I sometimes wonder if city folk understand the torture we country folk often endure just to visit their metropolitan wonderlands?
Firstly, if we are not ‘city drivers’ (and this is me) we must negotiate the arduous journey by catching a train, bus, paper truck or camel caravan.
For train travel, we must rouse ourselves before the crack of dawn, dress for everything from a heatwave to a blizzard (just in case), get to the station in time, fight our way to our designated seat, wrench our shoulder muscles trying to hoik our bag into the overhead luggage rack, then spend the entire journey holding off from going to the toilet or the dining car for fear of falling over.
If we are particularly unlucky we will be seated next to someone who’s been travelling overnight and needs a shower. If we are even unluckier, they will be slightly crazy and insist on chattering to us all the way to town about why abattoirs are the work of evil mutton-hating politicians.
Fortunately, the Travelling Gods must have been smiling on me for my last few train trips as I have managed to be seated next to people who not only provided me with great company but who have also left me with the promise to purchase my book on-line. Cool! But then the train pulls into Southern Cross and the agony starts again.
Firstly you have to walk eighteen kilometres (or thereabouts) to get to anywhere you might want to go. Ticket booth. Metropolitan platform. Coffee shop. Toilet. Walk. Walk. Walk.
Funnily enough, we country folk seem to think we are generally healthier and more energetic than our pasty-faced city counterparts. But it seems we may be somewhat mistaken. Any city person who relies on public transport needs the zip of the Energiser Bunny, the tenacity of a Jack Russell and the leg muscles of an Olympian. Boy, can they go!
They’re everywhere; dashing furiously to their train platforms or tram stops or striding purposefully along those busy city footpaths. We country folk, on the other hand, tend to get the car out to go a few blocks and we secretly snigger as city folk spill into the parks on a sunny day to play with frizbees.
"How pathetic", we think smugly. "We can throw frizbees WHENEVER we want! (But not right now, kids. I just need to email ‘hello’ to the next door neighbour)."
Well, okay, perhaps we’re not all THAT lazy, but you must agree that living in the city does seem to require a certain amount of vigour. Not to mention mental agility. In fact, just being able to decipher public transport route signs seems to require a degree in cartography.
Disturbingly there seems to be a presumption that the person frantically scanning the signage might be someone who already knows where they are and where they need to go! Obviously, if you were thus informed, you probably wouldn’t be frantically scanning anything, but I don’t think the signage designers have quite grasped that point.
Perhaps they're not so much trying to direct confused visitors, but rather positively reinforce Melburnians that they really are quite clever. I guess a little positive reinforcement for your own citizens is nice, even if it does leave your visitors more confused than ever.
Well, anyway, after a visit to the city, I am always glad to get back home.
Now, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I just need to pop out to the letterbox to collect my mail.
“Honey, can you get the car out for me?”
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
The Lion Sleeps Tonight (luckily)
Africa’s Serengeti (according to those who have visited) is an amazing and magical place. Animals of all kinds roam the savanna, the incredible scenery tantalizes the senses and the history and culture of the human inhabitants of this great land amaze and humble all who go there.
Well most …… when they are not busy having a little Serengeti Domestic, that is.
And who, pray tell, were the Screaming Banshees of the Serengeti? None other than some dear relatives of mine who, to protect their identities, I shall call Jemima and Edwina.
In the company of Jemima’s spouse (whom I shall call Big Ted) this mother and daughter team had been enjoying a fabulous African safari. They had traversed the sweeping plains, been up close and personal with the wildlife and had generally been having a great — and good-humoured — trip.
That was until they arrived, hot and dusty, in a tribal village and were invited to participate in the traditional welcome. This involved a visitor of each gender taking part in a special ‘jumping’ dance.
All was going well at the start. Big Ted, a gregarious and relaxed fellow happily joined the jumping fray and things were going swimmingly. But then Jemima, a middle aged lady with high blood pressure, poked Edwina urgently and whispered “YOU’LL have to do the jumping!”
Edwina was not impressed; “I’m NOT jumping!” she hissed back through smiling (yet gritted) teeth.
“You damn-well WILL!” commanded Jemima, attempting to pull the ‘I’m Your Mother and I Tell You What to Do’ stunt which — if she’d been thinking clearly — she would have remembered had never been terribly effective on Edwina even when she was eight, let alone when she was twenty-eight. However Jemima wasn’t thinking clearly. All she could think of was that she definitely didn’t want to be doing a heart-thumping jumping dance in the middle of a dusty plain with no doctor in the house. Aside from maybe a Witch Doctor who, it would be probably fair to assume, may not have been carrying any heart medication in his little wildebeest-leather-kit-bag. The odd herbal remedy or magic spell, maybe: Beta Blockers, doubtful.
Anyhow, as befitting a young woman who has been brought up to respect others (in this case, the tribes folk) Edwina did, indeed, “jump”. And she jumped well. Her mother was proud … but that was not the end of the story….
As they made their way to their campsite Edwina let rip. “How DARE you put me on the spot like that! Don’t you EVER speak to me like that again!” she screeched.
“How dare YOU be so rude to your mother! Not to mention SELFISH!” shouted Jemima.
This went on long into the night until Big Ted (who had sensibly removed himself to a separate tent some distance away) eventually had had enough.
“Girls! Girls! Girls!” he yelled, “I — together with the entire population of the Serengeti — have been listening to this argument for hours, and you know what? You’re both right. You both have reason to be annoyed, so I think the best thing to do is stop talking to each other — RIGHT NOW! Can you do that? If not, there is a fairly good chance that you will single-handedly bring about the extinction of a multitude of local species. They’ll commit suicide just to get away from you!”
Jemima and Edwina laughed. He was right. How ridiculous to be having a mother-daughter spat when one was surrounded by such grandeur and beauty. They shut up and went to sleep.
(Post Script): Unbeknown to the squabbling travelers, the local lions — far from being suicidal —were actually just happy that the noise had abated and they weren’t forced to attack the tent and eat the girls (as originally planned).
Well most …… when they are not busy having a little Serengeti Domestic, that is.
And who, pray tell, were the Screaming Banshees of the Serengeti? None other than some dear relatives of mine who, to protect their identities, I shall call Jemima and Edwina.
In the company of Jemima’s spouse (whom I shall call Big Ted) this mother and daughter team had been enjoying a fabulous African safari. They had traversed the sweeping plains, been up close and personal with the wildlife and had generally been having a great — and good-humoured — trip.
That was until they arrived, hot and dusty, in a tribal village and were invited to participate in the traditional welcome. This involved a visitor of each gender taking part in a special ‘jumping’ dance.
All was going well at the start. Big Ted, a gregarious and relaxed fellow happily joined the jumping fray and things were going swimmingly. But then Jemima, a middle aged lady with high blood pressure, poked Edwina urgently and whispered “YOU’LL have to do the jumping!”
Edwina was not impressed; “I’m NOT jumping!” she hissed back through smiling (yet gritted) teeth.
“You damn-well WILL!” commanded Jemima, attempting to pull the ‘I’m Your Mother and I Tell You What to Do’ stunt which — if she’d been thinking clearly — she would have remembered had never been terribly effective on Edwina even when she was eight, let alone when she was twenty-eight. However Jemima wasn’t thinking clearly. All she could think of was that she definitely didn’t want to be doing a heart-thumping jumping dance in the middle of a dusty plain with no doctor in the house. Aside from maybe a Witch Doctor who, it would be probably fair to assume, may not have been carrying any heart medication in his little wildebeest-leather-kit-bag. The odd herbal remedy or magic spell, maybe: Beta Blockers, doubtful.
Anyhow, as befitting a young woman who has been brought up to respect others (in this case, the tribes folk) Edwina did, indeed, “jump”. And she jumped well. Her mother was proud … but that was not the end of the story….
As they made their way to their campsite Edwina let rip. “How DARE you put me on the spot like that! Don’t you EVER speak to me like that again!” she screeched.
“How dare YOU be so rude to your mother! Not to mention SELFISH!” shouted Jemima.
This went on long into the night until Big Ted (who had sensibly removed himself to a separate tent some distance away) eventually had had enough.
“Girls! Girls! Girls!” he yelled, “I — together with the entire population of the Serengeti — have been listening to this argument for hours, and you know what? You’re both right. You both have reason to be annoyed, so I think the best thing to do is stop talking to each other — RIGHT NOW! Can you do that? If not, there is a fairly good chance that you will single-handedly bring about the extinction of a multitude of local species. They’ll commit suicide just to get away from you!”
Jemima and Edwina laughed. He was right. How ridiculous to be having a mother-daughter spat when one was surrounded by such grandeur and beauty. They shut up and went to sleep.
(Post Script): Unbeknown to the squabbling travelers, the local lions — far from being suicidal —were actually just happy that the noise had abated and they weren’t forced to attack the tent and eat the girls (as originally planned).
Saturday, November 6, 2010
A Twit’s Eye View of the Internet
Today I had a very strange cyber experience. I logged onto my hotmail account and found an email from ‘me’. Well, from someone with my name. It was actually an invitation to join this person’s Facebook account as a ‘friend’.
Intrigued, I clicked ‘accept’. I assumed this other person was probably just someone who shared my name and had decided to make contact.
But I was wrong. This invitation wasn’t from another ‘me’ somewhere else in the world. It was actually from ME me!
How did I get this account? I wondered, as I opened the Other Me’s Facebook and realised it had all my own personal information plus some links to my own blog etc.
Then it dawned on me. My son has been helping me set up my blog. Being quite techno savvy he has been waxing lyrical about the possible benefits of linking my blog – which features articles previously published in my Kitchen Philosopher column together with info on my book – to other social networking sites.
His idea is that if we link the blog to Facebook and Twitter, we can increase the number of ‘hits’ on the blog and thus (hopefully!) the number of book sales. Well, that is the theory, anyway.
He’s even linked me to the blog analysis website so I can view my blog activity. This includes seeing how many visits I’ve had, where they are coming from and how long they stayed. It’s all very high tech.
This got me thinking about the way the retail world is changing. Where once upon a time businesses relied heavily on snail mail, word of mouth, newspaper ads and the bush telegraph to advertise their products, today its all about tweeting, blogging and posting. Even our former Prime Minister ‘twitters’ (although I’m not sure what he’s selling -- or if anyone’s buying, for that matter!)
But recently some downsides of these instantaneous communications have been exposed. First there was the newspaper columnist who twittered some highly inappropriate comments while watching the Logies and another whose very public online argument with a uni student culminated in unkind remarks about her foe and his (alleged) fondness for ‘gerbils’ (I’ll let you fill in the gaps here).
All this makes me nervous about the technology that allows us to publically blurt out every inane thought. At least with snail mail, we had some time between the envelope and the Post Office to consider the possible ramifications of our ‘rant’.
But even when you try to be careful about what you say on the internet, you never quite know where your musings might end up or what they might lose in the translation along the way!
I recently discovered this when an article I had written was published online. From it’s original website it apparently attracted quite a bit of attention, both nationally and internationally – judging by the site I later found it on which was clearly of Asian origin. I’m not sure, but I assume my article had been translated into an Asian language, then translated back into English. Consequently, it made for hilarious reading with some very funny misinterpretations of my phrasing, including one reference to ‘haemorrhoids’ which was certainly not in the original script!
While at first I was highly amused, I realised later that the article still bore my name which I found less amusing. But the really disconcerting thing is that I have absolutely no control over what anyone does with my words once they hit the web.
In fact, I feel like a bit of a Twit (erer)!
On the upside, at least I didn’t mention ‘gerbils’.
Intrigued, I clicked ‘accept’. I assumed this other person was probably just someone who shared my name and had decided to make contact.
But I was wrong. This invitation wasn’t from another ‘me’ somewhere else in the world. It was actually from ME me!
How did I get this account? I wondered, as I opened the Other Me’s Facebook and realised it had all my own personal information plus some links to my own blog etc.
Then it dawned on me. My son has been helping me set up my blog. Being quite techno savvy he has been waxing lyrical about the possible benefits of linking my blog – which features articles previously published in my Kitchen Philosopher column together with info on my book – to other social networking sites.
His idea is that if we link the blog to Facebook and Twitter, we can increase the number of ‘hits’ on the blog and thus (hopefully!) the number of book sales. Well, that is the theory, anyway.
He’s even linked me to the blog analysis website so I can view my blog activity. This includes seeing how many visits I’ve had, where they are coming from and how long they stayed. It’s all very high tech.
This got me thinking about the way the retail world is changing. Where once upon a time businesses relied heavily on snail mail, word of mouth, newspaper ads and the bush telegraph to advertise their products, today its all about tweeting, blogging and posting. Even our former Prime Minister ‘twitters’ (although I’m not sure what he’s selling -- or if anyone’s buying, for that matter!)
But recently some downsides of these instantaneous communications have been exposed. First there was the newspaper columnist who twittered some highly inappropriate comments while watching the Logies and another whose very public online argument with a uni student culminated in unkind remarks about her foe and his (alleged) fondness for ‘gerbils’ (I’ll let you fill in the gaps here).
All this makes me nervous about the technology that allows us to publically blurt out every inane thought. At least with snail mail, we had some time between the envelope and the Post Office to consider the possible ramifications of our ‘rant’.
But even when you try to be careful about what you say on the internet, you never quite know where your musings might end up or what they might lose in the translation along the way!
I recently discovered this when an article I had written was published online. From it’s original website it apparently attracted quite a bit of attention, both nationally and internationally – judging by the site I later found it on which was clearly of Asian origin. I’m not sure, but I assume my article had been translated into an Asian language, then translated back into English. Consequently, it made for hilarious reading with some very funny misinterpretations of my phrasing, including one reference to ‘haemorrhoids’ which was certainly not in the original script!
While at first I was highly amused, I realised later that the article still bore my name which I found less amusing. But the really disconcerting thing is that I have absolutely no control over what anyone does with my words once they hit the web.
In fact, I feel like a bit of a Twit (erer)!
On the upside, at least I didn’t mention ‘gerbils’.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
There's a pooch in my shower!
If you’ve been reading the Kitchen Philosopher column for a while you may recall me mentioning that, due to a lack of kitchen/laundry facilities while renovating our house, I was at one stage forced to wash the dishes (and everything else) in the shower. But who would have thought that a few years down the track I’d be at it again? In this case, washing the dog.
Now don’t get me wrong. I am not one of those truly doggie people who think their dogs are actually furry humans with stinky breath. Nor that they should be allowed to eat from your plate, sleep in your bed and lick your face if they want.
No, I have not quite succumbed to the Seduction of Scruffy Dawg, my mini-schnauzer, although I do admit to teetering dangerously close at times. (Okay, I did find myself lying on the floor the other night snuggling with him …. just because he looked soooooo cute and I couldn’t resist. But I still don’t think that qualifies me as a full-blown nutty dog-person….does it?)
