Attack of the Krispy Kremes

As I hurtle underground to get back to my fabulous new Sony Vaio and the treasure trove of delights within facebook, I am sharply reminded by the strain against my belt by my fabulously rotund Porte cochere that it has been another day away from the gym.

In synch with the horror of my rapidly evolving apron, I am starting to feel like I'm letting team gay down by getting a little portly. i guess if the weather had been better I might not feel so much like I was still in hibernation. all excuses I know.

What I cant abide though are people who have birthdays and feel the need to bring to work not one but two! BOXES of Krispy Kremes for afternoon tea.

So on top of last nights bangers and mash I now have 2 fat filled donuts to work off. Thanks a lot Mr Krispy you big nasty fatty Krispy thing you.

Monday monday

na naaa
na na naaa naaaaaa

Im feeling better today, even though it is a monday, I have a SPLITTING headache and have taken the day of work to go to the doctor for some referrals.

My sweetheart friend from well, baby time, Jane, who in family terms is like a sister, got married yesterday in Sydney, and I missed it. Sent a message, a gift etc. but I wasn't there. I feel sad about that.

Also my Uncle Derek died last week which is devastating to the family and I'm really feeling for Auntie Sheila right now. He was such a lovely man, fit, healthy and strong. SO unfair.

Being so far away, I now really feel what its like and is going to be like missing important family milestones. I can only now really appreciate how hard it must have been for my mum and dad moving to Australia 40 years ago.

I feel for my Dad right now, who through being such a totally awesome man, seems to always have the honour of being the toastmaster, MC, speechmaker. He is the man you want to stand up at your wedding to say the most amazing things. Lucky Jane to have him there to bring everyone together. Sadly his gig rolls on tomorrow to bury his friend.

I love you and miss you Dad.
x

What are friends for?

I don't think anyone has been as shocked as me at the difficulty I seem to be having here in London in making new friends.

Far from this being a total 'termsofendearment' style misery fest, no, I think its important for me to express my frustration at the few things that have made me the pshychotic mess that I seem to have become. And because all you loving caring friends that I do have in Cyber Space care so much about me, well, you're going to have to endure a little bit of cyber therapy.

So here goes.

1. I work too hard, and I'm totally terrified that they're going to soon discover that I havn't got a clue what I'm doing.

This occupies way too much of my energy, which, when I do get the chance to socialise, I find myself not particularly engaged in anything or anyone.

2. I miss my friends in Australia too much - they're a hard act to follow, and at my age, I figure, what's the use anyway?

3. I have tried to make friends on Gaydar, much to the fella's amusement and ridicule, and although I have made inroads into some lovely peoples lives, these relationships are still very infant, and I'm acutely aware that we met, well, on gaydar.

4. The fella is having a great time and making new friends, socialising having quiet dinners with new friends without me etc...and there's nothing worse than being miserable for a reason that the nearest person to you doesn't really understand.

5. I drink too much, which, on top of all this shit doesn't make anything any better.

All I know, Is I'm pretty miserable right now, which i dont think even my trip to the USA next week will fix.

SO I'm thinking of taking myself off to the shrink for some lessons in social behaviour 101. Who knows, perhaps I might come away with some pretty pink pills.

A load of old rubbish

It seems that our enlightened government here in great Britain want to do away with the weekly rubbish collection and collect fornightly instead. Their argument; to force people to recycle more.

What better way to divert ones attention from war in Iraq, the headscarf debarcle in schools, the Burqha, soaring gang violence in inner London and the impending resignation of the Prime Minister than to plunge us all head first into our own filth.

But to Tony's credit, he is defending the weekly collection as an important cultural institution that should be preserved.

Well, Tony, thats right. But don't, please think that it's the pathos of culturul whimsy that keeps us neat and sanitory. Lest we forget the plague, the filth of Georgean England before the mighty sewer, and those years under Thatcher. No ideed, Tony, most of the civilized, and even uncivilized earth places the sanitation of it's cities pretty high up on the list of critical services. Even the Faveals of Rio de Janeiro have sanitation.

What irks me the most about this debate is the fact that we're being forced to recycle more. I'm all for recycling, hell, I would recycle everything and just about everyone around me given half the chance. But really, when the council only collects newspaper and glass bottles, what options are there? In OZ, you can recucle just about everything, and the big mighty truck comes around once a week and even sorts it for you. And this is just a standard council service. Can you imagine what they would charge here for that?

The recycling truck comes around once a fortnight here in Brent Council. we have one small plastic bucket that services the recycling needs of 6 people in our 2 apartments.

You do the math.

Mum, if I die of Botulism or tetanus or dyptheria or dengue fever, because our overpaid and underworked whining council idiots stop collecting our potato peelings and used tea bags, you have my permission to write a VERY STERN LETTER.

X

Every breath you take

Oh my god.

I have few regrets about being too old or young to understand certain trends/cultural events that passed by me like the titanic in the night...

like

Elizabethan drama.
The Bay City Rollers
Transformers
My little Pony (though I have learned what all THAT fuss was about).

