In Anticipation Of Silence

The annoying family nextdoor is moving out.

Turns out all the exciting and exuberant late night ball games they've been playing against the 25 year old wooden fence have completely wrecked it and the landlord is less than impressed.

I knew that already of course.

Not the bit about the landlord, the bit about the fence.

We looked after a friend's dog a little while ago and whilst our goofy-assed labrador has no interest in going anywhere without us*, temporary extra pooch is sly and curious and would have investigated the ever growing gaps in the fence. So I spent about three hours before it was dropped off levering two-thirds of the rusty antique nails out of the boards and replacing them with shiny new nails that actually secured them to the framework.
I was quite proud of myself really and probably kept the damn thing from completely disintegrating.

Anyway when the landlord went around for the rental inspection and found a busted fence was the very least of what had happened to the property in the six months since the last inspection they gave the family notice to evict.

But the notice was for 120 days.

That was at least two months ago so we've still got at least another couple of months unless they find somewhere else sooner.
But I don't think they will.
Because the mother works a lot and also uses phrases like 'oh I'll talk to them' or 'I'll see if they'll stop' when we've asked if maybe the kids could not go tearing through our front yard kicking plants and I'm guessing this isn't the first time this has happened.
The kids don't seem to care they're ruining their mother's rental record, they're too busy feeling rebellious and hard done by.

So in a couple of months things should be a lot quieter on our street.
But for the last couple of months I'm not going to be leaving anything important outside and I'll be keeping an eye out because the kids seem to be under the impression that somebody ratted them out to the six-month inspection police** and that they will have their revenge.
Sadly enough they're not bright enough to know that if they trash something the night before they leave the police would still be able to get their secret identities from the real estate agent.
Now if only the people who live around the corner would stop letting off fireworks on total fire ban days we'd be set.


*Or doing anything that doesn't involve collapsing against us, coating us with hair and wagging her tail so hard she verges on dislocating her spine...
**Uh durrrrrrrrr...

Yea Though I Walk Through The Valley Of The Shadow Of Snot

It begins again.

Sniffle season.

Pandemics aside, during winter my workplace becomes a seething mass of germs and the inhabitants are divided into two camps: the martyrs and the prophets.

The martyrs could be at death's door and yet they will still drag themselves wheezing and dripping to their workstations where they stare blankly at their assignments and overdose on sugary fake hot lemon drinks.
If you suggest that maybe they should be at home in bed or possibly calling a priest for a dry run of their last rites, they wave a pendulous tissue and rasp something about people depending on them and the pain not being that bad.

The prophets are of the fire and brimstone variety with blazing eyes and saliva flecking from their lips as they roar and pontificate that maybe if people stayed home when they were effing sick we wouldn't all effing get it and it wouldn't keep going around and effing around all effing season.
Whilst the martyrs are in nearly every day getting almost nothing done in their feverish haze, the prophets follow an almost uncanny week-on, week-off schedule as they power through their uninfected days and then retire to convalesce when the miasma overtakes them.

The output of the two camps is roughly equal, the suffering is relative.

Personally, I take strategic sick days when my body so demands and double my intake of garlic for the duration of the conflict which has the following three benefits:

1. Garlic - it's effing delicious.
2. It is said to boost your immune system and even if some of the effect is psychosomatic it is a tasty placebo.
3. Everyone mysteriously seems to maintain a steady distance. I like to call it 'the exclusion zone'.

For any of the martyrs too blocked up to sense my garlic barrier I have my second line of defence, namely Meshuggah, Heaven Shall Burn and Devin Townsend.
Martyrs don't dig the metal.

Are You Ready To Contemplate The Possibility Of Having The Capacity To Rock!?

Oh God, Internets! I don't know what to do!
In the interest of keeping my promises to both you and myself about not being such a lazy [expletive deleted] this year I got myself all geared up to move onto a second New Year's Resolution (namely Take Up The Guitar) after having a good three months to get over the shock of having started one of the others (Take Italian Lessons).

So I did what you usually do when you're about to buy or do something in these modern times.
I went to the internets.
It was worse than the WebMD incident!

