On the weekend, I decided to take John over to Kangaroo Point to see the bearded dragons. At this time of year, approximately three million of them come out of hiding and start running around excitedly and sitting on rocks and things. It's all very interesting and Australian and exciting, especially to English John, who points and says things like, 'ooh-er guvner, apples 'n' pears, 'ows yer father,' etc.

So we went to a prime viewing spot, and the lizards all crowded together and posed for me:



"Wow," I said. "What a great shot. There must be at least one, two, three, four, HOLY SHIT HOLY SHITTY SHITTING SHIT THERE'S A REALLY BIG SNAKE."

"Ooh-er," said John.





I considered grabbing it and having a bit of a wrestle, in tribute to Steve Irwin, but in the end decided to leave it alone. We did drop into the nearest info centre and informed the Nature People that it was there, given the many curious children frolicking in the area, plus the houses and all that, but apparently humungous snakes that could fit me in their belly (with room to spare) are Just Fine. In fact, the Nature Wench gave me the helpful advice of, "Don't touch it if you're scared of it."

Oh, thank YOU! I was just about to pick it up and give it a BIG PASH.

Then we had beer.

We did not buy a car. We came to the conlusion that car yards are full of royal arseholes who would quite happily pull out a shotgun and shoot you point blank in the face if it meant that they got another sale. Private! Private is the way to go.

So, yes, didn't manage to get a car, but did manage to get this:



That is my shoulder, which has been burnt crispier than a KFC chicken strip. I am terribly sorry for spending all of fifteen minutes in the sun, Mr. UV. Actually, Mr. UV can piss off and die. Even the fricking part in my hair is bright pink, and it hurts to brush my hair.

And here I was, privately congratulating myself on finally getting rid of all my old tan lines and settling in to my healthy, pasty, vampire-esque, blindingly-white skin. Now I look like I'm wearing a singlet when I'm not wearing anything at all.

Yes. Well.

1, 2, 3.

1. I have long since been of the opinion that life is too short to spend it talking to people who piss you off. There is a chap at work who is very annoying, abrupt, and in your face, so apart from the usual hello-type pleasantries, I give him a miss. I mean, there's something like 95 staff members on the floor so it's not a huge deal. But apparently it is! I caught this same chap loudly BITCHING about me at work.

Bitching! About me! The quiet girl who wears boring clothes and sits in the park all the time with a book!

I go out of my way to avoid the bitchy people, and yet I am still bitched about. I am back in high school. He is the student who smokes behind the gym at lunchtime and loses his virginity when he's 13 to a 38-year old man and then loudly tells everyone how he constantly inserts vegetables up his own bottom (ACTUAL FORMER CO-STUDENT). I am the student who thinks 'gosh, this is an eye-opener and all, but I think I'll leave' and goes to their room to play with dolls and read Jane Eyre. This guy's currently being investigated by management due to several complaints being made against him, and I know that people who put others down all the time probably have, I don't know, issues or something, and I'm not really overly offended, but STILL.

2. This weekend, John and I are venturing out into the big wide world to buy a car. Now, I don't know too much about cars (hell, I don't even have my licence), but I know what I like, and I have created a list of the specifications that this broombroom must meet. This list is as follows:

• Red, preferably. Because red cars go faster. FACT.
• No rev-head, boy-racer, yobbo, or hoon previous owners. In my limited experience, I have discovered that the surefire way to spot a hoon car is a modified gear knob. WHO MODIFIES THEIR GEAR KNOB? Hoons. That's who.
• All the buttons need to work. Even the buttons for crap things like your hazard lights.
• A customised horn. None of this standard beep-beep bullshit. We're talking La Cucaracha, maybe some Abba or some AC/DC.
• No suspicious stains on the seat or floormats. Previous drivers and passengers must not have transferred any bodily fluids to the car. This includes, but is not limited to: weeing, pooing, or the result of carrying a dead body in the trunk.
  
• It should have those cool doors that open upwards. You know. Like a DeLorean. Actually, if it could be a DeLorean, I'd be stoked.
  

Ok, so maybe I'm just happy if it goes and doesn't smell.

3. John threw a packet of chips at me and it hit me square in the face, so I pinned him down and then hurled the same packet of chips at his head repeatedly. Then he apologised, said it was an accident, and as soon as I had moved away he threw them at my head again. This is our relationship.

The book I am reading, Running With Scissors, makes me feel like I have had the most normal life in the world.