Anyhoo, suffice to say that, on this ‘showering’ occasion, I didn’t have too many options. Outside the weather was cold and miserable, so Scruffy (with full support from his….um…mum) shunned the idea of outside ‘bathies’. The laundry trough had proven, on the last frustrating occasion, to be of inadequate proportions for effective wrangling of wet, squirming dogs. And so I was left with no other choice than to resort to the hand-held shower in the bathroom.
This proved to be more difficult than I imagined. Holding a slippery, wriggling mutt in one hand, while hosing him with the other, while soaping him with the other….um…wait a minute….I think you already see my dilemma! Well, let’s just say it aint easy. Especially when the Scruffy Dawg is not the most willing of participants.
Eventually, but not before soaking myself and pretty much the entire bathroom in the process, the ordeal was over and Scruffy and I were locked in a vice-like embrace as I attempted to dry him with a towel. This lasted approximately seven seconds before he escaped and shook himself vigorously, doing laps of the bathroom as he shook (to ensure maximum wall-spray coverage, you understand).
After a moderately successful second attempt with the towel we moved to phase two of the drying process — the ‘crazy-dog dash’ around the house. Phase three entailed trapping the canine world’s answer to Ricochet Rabbit and holding him in a headlock while trying (fairly unsuccessfully) to blow-dry him with the hair-dryer. I would guess Scruffy’s enjoyment levels at this stage were on a par with us humans having a tooth filled but, to his credit, he managed to stay still for a few seconds and I succeeded in drying the hair on his bum, if nothing else.
But it’s been worth all the effort. He looks and smells great! And as they say “Cleanliness is next to Godliness”.
Or was that “Dogliness”? I guess it all depends on how much of a nutty dog-worshipper you are. (Note* If you’re dog’s name is Zeus, Apollo or Yahweh, you’re probably a sad case).
Now don’t get me wrong. I am not one of those truly doggie people who think their dogs are actually furry humans with stinky breath. Nor that they should be allowed to eat from your plate, sleep in your bed and lick your face if they want.
No, I have not quite succumbed to the Seduction of Scruffy Dawg, my mini-schnauzer, although I do admit to teetering dangerously close at times. (Okay, I did find myself lying on the floor the other night snuggling with him …. just because he looked soooooo cute and I couldn’t resist. But I still don’t think that qualifies me as a full-blown nutty dog-person….does it?)
Anyhoo, suffice to say that, on this ‘showering’ occasion, I didn’t have too many options. Outside the weather was cold and miserable, so Scruffy (with full support from his….um…mum) shunned the idea of outside ‘bathies’. The laundry trough had proven, on the last frustrating occasion, to be of inadequate proportions for effective wrangling of wet, squirming dogs. And so I was left with no other choice than to resort to the hand-held shower in the bathroom.
This proved to be more difficult than I imagined. Holding a slippery, wriggling mutt in one hand, while hosing him with the other, while soaping him with the other….um…wait a minute….I think you already see my dilemma! Well, let’s just say it aint easy. Especially when the Scruffy Dawg is not the most willing of participants.
Eventually, but not before soaking myself and pretty much the entire bathroom in the process, the ordeal was over and Scruffy and I were locked in a vice-like embrace as I attempted to dry him with a towel. This lasted approximately seven seconds before he escaped and shook himself vigorously, doing laps of the bathroom as he shook (to ensure maximum wall-spray coverage, you understand).
After a moderately successful second attempt with the towel we moved to phase two of the drying process — the ‘crazy-dog dash’ around the house. Phase three entailed trapping the canine world’s answer to Ricochet Rabbit and holding him in a headlock while trying (fairly unsuccessfully) to blow-dry him with the hair-dryer. I would guess Scruffy’s enjoyment levels at this stage were on a par with us humans having a tooth filled but, to his credit, he managed to stay still for a few seconds and I succeeded in drying the hair on his bum, if nothing else.
But it’s been worth all the effort. He looks and smells great! And as they say “Cleanliness is next to Godliness”.
Or was that “Dogliness”? I guess it all depends on how much of a nutty dog-worshipper you are. (Note* If you’re dog’s name is Zeus, Apollo or Yahweh, you’re probably a sad case).
Saturday, October 23, 2010
A Font of Wisdom
As a prolific email writer I’ve often thought it would be a great idea if we could have fonts that truly reflect our frame of mind and the preferred voice inflection of our processed words.
This could, after all, help prevent many misunderstandings around the tone of our emails.
For example, a couple of days ago I sent what I thought was a reasonably ‘friendly’ email inquiring as to whether the feedback I had provided to a colleague was to be included in the resultant document (as it appeared to NOT have been).
A subsequent telephone conversation with the colleague revealed that she had thought I was ‘miffed’ due to a perceived somewhat ‘snippy’ inflection to my email. I assured her this was not the case at all, but that I had been trying to sound casual, friendly and non-snippy. Clearly it hadn’t worked.
Therefore I believe we need a few new fonts so that our feelings on any given matter can be truly reflected in the written word.
For example, when we are feeling a bit out of sorts we could use “Cranky” font. When sad we could use “Sooky La La” font. “Mildly Disgruntled” font would be one I would use fairly regularly to convey my displeasure and “Snitchy” font could be very handy for those moments when only a catty voice will do. Personally I also wouldn’t mind a “Don’t Even THINK About It Buddy” font for those days of the month when it’s really not wise to cross me.
“Sarky” font would ensure that the subtle nuances of sarcasm are not lost and “Totally Cats Bum” font would be reserved for those moments when ‘one is not amused’.
“Smarmy” font would be useful for gloating and “Grovel” font would come in handy when you have a little sucking up to do. I must admit that a “Frankly I Can’t Be Bothered” font might get a work out on my computer — particularly on Friday afternoons — as would my “Tell Someone Who Cares” font.
The “I Can’t Believe I Have to Spell This Out to You, You Moron” font would carry me through the moments of exasperation while the “I Think This Is Hysterical, So Make Sure You Laugh Too” font would ensure my jokes are fully appreciated. The ‘I’m Only Sending You This Email Because They Said Something Good Would Happen to Me if I Sent it To at Least 8 People” font would save a lot of explaining as to why I have forwarded the Tibetan Prayer of Universal Love and Kisses to six million of my closest friends.
I’m sure there are many more potential fonts just waiting to be invented and I believe there is certainly a market for these in offices all around the world.
After all, at present it’s nigh impossible to accurately decipher if the email sender is actually being snippy or was just too busy scoffing down chocolates and talking on the phone to take proper notice of what he or she was typing. The new fonts would clarify the mental state of the typist and save valuable time in coming up with a suitably matched font for the reply.
In fact, I reckon this invention has really got legs. It’s so good I intend to contact Microsoft personally. I think I will use one of my latest ideas:
“OY! HOWSABOUT MAKING SOME NEW SHOUTY FONTS?”
I reckon they’ll get that, don’t you?
This could, after all, help prevent many misunderstandings around the tone of our emails.
For example, a couple of days ago I sent what I thought was a reasonably ‘friendly’ email inquiring as to whether the feedback I had provided to a colleague was to be included in the resultant document (as it appeared to NOT have been).
A subsequent telephone conversation with the colleague revealed that she had thought I was ‘miffed’ due to a perceived somewhat ‘snippy’ inflection to my email. I assured her this was not the case at all, but that I had been trying to sound casual, friendly and non-snippy. Clearly it hadn’t worked.
Therefore I believe we need a few new fonts so that our feelings on any given matter can be truly reflected in the written word.
For example, when we are feeling a bit out of sorts we could use “Cranky” font. When sad we could use “Sooky La La” font. “Mildly Disgruntled” font would be one I would use fairly regularly to convey my displeasure and “Snitchy” font could be very handy for those moments when only a catty voice will do. Personally I also wouldn’t mind a “Don’t Even THINK About It Buddy” font for those days of the month when it’s really not wise to cross me.
“Sarky” font would ensure that the subtle nuances of sarcasm are not lost and “Totally Cats Bum” font would be reserved for those moments when ‘one is not amused’.
“Smarmy” font would be useful for gloating and “Grovel” font would come in handy when you have a little sucking up to do. I must admit that a “Frankly I Can’t Be Bothered” font might get a work out on my computer — particularly on Friday afternoons — as would my “Tell Someone Who Cares” font.
The “I Can’t Believe I Have to Spell This Out to You, You Moron” font would carry me through the moments of exasperation while the “I Think This Is Hysterical, So Make Sure You Laugh Too” font would ensure my jokes are fully appreciated. The ‘I’m Only Sending You This Email Because They Said Something Good Would Happen to Me if I Sent it To at Least 8 People” font would save a lot of explaining as to why I have forwarded the Tibetan Prayer of Universal Love and Kisses to six million of my closest friends.
I’m sure there are many more potential fonts just waiting to be invented and I believe there is certainly a market for these in offices all around the world.
After all, at present it’s nigh impossible to accurately decipher if the email sender is actually being snippy or was just too busy scoffing down chocolates and talking on the phone to take proper notice of what he or she was typing. The new fonts would clarify the mental state of the typist and save valuable time in coming up with a suitably matched font for the reply.
In fact, I reckon this invention has really got legs. It’s so good I intend to contact Microsoft personally. I think I will use one of my latest ideas:
“OY! HOWSABOUT MAKING SOME NEW SHOUTY FONTS?”
I reckon they’ll get that, don’t you?
Friday, October 15, 2010
Is Master Chef making Us Fat?
The other day I read something which really took my attention. I pathetically admit I was once again reading a weight loss book. This one was written by none other than that straight-shootin’, tough lovin’ Dr Phil. Yes, he of scary U.S. daytime television where ‘regular’ people expose their deepest, darkest souls to the scrutiny -- and often ridicule -- of the studio audience and a few million viewers worldwide. As you do if you want to keep your affairs private and maintain some measure of dignity.
Anyway, the good doctor has written a very detailed and sensible book, if I may say so, on the ‘ultimate’ way to lose weight. Essentially he says we need to take responsibility for our eating habits and get our heads together before we can possibly lose weight. Nothing so surprising there, really.
What was surprising is that Dr Phil claims scientists now believe that when we look longingly at food (drooling over a cream cake for example) our bodies begin to release insulin which accelerates the uptake of fat into our cells for storage. Meaning of course, that we might very well be gaining weight without even eating a bite! Yikes!
I started thinking about the possible implications of this in the context of our current national love affair with all things gastronomic. Specifically, I was thinking about the incredibly high-rating TV show ‘Master Chef’.
Apparently, in its last season, over two million viewers were tuning into every episode of the show. Therefore, on the basis of the aforementioned science, that would mean every time they looked lovingly at the food being cooked on the show, these same two million viewers were exposing themselves to insulin release and possible fat uptake. That’s a lot of flab!
Taking this idea a little further, think about all the people who wander around bakeries and delicatessens; greedily eyeing off the various delicious-looking treats on offer. Surely, they too, are in the firing line for a little insulin mischief, are they not?
And then there is advertising. Every second ad on television is promoting food – often fatty, salty, sugary fast-food portrayed as mouth-wateringly as possible. While we dieters sit despondently on the couch nibbling on cardboard crackers and lusting silently over the Big Mac with fries sizzling tantalisingly on the screen (and congratulating ourselves on our fabulous willpower) could it be that are our dastardly hormones are busily whipping up a little fat-storing frenzy?
And what about all the kids who watch these ads? Do their bodies produce insulin in the same way as adult bodies supposedly do? Are we inadvertently fattening up our kids by letting them even just view tempting food?
It really does make you wonder. I mean, we all know that obesity is becoming a serious problem amongst kids today. You only need visit a fast food joint near you to see whole kilos of garbage being inhaled by pudgy-faced kids. Couple this with our more sedentary lifestyles and it’s probably not surprising that we are raising a nation of fatties.
But, thanks to Dr Phil and his terrifying little revelation, I now wonder if it’s the whole story? Maybe it’s not just ‘a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips’ but also ‘a moment in your eye and the scales go sky-high!’
Well, anyway, I’m taking no chances. Next time I watch Master Chef, I will be covering my eyes.
After all, I have enough problems with real, live, in-my-mouth food expanding my girth without having sneaky insulin hormones hijacking me from the side-lines as well!
Anyway, the good doctor has written a very detailed and sensible book, if I may say so, on the ‘ultimate’ way to lose weight. Essentially he says we need to take responsibility for our eating habits and get our heads together before we can possibly lose weight. Nothing so surprising there, really.
What was surprising is that Dr Phil claims scientists now believe that when we look longingly at food (drooling over a cream cake for example) our bodies begin to release insulin which accelerates the uptake of fat into our cells for storage. Meaning of course, that we might very well be gaining weight without even eating a bite! Yikes!
I started thinking about the possible implications of this in the context of our current national love affair with all things gastronomic. Specifically, I was thinking about the incredibly high-rating TV show ‘Master Chef’.
Apparently, in its last season, over two million viewers were tuning into every episode of the show. Therefore, on the basis of the aforementioned science, that would mean every time they looked lovingly at the food being cooked on the show, these same two million viewers were exposing themselves to insulin release and possible fat uptake. That’s a lot of flab!
Taking this idea a little further, think about all the people who wander around bakeries and delicatessens; greedily eyeing off the various delicious-looking treats on offer. Surely, they too, are in the firing line for a little insulin mischief, are they not?
And then there is advertising. Every second ad on television is promoting food – often fatty, salty, sugary fast-food portrayed as mouth-wateringly as possible. While we dieters sit despondently on the couch nibbling on cardboard crackers and lusting silently over the Big Mac with fries sizzling tantalisingly on the screen (and congratulating ourselves on our fabulous willpower) could it be that are our dastardly hormones are busily whipping up a little fat-storing frenzy?
And what about all the kids who watch these ads? Do their bodies produce insulin in the same way as adult bodies supposedly do? Are we inadvertently fattening up our kids by letting them even just view tempting food?
It really does make you wonder. I mean, we all know that obesity is becoming a serious problem amongst kids today. You only need visit a fast food joint near you to see whole kilos of garbage being inhaled by pudgy-faced kids. Couple this with our more sedentary lifestyles and it’s probably not surprising that we are raising a nation of fatties.
But, thanks to Dr Phil and his terrifying little revelation, I now wonder if it’s the whole story? Maybe it’s not just ‘a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips’ but also ‘a moment in your eye and the scales go sky-high!’
Well, anyway, I’m taking no chances. Next time I watch Master Chef, I will be covering my eyes.
After all, I have enough problems with real, live, in-my-mouth food expanding my girth without having sneaky insulin hormones hijacking me from the side-lines as well!
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
It's A Dog's Life for Me
I’ve decided that if I ever get reincarnated, I’m coming back as a dog. Preferably a dog owned by me (to ensure maximum comfort, that is).