I found websites telling me that it's best to learn the basics on an acoustic guitar.
I found websites telling me that electric guitar is easier to pick up and you might as well start there if you're intending to rock out later on.
I found websites talking about how to choose your guitar and not get ripped off by the music shop duders.
I found myself looking at the prices of amps and trying to tell the difference between a Telecaster and a Stratocaster.

I can't even reliably identify the order of strings on the damn guitar yet!
What am I doing comparing amps!
I have no idea what I'm doing!

Some of the websites also had sections on drums and I found myself getting wistful about the possibility of dragging a kit up into my flat and then finding out that I have insufficient timing and very cranky neighbours :-b

I know I could just go into a couple of stores and pepper them with questions until I find something that looks about right but my buying behaviour comes in two flavours: impulsive and excruciatingly drawn out.

I don't want to just buy an instrument just because I want to get started and then have to buy a new one shortly after when I figure out that it isn't what I'm looking for.
But I also don't want to get so turned around by the sheer amount of options out there that I never manage to buy anything at all.

I'm probably going to have to ask for help.

There's no trouble finding it. Almost every one of my friends is going out with a dude who owns at least three guitars, some of which have been given names*.
It might be a bit weird going guitar shopping with one of my mates' bed-buddies but they're all nice fellas with the parts of their brains that relate to guitars properly wired and pointed due 'axe' so it's the logical choice.

And then after that I just have to work out how to play the dang thing or gear myself up to take lessons without having flashbacks to my school music lessons.

Oh God, the recorders all tasted of disinfectant...



*The guitars, not the boyfriends. The boyfriends already have names.

It's Character Building

It's go time people!
It's time for another flurry of activity and a light smattering of getting things done!

It started with a sheepish acknowledgement that I should probably go back to the physio and see how my muscular retraining has been going instead of just rolling about on my swisse ball doing my embarrassing and somewhat suggestive-looking strengthening exercises*.
So I made an appointment.

Then I realised that I hadn't been to the dentist in a while** so I blocked that in too.

But why stop there? I haven't been to the GP in a bit, I might have a vaccination due for a boosting and I guess I should have my flu shot whilst I'm at it.

All in the same day.

I thought this one through obviously.
Because, if all things go to plan, by the end of the day I'll have been scraped, poked at, stabbed, stretched and massaged***.
And I'll feel a bit hard done by but also too guilty about sugar and plaque to have a drink or some cake, too stabbed up to comfortably do my physio exercises but will feel slack and self-sabotaging if I don't and will be wondering fretfully whether even though I was well when I entered the Doctors' Surgery I might have picked something up from one of the hacking and dripping people that surround me in the waiting room****.

But as dentally violated and bodily battered as I'll feel, it'll be accompanied by a perverse sense of accomplishment and a deep and fulfilling sense of relief that I won't have to do any of those things again for quite some time.
By which point I'll probably have forgotten the stabby, scrapey, stretchy part of the proceedings and will only remember the sheer genius of taking a day off and getting it all out of the way in one fell swoop.



*I'm not going to lie to you, they're all pretty suggestive. There's a lot of lifting and thrusting and bouncing involved. I'm starting to worry about my physiotherapist really.

**Ahem, 2006, just before I went backpacking for five months. I didn't want to be in the middle of the picturesque rural scenes of Europe and have a rogue tooth erupt out of my jaw and pierce my nose.

***I'll leave you to guess what by whom, you might be surprised. I have a couple of concerns about my dentist too.

****And whether if I asked really nicely if anyone would mind if I kept the original edition TMNT comic books that are just wedged in amongst all the Woman's Days, New Ideas and Reader's Digests! I mean they're just sitting there! And kids today don't appreciate these things!

A Sign

This toilet roll holder says 'you are in a public place and we don't trust you not to run off with our precious precious paper you dirty skinflint'.


This toilet roll holder says 'you are a student and you will only receive one sheet at a time and only one-ply you dirty beatnik'.



This toilet roll holder says 'if you can afford to be here you are affluent enough to afford your own toilet paper, do what you will glorious sir or madam'.

This post says 'I just finished playing House of The Dead: Overkill and am trying desperately not to think about the ending'.


Note: The pictures of toilet paper aren't a veiled reference to the quality of the game, it was just the first thing that popped into my head.
Possibly born of a subconscious desire to wipe certain images from my memory.
And sounds.
Yeesh.

