhere, perhaps she'll acknowledge our Joe's tribute by sending him one. That 'Made in 1947' retro look for kitchen appliances has made a huge comeback in recent years. Better still, maybe she'll give you all knighthoods. I know that's what I'd do if I was Queen.

Party up large, guys.

Yours worshipfully

niki
xxx

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Forget for a moment that Your Correspondent -- a total media whore -- is featured in Karratha's local rag this week and that today is World Toilet Day, and please focus briefly on what an amazing experience live pub music actually is.

We've just arrived home after watching Monsoon and the Dave Mann Collective perform at the Karratha Tavern as part of their Big Back Yard tour. (The DMC has suffered through a few line-up changes since the linked profile was constructed, but their musical style remains the same.) They're Perth-based bands, they share the same drummer and both, I believe, are destined for bigger things.

Top marks to Monsoon, who performed first and got through the last song of their set despite the fight that broke out and sent many of the bar's patrons scurrying from one half of the room to the other (welcome to Karratha, guys). Their sound is funky, professional and very addictive. Andy Pratt on lead vocals has a voice reminiscent of a Dave Matthews/Tim Freedman/Bono amalgam ... exceptionally good. The bassist also plays a mean set of congas and bongos.

Musically, DMC has a strong jazz influence -- again very Dave Matthews-ish -- but they're equally comfortable with blues, reggae and straight-out rock. I loved them for their highly creative approach. It's not often you hear something in 7/8 timing that's accessible enough to let you still jiggle your lard around to it. Their single, Hard Man To Talk To, has been getting a bit of air-time on Triple J recently.

Earlier this year my little brother's flatmate, Lindon Puffin, went on the road for the most comprehensive tour in New Zealand music history to promote his album Stuff Like That. His dream was to bring live music back to regional NZ.

Bands like Monsoon and the Dave Mann Collective strive to do the same thing in Australia. They're similar to Lindon in that they're independent, they don't necessarily aspire to global conquest and they have a strong grass-roots focus.

I've been around enough radio interviews with live music acts to know that their biggest concern is the ever-accelerating loss of performance venues. I don't know what it's like in the rest of the world, but if you live in NZ or Oz and have the opportunity to see live music, support it, people. New or young bands willing to travel to regional and/or remote places to build up a following the hard way deserve to be supported, lest we lose them altogether.

And now ... getting back to my media whoring and World Toilet Day ...

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Two more reasons why I love working in radio:

1. You learn lots of interesting shit

For instance, today is Married to a Scorpio Support Day. This is billed as "A worldwide day of remembrance to honor all those married to Scorpions and who suffer greatly."

Presumably, no particular honour, support or remembrance is forthcoming if you've eschewed the whole nuptial thing and have elected to just bonk a Scorp instead.

I've never been able to work out why Scorpios seem to get so much bad press. Despite extensive research, I haven't been able to find a single Support Day for people who have hitched themselves to representatives from any of the other astrological signs. This doesn't seem particularly fair. No wonder nine out of ten Scorpios hack people to bits with machetes and store canisters of mustard gas in their toilet cisterns.

I used to wish I'd been born a Scorpio. Then again, always wanting to be someone else is very typical of those under the dominion of Pisces. We're supposed to be dreamy and imaginative, but in reality we just pop out at birth with fully-formed inferiority complexes.

2. It's cathartic

Let's say, just for argument's sake, that you've waited and hoped ALL FUCKING YEAR to see your team win the Rugby World Cup, only to watch them get trounced by their arch-rivals in the semi-finals.

By a strange coincidence, the very same dark day sees the official opening of the rock lobster season (that's crayfish, to the purists) in Western Australia.

Only in radio can you express your grief at the former and bring attention to the plight of the latter by writing a script with the following intro:

"Well, it wouldn’t have been just All Blacks supporters who might've wanted to hide under a rock on Saturday … some of WA’s tastiest crustaceans probably had the same idea too."

