Out, out brief candle..

You know there must some imbalance of the ego's when a band names themselves after an entire continent. With only 8 days to go till I depart I keep having the tune to Europe's, 'It's The Final Countdown' hummed at me by my sister every time she walks past. I know that before the dust even settles she'll have my stereo unplugged and in her room, actually I'm not sure which event she is counting down for.

Of course Lapels and Lollypops will have to die *sob*, I'd like to start another blog in the UK but we'll see what happens, if I get a job as boring as the one I have now then look out!!!!

It is a tale told by an idiot**
Full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing

*mwahs*
Mathilde

**Or in this case, a very stylish girl !

Shoppers Revenge

Shop assistants come in variety of guises, including;

i)Over eager but so nice you don't mind them too much - Pepa Meja

ii) Sarcastic but in a clever way so you don't mind them too much - Zoo Emporium

iii) Bitter and twisted old hags who should have retired in 1976 - David Jones

We carefully backed away from the girl at Pepa Meja, laughed with wary eyes at the boy in Zoo Emporium and I (to my mother's horror) told the miserly old wench in David Jones that all the clothes in her section would make even the most attractive goddess look like "The Trunchbull"...I can only hope she has read 'Matilda' at some time in the last two centuries.

...when she is bad she is horrid

Miss Mathilde's Rules of Etiquette

I was wondering, Blogland, would it be overly presumptuous to end a friendship over a forward?
Not just any forward mind you but one of those pissy namby pamby "Seize the day, life is worth living and please pass this pile of wank onto forty thousand people in the next ten minutes or else the powers that be will arrange it so that you get hit by a bus and your corpse devoured by gnats".

I have been expecting a reply from this girl for weeks and all she does is send me a junky forward, next time I see her I may be forced to say "talk to the hand".

*le rowls*

D.I.S.C.O

I always knew the groove came from somewhere, on the day I was born 'Mary's Boy Child' by Boney M was number 1 in the UK and 'Le Freak' *say chic* was number 1 in the US. What was number 1 here in Oz? Probably some horrific John-Paul Young song, *ick* that sailor suit did absolutely nothing for that man.

I had one of those experiences last night, where someone wakes you up out of a deep sleep, then tells you with the utmost sincerity that it is morning and you'll be late for work...so I freak out. Teeth are brushed, face scrubbed, the shower is just heating up when I notice it's rather dark for this time of the morning and I hear my Father at the foot of the stair collapsing into a pile of giggles, cheeky! I had only intended to have a little nap. They finished off the rest of the wine as well *hmpf*, if I'd had the energy the hissy fit would have been HUGE.

The send off 'do' is coming together, I have expert working round the clock to help me with the guest list. There will be tapas, there will be sangria, there will be cocktails, there will be twisted ankles...it will be fab!

xxoo
I swear not one 'French 76' is going to pass my lips next week, oh no Sir!

The gods are all lounging up there on their eiderdown quilts, casually throwing spitballs at my head..

I'm having a lovely death-warmed-up day, no sleep, stuck at work with only the prospect of visiting the motor registry, the bank and my insurance company this afternoon. I did have a lovely night though, Billie Holiday on the jukebox, banana pudding, gorgeous company, spunky waiters, what more could a girl ask for?

Recently the anal Australian government passed a law banning all smoking in the indoor areas of restaurants and cafes, initially this news barely registered in my non-smoker head. Smokers, dog walkers, vagabonds, vagrants and those looking for car spots are constantly being persecuted with new laws and new fines are being brought in all the time, you can bet the next thing will be that smokers can only have a puff when the moon is in it's third quarter and Mars is orbiting Jupiter.
If it doesn't interrupt my consumption why should I care, but last night we noticed something missing from Deans, it wasn't as crowded and noisy, where had all the people gone and why did they take the Pixies off the jukebox?
I can't answer the second question but the first became apparent as you noticed half of the crowd were looking overly jittery, their caffeine to nicotine ratio was all out of whack and they were forced to leave their table and go outside in the rain for a puff. This does something to the atmosphere, Dean's didn't feel the same, maybe it's because it felt a lot brighter without the haze, maybe it was the constant stream of people too-ing and fro-ing but something was off kilter. If it means I need to inhale a bit of carcinogens to get that old feeling back then so be it. I already do enough things to actively destroy my health and I'm not going to let a bit of second hand smoke bother me, especially if the vapour is coming from a boy who smokes like Paul Henried.

*thud*

'Come on party people, throw your hands in the air'

I'm not long for this country. I have 16 days left to go and I haven't even revisited half of my haunts yet, so tonight we are going to return to Dean's cafe in Kings Cross, location of what must go down as my most spectacular public collapse, god forbid I should ever top that one.

I'm trying to organise my farewell 'do', thing is, in any party situation I'm fine except for when the reason for the occasion has anything to do with me. I like birthday parties as long as they are not mine, I have no problem being the centre of attention but I'd much rather it be for a reason other than what day it is. I never know who to invite, never know who will care to come, I know who my close friends are but I can never figure out who my aquaintances are and whether I should invite them or not. Generally I would say "no", if I couldn't be bothered pursuing a real friendship with these people then why should I care if they come or not, but if they don't come then I have a rather pitiful party size. The best solution I could ever see for this party paranoia was to simply not have one and so I never have but now it seems a must and the guest list is driving me nuts!

I'm going to shut up now.

One hand or two ?

Spent a messy Friday night dancing to B(if)tek and stealing sips from other peoples drinks, it has only been today that I realised what a scabby persona I seemed to have that evening. Thankgod I'm leaving the country, I'd hate to get a reputation. After staggering in at 6:30 I was forced out of bed 3 hours later to give a wonderful performance of sincere and heartfelt disappointment as the Northerners left for the airport and home, I don't they'll be polishing that Oscar up anytime soon. The rest of my Saturday was spent comatose on the couch listening to Richard Burton films and avoiding more extended family members *where do they all come from*

Further strangeness followed as I took a 6 year old shopping for tarantulas, threw my independent loyalties to the wind and declared my undying love for chain stores when Borders F.I.N.A.L.L.Y received my '69 Love songs'. After an absolute age but at a damn reasonable price so mustn't grumble.

I have been bitching and moaning about my obligations to do things like I did on Saturday morning and Sunday night, my time is precious and I'm not too keen on wasting it on my parents' 50-something friends who haven't seen me since my hair was white and I was wearing pink cords with red shoes *it's all in the imagery*.

The last thing I needed was to be at an early Christmas party, seated at a table of boat shoe wearing, teetotalist, mature age netball players, yet there I was. It took all of 2 minutes into a discussion on whether it is best to catch with one hand or two before I reached for the champagne, I wasn't subtle but when faced with such a horrendous evening I'm fully prepared to take on the role as requisite sot of the table.
These people were amazing, every girl at some stage in her life does a season of netball but then you hit 14 and realise you'd rather die that wear a pleated butt-scraping skirt ever again. Mature age netballers are a breed unto themselves, when I see their squat little bodies in uniforms on the weekends all I can think about is 'The Trunchbull' from Matilda. Faced with an entire dinner party of these ladies was rather terrifying, I was in the middle of having a horrible grading day flashback *I wanted goal attack damn you!* but then it all faded into hilarity when their partners showed up victorious from the men's league. They all met on the asphalt court of lurrve, the conversation was worse but watching these people interact was priceless.

I know I'm a horrible snob and that these people are genuinely nice but they are genuinely boring as well and that is unforgivable.

xxoo
Miaow