I won

I know the computer is just testing me but I actually found out what was wrong with it myself.  I didn't have to ask anyone to sit on the phone for hours or talk me through the problem over the phone.  I went out and bought myself the proper cable and with the plugging and the unplugging I managed to get it working.  I know that it was a really simple thing but usually that is enough to paralyse my brain.  I didn't say mean things about the computer either, that would have been foolish in the extreme and guaranteed to annoy it.  So yay for me, I came, I saw and I conquered.  I love my computer!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Hear that computer, I really love you.

Charming!

I asked the fruit of my loins had she been reading any of my blogs and she blithely told me she was waiting until I was dead.  Either she is expecting me to die soon or she will be reading my blogs for weeks, months or years.  She is such a.............charmer?

Sixty-six and loving it

I think that in your sixties you become mellow.  I know I am not the person I was and I am thankful for that.  I am more able to ask for exactly what I want and I really don’t care what people think.  Years ago I wouldn’t ask hair-dressers for exactly I wanted thus I always came home with a hair cut that looked awful.  Really they want to know how you have your hair.  So now when it doesn’t matter so much how I look I have finally got the gumption to ask. 

I am getting a little deaf now and if I don’t hear I always used to say, “Yes” when I didn’t hear the question.  Now I just keep saying, “Pardon.”  This is particularly important in food courts because I have often ordered some dreadful thing that I have hated.  Now I make sure I get what I am paying for.  No-one cares if you ask them to repeat themselves. 

I also ask if shops take the Seniors card.  If you don’t ask you don’t get!  This is another good thing about getting older to have a Seniors card that gives me free travel in off peak times.  The insulting thing is that when you get on a bus they already have the oldies free ticket out.  Surely I don’t look that old!!!  I saved a small fortune with my card when I went to Queensland.  They are quite happy to honour the South Australian Seniors Card so I was able to get in to all the Worlds at a reduced rate. 

I was socialized to not bother anyone and to always do what I was told.  I was told to keep quiet and to stand back and let everyone else take a turn.  I have taken this long to stand up for myself.  I deserve a turn and I deserve to be waited on and not to stress about making someone else wait their turn.  I have just as much right as anyone else.  Now that is a real step forward.  I think I should have that song by Moving Pictures later reprised by Shannon Noll “What About Me?” as my theme song.  I used to love that song when it came out years ago and enjoy it just as much with Mr. Noll singing it. 

I don’t believe that I am as anxious as I used to be.  I have the whole ‘who cares’ philosophy.  Who cares if I don’t understand technology?  Well perhaps some people can be a bit annoyed at that. Who cares if I am slow?  Who cares if I take ages to pay for things because I get muddled up with counting?  Who cares if I lose track of what I am saying?  Who cares if I am tactless?  Well perhaps other people do care but I really don’t anymore. 

I like to say what I think now. I can say things to my daughter that I would never have said years ago.  I can say, “I told you so.”   I always used to agree with what people said and now I put my two cents in.  I don’t have to agree with everyone and I certainly don’t expect people to agree with me.

What about me?  I am soon going to be sixty-six.  I reserve the right to be cranky and indeed I am sure that the name Cranky Pants really applies to me.  I want to be able to complain about how it used to be and how bad it is now.  I want my say.  I deserve to be respected.  Over all the years I have learned a lot and would like to be asked to share some of it with others.  I would like to be loved but understand that everyone doesn’t have to love me or even like me and I am fine with that.

I am happy and mellow and cranky and deaf and muddled and loving but perhaps not lovable.  I am incredibly selfish but try not to be. My credo is that I should, “Do unto others that I would have them do unto me. I want to remain curious until the day I die and I would like to learn something new every day. I want to laugh ………..a lot.  Remember……………………

Life is like a long complicated joke,
You smile and

You laugh politely

But you already know the punch line.

My lovely usb dongle

I love little usb dongle.  It may be a TINY bit temperamental but it is just the best dongle in the world.  When it doesn't start working straight away it is actually trying to educate me to use it properly.  So I have not one bad word about it.  As I said I love my dongle.

Everest tamed

 This is the story of one of my many successful bowel movements.  I don’t know about you but after a bowel movement I like to stand up and survey the results before they are hidden by toilet paper. 

Today was a red letter day, an Oscar winning performance, nay, an Olympic gold medal effort. This enormous poo jutted out of the water like an iceberg.  One part rearing out of the bowl and the rest sinking fathoms deep around and into the s-bend.  Huge and imposing I could have planted our flag on top and claimed it for Australia.  To my eyes it looked as if it was bursting out of the water like an island being formed by a volcano.

After admiring its proportions I flushed, then flushed again and again.  Stubbornly it remained immovable. How to get it to sink?  Would it stay to illustrate my success to all and sundry?  Ok I was proud, but there are limits even for me.  Frantically I cast an eye round the room.  The only weapon to combat the beast was the toilet brush.  Wielding it like a sword I cut and thrust wounding the mammoth in many places. Breaking it asunder, I was able to flush it away.  Later I wished I had taken a photo to put in my boast book.  Ah me; greatness was thrust upon me but I sacrificed it for good hygeine.

This is absolutely the last time I will write about poo.  Enough is enough. 

Karma

Never ever say that you hate your computer.  I might have typed in those words and the computer might have had a haemorrhage.  Of course I didn't mean I hated my computer, oh no!  I love my computer, it is wonderful and caring and the most beautiful and competent computer in the whole world.  I should say that Netgear are lovely patient people who took two and a half hours to fix the problem.  Never ever say anything bad about your computer.  Computers are the best!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Pooing at Someone Else's House

I don’t know about you, but I really prefer to poo in the privacy of my own home.  Still there are the times you are caught short, and as you all know, when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.  One day, while at my friend’s, as I sat chatting on the lounge, clenching my sphincter muscle desperately.  I was in extremis.  Leaping up, I raced to the loo as quickly as one can while contracting that one anal muscle.  Almost tearing off my knickers I fired into the toilet bowl.  Thank God I made it.  Any closer than that, well I hate to think about it. Doing the usual reconnaissance I thought I recognized a Picasso on the back of the bowl.  That could be worth money I thought at the time.  Unfortunately, I had to flush.  The toilet was a miasma of rotten egg gas and potpourri.  There was one gigantic problem however, no air freshener.  What to do? What to do? Shut the door, thus trapping the noxious gases, or fan the door back and forth, helping the toilet somewhat but spreading fumes throughout the house.  Luckily, as I washed my hands in the bathroom I noticed some perfume on the shelf. Sneaking back into the toilet, I made good use of the scent and replaced it whence it came.  You would do well to only keep cheap perfume in the bathroom.  Chanel No. 5, Joy by Jean Patou or good old Tweed, I do not care, if I need air freshener, I will use anything.  Hint.  Please provide air freshener for guests.  You never know what they will produce in your pristine toilet.

Ok I fixed it.

