And Fuck You, Chuck.

Word reached the Australian public last night that the BBC and Clarence House combined forces to tell the ABC that The Chaser was not welcome to use any of the BBC footage of the royal wedding and that if the ABC were not minded to agree, it wouldn't get any footage, full stop, which would leave it with 4 hours of static on a Friday night a a lot of disgtruntled viewers. Not, mind you, that this decision has made viewers gruntled, far from it. Many people, myself included were only ever going to watch the wedding through the commentary of The Chaser, just as football haters only ever watched the Grand Final for the wit and wisdom of Roy & HG. And to add insult to injury, it is highly unlikely that the Palace even knows the who, what or why of The Chaser.

But it has been determined that the fawning and forelock-tugging of the great event cannot be overshadowed in a sparsely populated country on the other side of the world by a bunch of middle age, middle class men making mild jokes about Prince Phillip's propensity for giving offence every time he opens his mouth and how long it has taken respective royal brides to walk down the aisle. Given that an English bookmaker is giving free bets to punters as to how long William will be left waiting by Kate, I fail to see what the offence would have been.

It's all becoming too drearily reminiscent of the night of Diana's funeral, in the days before Foxtel, when every channel was showing the funeral live, with the exception of SBS, who chose to commemorate the occasion with a documentary on landmines. It was always unclear to me whether this was intended to reference Diana herself, and her "work" attempting to eradicate landmines, or Dodi Al-Fayed, whose father made a great deal of money selling them to combatants in various warzones across the globe.

So there it is. But at least we can be glad that in this internet world we now live in, there are options other than sitting in front of the TV, bored witless and feeling a faint nausea, akin to having overindulged in a box of Cadbury Roses.  And we can quietly salute Brian O'Driscoll, Captain of the Leinster rugby team, who has decided that a training session with the team, in preparation for Saturday night's semi-final against Toulouse in the Heineken Cup, is more important.

As indeed it is.

This could be a disaster!

The other day we were at mum's place. It was a cold, wet and windy day with such low cloud that you couldn't see the far side of the water.

The Small Child was playing something with her dolls. She looked out at the weather and exclaimed "Oh, no! It's dark and cloudy! We can't see the water! This could be a disaster!"

She'll be a lawyer yet...

The Small Child likes bouncing on our bed. We don't mind this (the bed is old and fast approaching its retirement). The other day I heard the the Small Child bouncing, checked, and realised that she was not holding on to the bedhead like we tell her to.

So I yell "If you're going to bounce, make sure you're holding on!"

Two minutes later I look out and say "Didn't I tell tell you to hold on?"

And the reply? "But I am holding on Mum! I'm holding onto Puppy!"

There's a fine grasp of semantics there. Like I said, I think she's going to be a lawyer.

Autumn

It is a fine and sunny autumn day today. Autumn days have a luminosity about them denied to other sunny days. On summer days,  the sun is harsh and abrasive and the heat comes not only from the sun, but the earth and the buildings and the road, suffocating waves from all directions,  and the intensity must be endured, rather than enjoyed.

But autumn is different - the land has cooled, buildings hold no fiery malice, the sun is allowed to take centre stage.

Today is such a day. To my right, a spider is busy repairing a small hold in a web that must be two feet across.  High up in the she-oaks and the cypress pine, I can see many more such webs, built by spiders more daring or clever than my small pet.  The  scent of Murraya drifts across with the sounds of a king parrot and chattering lorikeets. A skink darts into a hole on the verandah after an ant, while more of that creature's compatriots march in an unvarying line up the side of the verandah post. A soft breeze cuts the edge of the heat.

There is a laziness about the day, enhanced by suburban sounds, a distant lawnmower, the sea plane heading towards Broken Bay, the rrrsh, rrrsh of leaves  being swept on a concrete path, laughter from a distant party.

Soon we will lose the sun through the hills that surround this little valley, but for now it is a benediction, reward for the survival of summer.

Of Birthdays and other happenings

It was the Small Child's birthday this week, including a birthday party at a local playcentre, attended by a number of her closest friends. The cake has been well publicised in other forums, sufficient to say  that is was very impressive. But pride cometh before a fall. The cupcakes I made for daycare last night, although delicious, had a decidedly rustic and lopsided  air about them.

From her party, however, she received her first Barbie Doll (narrowly pipping her adoring parents to the punch) and various other assorted items guaranteed to gladden the heart of the four year old. One of the presents was a small pink electronic hamster which whizzes around the place squeaking a variety of noises, some realistic, and some very much from the realm of fantasy (hamster Greensleeves, anyone?)

It appears to be somewhat more intelligent than its real live counterparts, although it had attempted to shag Himself's toes a few times as well as the Small Child's foot. Better still, it does not require either food or a kitty litter and can be shut up when required. Pretty much the perfect pet, really.

The actual birthday was today. From her adoring parents, the Small Child received another Barbie Doll, Snakes & Ladders, a watch and various other items. The Snakes & Ladders has been a particular hit, with the Small Child appearing to have a winning streak in inverse proportion to her size. I confess, it is a humbling experience to be beaten by a four year old. The rules of the games were somewhat confusing at first, with the Small Child insistent that she had rolled a three because that was where the dice had landed, rather than, say, a five, which was what the dice showed. She also evinced a desire halfway through any game to change tokens, so that every colour got an equal go.

Bless.