I was wandering through the Queen Street Mall on my way home, when I noticed a group of very serious people who were wearing black clothes and sunglasses. I was thinking to myself how peculiar they looked; sort of like stand-in Men in Black cast members rather than the usual faux-goths in the city, and I wasn't really looking where I was going or paying much attention to anything else and ended up barging straight through the middle of them. In doing so, I almost bowled over a pint-sized Veronica.



Yes, my life is simply RIDDLED with (near) celebrity encounters. I thought 'gosh, she looks familiar' and then somebody screamed "THE VERONICAS ARE SHIT" really loudly and CLICK went my brain.

Boytown is unfortunately quite rubbish. It's not eye-removingly bad or anything, but I'd probably sooner lounge on the couch and practise belching the alphabet than give it a repeat viewing. This most likely stems from my dislike of Glenn Robbins and Mick Molloy, who have the most lines in the movie, and my love of Bob Franklin, who has the least lines in the movie (all of which are not actually funny). Why did you not tap into the Bob Franklin goldmine, movie makers?

I propose that we write our own movie and make MILLIONS. What say you?

So John trotted home from the polo with his skin a delightful shade of purple, and I prepared to gloat. Me, with my pasty white Vitamin D-deprived skin and bloated stomach from too many packets of chips, and what I am trying to say here is that obviously I was much better off than John, even if I am not managing it overly successfully. He walked in, sighed contentedly and said, "Today was fantastic. The only thing that could've improved it is you being there."

So. Sucking up, eh? Kissing arse will get you NOWHERE, sonny. You're just trying to make out that you didn't sit in the burning sun on a deckchair and laugh at inane horse jokes. I KNOW YOUR GAME.

"Turns out Malaria Neighbour's got connections," John went on.

The polo invite had come from our nextdoor neighbour, you see, who we thought was dead for quite a while but eventually discovered that he was in Papua New Guinea with malaria, or some such malarkey. John continued:

"Well, it turned out it was the final of the Polo Australian Open, would you believe. We were sat with some chief police commissioner type, and then we all went over to the VIP part and sat with the family of one of Australia's best polo players."

Ok. So maybe it was a bit bigger than I was thinking.

"And then I had a drink with the guy who was doing the entertainment. Guitar bloke. Tom. Tommy something?"

"TOMMY EMMANUEL?!?!?!" I sputtered, my head exploding.

"Yes, that's the one. Nice bloke, really friendly. Very good at guitar..."

Ok, now who was the bright spark who said I shouldn't go to the polo? I have never even managed to stutter hello to a famous musician type, let alone guzzled booze with one. Now I must cry.



I have been given two free tickets to a movie premiere by a co-worker who attracts free stuff like I attract weirdos, and John and I are going to go along and see it tomorrow night. It is an Australian movie called Boytown. Plot: Australian boy band who were big in the 80's decide to reform when they are all old and podgy. COMEDY GOLD. There is a very strong possibility that it will be cheesey and rubbish but hey, who turns down free tickets?

(And also, I am quite secretly in love with Bob Franklin)

I was invited to the polo!

But I declined.

If it was a day of polo involving cries of 'oh, jolly good!' and 'good show, old sport!' and sipping copious amounts of champagne whilst eating finger food and laughing uproariously, I would've said yes.

But I strongly suspect it would have been a day of sitting on an uncomfortable deck chair, with a group of loud blokes yelling 'get back on ya horse, ya bloody WOMAN!' with no alcohol (because everyone's driving, see) in direct burnyburny sunlight until I looked like a big chunk of pork crackling.

So I said no.

But John has gone. "Oh!" I exclaimed, in my plummiest voice. "Do cut your nails, John, or the posh folk will look at you and exclaim 'why! He has the hands of a common potato farmer, mumsy!' and it will be so dreadfully embarrassing. And make sure you take your blazer in case those awfully messy horseys kick mud onto your shirt. That would be just terrible."

John grunted.

"Perhaps you could have a lovely cup of tea while you watch, and eat cucumber sandwiches! Oh, gosh, how delightful!"

John gave me the evil eye and left the room. I am so snarky.

I am now faced with a Sunday all by my lonesome, and simply don't know what to do. I mean, what can a person do with a budget of $5?

• Sit at home and swipe away the stupid twatting flies. Oh, wait, already doing that.
• Go for a lovely walk in the extreme heat, perhaps until I die from heat stroke.
• Rack up an enormous debt on my credit card by buying booze, whores, and shoes. YEAH!
• Buy a tallie and a packet of Chicos and sit on my arse watching b-grade pornography.
• Read blogs and watch vlogs. Unfortunately, I think I have already read and watched the WHOLE internet.
  

Bugger. I should've gone to the polo.

Four days until the weekend!

