Took a look at Facebook today, in the allotted 2 hours per day we are permitted in this workplace. I suspect that for many people, Facebook can be a strange out of body experience, with so many sections of one's life all jumbled together like so many odd socks.
My own Facebook page is a fine example of this. Take the world around us. At this point in time Egypt is rising to free itself from the Mubarak dictatorship, following in the steps of Algeria, Tunisia and Yemen. The Irish goverment, discredited and derisive, are bailing out to the tune of 6-figure pensions, while the average Joe wonders how they can possibly think they are entitled to this and a 30 year old woman dies of hypothermia due to the Council cutting off her heat during the cold snap.
Queensland has faced the most destructive floods in human history, and the clean up is barely started when Cyclone Yasi tracks towards the Cairns coast, with experts predicting the impact will be worse than Cyclone Tracy. The NSW government, heading for annihiliation in 6 weeks time following unprecidented corruption and cronyism and with a legacy that will probably outrun Askin's, still attempts to feather its own nest and rivals that of Ireland in the sheer number of corrupt and absconding politicians.
And Julia Gillard is getting grief because she is proposing an entirely reasonable and logical flood levy, to which the average Australia taxpayer will be expected to contribute somewhat less than a fiver a week, because somehow people seem to think that governments have little pots of gold, constantly replenished, to which the populace should have endless access but never have to contribute to.
It's an interesting time to live. Many friends across the left are posting about these happenings, sharing links and information, educating and informing others in a manner that would not ever have been possible previously.
And then there are my other friends, to whom politics is not so much their lifeblood, but something that happens on the evening news, when they watch it. Their greatest meaning is their children, their families These are friends I love, whose company refreshes me, and whose lives enrich mine. It's good having people around like this, to laugh and joke and be frivolous with, to discuss vital issues of poo and babies, and why they don't eat greens and will only go to sleep with 7 handpicked companions, or just what is the subtle allure of Dora The Explorer.
I love all of my friends. But the juxtasposition of status updates can make Facebook a bizarre place at times.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
God the Builder
The Small Child attends a Seventh Day Adventist creche. It's not a religion I know a great deal about, as an atheist, and and atheist moreover who comes from a Catholic background. But I digress. The creche is good and I have no problem with the religion. So far as I'm concerned, people have a lot of differing views, and the sooner you learn to (generally) respect them, so much the better.
But I digress further. So the Small Child is sitting with her small friends, singing a song about "God The Builder". Her Granny watches for a bit, with an expression on her face that the carers no doubt interpret as loving the song, and a better person might interpret as deep cynicism.
In the car later, Granny asks the Small Child what the song was
"God the Builder, Gran. Mummy and me went to a special store and bought the DVD, didn't we mum?"
Err, no.
Enlightenment occurs. The Small Child is mixing up God and Bob, a natural mistake given that both build, but Bob builds better.
Especially in this house, where God builds not at all.
But I digress further. So the Small Child is sitting with her small friends, singing a song about "God The Builder". Her Granny watches for a bit, with an expression on her face that the carers no doubt interpret as loving the song, and a better person might interpret as deep cynicism.
In the car later, Granny asks the Small Child what the song was
"God the Builder, Gran. Mummy and me went to a special store and bought the DVD, didn't we mum?"
Err, no.
Enlightenment occurs. The Small Child is mixing up God and Bob, a natural mistake given that both build, but Bob builds better.
Especially in this house, where God builds not at all.
The Cast Has Died
Ok, so that was a really bad pun, probably unworthy of the name. But still, the cast has now left my right foot, and after about an hour in the shower yesterday, more or less successfully removing the accumulated gunk off said foot, it's right to go.
Except it's not. It's still incredibly swollen with a weird little red patch of broken capilliaries in a very prominent position on what used to be my attractive and slender right ankle. Nothing attractive or slender about it now, my boy! It has a 4 inch scar up the back, a host of little black dots caused by ingrown hairs around the entire ankle and calf, against which war will be waged, and the aforementioned capilliaries. I also have a right foot like Barbie's (leaving aside that hers are slim, hairless and brown) and so currently cannot wear flat shoes. This is more problematic that I once might have imagined.
Still it's gone. And it ain't coming back again. No. Oh, no no no. And I'm enjoying the subtle pleasures of being able to stand up in the shower, roll over in bed without a dead weight on my leg and the fact that I no long feel like I am wearing a winter boot in the middle of a hot and humid Sydney summer.
Ah, the heat.
Let me pass now the other issue of note at present. According to the Herald, it is currently 32 degrees, although hotter earlier in the day. This is, however, only the start of an entire week of hot weather that is not predicted to end until Sunday. And it will be humid, so it will be sweltering at night as well. The joy. Those who posit the theory that hell is a furnace have ignored the crucial element of water. Hell should really be described as a humid furnace if maximum torture is required for the masses interred therein.
Except it's not. It's still incredibly swollen with a weird little red patch of broken capilliaries in a very prominent position on what used to be my attractive and slender right ankle. Nothing attractive or slender about it now, my boy! It has a 4 inch scar up the back, a host of little black dots caused by ingrown hairs around the entire ankle and calf, against which war will be waged, and the aforementioned capilliaries. I also have a right foot like Barbie's (leaving aside that hers are slim, hairless and brown) and so currently cannot wear flat shoes. This is more problematic that I once might have imagined.
Still it's gone. And it ain't coming back again. No. Oh, no no no. And I'm enjoying the subtle pleasures of being able to stand up in the shower, roll over in bed without a dead weight on my leg and the fact that I no long feel like I am wearing a winter boot in the middle of a hot and humid Sydney summer.
Ah, the heat.