Dogs are so uncomplicated. They eat, sleep, play, poo and sniff. That’s about it.
They are excited by everything. No matter how many times you walk them around the same block, it’s like the maiden voyage. Every lamppost, pile of leaves and tussock of grass is intriguing and beguiling. They sniff like it’s the first time they’ve ever smelt the ‘eau de urine’ of some previous canine visitor or the waft of rabbit near the showground sheds. It’s all so fascinating!
My dogs wallow like furry hippos in every available puddle, roll in dead fish on the river bank (if given half a chance) and greet everyone they meet with slobbering, wet-pawed enthusiasm. They don’t always get that not everyone wants to be jumped on by a soggy, shaggy mutt; in fact, it never enters their heads. Why would it when they have been led to believe that they are the Supreme Four Pawed Masters of the Universe? (or at least the portion of the universe that extends for a few kilometres either side of their Utopian Doggy Palace -- aka my place).
They are always happy to see you; even if you smell, look like death or are having a really bad hair day. They don’t care if you’re happy, sad, furious, depressed, sane, crazy or drunk. As long as you have one hand that’s capable of scratching their belly while the other locates the dog treats in the pantry, all is right in their world.
The simple joy of gnawing a bone cannot be understated, according to dogs. There is nothing quite like a half-rotten chunk of animal carcass to lift one’s doggy spirits. Better still if it’s been buried for a few 40 degree days in the back yard; thus maximising its gross-o-nomic rating. Ah, the uncomplicated joy!
And what pooch in his right mind wouldn’t turn himself inside out for the opportunity to suck on a pig’s ear for half an hour? Not too many of the ones I know, that’s for sure! And yes, at my place pigs ears are a regular treat. Not to mention liver ‘treaties’, bone biscuits, Schmacko strips and the occasional doggie carob bar.
The downside of such indulgence may well be the future pancreatic misfortune of my hairy kids, so I am trying to keep the fatty stuff to a minimum – but it’s soooo hard! Especially when they look at you appealingly through their fluffy white (Lloyd Bridges) eyebrows or hoist themselves insistently at the back window in an attempt to gain your attention. What’s a smitten doggie owner to do?
Okay, okay, I shouldn’t be such a sucker. I know this is how bad habits are formed, but at least I do make them ‘sit’ before they get their treaties, so I’m not a total pushover, am I?
Oh, and by the way, it’s just not true that they ate a whole couch at the boarding kennels last time they visited. That was a vicious lie. Just because the same thing has been happening to their beds here at home, doesn’t mean there’s any link……
Well anyway, life’s good when you’re a dog. No responsibilities. No bills to pay, dishes to wash, lawns to mow, meals to cook or work to go to. Not a care in the world. Other than perhaps, when you might be getting your next ‘walkies’. And I’m sure mine don’t ever really worry about that either. If they really want a walk they just go nutzoid around the loungeroom for a few minutes and start chomping on the couch. We soon get the message. And they say animals can’t talk!
So, next time around, it’s definitely a dog’s life for me.
Just hold off on the pigs ears okay? For some reason, gnawing on the aural appendage of a dead swine just doesn’t seem to do it for me.
But, then again, I’m not a dog. Yet.
Dogs are so uncomplicated. They eat, sleep, play, poo and sniff. That’s about it.
They are excited by everything. No matter how many times you walk them around the same block, it’s like the maiden voyage. Every lamppost, pile of leaves and tussock of grass is intriguing and beguiling. They sniff like it’s the first time they’ve ever smelt the ‘eau de urine’ of some previous canine visitor or the waft of rabbit near the showground sheds. It’s all so fascinating!
My dogs wallow like furry hippos in every available puddle, roll in dead fish on the river bank (if given half a chance) and greet everyone they meet with slobbering, wet-pawed enthusiasm. They don’t always get that not everyone wants to be jumped on by a soggy, shaggy mutt; in fact, it never enters their heads. Why would it when they have been led to believe that they are the Supreme Four Pawed Masters of the Universe? (or at least the portion of the universe that extends for a few kilometres either side of their Utopian Doggy Palace -- aka my place).
They are always happy to see you; even if you smell, look like death or are having a really bad hair day. They don’t care if you’re happy, sad, furious, depressed, sane, crazy or drunk. As long as you have one hand that’s capable of scratching their belly while the other locates the dog treats in the pantry, all is right in their world.
The simple joy of gnawing a bone cannot be understated, according to dogs. There is nothing quite like a half-rotten chunk of animal carcass to lift one’s doggy spirits. Better still if it’s been buried for a few 40 degree days in the back yard; thus maximising its gross-o-nomic rating. Ah, the uncomplicated joy!
And what pooch in his right mind wouldn’t turn himself inside out for the opportunity to suck on a pig’s ear for half an hour? Not too many of the ones I know, that’s for sure! And yes, at my place pigs ears are a regular treat. Not to mention liver ‘treaties’, bone biscuits, Schmacko strips and the occasional doggie carob bar.
The downside of such indulgence may well be the future pancreatic misfortune of my hairy kids, so I am trying to keep the fatty stuff to a minimum – but it’s soooo hard! Especially when they look at you appealingly through their fluffy white (Lloyd Bridges) eyebrows or hoist themselves insistently at the back window in an attempt to gain your attention. What’s a smitten doggie owner to do?
Okay, okay, I shouldn’t be such a sucker. I know this is how bad habits are formed, but at least I do make them ‘sit’ before they get their treaties, so I’m not a total pushover, am I?
Oh, and by the way, it’s just not true that they ate a whole couch at the boarding kennels last time they visited. That was a vicious lie. Just because the same thing has been happening to their beds here at home, doesn’t mean there’s any link……
Well anyway, life’s good when you’re a dog. No responsibilities. No bills to pay, dishes to wash, lawns to mow, meals to cook or work to go to. Not a care in the world. Other than perhaps, when you might be getting your next ‘walkies’. And I’m sure mine don’t ever really worry about that either. If they really want a walk they just go nutzoid around the loungeroom for a few minutes and start chomping on the couch. We soon get the message. And they say animals can’t talk!
So, next time around, it’s definitely a dog’s life for me.
Just hold off on the pigs ears okay? For some reason, gnawing on the aural appendage of a dead swine just doesn’t seem to do it for me.
But, then again, I’m not a dog. Yet.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Professor recommends "Hot Tips for Cool Parents"
Internationally recognised in the field of early childhood development, Emeritus Professor Philip Gammage PhD D Phil FRSA (Nottingham University, UK) has this to say about my new book "Hot Tips for Cool Parents: the key to raising awesome kids":
"Parenting doesn't always come naturally and good sense about it needs to be accessible. This book is full of good sense and is easily assimilated, humorous, practical and low key in its approach. Moreover the facts and research behind it are rarely easily accessible, so we are doubly indebted to the author. Read it...it will save you much heart ache. Common sense of the best sort. Dip into it when you need it. It shapes ideas fairly and squarely."
I'm so honoured that Professor Gammage has not only taken the time to read my book, but also to provide such positive feedback. Having seen and learned about his often groundbreaking work, both here in Australia and internationally in the UK and Europe, I am even more delighted that he has given Hot Tips for Cool Parents the thumbs up! Thank you Professor Gammage.
Visit www.philipgammage.org to find out more about Prof Gammage
"Parenting doesn't always come naturally and good sense about it needs to be accessible. This book is full of good sense and is easily assimilated, humorous, practical and low key in its approach. Moreover the facts and research behind it are rarely easily accessible, so we are doubly indebted to the author. Read it...it will save you much heart ache. Common sense of the best sort. Dip into it when you need it. It shapes ideas fairly and squarely."
I'm so honoured that Professor Gammage has not only taken the time to read my book, but also to provide such positive feedback. Having seen and learned about his often groundbreaking work, both here in Australia and internationally in the UK and Europe, I am even more delighted that he has given Hot Tips for Cool Parents the thumbs up! Thank you Professor Gammage.
Visit www.philipgammage.org to find out more about Prof Gammage
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Careering Off - A Negative Jobseeker's Guide
I know this might sound a bit negative, but I reckon we could save a lot of time helping job seekers if, instead of asking them what they would ‘like’ to do, we just cut to the chase and asked them what they would ‘hate’ to do.
For example, I was recently helping a young friend put his Resume together. I started off asking him questions about what he really liked doing. This was met mostly with a lot of shrugging, blank staring and ‘I dunno’ ing. Clearly, I was getting nowhere, so I decided to change tactic.
“Okay” I said, “Tell me about the subjects you hated most at school, starting with the yuckiest.”
His face lit up and he rattled of a litany of despised tasks before eventually working his way back to the things he actually liked doing. Finally, with a bit more probing, we came up with a bunch of possible areas in which he might excel in the future.
What started as a plunge into the murky pool of negativity ended up on a very positive note! The Resume was a success and I’m happy to report the young man is now happily employed in an area that suits him.
This experience got me thinking about careers that wouldn’t work for me.
Some examples and the reasons I would be unsuitable for these roles are:
Brain Surgeon: No good with squishy things and useless with drills.
Mathematics Teacher: Number challenged. Likely to ask things like “What is the square root of 1356?” only to respond with an astonished “Really?” when correct answer is supplied by 5th Grader.
Airline Pilot: Dodgy sense of direction. Could be heard announcing: “Ladies and gentleman, I know we all thought we were heading to Hawaii, but I …um…kinda misread the coordinates and instead we will soon be landing in down-town Beirut. Look, I know it’s not quite the holiday you had planned, but there’s still a fair bit of sand about!”
Lead guitarist in a heavy metal band: Guitar ability limited to 6 chords, scared of tattoos and not sure if paracetamol counts as a recreational drug.
Bus or truck driver: Whole buildings, footpaths and pedestrians could go missing due to my inability to judge correct corner-turning allowance.
Football commentator: Might get distracted and say things like, “And the cute one with the nice thighs handballs to the Adonis with the pecs!” While I’m sure many girls would love it, the die-hard footy fans might lynch me.
Chef: Suffice to say, I’m sure there would be many people willing to testify that this is not, nor ever should be, the career for me.
These are just a few of the things I’d be really bad at and I now realise why we don’t normally start the resume writing process from the negative position. It’s so depressing!
I can just imagine our hapless jobseeker after undergoing this process:
Prospective employer: “And what skills would you bring to this role, Bill?”
Bill: “Dunno, but I can tell you what I’m really RUBBISH at, if that’s any help?”
For example, I was recently helping a young friend put his Resume together. I started off asking him questions about what he really liked doing. This was met mostly with a lot of shrugging, blank staring and ‘I dunno’ ing. Clearly, I was getting nowhere, so I decided to change tactic.
“Okay” I said, “Tell me about the subjects you hated most at school, starting with the yuckiest.”
His face lit up and he rattled of a litany of despised tasks before eventually working his way back to the things he actually liked doing. Finally, with a bit more probing, we came up with a bunch of possible areas in which he might excel in the future.
What started as a plunge into the murky pool of negativity ended up on a very positive note! The Resume was a success and I’m happy to report the young man is now happily employed in an area that suits him.
This experience got me thinking about careers that wouldn’t work for me.
Some examples and the reasons I would be unsuitable for these roles are:
Brain Surgeon: No good with squishy things and useless with drills.
Mathematics Teacher: Number challenged. Likely to ask things like “What is the square root of 1356?” only to respond with an astonished “Really?” when correct answer is supplied by 5th Grader.
Airline Pilot: Dodgy sense of direction. Could be heard announcing: “Ladies and gentleman, I know we all thought we were heading to Hawaii, but I …um…kinda misread the coordinates and instead we will soon be landing in down-town Beirut. Look, I know it’s not quite the holiday you had planned, but there’s still a fair bit of sand about!”
Lead guitarist in a heavy metal band: Guitar ability limited to 6 chords, scared of tattoos and not sure if paracetamol counts as a recreational drug.
Bus or truck driver: Whole buildings, footpaths and pedestrians could go missing due to my inability to judge correct corner-turning allowance.
Football commentator: Might get distracted and say things like, “And the cute one with the nice thighs handballs to the Adonis with the pecs!” While I’m sure many girls would love it, the die-hard footy fans might lynch me.
Chef: Suffice to say, I’m sure there would be many people willing to testify that this is not, nor ever should be, the career for me.
These are just a few of the things I’d be really bad at and I now realise why we don’t normally start the resume writing process from the negative position. It’s so depressing!
I can just imagine our hapless jobseeker after undergoing this process:
Prospective employer: “And what skills would you bring to this role, Bill?”
Bill: “Dunno, but I can tell you what I’m really RUBBISH at, if that’s any help?”
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
A healthy attitude?
Remember youth? Remember when you could do all sorts of terrible things to your body – like staying up late, never eating vegetables, avoiding water like the plague, frying yourself to a crisp in the sun, eating fatty, salty foods, drinking too much alcohol or choofing through a whole packet of fags in one night? Remember when your body just repaired itself and moved on?
Well brace yourselves, fellow Baby Boomers for, as a ‘Tail Ender’ of your generation, I’m here to officially tell you “it’s all over”. But don’t fret. Its passing need not be lamented. In fact, this new phase of life offers opportunities not yet discovered or enjoyed by those of younger, healthier disposition.
Yes folks, I have now joined the ranks of those who think it’s not only acceptable but down-right socially valuable to have an illness or two to discuss with one’s friends. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder what on earth I ever talked about before I was introduced to gastroscopies, colonoscopies and any other human-orifice-oscopy you can name.
Ah, the suspense of a good heart-murmur story; the intrigue of a difficult-to-diagnose kidney malfunction; the exhilaration of a cunningly detected helicobacter virus and the heartwarming tale of successful toe-nail surgery.
Where once we discussed world affairs, the news of the day, our kids or the latest gossip around town, today my degenerating cohorts and I go straight for the ‘health update’, reliving every ache, pain or dysfunction that’s afflicted us over the past decade.
We compare and contrast; we embellish and amplify; we dissect and diagnose. In short, we have a great time ghoulishly reveling in the inevitable demise of the human organism; even if it happens to be our own organism that’s up for discussion. It’s the entertainment value that counts, after all!
Besides, they say “a problem shared is a problem halved”, although I have to admit it’s unlikely that (unless you are highly infectious at the time of discussion) even your bestest buddies are going to take on a half-share of your latest affliction; that might be stretching the friendship just a tad too far. I mean, sharing a joke, a cuppa and the general details of someone’s illness is one thing; putting your life at risk for the sake of an interesting relationship is quite another.
And so, like those who have gone before me — and behind whose backs I would snigger when they insisted on imparting every gruesome detail of their latest health woe — I too find myself subscribing to the philosophy that everybody else finds my medical emergencies as fascinating as I do. After all, I think to myself, why wouldn’t they? (I admit it’s a thought I haven’t necessarily fully explored, so it may well be flawed in some way…).
