Greetings from Perth

Too much has been going on to relate from a public internet terminal in a hotel with only two minutes' credit left, superheroes.

More in a day or so ...

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D is for ...

Once upon a time, waaayyy back in history, some bored dude got sick of picking at his scabies and wondering how many of his teeth were going to fall out that week and decided instead to have a thought. And that thought was this:

"I reckon there must be some sort of order in the universe and balance in life. Sometimes bad things happen, like getting scabies and being toothless. But sometimes good things happen too, like sex. And sometimes the good and the bad intertwine and create a tragedy, like not ever being able to get any sex your whole life because your skin looks fucking disgusting and you have no teeth and no-one can stand being near you. But sometimes what might well turn into a tragedy actually ends up being terrific, like becoming a deep thinker and going down in history as a famous philosopher because your skin condition, lack of pearly whites and resultant enforced celibacy left you nothing else to do except dwell on profound matters."

So how can this individual's philosophical insights be translated into 21st century life in a meaningful and relevant way, you may ask? Well, here's an example:

Your Correspondent keeps a blog. This is good. But her blog was recently discovered by a boss. This could be considered bad. And not just any old boss, mind you ... this boss is the boss of lots of other bosses.

Now at this point, it would be reasonable to speculate that a tragedy is imminent. But lo and behold, this Boss of Bosses keeps a blog of his own. And he seems to quite like Your Correspondent's blog because he linked to it and said nice things about it, which, of course, is terrific. He doesn't even mind Your Correspondent linking back to his site. How do I know this? Because we were talking on the phone yesterday and I asked him.

So there you have it, superheroes: Discovered but not Dooced. If nothing else, this shows that a tragic outcome isn't always inevitable when your employer discovers your blog. Hell, your site stats might even increase as a result.

I just love happy endings. Ain't philosophy grand?

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Pressure's been mounting in the Karratha Imperial Palace of late. Here's why:

1. Nuptial Matters
The Dreamboat and I had until the end of this week (ie today) to organise our wedding invitations. This meant a flurry of emails to friends all over the world to check on their postal addresses. It made me realise just how easy it is to lose track of where people actually live when you can reach them anytime/anywhere by mobile phone or email.

There are no printing companies in Karratha (quelle surprise), so rather than try to sort it out with someone in Perth, we decided to do the invitations ourselves. With an almost unseemly haste, the Dreamboat offered to take responsibility for design and printing. I think he wanted something simple but elegant, striking the crucial balance between formality and warmth, as opposed to the picture of two orang-utans rolling around on the ground and the words October Orgy! or Come to a Free Feed in Brissie! that Your Correspondent would've used if she'd done the invites herself.

We're sending out a lot more than we'd originally planned. This is because every time we go out and get drunk, we end up verbally inviting whoever we happen to be with. I estimate that of the 120+ people who could end up attending our wedding, we actually know one-third.

2. Work Matters
Your Correspondent is back working full-time for the next few weeks, which is something she didn't expect. I'd anticipated spending my last couple of months in Karratha swanning around at the gym, finalising all the wedding plans in a relaxed and gracious manner and updating hot water on a daily basis. Instead, I'm earning filthy lucre and trying hard not to soil my undies at the prospect of presenting the weekday Breakfast show when the regular presenter goes on holiday.

Presenting Saturday Breakfast is one thing; weekday Breakfast is something altogether different. In radio terms, Breakfast is the biggie ... the Godzilla of the airwaves. As my boss pointed out on Friday, it's very unlikely I'd get the chance to do this anywhere else. Add the immense popularity of the regular presenter to the equation and you've got the perfect opportunity for Your Correspondent to fuck up on a truly spectacular and hitherto unknown scale.

Am I rising to the challenge? Am I determined to succeed, to prove myself equal to the task? Am I demonstrating courage? Am I exuding quiet confidence? Nah, not really. I'm just scared shitless.