Let me pass now the other issue of note at present. According to the Herald, it is currently 32 degrees, although hotter earlier in the day. This is, however, only the start of an entire week of hot weather that is not predicted to end until Sunday. And it will be humid, so it will be sweltering at night as well. The joy. Those who posit the theory that hell is a furnace have ignored the crucial element of water. Hell should really be described as a humid furnace if maximum torture is required for the masses interred therein.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Goldilocks & the Three Bears - as told by John Donne
The Small Child and I were at Granny's yesterday, this being easier for both of us while my leg is in plaster. Wandering round, she chanced upon an old copy of John Donne's Love Poems, one of those Penguin 60s they were selling in the mid-90s. This, thinks the Small Child, is great little book and she promptly starts "reading" the story of Goldilocks to Granny out of it. Granny lost it a bit, but not wanting the Small Child to see her in stitches, tells her to go read it to mummy.
I suppose I can be glad that it wasn't Alan Clark's Diaries. There's a copy of that floating around somewhere and all.
I suppose I can be glad that it wasn't Alan Clark's Diaries. There's a copy of that floating around somewhere and all.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Hee-re comes the Wagon!
The wanderly, wanderly Wagon! Here comes the Wagon!
No prizes for guessing what we've been watching recently. Yep, that classic of Irish childhood, Wanderly Wagon. The Small Child adores it. Needless to say, Himself, who was reared on it, does too. I suspect that Uncle Skinny, who gave it to the Small Child, had his big bro in mind when he bought it. I must say, it's even grown on me.
Vintage 1970s, it has sets similar to the wobbly ones beloved of Doctor Who. There is cutting edge 70s computer technology, and a bunch of puppets, of whom Sneaky Snake (or Snicky Snek, as the Small Child used to call him) is the household favourite.
And it has Frank Kelly, aka Father Jack. Apparently he ad-libbed the majority of his lines in the show. This led to such memorable lines as "Doctor Who? Nein, Doctor Who ist BBC! Dr Astro ist RTE!"
But possibly the item I love most in this show is Dr Astro's time travel machine, which runs on runny custard. Blue runny custard, topped up with popcorn. A triumph of the clearance sales in whichever was the closest department store to Donnybrook, I recently counted the following components:
A tea strainer
A number of wooden spoons
A wire frame milk bottle holder with milk bottle and dial showing how many bottle were required the following day
Quite a number of vegetable peelers
An equal amount of spoons
A collection of orange glass canisters and bowls, all self illuminated via standard electric globes
A vegetable basket
A cutlery holder
A funnel
A lot of pegs
A dustpan brush
A wine rack
Truly, they don't make TV like that any more.
No prizes for guessing what we've been watching recently. Yep, that classic of Irish childhood, Wanderly Wagon. The Small Child adores it. Needless to say, Himself, who was reared on it, does too. I suspect that Uncle Skinny, who gave it to the Small Child, had his big bro in mind when he bought it. I must say, it's even grown on me.
Vintage 1970s, it has sets similar to the wobbly ones beloved of Doctor Who. There is cutting edge 70s computer technology, and a bunch of puppets, of whom Sneaky Snake (or Snicky Snek, as the Small Child used to call him) is the household favourite.
And it has Frank Kelly, aka Father Jack. Apparently he ad-libbed the majority of his lines in the show. This led to such memorable lines as "Doctor Who? Nein, Doctor Who ist BBC! Dr Astro ist RTE!"
But possibly the item I love most in this show is Dr Astro's time travel machine, which runs on runny custard. Blue runny custard, topped up with popcorn. A triumph of the clearance sales in whichever was the closest department store to Donnybrook, I recently counted the following components:
A tea strainer
A number of wooden spoons
A wire frame milk bottle holder with milk bottle and dial showing how many bottle were required the following day
Quite a number of vegetable peelers
An equal amount of spoons
A collection of orange glass canisters and bowls, all self illuminated via standard electric globes
A vegetable basket
A cutlery holder
A funnel
A lot of pegs
A dustpan brush
A wine rack
Truly, they don't make TV like that any more.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Then Dora went exploring
The Small Child has now decided that her name is Dora, after she went exploring with Himself yesterday, which included a crossing of the Harbour Bridge. Granny raised her eyebrows at this last one, having been reliably informed that the expedition only went as far as South Mona Vale headland. Which it did. The Harbour Bridge in question is a small wooden structure over a little ravine. But it was all very exciting.
She has also, for some reason, decided that she must sleep with all her tights in the bed. Being hampered by the cast, I cannot magic them back into the appropriate drawer when she is asleep. There is also a torch. I discovered the torch when I sprung the Small Child going into our bedroom with it lit. The Good Lord Above only knows where she got it from. But torch is now back with mummy torch on the top shelf of the press, having had a wonderful holiday.
She has also, for some reason, decided that she must sleep with all her tights in the bed. Being hampered by the cast, I cannot magic them back into the appropriate drawer when she is asleep. There is also a torch. I discovered the torch when I sprung the Small Child going into our bedroom with it lit. The Good Lord Above only knows where she got it from. But torch is now back with mummy torch on the top shelf of the press, having had a wonderful holiday.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Loving the Lemur
King Julien, that is. From The Penguins of Madagascar, a children's show based on the movie Madagascar. Not that I've seem the movie or anything. But I'm growing quite fond of the TV show.
The small child adores it. She is having Penguin obsession right, left and centre. All other shows are foresaken for the opportunity to watch the penguins and their lemur sidekicks who include King Julien, a cheerfully amoral lemur with a middle European accent, a large ego, a bouncy castle and a habit of getting others to rescue him, in particular the Penguins, Skipper, Rico, Kowalski and Private.
I'm now also back at work. Ho hum. Thank feck I only have to work four days a week from now on.
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