I impressed the hell out of myself with this, which just goes to show that out of deepest sorrow can be born an equally deep sense of smug satisfaction.

There's a valuable life lesson here, my superheroes: provided you can a) find a job which permits you to frequently indulge your own selfish whims, and b) don't marry a Scorpio, you are sure to find enduring love, happiness and financial success. You will also travel extensively. Health looks good, but make sure you deal with that ulcer in the hard-to-reach place real soon. Lucky number: pi.

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Your Correspondent appeared on TV earlier tonight. GWN Regional News, to be exact. I'm not sure who watches GWN Regional News -- I don't -- but if you do and you saw the story on my dear friend Sam, I was the pasty-looking one she was training at the gym.

Sam, not content with being a disgraceful over-achiever as it is, decided to accelerate her world domination programme recently by being awarded runner-up in Fitness WA's 'Fitness Professional of the Year' competition. You'd think that being my bridesmaid next year would've been honour enough for her, but no. The greedy tart had to go and do other shit, with the result that some bloke toting a camera rocked up in the middle of my personal training session last Thursday and turned the damn thing on.

Your Correspondent is photogenically-challenged at the best of times, but there's nothing like the added dimension of movement to hit home just how unfocused and retarded one can look, especially when one is self-conscious and trying very hard not to be. I swear to god there was one shot where I actually looked cross-eyed. The only thing missing was the drool.

Of course, none of this really matters. The story was about Sam, not me. However, after what I saw tonight, I have a far greater understanding of what is meant by the phrase, 'the camera really loves her/him' because it's patently obvious that it doesn't love me at all. Not one little bit. It wants me out of its sight. It refuses even to be civil. It's highly unlikely it would entertain the idea of crossing the road to piss on me if I was on fire.

Never mind that a few hours after the footage was shot, Your Correspondent was busily ejecting the contents of her digestive system into any handy receptacle in the vicinity. The excuse of impending viral attack can only stretch so far when it comes to serious lack of aesthetic appeal. Hell, I would've been scratching to even qualify in the 'sort of cute' category.

Visual media are obviously not going to be the vehicles for my success. I guess it's time to once and for all cross 'supermodel' off my list of Things to Dabble in During Middle-Age and concentrate instead on my first love: radio. It's a kinder and more forgiving medium all round. Take it from one who knows.

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Legend has it that the game of rugby union was born in 1823 in the English town of Rugby, Warwickshire. One of Rugby School's students, a spiffing little chap called William Webb Ellis, had the temerity to pick up the ball during a football game and run with it.

Let's make that perfectly clear: he picked up the ball and he ran with it.

As the story goes, this caused quite a furore. Ellis was accused of cheating. Picking up the ball and running with it when you were supposed to be kicking it wasn't considered very sportsmanlike.

Now, exactly 180 years later, the English rugby team has apparently tossed in the idea of picking up the ball and running with it, preferring instead to kick it over the goal at every opportunity.

If I wanted to expend eighty-minute segments of my life watching goals being kicked, I'd switch my sporting allegiance to AFL, or even soccer. The real excitement of rugby comes from tries scored, not bloody drop goals. Choosing to kick a penalty rather than go for the try when you're so far ahead of your opposition that it doesn't really matter, is a total cop-out. And if the booing from some of England's own supporters in the latter stages of today's game was anything to go by, they think so too.

Gutted though I still am about yesterday's victory over the All Blacks, I'm putting my heart squarely behind the Wallabies for next weekend's Rugby World Cup final. I'll take courage, fire and that wild dive across the line over one man's mechanical mastery with the boot any day.

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Bugger. Shit. Fuck.

The All Blacks lost.

I knew we should've been at that bloody pub. Not only is NZ out of the Rugby World Cup, but we're also stuck with these damn kittens. I kind of liked the idea of their chewing up Carlos Spencer's indoor greenery instead of mine.