I fixed my errant computer.  At least I fluked it and it is much better.  I just had to install something else so that is probably going to come back and bite me on the bum.  I found my favourites, after trying for about three hours to do something that took a second if I knew what I was doing.  One of the best ones instructions was right click on the browser.  That is wonderful if you actually know where the browser  is.  I know that I am absolutely technically incapable and now you do too.  It sort of reminds me of putting a pedestal fan together and being told to tighten the flange.  Flange, who would know that?   That is not quite so stupid as asking my daughter what PC stood for in PC's for Dummies.  I got the right book for Dummies it seems.  Anyway back to the computer.  With amazing luck I was clicking everywhere and saw that my weather had gone back to Perth weather so I right clicked it and by mistake I found the toolbar tab.  I then found a new toolbar, and there was the View tab.  Yay for me.  Plus I just found my toolbar that was what I wanted for the size of my page.  I need 125% so I can see it better.  So with blind luck I have managed a miracle.  My computer seems to be back on track and I can now sit back put my feet up and try to beat my daughter at scrabble.  She cheats!  She uses words that are not even words, e.g. wees, hight and so on.  I put in a perfectly good latin word and it wouldn't accept it.  Never mind that is another story entirely.

I hate computers

Today I let the computer update things.  I didn't know what things but it all looked ok.  However, the stupid thing has upgraded me yes, but I cannot find anything anymore.  I don't know where my favourites are.  It has gobbled them up.  I am quite confused about the new configuration of the screen.  Why is it that better doesn't mean easier?  I have stopped it from showing me Perth's weather in farhenheit (sic.)  I suppose that is a step forward.  The computer also seems slower.  Does an upgrade usually make something go slow, I think not?   Well it has done one thing, it has given me a headache.  It is a crumby day, hot and sticky and definitely not my cup of tea and now just when I thought I could sit quietly in front of the air-conditioner, I am brought undone by a stinky update.  So computer, why are you hiding things from me.  I don't like it and the worst thing is I cannot fix it.  I hate computers, yes you heard me, I HATE computers.

Summer time

I know that I should be used to hot weather but for some reason I grow less able to put up with it.  My daughter says that in the winter she wants her reverse-cycle air conditioner on 23 degrees but in the summer she wants it at 18.  I guess she is still pondering on relative heating and cooling and may at some stage come up with an answer that makes sense to her.  Ok back to me.  I know in winter I am more likely to put on a few more layers of clothes and maybe use a blankie.  I am loathe to use the radiator until at least June, even though it is freezing in May.  However, in the hot weather I need to use the air-conditioner and use it a lot.  Of course I still do the stingy thing of not putting it on until later in the day.  I have had it explained to me that it has to do less work if I put it on first thing in the morning but to my mind I am saving electricity.  I have grown very fond of my two air-conditioners and so do not want to do anything outside and away from them.  I always plan to get up early and do the washing and hang it out before the sun gets a sting in it.  However, due to my innate laziness, this never happens.  I have a lot of washing sitting in the machine ready to go but cannot be bothered.  This is the conundrum, do I venture away from home in my non-cooled car or do I go without bread and milk and perhaps little tins of the dog food and buy everything on a cooler day?  I absolutely have to go out tomorrow so I can buy all the things I have run out of at the same time.  This makes sense to me but of course the poor dog is looking at me sadly and I feel terribly selfish sitting here in air-conditioned comfort.  Years ago we only had fans and if it was hot we went out the front and sat talking to the neighbours.   My beloved father-in-law told me that families used to go and camp on the beach.  The men would go to work and then come home to the beach in the evening.  What a wonderful solution that would be, I would love to camp on the beach and listen to the waves at night and have the salty tang of the sea in my nostrils.  Unfortunately those days have long passed as has sleeping on mattresses in the front garden.  It was a simpler time and it is sad that it has passed.  During the night there really is no escape from hot weather  as we have to keep our windows locked against intruders.  However, we do have our blessed cooling devices, that is if we can afford to use them.  Nowadays elderly pensioners find it difficult to manage and so turning off the cooling devices is their first money saving solution.  They are the ones who are carted off to hospital with heat exhaustion.  Everyone should keep their fluids up and as I have been told that I am in the aged portion of the population I faithfully drink glasses of water.   I am also thinking of becoming a nudist in the comfort of my own home.  However, as I am sure I would terrify anyone should they see me, I also know that if I catch a glimpse of myself I would be equally repulsed.  I think I will give the nudist thing away after all.  Summer time and the living is HOT.

Remember when

I remember when you only had a bath once a week and then what I used to call birdie baths in between.  The bath water was heated by a chip heater.  A little later we had penny in the slot gas so had a bath when we could afford it.  There was no shampoo just the bath soap and as Mum hated to wash her hair because it was fluffy so I didn't get to wash mine either.  We had no toothpaste but I was encouraged to use salt by my school teacher.  We also did not have deodorant but used metho and a little powder.  I imagaine we must have stunk.  When I was about sixteen one of the neighbours gave me a bottle of shampoo called White Rain and I loved it.  Although sanitary pads were available, Mum made pads with some kind of flannel material.  This was a curse because I couldn't change half way through the day.  She used to put the pads into a bucket of water and soap powder the wash them every couple of days.    When I began to work we moved into a flat that had its own bathroom.  Mum couldn't understand why I had to shower every day.  It was sheer heaven.  I got to go to work after using proper deodorant, nice shampoo and toothpaste.  Although all this sounds dreadful, Mum was brought up in the Victorinan Era where this was common.  Although personal cleanliness was not foremost in many people's lives it was also the time when Mum used an iron that heated up on the stove.  This was a step up from irons that had hot coals in them.  There was an ice-chest instead of a fridge, and a coppper, mangle and washboard and knobs of bluo,  instead of a washing machine.  Washing by hand was labour intensive but really as I remember it, the sheets were so lovely and white after being boiled in the copper, and rinsed in water with bluo in it.  I also remember how mad the washers would get if the clothes prop slipped and the washing dragged in the dirt.  Some of the places where Mum worked they had no electricity at all and we had to used kerosene lamps.  These lamps are sought after and valued now but at the time they cast a dim light and the houses never seemed to have enough for each room.  While I was still in primary school Mum couldn't afford to used the penny in the slot light so we used the tiny nursery lamp filled with metho.  If I wanted to read, I read by the light of this lamp.  As I read this over, it sounds so dreadful but at the time it was common to many people.  I didn't know we were poor as everyone that I knew had the same things.  I was always amazed when I found out that some of the girls at my school had their hair done at the hairdressers every week and that they got their school tunics dry cleaned.  That was just so far from my understanding.  There were actually people who had fridges and phones and nice clothes that were bought new.  When people say now they are living under the poverty level, I simply remember when I was growing up and even after being good all year I would get a little doll that cost two shillings when I asked for a walking doll.  We did have a radio though even if Mum did have to pay for a licence.  When television came in we had to have a licence for that as well.  Do we live under the poverty level now, no we don't.  I have my Housing Trust unit, a car, matching furniture and clothes that are not half worn out.  I feel absolutely rich when I look around and see my things.  I am rich, I have a lovely daughter and pets and friends and I never ever feel that I lack for anything.  Poverty level; rubbish.

Signposts in the Quicksand

There are signs that stand out in the wilderness that is our life.  They seem to become more visible as the years roll by.  At first they may appear innocuous.  You see Floppy Boobs This Way.  Checking the boobs out we wander innocently through the border of Gravity Land.  First the boobs, then the stomach, descend gradually.  Not noticeably but the general direction is inexorable.  As you progress into the far-reaches the corners of your mouth turn down, your lips thin and your eyelids droop.  Fine! 