But despite my acceptance of health topics as the new dominant force in my conversational life, I do still have one bodily frontier I am not yet fully willing to discuss and that is the intricacies of someone else’s, shall we say, digestive processes (and the bi-products thereof, if you take my meaning). Yes, one day my friends and I may openly and unabashedly share every grisly aspect of our ablutions, but today is not that day and nor shall it be for a little while yet.
In the meantime, I am quite happy having a chat about any other anatomical process, surgical procedure or medication. Yours, mine or Mr Bloggs Down the Road’s. It’s only natural, this hankering to understand the physical nature of ….well …nature … and to attempt to stave off the affects of the ageing process. After all, who amongst us actually likes the idea of becoming decrepit …or worse?
And besides, with our minds starting to go as well, as we approach our twilight years, it’s probably not a bad idea to focus on something as close to home as our own bodies. God knows where our thoughts might end up if we start worrying too much about other stuff. We might forget to take our tablets … or go to the toilet!
Uh oh…..did I just say “toilet”?
Yikes, it’s started already!!
I better stop now before I say “poo!”
Well brace yourselves, fellow Baby Boomers for, as a ‘Tail Ender’ of your generation, I’m here to officially tell you “it’s all over”. But don’t fret. Its passing need not be lamented. In fact, this new phase of life offers opportunities not yet discovered or enjoyed by those of younger, healthier disposition.
Yes folks, I have now joined the ranks of those who think it’s not only acceptable but down-right socially valuable to have an illness or two to discuss with one’s friends. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder what on earth I ever talked about before I was introduced to gastroscopies, colonoscopies and any other human-orifice-oscopy you can name.
Ah, the suspense of a good heart-murmur story; the intrigue of a difficult-to-diagnose kidney malfunction; the exhilaration of a cunningly detected helicobacter virus and the heartwarming tale of successful toe-nail surgery.
Where once we discussed world affairs, the news of the day, our kids or the latest gossip around town, today my degenerating cohorts and I go straight for the ‘health update’, reliving every ache, pain or dysfunction that’s afflicted us over the past decade.
We compare and contrast; we embellish and amplify; we dissect and diagnose. In short, we have a great time ghoulishly reveling in the inevitable demise of the human organism; even if it happens to be our own organism that’s up for discussion. It’s the entertainment value that counts, after all!
Besides, they say “a problem shared is a problem halved”, although I have to admit it’s unlikely that (unless you are highly infectious at the time of discussion) even your bestest buddies are going to take on a half-share of your latest affliction; that might be stretching the friendship just a tad too far. I mean, sharing a joke, a cuppa and the general details of someone’s illness is one thing; putting your life at risk for the sake of an interesting relationship is quite another.
And so, like those who have gone before me — and behind whose backs I would snigger when they insisted on imparting every gruesome detail of their latest health woe — I too find myself subscribing to the philosophy that everybody else finds my medical emergencies as fascinating as I do. After all, I think to myself, why wouldn’t they? (I admit it’s a thought I haven’t necessarily fully explored, so it may well be flawed in some way…).
But despite my acceptance of health topics as the new dominant force in my conversational life, I do still have one bodily frontier I am not yet fully willing to discuss and that is the intricacies of someone else’s, shall we say, digestive processes (and the bi-products thereof, if you take my meaning). Yes, one day my friends and I may openly and unabashedly share every grisly aspect of our ablutions, but today is not that day and nor shall it be for a little while yet.
In the meantime, I am quite happy having a chat about any other anatomical process, surgical procedure or medication. Yours, mine or Mr Bloggs Down the Road’s. It’s only natural, this hankering to understand the physical nature of ….well …nature … and to attempt to stave off the affects of the ageing process. After all, who amongst us actually likes the idea of becoming decrepit …or worse?
And besides, with our minds starting to go as well, as we approach our twilight years, it’s probably not a bad idea to focus on something as close to home as our own bodies. God knows where our thoughts might end up if we start worrying too much about other stuff. We might forget to take our tablets … or go to the toilet!
Uh oh…..did I just say “toilet”?
Yikes, it’s started already!!
I better stop now before I say “poo!”
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
A Ghostly Tale
A friend was telling me how, at a wedding in New York, he got chatting with the young woman seated beside him. He asked her what she did for a living and she said she was a ‘ghost writer’.
Imagining all kinds of ghoulish protagonists and spooky storylines, my friend was intrigued.
“So does that mean you write books about the dead?” he asked innocently. But his new friend (whom he had secretly nick-named “Casper”) enlightened him that a ‘ghost writer’ doesn’t actually write about ghosts, but writes on behalf of someone else.
“Who do you write for then?” my friend asked. Casper shook her head and drew pincered fingers across her lips in a zipper gesture.
“Can’t tell you, I’m afraid,” she said. “Ghost writers often write for quite well known authors. Naturally the authors don’t want the public to know that they are not actually writing the books and their publishers don’t care who’s actually writing them, as long as they make their squillions.”
My friend was aghast, “You mean some of our big-name, world-reknowned authors may not even be writing their own books?”
Casper, however, was giving nothing away. She explained that she gets paid a lot of money to write …. and keep her mouth shut.
“But don’t you ever get the urge to blurt out that you actually wrote so-and-so’s latest best-seller?” my friend persisted. “Or the desire to write a book under your own name?”
“Not much point, really,” Casper replied. “My name means nothing to the reading public and I can’t exactly say “Ooh, but I wrote “Blah Blah” (fabulous best-seller) for “Blah Blah” (Big Name Author) can I? It would rather jeopardise my ghostly status … and my bank balance.”
My friend took her point but shook his head in bewilderment at why someone would be willing to ‘sell’ themselves in such a way.
This story made me wonder what it would be like if people in other industries decided to have ‘ghost workers’ to do the actual work, while they sat back and collected the money and kudos.
For instance, can you imagine the ‘ghost plumber’ sliding selflessly down the sewer to retrieve something nasty from the pipeworks then standing back, unperturbed, while the lady of the house lavishes cash, thanks and a slab of Carlton Cold on the ‘real plumber’ (who’s been watching from the safety of the back porch?) I don’t think so.
Or the ‘ghost-detective’ who risks losing life, limb (and occasionally the contents of his stomach) unearthing clues and dead bodies, only to pass all the information to the ‘real detective’ who gets all the credit … and the promotion? Doubtful.
But I guess, in reality, there are ‘ghost personnel’ in every organisation right across the world; people whose individual work is passed off as the intellect, the research, the expertise or the ‘brainchild’ of someone else. Funnily enough, it’s actually a win-win situation. After all, in the spirit of reciprocity, those whose ideas and projects are used, do get paid for their creativity and hard work. It’s how human organisations get things done.
So I guess those best-selling authors with ‘ghost writers’ tucked in their turrets are not so despicable after all. The reading public gets another guaranteed pot-boiler, the ‘ghost writer’ gets a tidy little sum and the author gets to sit on her sun-lounge collecting royalties (and she can blame someone else for any writing gaffes!)
Not that a ghost writer would necessarily be an easy scapegoat for blame, for surely she would just deny all knowledge of the matter (as per her contract) and get off Scot free, wouldn’t she?
And fair enough too. After all, there have to be some perks in being invisible!
Imagining all kinds of ghoulish protagonists and spooky storylines, my friend was intrigued.
“So does that mean you write books about the dead?” he asked innocently. But his new friend (whom he had secretly nick-named “Casper”) enlightened him that a ‘ghost writer’ doesn’t actually write about ghosts, but writes on behalf of someone else.
“Who do you write for then?” my friend asked. Casper shook her head and drew pincered fingers across her lips in a zipper gesture.
“Can’t tell you, I’m afraid,” she said. “Ghost writers often write for quite well known authors. Naturally the authors don’t want the public to know that they are not actually writing the books and their publishers don’t care who’s actually writing them, as long as they make their squillions.”
My friend was aghast, “You mean some of our big-name, world-reknowned authors may not even be writing their own books?”
Casper, however, was giving nothing away. She explained that she gets paid a lot of money to write …. and keep her mouth shut.
“But don’t you ever get the urge to blurt out that you actually wrote so-and-so’s latest best-seller?” my friend persisted. “Or the desire to write a book under your own name?”
“Not much point, really,” Casper replied. “My name means nothing to the reading public and I can’t exactly say “Ooh, but I wrote “Blah Blah” (fabulous best-seller) for “Blah Blah” (Big Name Author) can I? It would rather jeopardise my ghostly status … and my bank balance.”
My friend took her point but shook his head in bewilderment at why someone would be willing to ‘sell’ themselves in such a way.
This story made me wonder what it would be like if people in other industries decided to have ‘ghost workers’ to do the actual work, while they sat back and collected the money and kudos.
For instance, can you imagine the ‘ghost plumber’ sliding selflessly down the sewer to retrieve something nasty from the pipeworks then standing back, unperturbed, while the lady of the house lavishes cash, thanks and a slab of Carlton Cold on the ‘real plumber’ (who’s been watching from the safety of the back porch?) I don’t think so.
Or the ‘ghost-detective’ who risks losing life, limb (and occasionally the contents of his stomach) unearthing clues and dead bodies, only to pass all the information to the ‘real detective’ who gets all the credit … and the promotion? Doubtful.
But I guess, in reality, there are ‘ghost personnel’ in every organisation right across the world; people whose individual work is passed off as the intellect, the research, the expertise or the ‘brainchild’ of someone else. Funnily enough, it’s actually a win-win situation. After all, in the spirit of reciprocity, those whose ideas and projects are used, do get paid for their creativity and hard work. It’s how human organisations get things done.
So I guess those best-selling authors with ‘ghost writers’ tucked in their turrets are not so despicable after all. The reading public gets another guaranteed pot-boiler, the ‘ghost writer’ gets a tidy little sum and the author gets to sit on her sun-lounge collecting royalties (and she can blame someone else for any writing gaffes!)
Not that a ghost writer would necessarily be an easy scapegoat for blame, for surely she would just deny all knowledge of the matter (as per her contract) and get off Scot free, wouldn’t she?
And fair enough too. After all, there have to be some perks in being invisible!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
The Universal Marshmallow Portal
While I was chatting on the phone the other night with my Number Two Son who’s living in London, he noticed the tell-tale signs of something being scoffed at my end of the line. Perhaps it was the odd muffled “Hmphlm!” that replaced some of my responses or maybe the sound of crinkling plastic that gave me away but, either way, he was onto me.
“I’m eating marshmallows,” I confessed to the sound of his jealous groans.
“Ooooh, I could sooooo eat some marshmallows right now!,” he whined and we began discussing how great it would be if I could just stuff some marshmallows into the phone and have them pop out at the other end of the line in Shepherds Bush, London. Just imagine if we could use technology in this way, we thought.
“It would be fabulous! A kind of Marshmallow Portal” chirped Number Two, his brain evidently whirring at all the stunning technological possibilities.
“We could patent the idea and get rich!” he added.
We began extending the concept even further; taking it beyond the idea of personal gain, glitz, fame and millionaire yachts and onto the much more serious issue of world hunger (and potential Nobel Peace Prizes).
Definitely ‘do-able’, we felt, despite the fact that at least one of us (moi) is arguably THE most technologically-challenged human being to have never gigged anyone’s byte (ever!) and would be hard pressed to design a fully functioning paper-clip, let alone a portal to an alternative universe full of healthy food!
However, undeterred, we pressed on with our vision of people everywhere going on-line to order a hearty plate of roast beef, three veg and some sticky date pudding and having it morph into their laps, complete with cutlery and a nice glass of red.
The only sticking point with our portal, we conceded, could be the lack of widespread access to the laptops, modems, broadband internet and power sources required to enable our Feed the World Roast plan to work.
Yes, this may put a spanner in the works but surely, we figured, between all of the world’s computer-nerds, government organisations and the United Nations they could sort out that little glitch, couldn’t they?
Our job, we felt, was merely to come up with the idea. Implementation was clearly someone else’s baby. After all, Creativity and Practicality are uneasy bedfellows (probably because Practicality snores loudly and is a big wowser).
Anyway, it was a nice thought. Not that it helped Number Two Son much with his marshmallow craving.
Pity about that, really. It would have been nice to have solved even one person’s food craving -- even if it did mean sacrificing a couple of my marshmallows to the greater good.
But fortunately….um…. I mean……sadly …..that wasn’t to be.
(And gee, they were yummy!)
“I’m eating marshmallows,” I confessed to the sound of his jealous groans.
“Ooooh, I could sooooo eat some marshmallows right now!,” he whined and we began discussing how great it would be if I could just stuff some marshmallows into the phone and have them pop out at the other end of the line in Shepherds Bush, London. Just imagine if we could use technology in this way, we thought.
“It would be fabulous! A kind of Marshmallow Portal” chirped Number Two, his brain evidently whirring at all the stunning technological possibilities.
“We could patent the idea and get rich!” he added.
We began extending the concept even further; taking it beyond the idea of personal gain, glitz, fame and millionaire yachts and onto the much more serious issue of world hunger (and potential Nobel Peace Prizes).
Definitely ‘do-able’, we felt, despite the fact that at least one of us (moi) is arguably THE most technologically-challenged human being to have never gigged anyone’s byte (ever!) and would be hard pressed to design a fully functioning paper-clip, let alone a portal to an alternative universe full of healthy food!
However, undeterred, we pressed on with our vision of people everywhere going on-line to order a hearty plate of roast beef, three veg and some sticky date pudding and having it morph into their laps, complete with cutlery and a nice glass of red.
The only sticking point with our portal, we conceded, could be the lack of widespread access to the laptops, modems, broadband internet and power sources required to enable our Feed the World Roast plan to work.
Yes, this may put a spanner in the works but surely, we figured, between all of the world’s computer-nerds, government organisations and the United Nations they could sort out that little glitch, couldn’t they?
Our job, we felt, was merely to come up with the idea. Implementation was clearly someone else’s baby. After all, Creativity and Practicality are uneasy bedfellows (probably because Practicality snores loudly and is a big wowser).
Anyway, it was a nice thought. Not that it helped Number Two Son much with his marshmallow craving.
Pity about that, really. It would have been nice to have solved even one person’s food craving -- even if it did mean sacrificing a couple of my marshmallows to the greater good.
But fortunately….um…. I mean……sadly …..that wasn’t to be.
(And gee, they were yummy!)
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Me and My Exclamation Mark - An Inseparable Pair!!!
Those of you who have been reading my articles for a while may have noted that I have a certain, shall we say ‘fondness’ for using exclamation marks. Well, okay, I’ll admit it’s probably a bit more than a fondness; it’s probably closer to an addiction.
In my defence, I don’t feel I can express myself properly unless I throw in the appropriate ‘feeling’. And how can I do that without incorporating my favourite piece of punctuation -- the good old exclamation mark?