3. Other Matters
We're also planning our epic two-month camping journey across Australia's Top End. Which is to say, the Dreamboat's examining maps, arranging all the modifications we need done to the fiery chariot (fridge, snorkel, roof rack, spotlights, various other things I can't recall right now) and getting advice from people who know the region and can recommend places to stay, etc. Your Correspondent's role in all this is to not let her eyes glaze over every time she contemplates the enormity of everything we've got to do in the next six months. I mean, seriously, folks ... here's the timetable:

From Now Until Mid-July:
Try not to blow my chances of ever working in radio again
Fly to Perth to sort out wedding dress and the Dreamboat's kilt
Finalise as much of the wedding as possible
Pack up entire contents of house except for anything we're taking on the trip, have it all shipped to Brisbane and put in storage
Find someone willing to look after our cat for four months and then fly her to Brissie

Mid-July to Mid-September
Travel, live in a tent and endeavour to keep relationship cordial
Have wedding rings made in Broome
Avoid being eaten by crocodiles
Ensure weight remains stable so wedding dress still fits
Take copious notes in the unlikely event that some bloody magazine somewhere will pay me to write for its Travel section

Mid-September to Mid-October
Find somewhere temporary to live in Brisbane
Sort out the last of the wedding arrangements
Get married

Mid-October to Beginning November
Spend first half of honeymoon in Noosa with rellies
Spend second half of honeymoon at exotic tropical island retreat with anyone who wants to come
Find work ... which may or may not be in Brisbane

Beginning November to Whenever
Find somewhere permanent to live in Brisbane or re-locate again, if the Dreamboat's job dictates

You're all intelligent people and you know I value your views, so tell me ... does this chain of events strike you as stressful? I'd just like to know, so I can work out how much moaning I'll be able to get away with in future weeks.

While you're thinking, here's something restful for us to look at: sunset over Cable Beach in Broome. People flock there to take pics like this one. Didn't the Dreamboat do well?

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Camp

On Saturday, following the completion of Your Correspondent's weekly assault on North-West WA's airwaves, we packed up the fiery chariot and headed deep into the Millstream-Chichester National Park for 24 hours of serious camping.

Finding somewhere new and unexplored in which to set up a tent and get drunk is one of life's greatest pleasures. I'd go so far as to say it's a recreational drug in the truest sense: highly addictive, extremely pleasant, and -- with so much fresh air, stunning scenery and fornicating wildlife all over the place -- plenty of scope for indulging in uninhibited practices of an intimate nature.

That's the theory, at least. It's a different story when the weather turns squally in the night and remains squally for all of the next day and the tarp you've rigged for shelter blows over five times and the pegs holding down your tent fly get ripped out every half-hour and your chair gets wet and you get wet and you end up with a chill in your kidneys and have to pee every ten seconds when you get home.

It could've been a lot worse. We could've washed away in a flash flood, been bitten by snakes or done what friends Sam and Chiz did -- drove two hours in the dark to join us, lost the 4WD track they should've been on, doubled back twice, gave up in disgust and drove home again.

To give you an idea of how bad things can actually get in the Outback, check out these recipes from Outback Cooking in the Camp Oven, by Jack and Reg Absalom (The Five Mile Press Pty Ltd, 1982. Paperback edition first published in 1990.) Jack has this to say about them:

"These two recipes were given to me by a manager of one of Kidmans Stations. He told me that the Head Office in Adelaide sent these two recipes to all his stations.
"P.S. I haven't tried them, as I have had trouble getting the three medium sized camels."

The first recipe is prefaced by the following:

"Recommended by this office for serving to V.I.P. visitors"

Barbecued Emu
Take 1 young hen - stretch neck.
Remove some feathers for decoration.

Have prepared a goodly-sized hole of white ash and coals.
Place bird on same, and cover with green boughs.
Cook until feathers gone and skin golden brown.
Rub with mallee (green) roots to remove quills.

Serve to old men and dogs, then the women and kids.
DELICIOUS!

Camel Stew
3 medium sized camels
1 ton salt
1 ton pepper
500 bushels potatoes
200 bushels carrots
3000 sprigs parsley
2 small rabbits

Cut camels into bite sized pieces. This should take about two months.
Cut vegetables into cubes (another two months).
Place meat in pan and cover with 1000 gallons of brown gravy.
Simmer for 4 weeks.
Shovel in pepper and salt to taste.
When meat is tender, add vegetables.
Simmer slowly for 4 weeks.
Garnish with parsley.
Will serve 3800 people.
If more are expected, add 2 rabbits.

It should go without saying that the other recipes in the book are a lot less labour-intensive ...

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Favourite Quotes from the Danish Royal Wedding:

"Apparently, he is a kind of gold-digger in Australia."
- Danish TV commentator talking about the bride's 33-year-old brother -- a mining engineer.

"Looks like they've dug up a whole lot of relics from European cemeteries."
- The Dreamboat, after watching the first nobles creaking their way into the church.

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Road Trip Conversations

I'm sure you all spend every free minute silently contemplating the profound truths contained within hot water, so you've probably been moved to wonder at some point what the Dreamboat and Your Correspondent talk about on long road trips.