Excess Hair Over Here trumpets a small sign.  This is not just a trap for a balding man but in the fineprint offers the reward of excess nasal hair and ear bushes plus wiry eyebrows.  Women of course feel quite safe taking this path.  But beware, this entails a land free with its bounty.  Whiskers appear on chins that have never before known the touch of a razor.  Nasal hair, black nasal hair at that, springs from the once pert little nose. There was also in passing into Excess Hair Land a tiny sign almost unnoticeable, it said Eye Sight Dimming Turn Right.  This is clearly unfair!  Sight immediately begins to fail as you step near this land.  So here is the conundrum, excess hair and failing sight both inhabiting the same area.  Unfair I say, but there is of course the invention call the magnifying mirror.  A market stall on the left also sells delightful bifocals.  People wander the land complaining they are too young to need glasses and only old people grow excess facial hair.  There is a reason for this, for as you pass from one land into another you walk under a sprinkle of denial of the inevitable. 

The next signpost reads, At Your Age.  There is only one way into this land and a maze through which you must pass to find the exit.  This is a fascinating land.  In it, you find dead ends that say High Blood Pressure, High Cholesterol and Late Onset Diabetes – No Application Necessary.  In the murky gloom lurk white coated spectres pronouncing the sentences, “No salt, no fat, no sugar, no cheese, (no cheese, you must be kidding.) No Smoking they intone.  “Give up everything you know and love, and you will live longer.”  Why?  This sentence is not only a statement, but a prison term.  Life, no release.

The next signpost announces Do-gooder’s Land.  To travel this land you must pass along a straight highway stretching into the distance bordered with huge bill boards.  Eat Less and Live Longer. Exercise 30 Minutes Every Day.  Eat Less Meat and More Vegetables.  Aerobic Classes 100 metres on the right.  If you don’t use it you will lose it.  Free Health Checks.  Prostate Examinations – Inevitable.  Mammogram Clinic Enter Here.  Around each sign phantoms of young women with perky breasts, wearing bikinis or young men with bulging muscles and tight shorts flit like ghosts of yesteryear. 

After walking through this uplifting land to a jagged wall that encircles the Depression Can Be Cured sign.  After all that has happened in the previous lands this too is inevitable.  Giant bottles of coloured pills dot the landscape.  Very, very happy people wander zombie-like among its wares.  Above the exit of this land a floating signpost dangles tantalizingly just out of sight and reach but with a large arrow pointing down the narrowing path.

You enter the final land.  The sign you could not read had said, “Welcome to the Land of Quick Sand – Enter at your own risk.  Too late you turn, but as the earth falls away beneath you, a voice intones, “Like sands through the hour glass, so are the days of our lives.” 

The next sign, should you choose to accept it, reads, THE END.

Shy poo

Shy poo is so annoying it could also be called vanishing poo.  It does not seem to understand that I am the owner of my poo until I flush it away.  I am the pooer and not the pooee.  The pooer is the boss of the poo.  I went to all the trouble of passing it along my incredibly long intestines and I want to look.  I just want to look, not touch, absolutely not smell.  So poo how about you play fair, stay a while, relax and stop to be admired.  I am so sick of shy poo.  As you no doubt know by this stage I like to inspect the products of my sojourns on the toilet.  I sit and **** and then sit some more.  Is it so hard for the poo to stay around for a few minutes so I can ascertain its dimensions.  Oh no not shy poo, it doesn’t care that you spent time sitting in a little room grunting and groaning, no it sinks down and out of sight around the S bend.  I mean to say what if you grunted and groaned having a baby and then have it hide somewhere to laugh at you, I believe you would be pretty cheesed off.  I was going to say crapped off but I am much too well bred for that. 

So we are back to the shy poo.  Why does it disappear?  I realize it is trying to mess with my mind.  I know there was a poo.  I also know its approximate size, but how can I prove it.  Listen poo, I need to see you.  It makes my day to report to no-one in particular I produced an enormous poo, but no. I would like to document all my poos but these shy poos put me at a disadvantage.  You cannot prove the size of your poo when every skerrick has loped around the S bend and is half way to China or the sewerage works.  If I am not too shy to talk about poo then poo can bloody well stay where it supposed to and remain until I have admired my efforts and perhaps photographed its enormous proportions.

This came to mind today after my travails in the smallest room in the house.   Let's face it we all spend an inordinate amount of time in this room and thus this is a common experienced to all.

a chorus line

I have been looking forward to go to A Chorus Line for weeks, however, my body said no.  My body is a traitor and refuses to let me leave the house.  I have to stay close to my tiny room and eat nothing, but I can drink water.  Luckily I went to the musical years ago at Her Majesty's Theatre and have some vague memories of it.  Of course there is the movie but it is not the same as the excitement that you get from a live performance.  I love to get there early and take my seat and then watch the audience coming in.  By the time the show starts I am in a fever of expectation. In most shows the stage gives one some idea of what is to come, however, if I remember correctly the whole set is black just as a rehearsal stage would be.  I remember that at the end the mirrors swing around to make it look like there is a huge chorus.  I am so sad to be missing it.  Damn this traitorous body!!!

why is it so??????

I have just been thinking about words.  English words are really interesting.  For instance, how about over-whelmed?  We are either over-whelmed or under-whelmed.  I am mostly underwhelmed but if we have over and under why don't we have whelmed.  I have never said, "I am whelmed  today."  One of my favourite words is regardless.  This of course means not regarding but many people say irregardless that of course means regarding.  I would once have pointed this out but it only leads to arguments.  The worst and most often used english word is pacific, not the ocean but meant to be specific. "I pacificly said, blah, blah, blah."  Another thing that makes my imagination run overtime is "So and so is in hospital fighting for his/her life."  In my mind I see a boxing ring with two fighters and one is fighting for his life."  I gather the his life is the belt that is won at the end of the match.  One of my favourites was from a news report where the reporter said that the person was shot in the excitement.  That must be a very painful place to be shot.  Of course there are plenty of places you can get shot.  In the Adelaide, (girl getting shot) in Sydney, (a man getting shot.)  Oh yes and I just thought of something else that fires my imagination.  In the Roman era the Vandals over-ran Rome.  I see the Vandals galloping through Rome on horseback and spraying the villas and palaces with cans of spray paint.  I think the Vandals probably invented graffitti.  I think that it sounds like an Italian word.  Yep those Vandals have a lot to answer for.  Well that is that for the time being but I will be sure to bring any other words to your notice when I think of them.

Water conservation and the politcs of flushing

We all know there are politics in flushing.  Even in these days of water conservation it is considered imperative to flush after, shall we say, movements of the bowel.  Also for those of us with dual flush, full flush is entirely acceptable.  However, is a pee worth a flush?  Do you save them up and flush after every third one?  If in someone else’s house do you flush or not. If the hostess has rushed past to quickly flush the results of her saved water regime, do you leave your contribution in the loo, to start a new cycle, or save yourself the embarrassment of leaving it one view?  I believe it is now the done thing to ask about the toilet rules of the house. 