When I’m telling you something funny it often ends with an exclamation mark. Ha ha! Something amazing or dramatic ends with an exclamation mark. Ooh! Aah! In fact, pretty much my whole life is punctuated with exclamation marks. New job! New book! Joined the gym! Watched the ice-skating! Read a book! Put out the garbage!
Let’s face it, I think and speak with exclamation marks hanging all over my sentences! So therefore it’s inevitable (and not unreasonable to my way of thinking) to carry this over into my written work. But unfortunately not everyone sees it this way; in particular editing-type people.
I was reminded of this last week when I was invited to submit an article to an online debating site. It was a ‘semi-humorous’ article -- in that, while it was a little tongue in cheek, it also contained a serious message. The humorous bits were appropriately ‘exclamation marked’ to ensure that everyone got the joke.
Well, anyway, before it went to print the Editor asked if I minded if she ‘pruned’ some of my exclamation marks and I said okay.
Well, she pruned alright! Hacked to death might be a better term. If I was a rose bush I would have been reduced to a gnarly stork for, by the time she’d finished there was no trace of my personality, let alone any inference of humour. Naturally this resulted in some less than happy ‘comments’ when the debate got going.
“Is she joking?” squawked one disgruntled reader.
“Well ….yes, actually” I wanted to write back, but I had to forgive ‘Angry from Parkville’ for how was he to know I was taking the Mickey when there was no happy little exclamation mark to highlight my hilarity?
As I re-read the article (post hack) I could quite see how people had taken some of it the wrong way. Without my exclamation marks, I certainly sounded more like a smug smart alec than a good-natured observer of human nature who was having a friendly poke at the Baby Boomer generation (to which, I hasten to add, I belong).
I later found that the article in question had not only been aired here in Australia, but had found its way onto a Japanese website where they appear to have translated my words into Japanese and then back again in a very amusing fashion. It had also ended up on a website in North Carolina, USA. (I would normally have included an exclamation mark here, but I'm trying to abstain).
I just hope my international readers managed to find something funny about the article even without its exclamation marks. Otherwise I can see the headlines now:
“Australian article bores entire state of North Carolina to death! It’s just not funny,” survivors say.
Well anyway, in acknowledgement of my addiction to the humble Exclamation Mark I am now considering seeking out a 12 Step “Punctuators Anonymous” program. Can you just see me introducing myself at my first session?
“Hi, I’m Catherine! I’m a serial punctuator and I just love using exclamation marks!!!”
(I sure hope they can help!!!!!!!!!)
In my defence, I don’t feel I can express myself properly unless I throw in the appropriate ‘feeling’. And how can I do that without incorporating my favourite piece of punctuation -- the good old exclamation mark?
When I’m telling you something funny it often ends with an exclamation mark. Ha ha! Something amazing or dramatic ends with an exclamation mark. Ooh! Aah! In fact, pretty much my whole life is punctuated with exclamation marks. New job! New book! Joined the gym! Watched the ice-skating! Read a book! Put out the garbage!
Let’s face it, I think and speak with exclamation marks hanging all over my sentences! So therefore it’s inevitable (and not unreasonable to my way of thinking) to carry this over into my written work. But unfortunately not everyone sees it this way; in particular editing-type people.
I was reminded of this last week when I was invited to submit an article to an online debating site. It was a ‘semi-humorous’ article -- in that, while it was a little tongue in cheek, it also contained a serious message. The humorous bits were appropriately ‘exclamation marked’ to ensure that everyone got the joke.
Well, anyway, before it went to print the Editor asked if I minded if she ‘pruned’ some of my exclamation marks and I said okay.
Well, she pruned alright! Hacked to death might be a better term. If I was a rose bush I would have been reduced to a gnarly stork for, by the time she’d finished there was no trace of my personality, let alone any inference of humour. Naturally this resulted in some less than happy ‘comments’ when the debate got going.
“Is she joking?” squawked one disgruntled reader.
“Well ….yes, actually” I wanted to write back, but I had to forgive ‘Angry from Parkville’ for how was he to know I was taking the Mickey when there was no happy little exclamation mark to highlight my hilarity?
As I re-read the article (post hack) I could quite see how people had taken some of it the wrong way. Without my exclamation marks, I certainly sounded more like a smug smart alec than a good-natured observer of human nature who was having a friendly poke at the Baby Boomer generation (to which, I hasten to add, I belong).
I later found that the article in question had not only been aired here in Australia, but had found its way onto a Japanese website where they appear to have translated my words into Japanese and then back again in a very amusing fashion. It had also ended up on a website in North Carolina, USA. (I would normally have included an exclamation mark here, but I'm trying to abstain).
I just hope my international readers managed to find something funny about the article even without its exclamation marks. Otherwise I can see the headlines now:
“Australian article bores entire state of North Carolina to death! It’s just not funny,” survivors say.
Well anyway, in acknowledgement of my addiction to the humble Exclamation Mark I am now considering seeking out a 12 Step “Punctuators Anonymous” program. Can you just see me introducing myself at my first session?
“Hi, I’m Catherine! I’m a serial punctuator and I just love using exclamation marks!!!”
(I sure hope they can help!!!!!!!!!)
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Why Golf can Help Your Kids be Nice People
As I ambled around the golf course this morning, it occurred to me that golf is a bit of a metaphor for life.
Sometimes things go your way. You get that nice little ‘cracking’ sound as you wallop your dreams from the tee right onto the fairway of life and you feel as if you’re cruising. Life is good!
Other times you whack a dodgy into the rough and find yourself having to chip around obstacles and problems.
Then there are the occasions when you land in a full-on bunker. Doesn’t matter what you do, you can’t seem to dig your way out.
Taking this ‘life/golf’ idea even further, I got to thinking that perhaps all children should be taught how to play golf.
Why? Because in golf you are expected to honour rules and etiquette – concepts every child needs to learn.
For example, when a player steps up to the tee, everyone else is expected to keep still and shut up while they take their shot. Now that’s a good lesson in manners.
And you have to take turns in golf, meaning that sharing, waiting and being patient are ….um … par for the course (if you will pardon my pun!).
If you chop out a divot on a golf course, you are expected to repair it.
That’s about respecting your environment and being considerate of other’s who use the space.
If you’re playing slowly and another group of players is hard on your heels, it’s etiquette to offer to let them ‘play through’ so as to not hold up their game. That’s being thoughtful.
When a player does a rubbish shot, it’s considered inappropriate to laugh or mock them -- tempting as this might be! That’s a lesson in kindness and learning to control one’s impulses. (In any case, if you’re anything like me, chances are you will soon do a rubbish shot yourself!)
When you finish using each club, it’s good form to wipe it clean before replacing it in your bag. That’s a lesson in taking care of one’s own things.
Some golf links have special rules about attire, so this is a lesson in caring about how you present yourself.
Bad language on a golf course is discouraged, so our budding Greg Normans would be learning to watch their ‘p’s and ‘qs’ (and ‘f’s) and use appropriate language.
And finally, the nineteenth hole is off limits for juniors so they won’t be associating alcohol with sport …. or learning to tell big fibs about how many birdies, eagles, albatrosses they almost got.
There, that’s it. One game of golf and our kids would have learned the basics of how to behave in the game of life!
Well, now I’ve got the next generation sorted, I wonder if I can get some of those naughty adult players to start toeing the line?
What’s that? A new rule, you say? All do-gooding Kitchen Philosophers are banned from the local course?
Hmph!
Sometimes things go your way. You get that nice little ‘cracking’ sound as you wallop your dreams from the tee right onto the fairway of life and you feel as if you’re cruising. Life is good!
Other times you whack a dodgy into the rough and find yourself having to chip around obstacles and problems.
Then there are the occasions when you land in a full-on bunker. Doesn’t matter what you do, you can’t seem to dig your way out.
Taking this ‘life/golf’ idea even further, I got to thinking that perhaps all children should be taught how to play golf.
Why? Because in golf you are expected to honour rules and etiquette – concepts every child needs to learn.
For example, when a player steps up to the tee, everyone else is expected to keep still and shut up while they take their shot. Now that’s a good lesson in manners.
And you have to take turns in golf, meaning that sharing, waiting and being patient are ….um … par for the course (if you will pardon my pun!).
If you chop out a divot on a golf course, you are expected to repair it.
That’s about respecting your environment and being considerate of other’s who use the space.
If you’re playing slowly and another group of players is hard on your heels, it’s etiquette to offer to let them ‘play through’ so as to not hold up their game. That’s being thoughtful.
When a player does a rubbish shot, it’s considered inappropriate to laugh or mock them -- tempting as this might be! That’s a lesson in kindness and learning to control one’s impulses. (In any case, if you’re anything like me, chances are you will soon do a rubbish shot yourself!)
When you finish using each club, it’s good form to wipe it clean before replacing it in your bag. That’s a lesson in taking care of one’s own things.
Some golf links have special rules about attire, so this is a lesson in caring about how you present yourself.
Bad language on a golf course is discouraged, so our budding Greg Normans would be learning to watch their ‘p’s and ‘qs’ (and ‘f’s) and use appropriate language.
And finally, the nineteenth hole is off limits for juniors so they won’t be associating alcohol with sport …. or learning to tell big fibs about how many birdies, eagles, albatrosses they almost got.
There, that’s it. One game of golf and our kids would have learned the basics of how to behave in the game of life!
Well, now I’ve got the next generation sorted, I wonder if I can get some of those naughty adult players to start toeing the line?
What’s that? A new rule, you say? All do-gooding Kitchen Philosophers are banned from the local course?
Hmph!
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Fit Busting
Every so often I get the urge to start taking better care of myself, get fit and shift those stubborn extra kilos. This urge usually coincides with some forthcoming social event, significant birthday (usually one with an ‘0’ attached) or some nasty little health issue. Any of these can force my biological alarm clock to start pealing furiously.
“Wake up! Wake up!” it cries desperately. “You’re running out of time to get the body of Jennifer Hawkins, the skin of Halle Berry and the liver of Mother Theresa.”
Of course I scoff at the silly little clock’s pathetic dream of me ever being able to sculpt my five foot nothing, rather well-covered frame into supermodel (or supernun!) status, but you’ve gotta give it credit for trying.
And so, in an effort to appease the little chap and to give myself an outside chance of being Fab, Fit and Fifty (yes, that was the ‘0’ I was referring to!) I have made a few lifestyle changes and even joined a gym. This is only the second time ever in my life that I have had an association with a gym. The first time was recorded in this column some time ago, a portion of which I will quote here as a reminder:
“If I sound surprised … it’s because it has taken me the better part of half a century to ever step inside a gymnasium and, frankly, I am shocked. Not only by the sight of my body (in all its alarming rotundity) being reflected ninety-fold around the mirrored walls, but also by the myriad of people who willingly offer up their time and their bodies to the Gruelling Gym Gods.”
This second visit has me reeling further. An assessment of my weight, height, body mass index, yada yada yada revealed that I am officially in the ‘obese’ category.
I was horrified! Thankfully (no doubt in a bid to ward off any membership-terminating tanties on my part) my instructor was quick to point that I had only just squeezed over the ‘obesity’ line and that it was probably due to that litre of damn water I had drunk on the day. That made me feel a bit better.
And so this past week I have been pumping iron, marching up hills on a walking machine, rowing my way across what feels like the Pacific, flaying about like some weird, unco moon-child on a machine called an ‘Elliptical’, contorting my reluctant ‘abs’ into crunches and cycling til my butt hurt.
But have the kilos started to shift? Not on your Nelly! Each day I jump eagerly on the scales expecting some miraculous diving of the numbers, but nah. To my annoyance, they just keep getting higher instead of lower.
“Muscle weighs more than fat,” offered one friend, trying to comfort me but I seriously doubt that five sessions at the gym would’ve made any muscle yet.
“It’s probably just fluid,” says someone else kindly.
I have my own theory. My fat cells are perfectly happy where they are. They like me. And it’s going to take more than a bit of heart thumping to bump them off. Well, I’ve got news for them. This time I’m serious!
And just to prove it, I’m going to go out there again today and huff and puff and sweat til my corpuscles hurt.
But not until I’ve had a nice cup of tea ….oh, and wasn’t there a bit of left over chocolate cake in the pantry?....mmmm
“Wake up! Wake up!” it cries desperately. “You’re running out of time to get the body of Jennifer Hawkins, the skin of Halle Berry and the liver of Mother Theresa.”
Of course I scoff at the silly little clock’s pathetic dream of me ever being able to sculpt my five foot nothing, rather well-covered frame into supermodel (or supernun!) status, but you’ve gotta give it credit for trying.
And so, in an effort to appease the little chap and to give myself an outside chance of being Fab, Fit and Fifty (yes, that was the ‘0’ I was referring to!) I have made a few lifestyle changes and even joined a gym. This is only the second time ever in my life that I have had an association with a gym. The first time was recorded in this column some time ago, a portion of which I will quote here as a reminder:
“If I sound surprised … it’s because it has taken me the better part of half a century to ever step inside a gymnasium and, frankly, I am shocked. Not only by the sight of my body (in all its alarming rotundity) being reflected ninety-fold around the mirrored walls, but also by the myriad of people who willingly offer up their time and their bodies to the Gruelling Gym Gods.”
This second visit has me reeling further. An assessment of my weight, height, body mass index, yada yada yada revealed that I am officially in the ‘obese’ category.
I was horrified! Thankfully (no doubt in a bid to ward off any membership-terminating tanties on my part) my instructor was quick to point that I had only just squeezed over the ‘obesity’ line and that it was probably due to that litre of damn water I had drunk on the day. That made me feel a bit better.
And so this past week I have been pumping iron, marching up hills on a walking machine, rowing my way across what feels like the Pacific, flaying about like some weird, unco moon-child on a machine called an ‘Elliptical’, contorting my reluctant ‘abs’ into crunches and cycling til my butt hurt.
But have the kilos started to shift? Not on your Nelly! Each day I jump eagerly on the scales expecting some miraculous diving of the numbers, but nah. To my annoyance, they just keep getting higher instead of lower.
“Muscle weighs more than fat,” offered one friend, trying to comfort me but I seriously doubt that five sessions at the gym would’ve made any muscle yet.
“It’s probably just fluid,” says someone else kindly.
I have my own theory. My fat cells are perfectly happy where they are. They like me. And it’s going to take more than a bit of heart thumping to bump them off. Well, I’ve got news for them. This time I’m serious!
And just to prove it, I’m going to go out there again today and huff and puff and sweat til my corpuscles hurt.
But not until I’ve had a nice cup of tea ….oh, and wasn’t there a bit of left over chocolate cake in the pantry?....mmmm
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Dieting Data for the Easily Convinced
The following is a list of widely believed -- although not necessarily sound -- theories about food and weight gain.