Who Watches The Watchtower?

It's official.
After almost two years of living in my flat I've finally passed my last rental rite of passage.
I got back from the supermarket the other day to find something had been shoved underneath my door.


Thanks Watchtower Bible and Tract Society of New York!
Your house isn't really a home until someone has tried to tell you about Jesus or shake you down for a charitable donation when you're halfway through making dinner or just about to get into the bath.

The fun bit is when you try very politely and respectfully to assure them that yes you have heard about Jesus, yes even the bit where he died for our sins and came back from the dead, having attended a Catholic primary school and secondary school you actually have had the time to read the entire book and didn't even just skip to the end, even then they don't really believe that you know about Jesus.
I mean really know about Jesus!
Because if you did you wouldn't be home to answer the door, you'd be out knocking on other people's doors!

Some folk who go the evangelical route do it because they really do believe that they're trying to save you and guide you towards the only opportunity for an afterlife.
Or at least the comfy afterlife that doesn't involve pitchforks, brimstone and torments that some people here on Earth might pay quite good money for*.
Others unfortunately use it as an opportunity to branch out in their Judging and Lecturing People home businesses. They tend to be the ones who sound like they're threatening you even when they're smiling.
But whichever variant of evangelist you find at your door they always seem slightly skeptical that you're really both on the same page.
As if you might be talking about a different Jesus.

But whoever my mysterious leaver of pamphlets might have been I'd like to thank them for taking the time to stop by and especially for doing it whilst I was out.
So I could admire the styling ensemble of the fellow on the cover before cheerfully making myself dinner and then having a nice relaxing bath and a glass of wine.
They got to reach out to somebody and I didn't have to feel like I'd kicked a puppy when I had gently let them down. May we always be so lucky.



*It takes all kinds.

I Know I Should Be Relieved But I'm Also A Tiny Bit Disappointed*

Goddamn laundromat!

I keep thinking I'm being fanciful and imagining it's a weird place because I always seem to end up writing these things in there but I've started realising that writing blog posts is a form of laundromat self-defence, as if I think nothing is going to happen to me if I'm writing.
Or if it does at least I'll have a witness.
Even if that witness is also me.
And I'm the only one who can read the handwriting in my notebook.
And if anyone read the other things written around my 'witness statement' they wouldn't consider me a reliable witness.
This is probably fundamental to the nature of all laundromats everywhere and yet I continue to be startled. All I want is clean socks.

I do have other options. I could buy a new washing machine (Ha! Ha! It is to laugh!), I could take my laundry home with me when I visit my family (but oh God that just seems... no), so I go down to the laundromat and what do I get?
Impromptu, unasked for Mythbusters!

Yes, you can temporarily fix a dodgy Cycle Select knob with a hair-tie after you've already put your laundry and washing liquid into the machine and are too stubborn to move the gooey unweildy mess.
-- CONFIRMED! --

No, you can't make a change machine accept a $20 note just by cussing it out like a fluffy duck mother lover.
-- BUSTED! --

Yes, dryer-fresh sheets are still the best thing on Earth to wrap around yourself right after the cycle finishes.
-- CONFIRMED! --

No, a lighter will not explode or catch fire if put in a dryer with a heavy weave cotton blanket on the highest setting for over half an hour.
-- BUSTED! --

This damn dryer had already yielded a bumper crop of crud (a bottle cap, a can tab, a cigarette filter, the plastic wrap from around at least three packets of cigarettes and a wad of gum wrapped in its own paper) but it wasn't until the blanket reached the end of its cycle that I found the three-quarters full piping hot cigarette lighter.

The plastic was almost malleable, the damn thing was radiating heat but no it had not burst into flames, melted or smeared my comfy cosy binky with toxic stinky fuel.

Well done anonymous lighter company whose product I was too busy throwing into a bin far far away from me to identify by name.

To blazes with you ridiculous bogan bastard whose pockets spilled this cornucopia of shash into Dryer Number 3.

I hope you miss that lighter! I hope you miss it like hell!


*I mean I'm not saying I WANTED the dryer to burst into flames but... would've looked cool.
S'all I'm saying
S'not my dryer...