Another important question is, if you are staying the night do you flush?  Do you risk waking up the household with noisy water pipes, or do you get up early and try to flush quietly?  There is a method of barely pressing the button where the water trickles down and if not removing all the pee, tones down the colour a little and sometimes disposes of the toilet paper.  All this needs to be discussed with host or hostess before retiring for the night.

Some conscientious water savers have begun to pee in buckets, after all fluid is fluid.  This chemically concentrated liquid if then tipped over garden shrubs.  I might add that said shrubs bloom magnificently.  In some countries the firmer bodily waste is spread amongst the vegetables.  Fertilizer is fertilizer!  If traveling overseas, it is the responsibility of the vacationer to enquire whether this practice is in place.  I have heard that the vegetables treated with excrement grow exceptionally well.  I mean really, what is the difference between cow, chicken, horse manure and our fundamental waste? Why is it that our faeces is filled with germs and animal wastes not?   (Obviously I do know why we don’t fertilize that way but it spoils the story to be too pedantic.)

So we find that basic bodily functions and their disposal have a political agenda.  There is a chasm between good toilet manners and drought.  Do we rely on the weather forecast to dictate our actions below the waist?  Will we soon find ourselves armed old fashioned potties wandering amongst our garden vegetation or shall we carelessly squander water and ignore good manners or drought conditions?

It's like falling off a bike

I have been learning how to sew......again.  Everyone says it is like falling off a bike and that I will regain all my lost knowledge and expertise. Well that may be a good adage for someone who actually could ride a bike but unfortunately the only thing I could do is fall off.  So I think it is highly unlikely that I will regain anything to do with sewing any time soon.  I have managed to learn to sew in a straight line, so that is a start but anything apart from some simple lines and I am lost.  I cannot work out how things go together and my finishing of any project is definitely hit or miss.  We all did four whole years of miserable sewing, drafting and tailoring at Port Tech and I absolutely hated it.  When I first started working I made all my own clothes but I never really liked the process.  I loved the tidy finishing off and hemming by hand, I  certainly loved wearing the clothes but sewing them was another thing entirely.  Mum used to send me over to a neighbours to sew because I was much too volatile at home.  I believe that is when I first realized that electrically driven machinery was anathema to me.  I hated my sewing machine. Now vacuum cleaners are on top of the hate list then computers sit in about second place so I guess the poor old sewing machine comes in third.  I do so want to learn to sew again.  I want to make quilts and bags and and little purses.  I have a couple of boxes of fabric, enough to keep me sewing for a year or so, and all I have to do is master the machine.  What is it again............................it's just like falling off a bike.

Toilet training a cat versus toilet training a dog.

Albeit I am a dog person, toilet training a cat is the simplest task in the pet world.  Obtain one cat, a litter tray and lovely clean crunchy litter.  Apply cat to filled litter tray.  Next take one of the cat’s paws and slowly intone the words, “Scratch, scratch, scratch.”  Stand by to heap praise on the cat that has immediately understood the instructions.  Prepare to evacuate the immediate area, if the cat has defecated.  As long as you keep the litter changed regularly, you will have no further trouble. 

Now a cute little puppy is another thing entirely.  The method for toilet training a dog goes thus; never take your eyes off the dog if it is gambolling around on the floor.  When the nose of the dog touches the floor, leap forward, snatch the dog up and rush it outside.  Apply dog to lawn and chant helpful things like, “Wee, wee”, “Wetty now.” or “Hurry up I’m freezing to death.”  The trick of course is to obtain a puppy in the summer.  Night visits to the backyard are much more pleasurable.  Do not expect a puppy, who clearly wants to pee, to do it straight away.  It is obviously essential for them to pick the perfect place.  This may take anything between one minute to half and hour.  If you don’t wait said puppy out, it will pee on the carpet, yes carpet, as soon as you step inside.  I really have no objection to the puppy making a mistake or two.  I don’t mind a mistake on lino or tiles, but puppies seem pathologically incapable of differentiating between suitable and unsuitable areas to relieve themselves.  They also, it seems, are sneaky and tend to prowl the house and leave deposits in direct lines to bathroom and kitchen at night.  It really pays to turn on the lights during night forays.  Tiny puppies are cute and cuddly, however, they grow into large animals and large un-toilet-trained dogs are a health hazard, revolting and serious damagers of carpets and mattresses.

Now, we come to the problem of being owned by a cat and a dog.  Cats should be indoor animals.  It stops them straying, annoying the neighbours and getting run over at night.  An indoor cat however, necessitates a kitty litter tray.  A litter tray and a dog are not the best combination.  A kitty litter tray calls to a dog like a flame to a moth.  I don’t care if there is some enzyme or some such in cat faeces that satisfied some lack in a dog’s digestive system; it is still disgusting.  Revolting as it is to witness said dog happily ingesting smelly cat poo, is not witnessing it and having the dog lick your face after indulging in its secret passion.  Ignorance may be bliss, but if your household has both cat and dog, I suggest you mount the kitty litter high on a shelf, perhaps on top of the washing machine or drier.  If you cannot prevent the dog from feasting never let it bestow any mouth to face affection upon you.

The best thing about dogs and cats is they are much easier to toilet train than a baby.  They are cheaper, as they don’t need nappies and they don’t cry when they are wet or smelly.  Although harder to train, dogs don’t need kitty litter, so don’t stink up the house.  All in all, the pleasure of being owned by a pet far outweighs the trauma of toilet training

Degree/SACE

I just realized that I may have confused things when my information about myself states tht I have a degree and then also including in my blog that I am also trying to get my SACE.  This is because I did a Mature Age Entry exam to get into University.  I always felt that I would have like to do my year 12.  In fact I sort of felt that I had cheated.  This of course is a ridiculous idea but deep down I still felt that I hadn't gone the right way about going on to higher education.  The one thing that the degree has done for me is to give me the ability to write essays and present university grade bookwork.  Of course the practical side of all my is a completely different story.  I picked subjects that were utterly opposite to the type of subjects I had completed at Uni.  All my new subjects were based on learning how to produce art works, pottery, sculpture and fabric design.  I also did some health and welfare subjects and even hospitality and clothing design, along with community based subjects.  I managed to get a perfect score in arts and the community and rocked up to Government House to receive my certificate.  Sadly, only students who have three or more perfect scores are presented to the Governor.  I was a bit sad not to meet Marjorie Jackson Nelson though.  So there we have it as usual I am doing things the wrong way around but in the end I will hopefully have my SACE.  This is the longest saga in the course of my life.  I started my mature education in 1985, graduated from Uni in 1997 and now if all goes well, I will have my SACE some time this year.  That is assuming that I can manage to enrol.  I believe it is not the end result that matters but the journey I have taken to get here.  Fingers crossed that my enrollment will go ahead.

Bob's story

When I first saw you in the pet shop, you were sitting up high on an old tree trunk and looking as if you owned the whole shop.  You were very small, but I knew you were going to be fluffy.  You were black but with a tinge of brown on what would be a ruff around your neck.  The first thing I did was take you to the vet.  You were pronounced healthy and I took you home to our menagerie of two Boxer dogs, one Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, and our other lovely fluffy domestic cat, Chinkapook.  I couldn’t think of a name as strange and wonderful as Chinkapook’s, so I called you Bob.  Chinkapook was not too impressed at another cat coming to live with us, but he got used to you.  You got on well with the other animals, but Chinkapook was a little rough with you when you were a kitten, but later you were bigger than him.  You became best friends and curled up together whenever you could.