Congratulations to the Wallabies. I told the Dowager Empress (mother) on the phone today that they should never be underestimated and it's the truth. My only consolation in all this is that I doubt they would've played so well if they'd been up against any other team. There's a special sort of rivalry between Oz and NZ, and if any team is going to draw out magic from the Wallabies, it's the All Blacks.

So ... roll on tomorrow's game between England and France. There's one hell of a final ahead next week. I'm betting it will be France, but after today ... what the hell do I know?

*exits to continue grieving in private*

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Dear All Blacks

Yes, it's me ... the most devoted convert to your cause in world rugby history. I have to tell you, guys, I've been anticipating this day for weeks: your semi-final game against the Wallabies. The Dreamboat and I had planned to paint our faces black-and-white, head down to the Karratha Tavern to watch you on the big screen, get raucously drunk with all the cuzzies and yell ourselves hoarse to support you in what will no doubt be a titanic struggle.

But shit happens, you know? Copious quantities of it, in fact. And not just shit, but vomit too. Your Adoring Correspondent suspects she lost all of her stomach lining and most of her large intestine on Thursday night and this unfortunately precludes her from patronising establishments where she'll be tempted to drink lots of alcohol and smoke her brains out. You have no idea how much it pains her to actually be sensible on this, of all occasions, but if she wants to be in fine form to cheer you on in the finals she doesn't have much choice.

To make matters worse, The Dreamboat -- staunch and stalwart fan that he is -- was much aggrieved to learn he'll have to work until 8pm tonight, thus missing all the game altogether. At least Your Correspondent can take small comfort in watching the action on TV at home.

What worries me about all this, Team, is that if we personally are not down in that pub performing the haka and screaming our black-and-white faces off as originally intended, you'll somehow lose. Don't do that, OK? Don't lose. Just win this game for us. Please. And to make it worth your while, I'll even give you a kitten. I've got two black-and-white ones you can choose from. Hell, win this game and you can have both. They could be your mascots. Wouldn't that be fun?

Cheering you on from the couch ...

Kia kaha! *
Kia manawa nui! **

niki
xxx

* Be strong!
** Be of great heart!

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When you spend all night dashing from your place of repose to the toilet while simultaneously heaving into a bucket -- as Your Correspondent did last night -- it's only natural that your thoughts should turn towards a suitable soundtrack to reflect what's going on.

I don't know what percentage of hot water's esteemed readership are classical music buffs, but for those who are, I say this unto ye: Siegfried's Funeral March by Wagner, used to such stirring effect in the opening and closing scenes of John Boorman's movie Excalibur. Yep, that about sums it up perfectly: the long, sombre build-up, the increase of dramatic tension, the explosive crescendo slowly dying away, only to build up into another, unexpected crescendo that leaves one gasping.

Listen to it every twenty minutes for two and a half hours, then once every couple of hours for the rest of the night and you've got a fair idea of how much fun Your Correspondent had during the wee small hours.

Add to this: three kittens who thought all the running around signified play time; crippling period pains; the ever-present bad back and you've got a whirl of colour and motion that pays suitable tribute to the depth and complexity of Wagner's work.

If you're not into classical music, the theme from Jaws comes a poor second, but would be adequate. Failing that, think of a Marilyn Manson rendition of Cyndi Lauper's True Colours. That would possibly work too.

Now excuse me, please, while I retire to my silken bower once more.

P.S. No, it wasn't the sushi, goddammit. It was a virus, do you hear me? A virus.

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Your Correspondent took five hours out of her allotted life-span this evening to make sushi rolls.

Actually, it was closer to six hours, if you include the trip to the supermarket to buy a couple of microscopic Lebanese cucumbers, followed by half an hour spent endeavouring to make sense out of three different recipes that contradicted one another.