Generally, not a hell of a lot. If the Dreamboat's driving, Your Correspondent is usually asleep after the first hour. I suspect this is due to the monotony of the landscape, along with a deep-seated trust in the Dreamboat's ability behind the wheel. When we do talk, however, it's likely to be along the lines of the following exchange, which occurred two hours into our trip to Broome, after the Dreamboat took over the driving:

Niki: So, tell me again about this resort where we'll be staying.
DB: Well, we'll have our own outdoor courtyard with tables and chairs and our own barbeque.
Niki: And a hammock?
DB: No, not a hammock.
Niki: Awww ... why not? I want a fucking hammock!
DB: Sorry. I deliberately booked a hammock-less unit.
Niki: You meanie. That sucks. What sort of bloody resort is it anyway, if it doesn't even have a fucking hammock?
DB: Oh, and the shower is outside.
Niki: So everyone gets to see us in the nuddy?
DB: (with emphasis) I don't think so.
Niki: Bugger. But there's a pool, right?
DB: Yep. Hey, I thought you were tired. Why don't you have a wee sleep?
Niki: And what's it like? Is it big? Is the water cold? How deep is it?
DB: Did I mention there's a crocodile farm next door?
Niki: Yeah, I think so.
DB: That's where you'll be headed if there's any more of this cheekiness.
(Pause)
Niki: Have you noticed we only have fun conversations like this when I'm the passenger? I hope you're paying attention here, babe. I'm trying to give you lessons in how to be a fun passenger.
DB: Is that right?
Niki: Yeah. But if you're happy to stay stodgy, that's fine.
DB: Stodgy?

We have a two-month road trip coming up soon. It's going to be an absolute blast. Just ask the Dreamboat.

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One Ring To Rule Them All ...



And no, that diamond in the middle isn't brown. It's called a 'fancy cognac', thank you very much. I just love the way references to alcohol find their way into every aspect of my life, even when booze is the last thing on my mind.

Thrilling Facts About Your Correspondent's Engagement Ring:

1. The cognac diamond comes from the Argyle Mine in the Kimberley Region of North West Australia. The mine is famous for its pink diamonds -- the rarest colour in the world. We saw one in the jewellery shop. It was about the circumference of a match-head and a steal at only $35,000. Needless to say, my cherished brown cognac specimen wasn't quite as expensive.

2. According to the jeweller, our Argyle diamonds are 3 billion years old.

3. The gold was mined in Kalgoorlie, WA.

4. The entire selection, trying-on and purchasing process took less than twenty minutes. I told you I hate shopping. Even for engagement rings.

5. Your Correspondent's freckly old digits are apparently a standard ring size and the ring didn't need any modification, so the jeweller discounted the price. (If you're ever in Broome and in the market for jewellery, go to Linneys. They're brilliant. Then go and buy yourself a new pair of sunglasses to celebrate. The women in the sunnies shop are terrific too.)

6. Groovy Jeweller then congratulated us and presented us with a bottle of champagne. Your Correspondent, who never misses an opportunity to make a fool of herself in public, started crying in the middle of the crowded shop.

7. I didn't actually wear the ring until we were back at the resort, where friends Joe and Megan took lots of photos of the Dreamboat opening the box and jamming said sparkly item onto my finger.

8. It's been 48 hours and I still haven't lost or scratched it. This is nothing short of miraculous.

9. No-one in Karratha has seen it yet. I thought I'd show it off to the rest of the world first.

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Road Trip

After my radio show tomorrow morning, the Dreamboat and I will be leaping with animalistic grace into the fiery chariot and driving 800km north to the charming hamlet of Broome. We'll be staying here.

The reason? To finally procure the One Ring and watch the Dreamboat mortgage his soul to pay for it. Hopefully, this time there'll be no cyclones to interfere.

We'll also be catching up with some friends from Sydney (the Best Man at our impending wedding and his wife). They've spent the last week wreaking havoc at Margaret River wineries and so are well-primed for a couple of days in our company. There'll no doubt be much eating, drinking, merriment and gaining of unsightly pre-nuptial kilos ... while back at home, our mates Chatelaine Sam, Major-Domo Chiz and their two delightful rottweilers will be caring for the Karratha Imperial Palace and Princess Buffy, the cat.

We'll be driving home on Tuesday, so there may not be any hot water posts until the following day. On the other hand, if I find an internet cafe in Broome that sells miracle hangover cures or cheap engagement rings, I might be tempted to linger and bash out a few lines.

Y'all behave yourselves until we get back ... or there'll be no presents.