                You always loved to be up high, so you could survey your kingdom.  If you were not on the top of the kitchen cupboards, you were on the stereo or the fridge. When you used to sit on top of the fridge and I ran my finger around the edge, you would pat my fingers with your paw, not a claw out.  Even when we had play-fights and you rabbit-kicked my arms, your claws were still retracted. You were the most gentle of giants.   You had the most marvelous purr, it was loud and enthusiastic.  I always felt truly loved when you sat next to me and surrounded me with sound.

                When you were a tiny kitten, every time I put you down I kissed you.  Smart cat that you were, you realized that if you wanted to get down, all you had to do was kiss me.  When you had had enough you would push your face onto my mouth and voila down you would go.  It became a game, you would want to get down and I would want lots of kisses. I would say, “Give me a kiss” and you would kiss me, I’d ask again and again until finally you would get cross and kiss me savagely, smashing your face into mine.  I would take this as a subtle hint and let you go. 

                Before you were de-sexed you had come to sexual maturity early.  Although you were not old enough to pursue female cats, you regularly had sexual encounters with my dressing gown or my T-shirt.  You would hold the material firmly in your mouth and knead it feverishly with your front paws, while your bottom end would pump up and down with a furious pace.  After you were de-sexed you did not give up this pass-time but wore a puzzled look thereafter.

                You became a truly huge cat.  Not fat but muscled and heavy.  You always looked as if you owned the whole world. Sometimes I would look across the yard and see a big black shadow in the long grass, and then I would see your huge yellow eyes regarding me loftily.  Because you owned the world, even another kitten didn’t faze you one bit.  When Sapph became one of the family, you took it in your stride, she was the one who hissed.  She became the home cat, and you were the wanderer.  At night when she had to be inside you were out roaming until late.  I always persevered and brought you in some time during the night though.  Also if you decided you  wanted to come in you plucked the fly-wire screen on my bedroom window.  You spoke to me, and I did your bidding.

                When you became sick, I knew you were in pain.  We tried so hard, you and I and the vet. What hurts the most is that we were never able to discover what exactly was wrong with you. You spent time at the vets, and when you came home, I had to become used to giving you medication. How hard you fought me.  At times you appeared so well, that I thought you had completely recovered.  After you first got sick, I began to treasure the days. I am glad I did treasure these moments because I had only nine more weeks with you.  I watched you grow thin.  You stayed inside much more, and slept just outside the back door in the day time.  You still played with me, kissed me, and still patted my fingers when you sat on the fridge.  When I was in bed, you curled up in your usual place next to me and purred.  As always you looked like the owner of me and the whole world.

                At the time when I thought that you had recovered, you got sick for the last time.  I felt under your stomach and there was loose flesh hanging down. You had lost so much weight, but because you were such a fluffy cat it wasn’t noticeable. I knew the time had come, but I didn’t think I could do what I knew was the kindest thing.  I rang the vet and made an appointment.  For the last two hours of your life, you lay on the bed next to me and purred.  You shifted time and time again, because of the pain but you purred on.  As you purred I cried and cried because I loved you so much and couldn’t think of life without you.

                The vet asked me if I wanted to go out of the room while you were put down, but I couldn’t leave you.  I held you as he injected you and I watched as the life went out of your eyes.  I cried as you left Bob and I am crying now as I write this.  I cried on the way home, as I dug your grave and laid you to rest under the nectarine tree in flower.  I shook the tree and the petals fell over you.  I put all the flowers I could find on you, then I covered you up.  I shook the tree again and laid more flowers.  And I cried. 

                Bob was not the kind of cat who sat on your lap for hours.  He sat and kneaded you, purred incredibly loudly and then left.  When he lay on the bed next to me it would be for a short time, not all night.  What he gave me was quality time. Quality time was all that he had to give.  I loved you so much Bob, and I know that you loved me.  There will NEVER be another Bob.  I am crying Bob, crying for you.  I love you.  Six years was not long enough, but I will treasure the memories of those six years of quality time, just as I treasured you in life.

               

Australia wins

I have to honestly say that although I was watching the cricket I was really multi-tasking.  This is code for reading my book.  I did hear all the cheering and so managed to catch the re-plays and the joyous finish.   At least I was awake because it sucks when I snore all the way through an innings.  The computer and books are cricket's most powerful enemies.  Also the dog and cat do not like me to get caught up in programmes that interfere wilth their eating or as far as Herbie is concerned, going out to the toilet.  I cannot wait until the cricket is on again.  I am looking forward to the perfect reason for not achieving anything throughout the day.  Cricket I love it.

Hey is there anyone out there?

Although I am totally fascinated with writing my blogs, I just wonder if I am the only one reading them.  I know exactly what I have said but it would be nice if someone did leave a comment.  I did visit the best blog the other day and loved it but I must not have added it to favourites.  Of course I cannot find it.  He was funny though.  I found something like a statistics graph on my page but couldn't make head or tail of it.  How unusual that I wouldn't understand something with numbers and sqiggley lines.  No matter I will continue to blog even if it is for my own amusement.  Is there anyone out there??????????????????? 

Destructor King of Cats

I used to have a stunning fluffy ginger cat called Possum.  He was the most beautiful and my favourite cat in the world.  Not however, when he wreaked havoc in my home.  He favoured eating venetian blinds, shoes, (the newer the better,) handbag straps, electrical cords and phone cables.  He trained me never to leave shoes and bags around but I could not stop him chewing cables.  One night, I was on the net, when suddenly I was offline.  Wondering what I had done, I pressed and poked everything to no avail.  When I turned around he was eating the phone cable.  He somehow managed to chew the power cord for the air-conditioner and the pedestal fan. How the gorgeous old thing never got electrocuted, I will never know.   

Absentminded not Stupid

My dog, Cosi, is a slow learner.  It took him five years to figure out that boy dogs cock their legs.  Even now he has lapses and does the half squat.  Today though, he revealed how absentminded he really is, instead of cocking his back leg, he lifted his right front one.  He looked like a hunting dog on point.  The best thing was however, that when he saw me looking, he looked sheepish and hastily put his foot down.  See, absentminded, not stupid.

Cricket dreams

Now I did say that I watched cricket through my eyelids but today it must have been incredibley boring so I slept from about 3 until 5.  The whole day has passed by and I have not seen much of it.  I do love cricket really but it really does have a soporific effect on me.  The funniest thing is that yesterdays cricket was sort of like watching Days of Our Lives and nothing much happened between when I went to sleep and woke up. So like sands through the hour glass so are the days of our cricket.  The score was about 43 runs pre-sleep and 70 apres sleep.  I think the most important thing about watching cricket is to have PATIENCE!  There are other sports that have the same effect on me, such a golf and curling (that Olympic ice bowling game with the little brooms) OMG that is the worst.  OMG I cannot believe that I put OMG.  Text messaging slang has finally caught up with me.  What next, ROTFLMAO, LOL, OTT.  Excuse me now I really have to trawl through the fridge as I have worked so hard today that I need food to survive.  Ha!

cricket to snore by

I am watching my favourite programme.  I love to watch the cricket.  At the moment I have my eyes open but later I will be watching it from behind my eyelids.  I try not to slump down in my chair but eventually down I go and my eyes close.  I enter into a charming doze until the time when someone gets out.  The roar of the crowd rouses me and I open my eyes long enough to see the replay.  Of course there are many many days when I just sleep through the whole broadcast.  I often think that I should tape the match and then play it at night to combat insomnia.  What an epiphany, I should market the videos/cds as drug free sleeping aids.  I could make an absolute fortune. 