• I am foolishly going to tell you about the marvellous job I am applying for. This is foolish because I will rant and rave and sound overkeen and then if I do not get it (and it is fabulous, whereas I am a bit mediocre in general, so I am unsuccessfully trying not to get my hopes up/stake my entire life on it) then we will have to throw a humungous pity party and eat cream cakes and lard sandwiches to make me feel better. It is government (cushy), contract (better pay), and not in insurance (HURRAH!). I would quite like to marry it and have its babies. But all I can do is cross my fingers and my toes and bullshit like a trooper on my application, because I am sure that a million and twelve people have applied for it.
  
  
  
  
• Has anyone else noticed a sudden influx in the number of flies around the place? That is, going from no flies, to a MILLION flies? Have I moved out of my house, and into a bin? A house-sized bin with all amenities, and three-week old slabs of meat in place of furniture? Because I do not understand why I am suddenly the Lady of the Flies. They are all buzzing about and shagging in mid-air and sucking on the wine stains on the carpet and I am NOT HAPPY.
  
  
• All the laydeez are wearing summer dresses at the moment, and I am forever looking at them swishing about and being all flowy and sighing wistfully, because every dress I have ever tried on has made me look like Mrs. Blobby in floral print. 'Hey!' say the dress designers. 'I know what I'll do! Let's make this dress so it's loose and hangs off the bust, but is tight around the stomach, so that girls with a beer gut look like shit! Yeah!' But, after all the girl perving, I decided to give dresses a second chance and chose three to try on. And I can only conclude that they have hired actual women to design the dresses, rather than Girl-Hating-Bitch-Designers, because they ALL fit me. I tried to toss up between them, and then couldn't, and bought them all. I AM POOR. But I am rich in dresses! Now I shall whirl and twirl and my skirt will inevitably be blown up by the wind when I am wearing hideous underpants.
  

Pot noodles and dancing, hurrah!

It is Friday, and an RDO, and I am celebrating by lounging about on my arse and eating a pot noodle for breakfast. Hurrah! I am following it up with some chewy fruity snakes, because I can. Carbs and MSG and sugar, oh my!

I was rummaging through the fridge a wee moment ago to pull out a bottle of Coke when something caught my eye.

There was a carton of milk on the shelf. Not unusual. I looked above it.

There was another carton of milk.

BOTH WERE OPEN.

I don't exactly have a waste-not-want-not mentality. I wasn't raised on a diet of potato skins and weak tea, because times were tough. Hell, I ate roast dinners and biscuits, to tell the truth. I sometimes drank lemonade! But less about the (cough) evident affluence of my upbringing and more about this doubling up business.

There is an open milk carton, with two days left until the expiry, and you want some milk. Do you take the open carton and use its contents freely, or do you open a brand new carton? This is a poll. I don't know how to do fancy polls, so here is some paragraph poll action, with 'this is a poll' thrown in for clarity.

There is only one thing worse than seeing that a new carton has been opened for no reason whatsoever.

Picking up the old carton and discovering that it's EMPTY.

Oh, no milk left in this one, I'll just POP IT BACK IN THE FRIDGE. Of course! Perfect place!

This is worse than the time the toilet paper was put on the holder the wrong way up. This does, of course, mean WAR.

So I take the risk of turning on my TV and my suspicions have been confirmed. Rove makes me want to inflict serious bodily harm upon myself. Or him. Him preferably. With something sharp. Perhaps with more than one sharp bit. A hairbrush-style needle paddle, maybe.

Where oh where have you gone, decent variety television? The quietly (though occasionally blatantly) indecent days of Graham Kennedy have been replaced with a git ripping off US talk show hosts with his opening five minutes of tawdry jokes about current affairs. Fire the joke, pull the amusing face, zoom, repeat. Here's some celebrities sitting in the green room! Look, they're pulling faces! Gosh.

I think maybe I should make my own. Using a trusty handycam, I could interview local celebrities like the muso who plays at the local pub on Thursdays, and the bloke who's coming to fix my roof tomorrow. I could punctuate it with witty remarks and throw in the occasional boobie flash when things are running slow. Chat, jokes, and indecent exposure. What's not to love?

All suggestions for this exciting new venture are welcome. I will give you full credit in the, uh, credits, which I will write on an A4 piece of paper and hold up to the camera at the end.

I am currently hindered by my complete lack of comic timing and evident inability to communicate effectively before 2pm. Or maybe that only applies when I'm at work.

This is, of course, beside the point. What is most important of all is that I sincerely swear to never, ever have Kasey Chambers as a guest.

Oh, you are SO sold.

(Yes, slow night, nothing to write about, but BETTER THAN ROVE.)