Six hours might seem a tad excessive to some of you. That's probably because you're sensible people who live in sensible metropolitan areas where they have whole bloody suburbs dedicated to sushi bars. I bet that where you live, they even have those 'choo-choo' sushi bars where all the ingredients get to kick back in their wee bowls and admire the view while they're chauffeured around on mini railroad tracks. I bet you sit there looking very cool and cosmopolitan while you make witty remarks to the diners on either side of you and pluck your unsuspecting little tourists out of their carriages of doom, you cruel and capricious god-like figures, you.

Some of us don't have that luxury. Some of us have to cook our own sushi rice -- and by the absorption method, I'll have you know. When the recipe says the rice must be fanned to cool it and we realise we don't have the requisite fan crafted in the finest bamboo and paper with flowers painted on it in a minimalist style by a deft hand, we don't whine and throw the lot in the bin ... we use our initiative and flap magazines at it instead. We even wave our arms over it, working up a good, honest sweat in the process. We take pride in our exertion.

We wonder if our rice is glossy enough. It's supposed to be glossy. We resist the urge to break under the pressure and scream, "Who gives a fuck if it's glossy or not? No-one's going to see it, for christ's sake. We're going to eat it, not enter it in fucking Best of Show." No, we never yell anything like that. We're following a tradition, you see. We're exercising restraint.

We don't give up, even knowing that our Irish genes better equip us to throw spuds and whole cabbages into large pots with bacon bones, than to cut cucumbers and carrots into hair-thin strips. We refuse to admit to ourselves that we've finally found a culinary art-form that's even more anally retentive than we are.

We valiantly attempt to spread incredibly gluggy rice onto incredibly thin sheets of dried seaweed and ignore the fact that large quantities of it are ending up either on the floor or in our hair. We apply our wasabi paste. We artfully arrange our fillings. We roll everything up in the special sushi bamboo mat. We realise we've buggered it up. We shrug philosophically and ensure the wrinkled, weird-looking bit of the roll is on the bottom where no-one can see it.

We do all this in the face of great adversity. Do we stop when our three cats all decide to climb up our bare legs at once and then persist in their attempts for the next twenty minutes? We do not. We pause only to cook dinner for ourselves, prepare something for our partners, hang out washing, have a cigarette or two and catch the weather forecast on TV. When our partners offer us cold beer, we decline. Then we change our minds, but we only have two. Note: only two.

So ... I now have five sushi rolls sitting in the fridge for tomorrow's lunch. I won't be eating them. I can't even stand the bloody sight of them. I'll give the lion's share to the Dreamboat, who was the reason behind my decision to make sushi in the first place. (Chalk it up as #491 on the long list of Dumb Things You Do For Love.) The rest will be taken to work and I'll probably offer them to everyone else. Then I'll amble down to the corner shop and buy a nice tomato-and-avocado toasted sandwich for lunch instead. Something that someone else has had to make. Let them deal with the stress of food preparation. I've had enough to last me well into the next decade, thank you very much.

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Erratum:

Mick from the Whim Creek pub is not a Trade Attache for the Hutt River Province Principality as I erroneously claimed yesterday. He's actually the independent sovereign state's diplomat to Western Australia. I found this out because I rang him today and asked. While I was at it, I also managed to arrange an interview with him on the show next week.

My humble apologies for the fuck-up, Your Excellency.

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Ten things I've learned in the last three weeks:

1. My physiotherapist cried for two years after she gave up smoking. She found it that difficult.

2. We almost certainly have scorpions living in our backyard.

3. 'Dead air' is radio jargon for those times when something blows up, someone falls asleep or a remote feed is lost and there's silence over the airwaves. This is something to be greatly feared when you work in radio. Your Correspondent has been practising running around and panicking, barking stuff like, 'We're not broadcasting at the moment. You! Yes, you, Air-conditioning Man! What did you touch? Nothing? Are you sure? If I switch to bypass power and die screaming in agony, there'll be trouble.'