Procrastination

I am the queen of putting things off.  I have a list of things to do in my holidays and have done none.  I hate to vacuum so have to be in a special mood to do it, the trouble is getting into that mood.  My vacuum cleaner is surely the spawn of the devil.  It deliberately twists its hose and hooks itself up on door frames.  I have been known to pick it up by the hose and shake it, saying, "Let that be a lesson to you."  I confess that I did break the plastic hose thingy when I lost my temper trying to get the stupid thing to stop annoying me.  I fixed that up with the ingenius use of masking tape.  It also maniacally winds all sort of cotton and wool around the brush on the head that means I really can't use it until I unwind everything.  If I don't do that I starts to smell.  Of course the smell might be because I have not emptied the bag.  I have had the same vacuum for many years and really it is in nearly new condition and that is probably because I rarely use it. 

I have also tidied up the house by putting all sorts of things into my laundry baskets.  I have to keep buying new baskets because I have fail to fold up and put away any clothes or sort other assorts objects.  I can see the stupid things and yet put off emptying them because I just cannot be bothered I know they would only take a few minutes to do but as I say procrastination if my middle name.

 I used to do the same thing about essays.  I would gather all the relevant information and yet fail to craft a sensible essay until the last few days.  When I consider that the footnotes and bibliography take nearly as long as the essay to to type up this is a ludicrous situation.  I think I hate that it the most because of all the 'ibids, loc.cits and so on.  The other thing I used to do and the garden hated me for it, was prune the roses and lavender practically down to the roots when I could not get on with my work.  This is another occasion when I said to no particular bush, "Let that be a lesson to you." 

I know I gain nothing by putting things off.  Really I would not get that stressed feeling if I  just things done but it seems I am powerless when every day starts with an expectation of doing all the things I hate but degenerates into my latent laziness.  It is a pity I don't put off eating or exercising that would be an absolute boon.  Signed Cushie Procrastinating Chair.

When I am a centenarian.

When I am a centenarian and am asked to what I attribute my long life, I am going to say things that I hope will shock the reporter.  None of this namby pamby, “I have never smoked, always got plenty of sleep, never had a drink, have never sworn and gone out with bad men.  Bugger that, sex, drugs-prescribed, and rock and roll. So will perving on cute guys, remember I am old not blind.  I will recommend being well lubricated for as many years as possible before turning into a wowser.  I will have mottoes. Never buy a sleeping cat and always wear comfortable shoes, not necessarily in that order.  Always have someone to care for; cats and dogs are often infinitely superior to husbands.  I should know.  If married, never wash hubby’s dirty handkerchiefs and underwear.  Never clean a stove or defrost a fridge.  Why have a dog and bark yourself.  Don’t let anyone else, (husbands), tell you what to do. 

Finally, laugh every day because,

    

     Life is a long involved joke

     You listen politely

     Laugh in the right places

     But you already know the punch-line.

                                                                      by Cushie.

cranky pants what ever happened to politeness

Shall I start this off with the, "When I was a girl?"  What has happened to expecting to be asked for something with a "Please" or after getting something they end with a "Thank you?"  I aghast when I see parents giving their children something and not expecting a polite expression of thanks.  I remember that when I was a girl, (yes it is grumpy old woman speaking) all children had to stand up for adults on buses and trains.  We were not paying full fare it is true but it was also a social more that we gave up our seats.  Also we wore a school uniform and if we dared to be rude, members of the public could and would ring the school to complain. Nowadays older passengers have to stand and leap or trip over the school bags that are left in the aisle.  Whether it is a pregnant woman or an older person the kids sit almost daring someone to tell them to get up.  I still give up my seat to a person who looks older than me.  I always say please and thankyou and "May I" not "Can I."  I don't know if teachers still try to instill some manners into school children or they only have time to introduce them to the enviroment.  I suppose I cannot expect that parents teach their children when perhaps they have never been made to respect others. Oooooh I am so mad.   Grumpy old person over and out.

cranky pants

I have just been reading one of my blogs, under cranky pants/age.  I decidely stated that I am not losing it and if I am vague it is because I am multi-tasking my thinking.  That is all very well but I seem to have been confused about my age.  I am not 66 going on 67, I am 66 this year.  At this time of my life it is important to actually know your real age.  Horror of horrors I am turning into my mother.  She thought she was born in 1908 but in fact she was born in 1905.  That meant that she soldiered on working for another three years after she needed to. 

Mum was so suspicious of the Government that she did not want to give them any information about herself.  If she was being asked questions about when and when she was born and when she got married she just sat there and nary a word she uttered.  My lovely mother-in-law had to take her to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital once and mum just sat there and poor Madgey had to answer for her.  Madge was not well herself at the time and mum's refusal to answer questions resulted in her having to lie about any of mum's real information.  E.g. name of husband, where she was born and so on.  In fact she knew that the old bat had never been married and where she was born.  As far as  I can work out, Mum got pregnant on June 15th 1945.  The celebration for the end of the war must have been a big night in the old Adelaide. My favourite thing is that when I came back to South Australia and I had to take the silly old moo to the hospital I was able to say that she was born in Penola.  She got such a shock when I answered the lovely nurse.  I had finally bothered to go in and get the full copy of my birth certificate and found out that little snippet of information.  I also found out that my father was Mr. Not Stated.  I have found out that a lot of people are related to me as my sexual super hero fathered hundred of us.  Talk about testosterone!!!! 

I also remember that when Mum had saved lots of her pension money she thought that the Government would stop her pension.  I think she had about $600 but that to her was an absolute fortune.  I tried in vain to tell her that she could own a house and a car and have a healthy bank account and still get the payment, but she refused to believe me. 

As I write this I am thinking that in a lot of ways I am a carbon copy of Mum and that pleases me not.  When I start thinking that the neighbours are searching through my things and painting my window ledges I will know (or perhaps not) that I am finally losing it.

chooks

Chooks; I mean have you ever tried to look a chook in the eye?  You can’t.  Chooks are sneaky; they peer at you with one eye, no face to face with a chook.  So we have a sneaky feathered object that pecks.  Try to give it a bit of wheat and it pecks at your feet like a maniacal machinegun.  And talk about collecting chook eggs, well forget it. There are a few forgetful chooks that wander off leaving their eggs easy pickings, but most chooks are guard chooks. Just try and take their eggs I say and you risk the loss of a finger or an eye if you try to peer under them.  Why can’t you teach chooks how to share?  Say you take one egg and leave them one, but it’s all or nothing with them.  They don’t care if you want to share they will have your hand off just as easily for one or all of their eggs.  They even sound mean, like vengeful mothers-in-law.  “You can’t have my egg, it’s mine, you are not good enough for it,” and “You are only after what you can get,” they cluck, cluck, cluck.