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Trumped Up

The rest of the world probably saw it and got bored months ago, but we in WA live in our own special space-time continuum and so last night I got to see episode #1 of The Apprentice -- or The Sycophant, as Your Correspondent has dubbed it.

I had lots of fun watching Donald Trump posturing and looking mean (god knows how much he was paid to appear on this show -- is anyone out there still wondering how the rich get richer?) but I ask you ... how can a guy be so obscenely wealthy and still boast such a terrible hairstyle? How can his fiancee let him out the door every morning in such a state? Put him in a cheap suit with a 'do like that and he'd look exactly like a dodgy used car salesman*.

After watching the scene in the gaudy, gold-bedaubed apartment -- "Very few people have seen this apartment except for a couple of Presidents and other world leaders ..." or words to that effect (so why invite the common, reality TV-viewing rabble to gawk at it now?) -- the Dreamboat summed up the situation brilliantly: "This guy thinks he's Louis IVX."

I suspect Donald Trump may be labouring under the impression that he's the reason people watch The Apprentice, but you and I and the rest of the world's struggling pond scum know that's not the case. Nope, we just want to see the ritual humiliation of a bunch of cocky young over-achievers. We want to see them bitch, beg, back-stab and blubber. We want dirt, drama and disembowellment. Keep us happy and we'll even consider abandoning the alliteration.

If the dark angel wrecking the careers and lives of a bunch of wannabes on yet another reality TV show just happens to be Donald Trump, that's fine. I feel duty-bound, however, to warn him that his presence on The Apprentice is nothing more than a dramatic device and he shouldn't get ideas above his station. After all, if we -- the oh-so-discerning viewing public -- don't find him entertaining enough, we'll simply pick up the remote and change the channel ... and there's not a damn thing he can do about it.

Now that, my superheroes, is real power.

*Where are the guys from Queer Eye when they're really needed?

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You Know You're Becoming Middle-Aged When:

1. ... your future parents-in-law suggest accompanying you on part of your honeymoon and you agree ... because it's not as if the event was going to be filled with any great surprises anyway. Then you invite your mother along. And your younger brother. Because, well ... the more, the merrier.

2. ... you're cutting your toenails on the bathroom floor and, after a piece of nail flies through the air and lands somewhere in the room, you find yourself running your hand over the floor, murmuring, "Where are you, little buddy?" And you consider this to be perfectly normal behaviour.

3. ... you finally accept that certain doors are now closed to you and the likelihood of your ever being accepted to appear on Big Brother is about the same as your chances of making a fortune from your writing.

4. ... you start trimming the fat off bacon.

5. ... you heckle the TV during news and current affairs interviews. After each brilliantly-executed attack, you nudge or look pointedly at your partner and say, "Eh? EH?"

6. ... you seek out the company of younger folk because people your own age are so boring.

7. ... you seek out the company of older people because the young are so self-centred.

8. ... somewhere along the line, happy endings have become "unrealistic".

9. ... the "boring old fart" music that's always advertised in the lead-up to Mothers/Fathers Day is the music you loved in your teens and twenties.

10. ... you feel compelled to pepper conversations with lots of anecdotes from your own life because:
A. They're so interesting
B. They're so relevant
C. You have so many of them
D. Everyone needs to appreciate just how wise and mature you've become

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Artistry

When we left NZ after our holiday at Christmas, we brought back some sample works from an artist friend with the idea of showing them to a local retailer who we thought might be interested in selling them.

Yesterday, we finally took the samples into the shop. The owner -- a wonderfully funny, larger-than-life woman -- was there with her young grand-daughter. It went even better than we'd hoped. She loved Andrea's work, particularly a couple of humourous pieces that each featured a big, blowsy, voluptuous woman. The following conversation ensued:

Retailer: (to grand-daughter) She's certainly got huge titties, hasn't she?
Grand-daughter: (nods)
Retailer: They look just like Nanny's titties, don't they?
Grand-daugher: (nods)
Retailer: It's just as well your little sister isn't here, eh?
Grand-daugher: Yeah.
Retailer: (to us) The first time her sister saw me get out of the shower she couldn't stop staring. She was horrified. She pointed and said, "Nanny, look at your titties. They're so big." And I said, "Yes, they are. And you'd better be a good girl, because if you're not, you'll end up with huge titties just like Nanny's. And you don't want that, do you?" And she said, "No way." So now, if she's acting up, I remind her that bad girls end up with titties just like mine. Works a treat.
Niki: How old is she?
Retailer: Eight.

Breast-size as behaviour modifier ... here's hoping genes and puberty go easy on the poor kid in a few years' time.

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