4. Chasing a kitten around the house while trying to whack her with the fern frond that she's just chewed off your favourite plant could indicate you're somewhat stressed.

5. I actually give a damn about the Rugby World Cup.

6. I actually don't give a damn about the novel I'm supposed to be writing.

7. It's possible to get through 30 litres of cat litter in six days.

8. If neither you nor the supermarket checkout person knows how much your bunch of coriander costs, it's probably better to go with her $1.00 assessment than your own uneducated $1.50 guess.

9. Riesling and shiraz are the best wines to take to a dinner party when you don't know what's on the menu.

10. Michael Tozer, proprietor of the Whim Creek pub, is a citizen (and also, if I remember correctly, a Trade Attache) of the Hutt River Province Principality. Some items of currency, along with his Citizenship Certificate, passport and a photograph of Prince Leonard and Princess Shirley 'pressing the flesh' are proudly displayed behind glass on a wall of the pub. I'm half tempted to apply for citizenship myself ...

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Your Correspondent and the Dreamboat are always on the look-out for new and unusual places in which to get shit-faced and this weekend we weren't disappointed. I give you: the famous pink pub at Whim Creek (pic shamelessly pilfered from here).

Whim Creek is 120km north-east of Karratha and is a popular watering-hole for thirsty travellers on their way to Port Hedland. Apart from being the site of the first significant mineral find (copper) in the Pilbara region, Whim Creek is famous for taking regular hammerings from cyclones; the most recent being in 1999, following a visit from Cyclone John. (An aftermath report can be found here.)

While Your Correspondent certainly isn't averse to making a 240km round trip purely to get arseholed, we did have an excuse. A friend decided to celebrate her 25th birthday at the Whim Creek pub, so around two dozen fellow diehards drove up from Karratha. Our friend's mum and partner-of-mum even made the trip from Newman - a round journey of approximately 980km. We're talking serious party people here, folks.

And a serious party it was, too. Long after the pub closed, the sounds of drunken revelry could be heard emanating from the Whim Creek pub's beer garden. The Dreamboat and I eventually lurched off to bed sometime around 4.00am, but a small and dedicated group partied on. We'd taken the soft option and booked a room; most of the others camped out in swags and tents.

Your Correspondent has a bad habit when she's drunk of wandering around and making New Best Friends with uninvited bystanders, then encouraging them to come over and join in. Among the strays she picked up last night were a local guy who'd lost the sight in one eye after having had a close encounter with a fish hook, and a rather strange individual who claimed to have $700 worth of pearls in his backpack and then offered to sell them to us for $100 because he was experiencing cashflow problems. He repeated everything he said three times:

Drunk Niki: So, where are you from?
Strange Individual: Darwin, originally. I originally come from Darwin. Darwin's the place I'm originally from.
Drunk Niki: And you're travelling around the country?
Strange Individual: Yeah, but I've got these pearls I need to sell. Listen, there are these pearls I've got and I need to sell them. I want to sell some pearls that I've got.
(Fifteen minutes later)
Drunk Niki: (thinks bloody hell, this is hard work, and makes her escape, abandoning some innocent friends to his ramblings-in-triplicate)

I highly recommend the Whim Creek pub as a superior venue for the acquisition of truly incredible hangovers. Not only can one take time out on the journey home the next day to throw up in the midst of spectacular scenery, but the excitement of finding a live bat in the bathroom, a frog in the toilet and the biggest, ugliest and most evil-looking spider in the known universe squatting on the ceiling above one's bed simply cannot be rivalled anywhere else. The pub also sells boxes of painkillers behind the bar. They care about their patrons that much.

Go there. Right now. I dare ya.

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"I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy ..."

Ah, but what about your second-worst enemy? I bet you never thought of that. But fear not, my superheroes, because Your Correspondent never ceases in her tireless efforts to fill in life's little blank spots. I hereby give you:

Twelve Things to Wish on Your Second-Worst Enemy

12. Three kittens suffering from diarrhoea.

11. To be stuck on a desert island with Osten from Survivor.
I mean, really. What a complete pair of Mummy's Undies this useless bloke is. He needs a damn good slapping.