I have had a love hate relationship with chooks.  When I was little I did not know enough to feel threatened.  I threw grain to them and mixed bran and pollard, that they enjoyed.  I must admit I was less than impressed when I saw someone chop the head off a chook when I was eight.  Someone must have forgotten to tell the chook it was dead because it ran round in circles looking for its head. Gross.

Chooks should stay in their own little cage.  People should not be expected to enter the chooks territory.  That is, people, namely me, should not be asked to brave foreign chook world to feed them.  Questions should not be asked about why the grain was thrown through the fence and not placed lovingly in their stupid feed dish. 

People should not get sick and expect people, namely me, to look after their spooky black chooks.  Said people should not get mad when the person, me, lets the chooks out by mistake. They should not expect me to catch the chooks and put them back.  They definitely should not be irritated that I forgot to turn off the water and flooded the coop.  Show me a chook who doesn’t love to go for an early morning dip when they fly off their roost.  It was because of this thoughtfulness on my part that the black chooks made me their new best friend.  Want an egg, take an egg.  Want to pick us up, no worries.  Want us to look you straight in the eye, well good luck with that one.

Computer versus Cushie who wins?

Today there was a power black out that resulted in my computer having a haemorrhage.  The internet would not work and that entailed getting a cord to attach the modem to the laptop.  Every time I thought I had the computer working and unplugged the cord it ceased to co-operate.  My friend Kathryn, who I think is a real computer whiz slaved over the hot computer and finally after about an hour or so she emerged victorious.  I am not a complete Luddite but sometimes in the midst of an argument with an electrical device I wish we were still using pen and paper and cash registers that did not have to have power to work.  The old ledger was infinitely better than a power starved appliance.  I am always amused that when an office computer does break down that no-one thinks to use paper and pencil.  I subscribe to the old fingers were made before forks theory.  Writing, whoa new concept!  I just realized that I have been doing the senior person, "When I was a girl/boy."  Blah, blah, blah.  Don't mind me I am just getting old and grumpy.  Still the purpose of an electrical appliance is to make things easier for the user.  I do not believe that computers know this or they do know it and just like to screw with our heads.  Enough said!

I want to be the boss.

Ok in my house I am the adult human person therefore I should be the boss.  I pay the rent, clean the house, work in the garden, pick what I want to watch on the television.  I also know how to work a computer and how to programme the video.  Ok that is silly I don't have a video any more.  I know how to cook and to feed myself.  To the outside world I am a functioning being but in the solitude of my home I am the downtrodden person at the bottom of the totem pole.  How can this be I hear you ask.  Well let me tell you my sad story.  There are two other creatures living in the house and living like a king and queen I can tell you.  The Queen of the establishment is Gracie.  She is a British Blue cross breed cat.  She has definite ideas of exactly what food I have to prepare for her.  She only likes things with a sauce, so I am safe from retribution if I serve her Dine turkey in gravy, or any Fancy Feast that has fillet after the ingredient.  She sleeps exactly where she wants and has a perfectly lovely leather lounge chair as her scatch post.  It was pristine when I brought it home and she loved it straight away.  She has magnanimously let me have two chairs that she does not deign to scratch.  She is very subtle so when she wants to go outside she runs up the screen doors.  If I stupidly ignore her door climbing she comes over to me and stretches up and stick her claws into my leg.  This is another one of her "subtle" hints. Her partner in crime is a poor little old poodle called Herbie whom she torments.  He is a dear little man and is eleven years old.  He also finds it easy to organize me.  If I go out and don't come home in his idea of a suitable time he leaves a little parcel or two on the kitchen floor and a flowing river for me to mop up.  He is a little harder to understand so sometimes he gets so frustrated I do not notice his communication so is reduced to whining at me.  I am fine taking him outside but he is not always fine at actually doing something.  He does like me to go out with him and wait in the freezing cold for him to toilette himself.  I don't know why I have to witness (or not) his activities but I do.  It must be written in some doggie rules somewhere.  He is so deaf now that I can step over him and he doesn't wake up.  Of course Herbie sleeps in my bed.  The cat sleeps in my bed.  The only one who doesn't sleep in my bed is me.  There is no room as for the moment I have been reducted to sleeping in a single bed, and single beds and three creatures do not make for a comfortable night.  Before that cat comes to spend an hour or two on my bed she investigates the house and flicks anything left on the surfaces onto the floor.  Mostly she does it to me just as I am dozing off so I think that there is a burglar in the house.  This means that I have to get up to check all the doors and windows.  She really is like water torture, she just goes on and on and on.  Don't get me wrong I seem to like to be bossed around and am very happy with my companions, but sometimes I just wish I could be the top of the totem pole.  Is that ever going to happen, I think not. 

Centrelink

I may be misinformed but I thought that Government Departments were open five days a week.  Well today Elizabeth Centrelink was closed.  I rocked up ready to ask questions and the door was closed.  Admittedly, there was a lady outside talking to a few people but I was so cranky that I turned on my heel and left.  No only was the door closed the shutter was closed as well.  Talk about giving people the hint.  I still think that going in to Centrelink is preferable to ringing them.  Ringing is a form of water torture.  "Thank you for your patience, your call is important to us, blah, blah, blah."  This followed by hideous musaak and repetitive versions of the above.  I wanted to ask Centrelink why, when I only have two modules to do to get my SACE that they have cut me off the education benefit.  I have always wanted to get my year 12 but now when the race is nearly run they have locked the door on me both literally and figuratively.

Cranky pants/Age

I am cranky.  I have just read an article on how the brain deteriorates after the age of 60 but the new thinking is that is starts happening at 45.  I think my brain has been just fine, thank you very much until now.  This is one of the, "At your age,"  things that are spouted by various doctors explaining away a myriad of symptoms.  So help me if one more doctor says that to me I will just have to snot him/her.  I know that I do find that sometimes my thought process completely fails me in just a minute.  I start to say something and then it is gone.  Mum always used to say it must be a lie.  The thing is, that my brain is thinking of several different things all at the one time and so one or another thought is lost because another one gets in the way.  So it is not that my brain is losing its function it is that I am multi tasking my thinking. 

Mum always used to say that I was vague so I don't see this being any different to what happened during my youth to now.  I think people just expect vaguery now and notice it more.  I studied to get a University degree in History in my forties and fifties and now at 65 nearly 66 I can whiz through a general knowledge crossword in minutes.

 I am terribly vague with money but I have always been thus.  I think I am dyslexic with numbers.  I failed maths every year in high school and wouldn't even work in the school canteen because I didn't want all the kids at my daughter's school from seeing what a dolt I was at giving change.  However, aside from my inability to give shopkeepers the right money or be able to check and see if they have given me the right money, my brain is working quite well thank you.  So, whoever wrote that miserable article about brain disfunction can take a running jump.

 I am fine and will keep on studying in one way or another, when I am no longer curious about the wide world and its workings, my brain might have slowed down but right now I continue to be the same nosy person I have always been.  Who, what, where, when and how are still questions I ask everyday.  When I stop being curious it is time for my family and friends to question if I am losing it.    Once again, I am fine.