1. If you break a chocolate bar into small segments and eat the entire block over a longish period of time (let's say, an hour) the total sum of calories ingested is lower than if you just downed the lot in one sitting. I totally subscribe to this point of view.
2. Food nibbled as you prepare a meal has no calorific quotient. It is only after the food is transferred to your dinner plate that it acquires any significance. Hear! Hear! I say.
3. Wine served in an extra large wine glass contains exactly the same number of calories as wine served in a standard wine glass. Interestingly, wine consumed from the extra large glass tends to make one more inebriated than the smaller glass, but this is only because the larger glass allows more air to ferment the wine, thus increasing the alcohol content. Cheers to that one too!
4. Food eaten whilst standing or moving about does not deposit fat. This is because the calories are immediately shunted to the muscles in your legs and feet, bypassing the digestive system and any regular fat storing mechanisms. Perfectly reasonable thinking.
5. Birthday cake has no calories. Especially if it is your own birthday. Same goes for birthday drinks. Hip Hip Hooray!
6. Low calorie drinks counteract the calories in normally fatty food, especially if eaten at the same sitting. (E.g. a burger with fries has no calories if washed down by Diet Coke).
7. Lollies eaten one at a time are so small that they are not noticed by the metabolic system, and are able to slip straight through the body without any fattening effect.
8. Any food which is labelled ‘Low Fat’ or ‘97% Fat Free’ can be consumed liberally. In fact, if they are low fat, why not have two or three of those creamy desserts? You will be feeling slimmer by the time you finish eating!
Actually, I am so impressed with these eight points, I am thinking of using them as part of my new Diet Club’s overall philosophy.
Our opening hours will be Breakfast Time, Lunch Time and Dinner Time and if you can’t find us at the Clubhouse …….just head down to the local bakery where we are probably toiling over Snack Time.
Bon Appetite!
1. If you break a chocolate bar into small segments and eat the entire block over a longish period of time (let's say, an hour) the total sum of calories ingested is lower than if you just downed the lot in one sitting. I totally subscribe to this point of view.
2. Food nibbled as you prepare a meal has no calorific quotient. It is only after the food is transferred to your dinner plate that it acquires any significance. Hear! Hear! I say.
3. Wine served in an extra large wine glass contains exactly the same number of calories as wine served in a standard wine glass. Interestingly, wine consumed from the extra large glass tends to make one more inebriated than the smaller glass, but this is only because the larger glass allows more air to ferment the wine, thus increasing the alcohol content. Cheers to that one too!
4. Food eaten whilst standing or moving about does not deposit fat. This is because the calories are immediately shunted to the muscles in your legs and feet, bypassing the digestive system and any regular fat storing mechanisms. Perfectly reasonable thinking.
5. Birthday cake has no calories. Especially if it is your own birthday. Same goes for birthday drinks. Hip Hip Hooray!
6. Low calorie drinks counteract the calories in normally fatty food, especially if eaten at the same sitting. (E.g. a burger with fries has no calories if washed down by Diet Coke).
7. Lollies eaten one at a time are so small that they are not noticed by the metabolic system, and are able to slip straight through the body without any fattening effect.
8. Any food which is labelled ‘Low Fat’ or ‘97% Fat Free’ can be consumed liberally. In fact, if they are low fat, why not have two or three of those creamy desserts? You will be feeling slimmer by the time you finish eating!
Actually, I am so impressed with these eight points, I am thinking of using them as part of my new Diet Club’s overall philosophy.
Our opening hours will be Breakfast Time, Lunch Time and Dinner Time and if you can’t find us at the Clubhouse …….just head down to the local bakery where we are probably toiling over Snack Time.
Bon Appetite!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
There's an archeologist in my garden!
Ever wondered what historical events might have happened right here, in this very spot, hundreds of years ago? Or who might have lived and died here?
Perhaps it was the recent archeological dig at the Kelly ‘siege site’ in historical Glenrowan that set my curiosity buzzing. Or maybe it’s because I am a regular devotee of the wonderful Time Team program on ABC TV. (For those of you not familiar with this gem, it is a series in which a motley bunch of archeologists, anthropologists and other dirt-scraping-ologists come together to conduct super-quick archeological ‘digs’ all over Britain).
In any case, whatever has triggered it off, I have become rather enamoured with the idea of uncovering something of historical significance under the ground. I know it’s not terribly likely that I would find evidence of European settlement dating back more than a couple of hundred years here in Australia, but any artifacts pointing to human existence would suffice; I’m not a fussy little digger.
And so it was with this in mind that I was all atremble last weekend upon the surprise unearthing of an interesting looking ‘find’ in my own back yard. While digging a small trench alongside the driveway, my shovel clunked against something rather solid. I gently pushed it upwards until it finally released and plopped into the garden.
At first glance I thought it was just a rock but closer inspection revealed it was, in fact, an old piece of pottery. An early settlers’ cooking vessel? I mused. Or perhaps an earthenware jug from a convict settlement?
Rinsing my acquisition under the tap, my mind rushed forward to my glorious subsequent unearthing of the entire jug followed by a sacred burial site, a Roman aqueduct, a Paleolithic flint tool and the footings of a medieval castle.
I had visions of Time Team descending on my home; ‘geophys’ scouring every inch of my land with their mysterious devices; carbon daters dating; historians pouring over ‘tithe maps’ and scruffy looking gents in khaki jumpers with leather elbows arguing about the possible meaning of charcoal deposits under my clothesline. (I wouldn’t, of course, have the heart to tell them it was just the remains of a little misadventure with the BBQ).
I checked my fertile imagination and told myself my find was probably nothing to get too excited about. Although, even if it didn’t date quite as far back to warrant the Time Team's attention, I was at least sure I had found something of historical and practical virtue belonging to the old lady who lived in the house before us (i.e. probably a casserole dish). And even this gave me a buzz because the lady was pretty old which probably dated the casserole dish as circa 1966 or thereabouts — a veritable antique by today’s standards.
Anyway, I waited anxiously for the spouse to come home so I could show off my find. To my dismay he snorted when he saw it.
“It’s a bit of sewerage pipe,” he announced, matter-of-factly dropping my treasure into the wheelie bin. “Circa … Who Cares.”
And with that, my moment of archeological glory — much like my less-than-fascinating find —went……..well……..down the loo!
Perhaps it was the recent archeological dig at the Kelly ‘siege site’ in historical Glenrowan that set my curiosity buzzing. Or maybe it’s because I am a regular devotee of the wonderful Time Team program on ABC TV. (For those of you not familiar with this gem, it is a series in which a motley bunch of archeologists, anthropologists and other dirt-scraping-ologists come together to conduct super-quick archeological ‘digs’ all over Britain).
In any case, whatever has triggered it off, I have become rather enamoured with the idea of uncovering something of historical significance under the ground. I know it’s not terribly likely that I would find evidence of European settlement dating back more than a couple of hundred years here in Australia, but any artifacts pointing to human existence would suffice; I’m not a fussy little digger.
And so it was with this in mind that I was all atremble last weekend upon the surprise unearthing of an interesting looking ‘find’ in my own back yard. While digging a small trench alongside the driveway, my shovel clunked against something rather solid. I gently pushed it upwards until it finally released and plopped into the garden.
At first glance I thought it was just a rock but closer inspection revealed it was, in fact, an old piece of pottery. An early settlers’ cooking vessel? I mused. Or perhaps an earthenware jug from a convict settlement?
Rinsing my acquisition under the tap, my mind rushed forward to my glorious subsequent unearthing of the entire jug followed by a sacred burial site, a Roman aqueduct, a Paleolithic flint tool and the footings of a medieval castle.
I had visions of Time Team descending on my home; ‘geophys’ scouring every inch of my land with their mysterious devices; carbon daters dating; historians pouring over ‘tithe maps’ and scruffy looking gents in khaki jumpers with leather elbows arguing about the possible meaning of charcoal deposits under my clothesline. (I wouldn’t, of course, have the heart to tell them it was just the remains of a little misadventure with the BBQ).
I checked my fertile imagination and told myself my find was probably nothing to get too excited about. Although, even if it didn’t date quite as far back to warrant the Time Team's attention, I was at least sure I had found something of historical and practical virtue belonging to the old lady who lived in the house before us (i.e. probably a casserole dish). And even this gave me a buzz because the lady was pretty old which probably dated the casserole dish as circa 1966 or thereabouts — a veritable antique by today’s standards.
Anyway, I waited anxiously for the spouse to come home so I could show off my find. To my dismay he snorted when he saw it.
“It’s a bit of sewerage pipe,” he announced, matter-of-factly dropping my treasure into the wheelie bin. “Circa … Who Cares.”
And with that, my moment of archeological glory — much like my less-than-fascinating find —went……..well……..down the loo!
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
If I'm not Me, who is??
Some time ago in this column I mentioned that I had ‘Googled’ my own name and discovered that there are several other ‘Me’s’ around the world doing wonderful and interesting things (unlike Me Me who leads a pathetically boring existence whereby no one would probably ever bother Googling Me).
Well anyway, they were a many and varied bunch, those other Me’s — from a champion bridge player to a mathematician (I can’t tell you how ironic THAT is, but I’ll bet my Form 2 maths teacher would have a giggle).
But anyhoo, I thought the matter of alternate Me’s had finally been laid to rest until recently I was out of town on a shopping trip and intending to meet a friend for drinks afterwards.
Wandering around a large department store, I was busily examining dog toys (as you do when you're a tragic dog owner) when suddenly over the loudspeaker I heard my name being called!
What the??? I thought. Why would they be calling me to the Service Desk? Had I dropped my purse? Had my friend arrived early and was she looking for me? Had she never heard of mobile phones? Did I even have mine switched on? How did she know I was there in the first place? Was I late for drinks? Is there really a God? If so, does he do crossword puzzles? If so, does he ever get them wrong (being omnipotent and all)?
All of these thoughts whirred swiftly through my head upon hearing my name being summoned nasily. (Okay, I admit I didn’t really think about God and the crosswords but it’s something I have wondered about occasionally).
Anyway, I was about to hurry over to the Service Desk and announce myself when it suddenly occurred to me that maybe I wasn’t the only Me in the store. I furtively glanced in the direction of the Service Desk to see if there was anyone looking expectantly for a Me, but all was quiet and no one seemed to be frantically in search of anyone. I decided that perhaps I had misheard the name, so went back to my doggie shopping and eventually prepared to leave the store.
However, on my way through the checkout, curiosity got the better of me so I asked the cashier if there was, indeed, someone bearing my moniker who worked at the store. She glanced at the name on my credit card and smiled.
“Yeah, she works here! Would you like to meet her?”
“Is she tall, slim and gorgeous?” I wanted to ask, hoping that at least one Me in the world had fared well in the fab looks department.
Instead I said; “I’d like to meet her ….. but I’m afraid she might flatten me.”
Why? Because I had suddenly remembered that this alternate Me may have had to contend with some flack about Me Me and my (infamous?) Kitchen Philosopher column. It had never occurred to me that someone else might be being blamed for all the craziness.
The cashier eyed me in bewilderment as I quickly gathered up my goodies and made a hasty retreat.
“Give her my regards!” I called over my shoulder. “Oh, and tell her sorry!”
“What for?” called the cashier.
“If she reads the local rag, she probably already knows!”
Well anyway, they were a many and varied bunch, those other Me’s — from a champion bridge player to a mathematician (I can’t tell you how ironic THAT is, but I’ll bet my Form 2 maths teacher would have a giggle).
But anyhoo, I thought the matter of alternate Me’s had finally been laid to rest until recently I was out of town on a shopping trip and intending to meet a friend for drinks afterwards.
Wandering around a large department store, I was busily examining dog toys (as you do when you're a tragic dog owner) when suddenly over the loudspeaker I heard my name being called!
What the??? I thought. Why would they be calling me to the Service Desk? Had I dropped my purse? Had my friend arrived early and was she looking for me? Had she never heard of mobile phones? Did I even have mine switched on? How did she know I was there in the first place? Was I late for drinks? Is there really a God? If so, does he do crossword puzzles? If so, does he ever get them wrong (being omnipotent and all)?
All of these thoughts whirred swiftly through my head upon hearing my name being summoned nasily. (Okay, I admit I didn’t really think about God and the crosswords but it’s something I have wondered about occasionally).
Anyway, I was about to hurry over to the Service Desk and announce myself when it suddenly occurred to me that maybe I wasn’t the only Me in the store. I furtively glanced in the direction of the Service Desk to see if there was anyone looking expectantly for a Me, but all was quiet and no one seemed to be frantically in search of anyone. I decided that perhaps I had misheard the name, so went back to my doggie shopping and eventually prepared to leave the store.
However, on my way through the checkout, curiosity got the better of me so I asked the cashier if there was, indeed, someone bearing my moniker who worked at the store. She glanced at the name on my credit card and smiled.
“Yeah, she works here! Would you like to meet her?”
“Is she tall, slim and gorgeous?” I wanted to ask, hoping that at least one Me in the world had fared well in the fab looks department.
Instead I said; “I’d like to meet her ….. but I’m afraid she might flatten me.”
Why? Because I had suddenly remembered that this alternate Me may have had to contend with some flack about Me Me and my (infamous?) Kitchen Philosopher column. It had never occurred to me that someone else might be being blamed for all the craziness.
The cashier eyed me in bewilderment as I quickly gathered up my goodies and made a hasty retreat.
“Give her my regards!” I called over my shoulder. “Oh, and tell her sorry!”
“What for?” called the cashier.
“If she reads the local rag, she probably already knows!”
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Getting Abreast of Science
A few weeks ago, a friend who was visiting Canada sent me a very strange text message.
“Once again you’re ahead of your time,” it read. “Today here in Canada it’s ‘Boobquake Day”.
I wondered what on earth he was talking about so I quickly looked up ‘Boobquake’ on the web. I discovered that, in response to claims from a religious cleric that women who show cleavage are causing earthquakes by their provocative behaviour (or words to that effect), a young Canadian uni student had set down a challenge.
Her idea was to enlist the help of women everywhere to scientifically disprove the theory that seismic activity was linked to flashing a bit of ‘cleave’. While her boob-atious participants were encouraged to keep it tasteful, the message was clear; put the puppies on parade and let’s see if the earth moves!
However, while I’m sure the earth certainly may have moved for many of the happy male observers of the Boobquake phenomenon, the scientific evidence suggested no such movement on the part of the world’s tectonic plates. In fact, a scan of earthquake activity on Boobquake Day showed the seismology of the day could have barely snapped a bra strap, let alone dumped tall buildings into the bubbling earth’s core. Study complete. Cleavage clearly off the hook.
But you still might be wondering why my friend had linked me to a national day of boobology? And the answer is that, some months ago I had been involved in my own little cleavage incident.