10. To be stuck on a desert island with Jon from Survivor.
This spiteful little weasel appears to be slightly unhinged. Why hasn't anyone cooked and eaten him yet?

9. Man-breasts.

8. To be stuck on a desert island with Rupert from Survivor.
Likeable and a good provider, but a little too carried away with the 'wild man' role-play for comfort. Talking to his dead lil' snake buddy for the benefit of the camera wasn't a great move either.

7. To be stuck on a desert island with any of the women from Survivor.
Why? Because it's my list, that's why.

6. Tripe, and lots of it.

5. To be stuck on a desert island with that Announcer Dude from Survivor.
Can you imagine it? In case you can't, here's an example with Your Correspondent, who assumes that sometime, somewhere, somehow, she has been someone's second-worst enemy:
Announcer Dude: Niki, the tribe has spoken.
Niki: What tribe, you pinhead? We're the only people here.
Announcer Dude: It's time to leave the island.
Niki: Oh, fuck off *swat*

4. A taut, smooth, youthful face ...
... with a crepey neck and hands covered in liver spots.

3. One of those things that fell out of Your Correspondent's laundry tap yesterday when the cold water was running ...
It looked exactly like a leech.

2. Twelve back-to-back episodes of Stargate.

1. A dose of good old thrush.

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Let's Big It Up for Cyclone Season!

Saturday 1 November heralded the official start of Cyclone Season in these here idyllic parts. Cyclone Season is when everyone is cajoled/bullied/frightened into performing lots of irksome tasks around their yards that they'd never bother doing otherwise, just in case a great big fuck-off storm with an unfashionable name shows up and starts throwing its weight around. The last thing anyone can afford in a cyclone is to have unsightly tree branches flying around and getting in the way of their neighbour's boat as it's being hurled through the roof.

Cyclone season officially runs from November to May, although cyclones themselves tend to be of a somewhat anarchic disposition and will sometimes rock up in June, just to keep everyone on their toes. Or heads. Or tailbones, depending on how they land.

Long-term readers (that's if there are any of you left, considering how flat, uninspired and whiney this blog has been lately) will recall that the Dreamboat and I moved to Karratha last December. We therefore got to experience most of last Cyclone Season and a huge disappointment it was too. I'm hoping for a better result this time.

According to the Bureau of Meteorology, we can look forward to an 'average' season, with four cyclones forming off North West Australia. Two of these are expected to impact the coast, with significant risk of one being severe. January and February are supposed to be the boom months, although there's a moderate risk of a cyclone forming off the northwest coast before Christmas. If it does, BOM predicts that the Kimberley is the area most likely to be affected. That's a long way north of here.

Although I have great respect for BOM and what it does, I also believe we can look closer to home for clues about the weather and how it's likely to behave. Animals, for instance. Animals are supposed to know all about that sort of shit. So Your Correspondent has taken to observing the actions of the three kittens she's currently caring for, in the hope of finding some clues. And if their actions are anything to go by, it's looking a bit dire weather-wise, I can tell you.

For instance, they want to be fed right now, all the time. This is an ominous sign. Their highly-developed feline instincts are obviously telling them to get extremely fat before the cyclones hit and prevent Your Correspondent from getting out to the supermarket to buy gourmet cat food.

They've also been exhibiting other disturbing symptoms. Staring fixedly ahead with glazed eyes is a prime example of the 'It's Cyclone Season in My Colon' alert. This alarming behaviour inevitably leads to the 'It's Cyclone Season in My Litter Box' scenario, with scenes of unbelievable carnage and devastation. Your Correspondent is doing her best to cope. She maintains not one, but two litter boxes in the laundry, yet even this is still not enough to deal with the never-ending flood of Cyclone Season litter box casualties.