How to get people to buy goods at a market OR NOT

Ok so you are at a market.  Either you are the stall holder or a "buyer."  The stall holder sits and waits for a "buyer" to look at some of the merchandise.  The buyer slowly walks past or stops and looks and perhaps picks up the goods.  Either the stall holder sits back and wishes that the "buyer" would actually purchase something, or tries to engage the buyer in conversation.  This often results in the buyer retreating to a safe distance and looking from afar. It appears that all the goods are too dear, or they are cute, sweet and beautiful but remain unsold. Well I believe I have the solution.  When the buyer starts to look at the goods or picks them up the "seller" says, "No sorry they are not for sale."  The more the buyer wants to buy the more the seller says no sale.  If they argue long enough the buyers would be mad for the forbidden fruit.  I love it, a market where no-one can buy anything. It is perfect in every way but one, the stall holder makes no money.  It is sort of bite one's nose off to spite one's face. Another of my brilliant ideas of how not to make money.

New Year's Resolution

I know that making a resolution does not actually mean that you are going to stick by it.  However, I spent the last two weeks at my daughter's house that sports a huge mirror in the bathroom.  After trying to shower with my eyes shut I gave up and really looked at my body.  I cannot even begin to describe what I was seeing.  Thus, the making of a really important resolution is easier this time because I have something to work toward.  I plan on being a lot thinner next time I visit her mirror.  I have cut out all sweeties.  If you knew how much I like my sweeties then you would appreciate my conviction.  Surprisingly, I have had no trouble sticking to my plan I just fix on the mental picture of my naked self and voila.  The other resolution was to go for a walk at 7am.   I seem to have a lot of trouble getting myself to walk.  Actually I have not gone for a walk, any walk that is, morning or afternoon.  While I appear to have a handle on the eating, the exercise (the disgusting e word) has definitely not eventuated.  Never mind, half a resolution is better than none at all.  I have to lose weight or I won't be able to visit the child of my loins in Melbourne.  She of the mirrored bathroom.

Why is it?

Why is it that women only grow hair on the chins after they need glasses to see anything?
Why is it that some lace up shoes are designed to be worn by older people who cannot bend down to do them up?
Why is it that the new phone book is smaller to save paper but you cannot read it even when wearing glasses?
Why is it that when I cannot hear what people are saying to me I just say, "Yes."
Why is it that the older I get the more difficult it is for me to remember what I said two minutes ago?
Why is it that doctors who look about 12 years old keep saying, "At your age."?
Why is it that the child of my loins says that I think too much when really I am just trying to work out how the world works these days?
As Professor Julius Sumner Miller always said, "Why is it so."?

Scones that cannot fail

These are brilliant scones.  I cannot make real scones for the life of me, however, these scones never ever fail.

You need:-
1 egg
1 dessertspoon of sugar or Splenda
1/2 cup of cream
1/2 cup of milk
2 cups of self raising flour

beat the egg and sugar
then add the cream and milk
mix thoroughy, I do like to cheat so usually put in more cream than milk
mix in the self raising flour, do not madly mix just cut across the mix with a knife
the mix is a bit sticky but you can fling in a bit of flour so it is easier to work with
turn out onto a floured board and lightly knead (and I mean lightly)
I have a scone cutter that my daughter made me when she was in year 9 so I always use it
people have told me that it makes the scones too small but the point is she made it for me
every time you use the scone cutter dip it into a small container of flour that way it won't stick
place scones onto a floured oven tray
If you put the scones onto the board fairly closely it will make them rise higher
cook for about 12 minutes at 200/210 degrees celsius in an ordinary oven a little less time for fan forced
If you are not sure that the scones are cooked tap on the top and if it sounds a little hollow they are cooked, or you
can sacrifice one of the scones by breaking it open to check,
that is the one that you get to eat before you serve up so you are one up on everyone else
this mixture makes 12 small scones
naturally double, treble or quadruple your recipe for more scones
If you have a bigger scone cutter that will please your guests, go for it
I cooked scones at Christmas and had no cutter so just cut them up with a knife and then patted them into rough rounds
I also make other flavour scones by putting different ingredients into the mixture
You can add sultanas, dates, cheese/ham and pumpkin  into the mix preferably not all at the same time but I would pay to see that
This is all a bit trial and error but you just need to experiment

I hope you love these scones as much as I do
Believe me everyone thinks you are a genius when you bring a lovely plate of them to the table
Cheers

Apricot and pancake deluxe dessert

I think I have made up this dessert but if someone else has made it before me I apologise.
I was given a lot of apricots last year and stewed a lot of the more manky ones.
So my dilemma was what to do with all the containers of fruit that would not fit in the freezer.
I just love desserts so I came up with this idea.

Stewed apricots
Packet of Golden Pikelets or the Pancakes
Ice cream
Cream etc.

Warm the pikelets in the toaster
Spoon on required amount of stewed apricots with not too much juice
Top with icecream, cream or both

This is absolutely yummy and so simple and everyone that I have made it for has loved it.
I have made a resolution to stop eating yummy things so I am encouraging people to eat all the things I cannot and live vicariously through their eating excesses.  Cheers.

diabetic cake

I should call this diabetic cake or is it? 

500g mixed dried fruit
2 cups orange juice
2 cups self raising flour

Soak the fruit in the orange juice overnight
Mix in the SR flour

Spoon into a large cake tin or casserole dish

Cook for 1 hour at 150 degrees celsius in a fan forced oven
Or 1 hour at 180 degrees celsius in ordinary oven

When you stick a skewer in to check if the cake is cooked it will come out a little sticky but that is the fruit

I would like to put other things into the mix like almonds, walnuts, and I think that half a jar of marmalade would be yummy

Of course the cake is meant to be diabetic as it has no added sugar, however, if is full of natural sugar

That is why I call it diabetic cake or is it?

I made this cake for Christmas and used some of the slices as Christmas pudding with icecream.  It was totally yummy.  I like it much better than dark pudding or fruit cake.  The worst mistake I made of course is that when we finished eating the first cake I made another.  We had eaten all that by just after New Year.  You may not think that it was not so bad but there were only two of us eating the cake.  I would really like to try the cake with marmalade but I have made a resolution to give up cake and biccies etc.  so there will be no yummy cake for me anymore. 

I hope that you will enjoy making and eating this cake as much as I have.  Cheers.

Home Again

I am back home again after being in Melbourne for a couple of weeks.  I tend to get a little flustered when I pack for a holiday.  The day I left I thoroughly dusted the whole house but did not pack until an hour or so before my flight.  Now I know that packing trumps dusting but hey when the mood takes you.  I knew I was flustered because when I got there I had packed 3 t-shirts but 5 pairs of pants.  I had miscounted my blood pressure and cholesterol medication so ran out and had to be carted to the other side of Melbourne to pick up new scripts.  I left my watch behind and as knowing exactly what time it is all the time, I was incredibly stressed.  I ended up having to buy a watch.  When I left home I left my car door unlocked and only the back screen door locked.  Luckily on my return trip the child of my loins packed for me.  When the case was too heavy she re-distributed everything.  I love to visit Melbourne but the stress of organizing myself to get there is considerable.  I am thinking that I should get someone to pack for me here and to actually shove me onto the plane.  Maybe someone could provide an agency, "Pack a Granny." I would be their first customer.   Yep I love the sound of that, "PACK A GRANNY."