I would like to go on record to say that one thing that I regret about my age the MOST, is never, i mean NERVER EVER having the opportunity of seeing the POLICE in concert.

I absolutly love this group. There is so much naughtiness in every Sting lyric that he never really captured in his solo career 'free free, set them free.." (insert spazzo face here)...

My gorgeous and beautiful sister who is considerably older than I (sorry sis) was undoubtably resposible for my music choices early in life. Disco? uh huh. I remember singing along as a 3 year old to the Bothers Johnston from a vinyl on her record player in her bedroom. But mostly, I recall that she went to see the last ever conert of the Police at Narara, some dreadfully manky indie concert held in some paddock in NSW in the 80's.

So you can imagine my absolute delight that the Police have reformed for a concert tour. And they sound just as good. Who cares if Andy Summers is 64.

GOD I love it that I live in London. No chance they'd be coming to Melbourne then hey?

Sorry.

Don't bespeak to me.

MRS PUSSY'S WORD OF THE MONTH: BESPOKE

So WHAT is going on with the word BESPOKE?

The fella and I have a new little gag that we share. And, surprise surprise, we have become a little obsessed by it. Those who know and love us will know this is quite common in our house. Once we get onto something that amuses us, it may take many a year before we are able to put it down.

Case studies:

1. I'm still reeling from Pete's unusually late discovery and subsequent hysteria over the concept of the 'Jap's eye'
2. There is endless amount of spew in Fanula's purse
3. and then there's Kimmy. That gag has been going for nearly 10 years. Look at that. Ploise.

Since arriving on these fair shores the fella and I have noticed that the word is more popular than the Youtube video of Britney going ape with that umbrella on KFed's car. We have gone from being slightly amused to just plain flummoxed (oh yes, indeed) about the apllication of this little adjective to the most mundane and UNbespoke artifacts society has to offer.

And since I'm on a roll now, since arriving here, we have been generally satisfied with our grasp of the language (it is English after all). In fact, we feel positively superior in our commnd of vocabulary, and our elocution is excellent, even with our colonial upbringings. In fact, the number of people in the UK (especially in some boroughs of London and nearly everywhere up north) who really have a shocking use of language or an accent that is so damned lazy they might as well be speaking gobbledygook, is staggering. Case study readers, get your pencil out; Vicky Pollard.

So what is with this stupid little annoying word?

In any one day, I think i hear it used in conversation, or read it in print about 10 times. It is commonly used here to describe EVERYTHING. From the boardroom, to the bedroom, to the factory, to Lady Penelope Cossington Smythe's rose arbour. Londoner's just love this word and it is just EVERYWHERE.

Wikipedia has this to say

"Bespoke is a usually British English term for tailored clothing made at a customer's behest, and exactly to the customer's specification. Bespoke clothing is created without use of a pre-existing pattern, differentiating it from made to measure, which alters a standard-sized pattern to fit the customer."

The term begun in Saville Row, where the finest garments are tailored.

I have a bespoke penis. My hair today was bespoke, and I polished my shoes with a bespoke rag. We even have a bespoke deodorant. I mean, what is bespoke about a roll on? Do you get a special bespoke musky aroma that attracts other bespoke people and keeps bespoke sweat from forming no matter your bespoke workout? More like a special tailor made bespoke yellow stain in the pits of your nice new white shirt, that's what.

LOOK! A bespoke dog. No shit, google it, and on page 6 of your image search, this adorable poochie poo will pop up.

I think Londoner's like the use of it so much because it makes whatever they're consuming seem that much more important and special. Kind of car crash cache. Like getting relationship advice from Katie Holmes.

Maybe...

Sorry Madam, I will be right there.

I am lying in bed this morning nusrsing a bit of a hangover. Not the type that says quick, decapatate me and bury my head in a large pile of epsom salts, douse with evian, and reattach when lighty fizzed. Its more the Vicky Pollard type of "OOOH my god I can't be LIEVE you just did thaaaat.


You see, last night we went out for dinner with my delightful cousins Jo and Lou to celebrate Jo's birthday. We went to a restaurant in Marble Arch, and I'm not ashamed to tell you its name - Rhodes at W1.

It's quite a nice restaurant/bar, in the foyer of a very posh west end hotel. So in this kind of establishment, one would expect pretty damned good service.

Well, this is a transcript of a converstation between my cousin Jo and the waitress:

Jo: Can you please top up my wine? Or perhaps leave the bottle on the table.

Waitress: I will bring it to you.

time passes, no wine, entrees are brought to the table.

Jo: can you please top up my wine? I have already asked once.

Waitress: I have many tables to look after

Jo: I dont care about the other tables

Waitress: Well I do, thats my job, its very busy...

WRONG. BZZZ. You lose.

As Louise said, you should just smile and apologise and then go and spit in the food.

So after some WORDS to the manager, the service was excellent, as we had the manager topping up our wine almost to excess, so that's how we got a bit drunk.

Anyway, I hope the silly betch got the heave ho for that.

We're not in Melbourne anymore toto....