Judging from what I've observed, we're in for some real biggies this Cyclone Season. Absolute stinkers. I have it first hand from the Animal Kingdom, and the Animal Kingdom never lies. Watch this space.

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Your Correspondent began writing her NaNoWriMo novel this evening. The prologue to her novel, to be precise. All 1,446 words of it. That's the average length of one of her short stories. Considering that these can sometimes take years to complete (depending on what's on and who's paying), it's no mean feat for her to spit it all out at once.

After I'd finished and done a few rounds of the Triumphal Completion of the Prologue dance, I read it through and remembered why I decided last year to keep this blog: my 'serious' writing always comes out very dark. I'm not sure why, but it does. Depression, insanity and repressed violence always seem to be key ingredients of any 'serious' work I attempt. I don't like it. I'd rather write humour.

The are too many adjectives in my prologue. The style is melodramatic and overly-cryptic by turns. I don't know how I'm going to resist the temptation to spend the rest of the month editing it. In short, it's terrible. But don't take my word for it. Tomorrow, I'll post a sample on the NaNoWriMo site and you can see for yourselves.

Conclusion: I don't think I have the constitution to be a novelist.

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The hot water Weekend Awards

'Most Unlikely Thing to do While Listening to a Rugby Match on the Radio' Award:
Drinking the bottle of Dom Perignon that's been sitting in the fridge since you got engaged.

First Prize for 'Your Correspondent's Stupidest Decision':
Agreeing to take on two more kittens, one of which is totally psychotic (our tiny white fuzzball went to a new home on Thursday). Not only are they tearing our house to pieces, but the psycho one keeps trying to murder our fluffy little calico specimen. And speaking of the calico/tortoiseshell one ... on Thursday I discovered, upon closer examination, that she's female. Sorry 'bout that.

Award for 'Weirdest Sensation':
Waking from a doze to discover a kitten pulling the elastic band out of one's hair and then nuzzling all over one's scalp in the vain hope of finding a teat.

The Karratha Tavern 'Bloody Hell, They're Even Drunker Than Us' Award:
We have a tie for first place. Both finalists were complete strangers.

Finalist #1 was a guy who walked up and thanked us for a) being the only two people dancing and b) being so damned good at it.

Finalist #2 was a girl who walked up to our table and slurred, "It's great to see you guys so obviously into each other. Makes a change from the rest of the drunken shitheads around here."

Later, when the Dreamboat went to loo, she returned and said to me, "You have to dance with me. Come on." She then dragged Your Reluctant Correspondent onto the dance floor. The music changed. "I hate this song," she said. "It'll have to be later." She lurched off, leaving Your Correspondent to slink back to her seat.

Prize for 'Employee of the Month':
After two phone calls from the tavern and a thirty-minute wait, a taxi finally arrived. We then had the privilege of meeting this stirling individual ...

Dreamboat: We want to stop off first to get a burger and then go on home.
Taxi Driver: You mean you want me to wait around while you get food?
Dreamboat: Yes.
Taxi Driver: I can't do that. It's not worth my while to do that.
Dreamboat: Look, we'll make it worth your while. Just keep the meter running and we'll pay you whatever it says.
Taxi Driver: It's still not worth it. No, I'd rather not do that.
Dreamboat: But ...
Niki: (interrupting) Forget it, babe. We don't need this bullshit. (to driver) Fine. Whatever. Just take us to the burger place and we'll get another cab, alright?
Driver: (after pulling up at burger bar) Have a nice night.
Niki: Yeah, right.

Grand Prize for 'The Night's Most Warped Logic':
Dreamboat: I can't believe you just gave that cab driver a $2.00 tip. Why did you tip him?
Niki: (triumphantly) I just wanted him to have a taste of what he could've had.

The 'My Silence on the Subject Speaks Volumes' Award:
Days One and Two of NaNoWriMo.

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