While testing some video-conferencing equipment prior to a meeting, I was seated in front of a video screen while colleagues were beaming in ‘on-screen’ from Melbourne. As we tweaked the equipment – adjusting the sound and lighting – my Melbourne colleagues commented that it was a bit dark at my end and suggested I needed some more light in the room. I noted that the overhead lights were already on, so I did the logical thing and leaned forward over the screen to flick open the venetian blinds.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t occurred to me that the camera for the video equipment was actually located at the top of the screen (upon which I was casually leaning my chest as I adjusted the blinds). Thus by the time I stepped back from my chord-twirling activities and looked back at the screen, I found my city colleagues covering their faces in horror and laughing hysterically. Apparently they had just received an unbidden and inappropriately intimate guided tour of my C Cup!
Howls of laughter erupted as I (pointlessly by this stage) squealed and covered the offending portion of my personage. This incident (now known as Boob Cam) has become something of an office legend; the reverberations of which are still echoing around the hallways (and in my friend’s head, evidently, judging by his quickness to link me to Boobquake).
Well, anyway, I’m sure that, with a little therapy, my Melbourne colleagues will recover from the Boob Cam incident, but I do wonder how the religious cleric is coping after 200,000 women popped open their buttons on Boobquake Day.
Forget earthquakes; the poor chap probably had a heart attack when he saw all that jiggling flesh!
Well, anyway, I hope he’s learned his lesson: never mess with scientific chicks.
They’ll bring you ‘undone’ every time!
“Once again you’re ahead of your time,” it read. “Today here in Canada it’s ‘Boobquake Day”.
I wondered what on earth he was talking about so I quickly looked up ‘Boobquake’ on the web. I discovered that, in response to claims from a religious cleric that women who show cleavage are causing earthquakes by their provocative behaviour (or words to that effect), a young Canadian uni student had set down a challenge.
Her idea was to enlist the help of women everywhere to scientifically disprove the theory that seismic activity was linked to flashing a bit of ‘cleave’. While her boob-atious participants were encouraged to keep it tasteful, the message was clear; put the puppies on parade and let’s see if the earth moves!
However, while I’m sure the earth certainly may have moved for many of the happy male observers of the Boobquake phenomenon, the scientific evidence suggested no such movement on the part of the world’s tectonic plates. In fact, a scan of earthquake activity on Boobquake Day showed the seismology of the day could have barely snapped a bra strap, let alone dumped tall buildings into the bubbling earth’s core. Study complete. Cleavage clearly off the hook.
But you still might be wondering why my friend had linked me to a national day of boobology? And the answer is that, some months ago I had been involved in my own little cleavage incident.
While testing some video-conferencing equipment prior to a meeting, I was seated in front of a video screen while colleagues were beaming in ‘on-screen’ from Melbourne. As we tweaked the equipment – adjusting the sound and lighting – my Melbourne colleagues commented that it was a bit dark at my end and suggested I needed some more light in the room. I noted that the overhead lights were already on, so I did the logical thing and leaned forward over the screen to flick open the venetian blinds.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t occurred to me that the camera for the video equipment was actually located at the top of the screen (upon which I was casually leaning my chest as I adjusted the blinds). Thus by the time I stepped back from my chord-twirling activities and looked back at the screen, I found my city colleagues covering their faces in horror and laughing hysterically. Apparently they had just received an unbidden and inappropriately intimate guided tour of my C Cup!
Howls of laughter erupted as I (pointlessly by this stage) squealed and covered the offending portion of my personage. This incident (now known as Boob Cam) has become something of an office legend; the reverberations of which are still echoing around the hallways (and in my friend’s head, evidently, judging by his quickness to link me to Boobquake).
Well, anyway, I’m sure that, with a little therapy, my Melbourne colleagues will recover from the Boob Cam incident, but I do wonder how the religious cleric is coping after 200,000 women popped open their buttons on Boobquake Day.
Forget earthquakes; the poor chap probably had a heart attack when he saw all that jiggling flesh!
Well, anyway, I hope he’s learned his lesson: never mess with scientific chicks.
They’ll bring you ‘undone’ every time!
Friday, July 2, 2010
Do the iPod Shuffle
I suspect there’s probably a very good reason why nobody close to me has previously bothered to avail me of an iPod. That reason may be that the fusing of my ears to a musical source that is not being heard by anyone else in the room (train, shop or street) could be fraught with danger and/or embarrassment.
But apparently this factor must have paled into insignificance against the prospect of being able to obtain one of these devices cheaply from Duty Free. Thus, the spouse (disguised as Santa) last Christmas handed over the little blue scrap of metal and plastic. Big mistake!
Now, I am sure this particular drama must regularly play out in homes all across the world. Unsuspecting iPod-givers swiftly begin to rue their purchase as its proud new owner jigs pathetically around the house blurting out misinterpreted lyrics and off-key riffs. So surely I am not the only such song-murderer.
Well anyway, the spouse has been remarkably tolerant. Despite a few withering looks as I rumba, Latino style through the loungeroom while some vintage Santana pumps through my eardrums, he has held his tongue. Presumably this is because he knows that he is to blame. If he wasn’t such a cheapskate, he wouldn’t have dived so quickly on the offer of a cheap iPod.
However, tonight the pain must have been too much. There I was sitting at my computer, iPod Shuffle firmly plugged in ear and secretly marvelling, I must admit, at my fabulous multi-tasking capacity – typing and singing all at once! With the Dixie Chicks’ rendition of “Landslide” playing in my ears, I simultaneously sang (brilliantly of course!) and checked my emails while the spouse watched telly in the adjoining room.
Suddenly, somewhere between seeing “my reflection in the snooow-covered hiiiills” and the landslide “bringing me dooown” I noticed a muffled noise. Assuming it was the dogs on the verandah, I glanced up to see what they were doing. No dogs, so back I went to verbally twanging out a few banjo bars and a little bit of “maaaaaybeeee!” But there it was again; the muffled noise; only louder this time. It quite startled me, in fact (although not enough to entice me to pull out the earplugs). I turned to the spouse to see if he, too, had heard the offending noise. Clearly he had.
“Will you SHUT UP!” he was yelling. At ME. I dragged the earplugs out and looked quizzically at him.
“What’s wrong?”
“You!” he shouted. “I can’t hear the TV with all that racket!”
“Well, you bought it for me!” I huffed, “Did you really think it would be possible for me to not sing along?”
He just rolled his eyes and turned the telly up a bit louder.
Well anyway, sadly I think it must be a dodgy iPod Shuffle, for it’s suddenly stopped allowing me to shuffle at all. Seems my iPod Shuffle has become my “I’ll Podding-well Shuffle If I Feel Like It Shuffle” (much to the relief of the spouse).
“Oh, what a shame,” he says almost genuinely. “Perhaps I’ll buy you another one NEXT Christmas.
Perhaps he’s disappointed that he won’t be hearing my melodious tones anytime soon.
Well, “maaaaaaybeeeeee!”
(Or…um… maybe not).
But apparently this factor must have paled into insignificance against the prospect of being able to obtain one of these devices cheaply from Duty Free. Thus, the spouse (disguised as Santa) last Christmas handed over the little blue scrap of metal and plastic. Big mistake!
Now, I am sure this particular drama must regularly play out in homes all across the world. Unsuspecting iPod-givers swiftly begin to rue their purchase as its proud new owner jigs pathetically around the house blurting out misinterpreted lyrics and off-key riffs. So surely I am not the only such song-murderer.
Well anyway, the spouse has been remarkably tolerant. Despite a few withering looks as I rumba, Latino style through the loungeroom while some vintage Santana pumps through my eardrums, he has held his tongue. Presumably this is because he knows that he is to blame. If he wasn’t such a cheapskate, he wouldn’t have dived so quickly on the offer of a cheap iPod.
However, tonight the pain must have been too much. There I was sitting at my computer, iPod Shuffle firmly plugged in ear and secretly marvelling, I must admit, at my fabulous multi-tasking capacity – typing and singing all at once! With the Dixie Chicks’ rendition of “Landslide” playing in my ears, I simultaneously sang (brilliantly of course!) and checked my emails while the spouse watched telly in the adjoining room.
Suddenly, somewhere between seeing “my reflection in the snooow-covered hiiiills” and the landslide “bringing me dooown” I noticed a muffled noise. Assuming it was the dogs on the verandah, I glanced up to see what they were doing. No dogs, so back I went to verbally twanging out a few banjo bars and a little bit of “maaaaaybeeee!” But there it was again; the muffled noise; only louder this time. It quite startled me, in fact (although not enough to entice me to pull out the earplugs). I turned to the spouse to see if he, too, had heard the offending noise. Clearly he had.
“Will you SHUT UP!” he was yelling. At ME. I dragged the earplugs out and looked quizzically at him.
“What’s wrong?”
“You!” he shouted. “I can’t hear the TV with all that racket!”
“Well, you bought it for me!” I huffed, “Did you really think it would be possible for me to not sing along?”
He just rolled his eyes and turned the telly up a bit louder.
Well anyway, sadly I think it must be a dodgy iPod Shuffle, for it’s suddenly stopped allowing me to shuffle at all. Seems my iPod Shuffle has become my “I’ll Podding-well Shuffle If I Feel Like It Shuffle” (much to the relief of the spouse).
“Oh, what a shame,” he says almost genuinely. “Perhaps I’ll buy you another one NEXT Christmas.
Perhaps he’s disappointed that he won’t be hearing my melodious tones anytime soon.
Well, “maaaaaaybeeeeee!”
(Or…um… maybe not).
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
A Mooooving Tale
You often hear about strange things that happen to people. Weird and wonderful things. Worrying or frightening things. Funny or sad things.
Usually we just smile (or frown) and think “poor bugger” or something similarly compassionate and heartfelt ….. and then we just forget about it. Other times these stories become like folklore and give the person who endured the happening (or the families and friends thereof) many happy years of entertainment as the story gets retold, rehashed and sometimes even reinvented!
One such folklorish story that (happily!) needs no embellishment is the one about a close relative of mine ….. and a cow…in the middle of the city.
He is an accountant. Very respectable person. Responsible job. Nice office in town. Normally this chap (whom, for the purposes of this story, I shall call Pierre) likes to live a quiet life, mind his own business and not draw unwarranted attention to himself.
And that’s exactly what he was doing one summer’s morning as he drove his car to work; wending his way through congested city traffic; half listening to the ABC news and presumably thinking about calculations and fiscal responsibility, as you do if you are, unlike me, a lover of numbers. (Personally I would rather think about decaying compost than anything remotely numerical. Luckily it’s not up to people like me to keep the world’s economy in order. Phew!).
Anyway, it was a warm morning and Pierre had his car window wound down in order to capture the slight breeze that flitted between the tall city buildings. He was clearly in the ‘zone’ – a zombie-like state reserved for regular commuters to stop them from going insane. Not really thinking about anything in particular (creepy numbers notwithstanding) and certainly not thinking about the possible ramifications of being stuck at the lights with a cattle truck in the next lane. And that was his mistake.
For just as he was about to take off on the green light, something rather unexpected happened. He felt upon his window-side arm a warm, slushy wetness and witnessed in horror a rush of browny-green pooey slime jettisoning down the side of the truck and all over his hitherto dignified, white-shirted personage! Arggh!!
I suspect a few words not befitting a respectable, number-loving citizen may have similarly jettisoned out of poor Pierre’s mouth as he struggled to come to grips with what had just happened. Pooed on? In the middle of the city? By a cow? What the….?
So Pierre did what any good accountant with cow poo all over his body driving in the middle of the city would do. He kept driving to work. Well, I guess it’s true that we often revert to routine in times of stress, so Pierre’s natural instinct was to head for his comfort zone. But how could the office be his comfort zone when he was decorated in smelly cow dung? It’s not like no-one would notice!
Upon arrival he sat in the basement car park to consider his position. Could he risk being late for a very important meeting by going home for a shower and shirt change? Or was his shirt salvageable with a towel-down? Would anyone really care?
He decided to phone his office to explain his predicament. Predictably there were plenty of hearty guffaws coming through the phone as his tale of woe quickly circulated around the office. (And I suspect there were many hysterical retellings in pubs and at workmates’ homes later that day).
Pierre’s boss finally suggested he go home and attend to his ablutions. After all, who would want to do business deals with a human dung beetle?
Well anyway, it all ended well. Pierre got cleaned up. The business deal got closed; and so did Pierre’s driver’s-side window whenever driving alongside trucks in the future.
A very wise move, Pierre. A very wise moooooove, indeed!
Usually we just smile (or frown) and think “poor bugger” or something similarly compassionate and heartfelt ….. and then we just forget about it. Other times these stories become like folklore and give the person who endured the happening (or the families and friends thereof) many happy years of entertainment as the story gets retold, rehashed and sometimes even reinvented!
One such folklorish story that (happily!) needs no embellishment is the one about a close relative of mine ….. and a cow…in the middle of the city.
He is an accountant. Very respectable person. Responsible job. Nice office in town. Normally this chap (whom, for the purposes of this story, I shall call Pierre) likes to live a quiet life, mind his own business and not draw unwarranted attention to himself.
And that’s exactly what he was doing one summer’s morning as he drove his car to work; wending his way through congested city traffic; half listening to the ABC news and presumably thinking about calculations and fiscal responsibility, as you do if you are, unlike me, a lover of numbers. (Personally I would rather think about decaying compost than anything remotely numerical. Luckily it’s not up to people like me to keep the world’s economy in order. Phew!).
Anyway, it was a warm morning and Pierre had his car window wound down in order to capture the slight breeze that flitted between the tall city buildings. He was clearly in the ‘zone’ – a zombie-like state reserved for regular commuters to stop them from going insane. Not really thinking about anything in particular (creepy numbers notwithstanding) and certainly not thinking about the possible ramifications of being stuck at the lights with a cattle truck in the next lane. And that was his mistake.
For just as he was about to take off on the green light, something rather unexpected happened. He felt upon his window-side arm a warm, slushy wetness and witnessed in horror a rush of browny-green pooey slime jettisoning down the side of the truck and all over his hitherto dignified, white-shirted personage! Arggh!!
I suspect a few words not befitting a respectable, number-loving citizen may have similarly jettisoned out of poor Pierre’s mouth as he struggled to come to grips with what had just happened. Pooed on? In the middle of the city? By a cow? What the….?
So Pierre did what any good accountant with cow poo all over his body driving in the middle of the city would do. He kept driving to work. Well, I guess it’s true that we often revert to routine in times of stress, so Pierre’s natural instinct was to head for his comfort zone. But how could the office be his comfort zone when he was decorated in smelly cow dung? It’s not like no-one would notice!
Upon arrival he sat in the basement car park to consider his position. Could he risk being late for a very important meeting by going home for a shower and shirt change? Or was his shirt salvageable with a towel-down? Would anyone really care?
He decided to phone his office to explain his predicament. Predictably there were plenty of hearty guffaws coming through the phone as his tale of woe quickly circulated around the office. (And I suspect there were many hysterical retellings in pubs and at workmates’ homes later that day).
Pierre’s boss finally suggested he go home and attend to his ablutions. After all, who would want to do business deals with a human dung beetle?
Well anyway, it all ended well. Pierre got cleaned up. The business deal got closed; and so did Pierre’s driver’s-side window whenever driving alongside trucks in the future.
A very wise move, Pierre. A very wise moooooove, indeed!
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Terror on our streets?
You don’t have to look far to find stories about terrible accidents and things that happen to people as a result of transport.
Buses crashing, trains smashing, cars piling up, motor-bikes going down, pedestrians sent flying. Every day, many poor people come to grief as a result of attempting to get from A to B. Yet every year there seems to be some new, faster, better (and presumably safer) mode of transport hitting our world markets; Very Fast Trains, electric cars, super-jets, Holdens with air-bags all round.
Yes, we are always thinking of new ways to entice people to step outside their front doors, take their lives into someone else’s hands and part with the plastic in their wallets.
But there is another little scourge that has been quietly hitting our highways, byways, laneways and shopping strips in recent years. And it’s perhaps more insidious and dangerous than all of the above.
It’s the “Granny Mobile”. Yes, those cute little golf carts you’ll see zooming along a footpath near you.
Now before you start labeling me as a gerophobic Granny Snubber, let me just say at the outset that I am all for elderly and infirm people having the capacity to get around safely and comfortably. Like the rest of us (and perhaps moreso than some of us) they have earned their right to travel about in whatever mode they so choose. So I am not criticizing older people per se.
They deserve to access all the pleasures of life and I think it’s fabulous that they are able to maintain their independence in such a way. Besides, it won’t be too many years before I am one of their number, so it wouldn’t be very smart of me to incite an uprising of anti-grannyism, would it? (Although, I am presuming that in true Baby Boomer style, our future Granny Mobiles will be equipped with GPS, full surround sound, air-conditioning, Skype and an inbuilt foot massager…and that will be just the base model…..).
No, I am not wishing to cause any trouble, but I would like to comment on the sheer number of Granny Mobiles out there in Pedestrian World, the frightening speed at which some of them travel and the capacity for terror in our streets when more than one of them get together.
Take last week, for example. There I was, walking down the main street minding my own business when in the distance I saw not one, but two GMs heading my way — side by side — along the footpath.
“How nice,” I thought. “Two elderly folk out for a ‘walk’ together”.
But my charitable thoughts were challenged when I realized these two Octogenarian Fangio’s had absolutely no intention of going ‘single file’ to allow for us pedestrians!
“It’s okay,” I thought, chastising myself for being so churlish about a couple of old people chugging along the street together, “I will just move to the side and let them past.”
And that’s when it happened. Behind me came the sudden whir and rumble of yet ANOTHER granny-mobile heading in the opposite direction. Yikes! A ‘head on’ was imminent and, not only that, but I was about to become the salami in a golf buggy sandwich!
Fortunately for me, the situation was averted when one of the Grannies swerved abruptly into ‘parking’ position, leapt spritely out of her buggy (like an Olympic pole-vaulter on caffeine) and sprinted lithely into the newsagent to get the last available copy of the Marathon Runners Weekly.
Cowering fearfully against a parking meter with a few other pedestrians who had also dived for cover, I had a sudden realization.
You don’t mess with old people; especially ones with wheels. They have the power, and they know how to use it.
Beep! Beep!
Buses crashing, trains smashing, cars piling up, motor-bikes going down, pedestrians sent flying. Every day, many poor people come to grief as a result of attempting to get from A to B. Yet every year there seems to be some new, faster, better (and presumably safer) mode of transport hitting our world markets; Very Fast Trains, electric cars, super-jets, Holdens with air-bags all round.
Yes, we are always thinking of new ways to entice people to step outside their front doors, take their lives into someone else’s hands and part with the plastic in their wallets.
But there is another little scourge that has been quietly hitting our highways, byways, laneways and shopping strips in recent years. And it’s perhaps more insidious and dangerous than all of the above.
It’s the “Granny Mobile”. Yes, those cute little golf carts you’ll see zooming along a footpath near you.
Now before you start labeling me as a gerophobic Granny Snubber, let me just say at the outset that I am all for elderly and infirm people having the capacity to get around safely and comfortably. Like the rest of us (and perhaps moreso than some of us) they have earned their right to travel about in whatever mode they so choose. So I am not criticizing older people per se.
They deserve to access all the pleasures of life and I think it’s fabulous that they are able to maintain their independence in such a way. Besides, it won’t be too many years before I am one of their number, so it wouldn’t be very smart of me to incite an uprising of anti-grannyism, would it? (Although, I am presuming that in true Baby Boomer style, our future Granny Mobiles will be equipped with GPS, full surround sound, air-conditioning, Skype and an inbuilt foot massager…and that will be just the base model…..).
No, I am not wishing to cause any trouble, but I would like to comment on the sheer number of Granny Mobiles out there in Pedestrian World, the frightening speed at which some of them travel and the capacity for terror in our streets when more than one of them get together.
Take last week, for example. There I was, walking down the main street minding my own business when in the distance I saw not one, but two GMs heading my way — side by side — along the footpath.
“How nice,” I thought. “Two elderly folk out for a ‘walk’ together”.
But my charitable thoughts were challenged when I realized these two Octogenarian Fangio’s had absolutely no intention of going ‘single file’ to allow for us pedestrians!
“It’s okay,” I thought, chastising myself for being so churlish about a couple of old people chugging along the street together, “I will just move to the side and let them past.”
And that’s when it happened. Behind me came the sudden whir and rumble of yet ANOTHER granny-mobile heading in the opposite direction. Yikes! A ‘head on’ was imminent and, not only that, but I was about to become the salami in a golf buggy sandwich!
Fortunately for me, the situation was averted when one of the Grannies swerved abruptly into ‘parking’ position, leapt spritely out of her buggy (like an Olympic pole-vaulter on caffeine) and sprinted lithely into the newsagent to get the last available copy of the Marathon Runners Weekly.
Cowering fearfully against a parking meter with a few other pedestrians who had also dived for cover, I had a sudden realization.
You don’t mess with old people; especially ones with wheels. They have the power, and they know how to use it.
Beep! Beep!
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Absolutely Fabulous?
Remember the old philosophical question that goes (roughly) like this: “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it still make a sound?” Or maybe you are more familiar with a recent, cheeky version, which goes: ”If a man says something and no woman hears him, is he still wrong?”
Well, I have been postulating about a little query of my own.
If you do something fabulous and no one is there to admire it, is it still fabulous?
This leads me to today’s discussion. I have been thinking a lot about the social nature of humankind. Yes, I know that’s pretty deep coming from someone who generally prefers to explore the social nature of drinks on the verandah, but I thought I would give it a whirl.
You see, I have been reading an interesting book which discusses the human propensity for identifying with our egos as opposed to identifying with our essential selves. It claims that it is our ego which encourages us to compete, make war, revere money, achieve success and avoid fattening desserts and that this is ….well, basically ….. what is wrong with us as a species. Instead of honouring our true spirits we are too busy honouring our egotistical notions and wrecking the world with selfishness and greed in the process.
Hmmm. Sounds bad. And complex isn’t it? I do apologise if you are reading this over brekky. Philosophical discussions of this kind should be reserved for later in the day when one has a nice glass of red and a fellow philosopher on hand to chew the fat with. Which leads me (rather nicely - if my ego does say, itself!) back to where I was heading with this piece in the first place; the social nature of humankind.
I have always presumed (in, admittedly, an ill-thought-through kind of way) that people who are ‘social’ are also naturally helpful, giving and benevolent. Well, it seems like a sensible enough assumption, doesn’t it? People who are people-people do tend to get along with and do good things for other people. Therefore, what’s so wrong with that thinking?
On the face of it, it does seem fair enough. But at a deeper level, it leads one to speculate if ‘social people’ merely gravitate to others as a means of boosting their own egos. Do they choose their friends according to the likelihood of the friends nurturing their own egos with compliments and admiration? I suspect there may be some truth in that.
After all, I’m sure most of us don’t hunt around for a friend that will drain our emotional and financial resources and constantly find new and innovative ways to treat us badly. No. Besides the fact that many of us gave birth to people who will do that for free, we do tend to align ourselves with people who treat us with love, humour and compassion.
But do we also tend to find friends that highlight our ‘good points’? Do we subconsciously look for people who are dumber, fatter, broker, blotchier, wrinklier, worse at maths or grumpier than us just so we can compare ourselves -- favourably of course -- against these Human Benchmarks? Are our ‘good deeds’ really for the benefit of others, or is there an element of ‘this makes me look/feel good’? Would there be any point in being nice or achieving fabulous things if nobody actually noticed?
Well, like any typical wishy-washy philosopher, I have no definitive answer. That’s not my job remember! Philosophers just ask the questions then walk away, casually twirling their rope belts, while you anguish over their postulations for many years to come. That’s what we do!
So, like my philosophical forebears, I will leave you to think about this one.
And I do hope you think this has been a fabulously interesting article and that you are sitting there admiring my wit and insights. Not that my essential self really cares, of course.
……Much!
Well, I have been postulating about a little query of my own.
If you do something fabulous and no one is there to admire it, is it still fabulous?
This leads me to today’s discussion. I have been thinking a lot about the social nature of humankind. Yes, I know that’s pretty deep coming from someone who generally prefers to explore the social nature of drinks on the verandah, but I thought I would give it a whirl.
You see, I have been reading an interesting book which discusses the human propensity for identifying with our egos as opposed to identifying with our essential selves. It claims that it is our ego which encourages us to compete, make war, revere money, achieve success and avoid fattening desserts and that this is ….well, basically ….. what is wrong with us as a species. Instead of honouring our true spirits we are too busy honouring our egotistical notions and wrecking the world with selfishness and greed in the process.
Hmmm. Sounds bad. And complex isn’t it? I do apologise if you are reading this over brekky. Philosophical discussions of this kind should be reserved for later in the day when one has a nice glass of red and a fellow philosopher on hand to chew the fat with. Which leads me (rather nicely - if my ego does say, itself!) back to where I was heading with this piece in the first place; the social nature of humankind.
I have always presumed (in, admittedly, an ill-thought-through kind of way) that people who are ‘social’ are also naturally helpful, giving and benevolent. Well, it seems like a sensible enough assumption, doesn’t it? People who are people-people do tend to get along with and do good things for other people. Therefore, what’s so wrong with that thinking?
On the face of it, it does seem fair enough. But at a deeper level, it leads one to speculate if ‘social people’ merely gravitate to others as a means of boosting their own egos. Do they choose their friends according to the likelihood of the friends nurturing their own egos with compliments and admiration? I suspect there may be some truth in that.
After all, I’m sure most of us don’t hunt around for a friend that will drain our emotional and financial resources and constantly find new and innovative ways to treat us badly. No. Besides the fact that many of us gave birth to people who will do that for free, we do tend to align ourselves with people who treat us with love, humour and compassion.
But do we also tend to find friends that highlight our ‘good points’? Do we subconsciously look for people who are dumber, fatter, broker, blotchier, wrinklier, worse at maths or grumpier than us just so we can compare ourselves -- favourably of course -- against these Human Benchmarks? Are our ‘good deeds’ really for the benefit of others, or is there an element of ‘this makes me look/feel good’? Would there be any point in being nice or achieving fabulous things if nobody actually noticed?
Well, like any typical wishy-washy philosopher, I have no definitive answer. That’s not my job remember! Philosophers just ask the questions then walk away, casually twirling their rope belts, while you anguish over their postulations for many years to come. That’s what we do!
So, like my philosophical forebears, I will leave you to think about this one.
And I do hope you think this has been a fabulously interesting article and that you are sitting there admiring my wit and insights. Not that my essential self really cares, of course.
……Much!
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Accidental Streaker
True story. An acquaintance (whom I shall call X) was staying for a few days at a rather flash hotel in the city.
On the second day after his arrival he was apologetically asked by the hotel management if he would mind moving to another room due to some problem with a booking.
Being a helpful kind of chap, X happily agreed and, to his satisfaction, found that the new room was almost identical to the other room, apart from the fact that the layout was completely reversed. But this minor inconvenience certainly posed no problem to X who went about his day unperturbed and finished the evening with a drink or nineteen in the bar with his colleagues.
After the twenty-somethingth ale, X was feeling decidedly sleepy and wobbled his way back to his room. He donned his ‘night shirt’ (forgetting to add any ‘night pants’) and climbed into bed to catch some ZZZs.
Sometime in the night, however, he felt the urge of nature and fumbled his way in the dark across the room to the bathroom. As he entered the room, he noted (in a foggily surprised kind of way) that the bathroom was extremely well lit.
“Hmmph!” he thought. “They must have a very large electricity bill!” And that’s when he realised that he was not in the bathroom at all. Being momentarily confused by the reverse layout of the room, the poor chap had wandered half naked into the hotel hallway!
Just as this realisation was making its way into his still slightly befuddled brain, X heard something that no man devoid of underpants and standing in a brilliantly lit hallway in the middle of a swanky hotel wants to hear.
Click! The sound of his bedroom door snapping locked behind him!
You can imagine the poor man, trying to get his muddled neurones to come up with a feasible plan for getting out of this sticky situation with his reputation in tact (and his private bits kept…well…private). But the neurones were evidently in no state to be much help. They didn’t even suggest that X take off his T Shirt and use it as a loin cloth in order to maintain some modesty! Let alone provide him with some logical advice about getting someone else to phone Reception for him.
No. Instead they suggested he sneak down to Reception and get someone to give him another key to his room. They didn’t contemplate that, when the lift arrived, it would be jam-packed with shocked onlookers who were on their way down to dinner (apparently it turned out to be not the middle of the night at all – but rather only about 8.00 pm).
But anyway, eventually our poor hapless hero did indeed waddle embarrassedly into Reception with his T Shirt dragged down at the front (but unfortunately leaving his bare bottom exposed at the back) and was thankfully (and expediently, I’m sure) returned safe and sound to the privacy of his own room.
No doubt the other hotel patrons heaved a sigh of relief as the semi-naked man was quickly spirited away, but I’ll bet the security guys checking the CCT had a great laugh at the evening’s footage!
Moral of the story? Never place your trust in a bunch of paralytic neurones.
But perhaps more importantly, never forget your undies in public!
On the second day after his arrival he was apologetically asked by the hotel management if he would mind moving to another room due to some problem with a booking.
Being a helpful kind of chap, X happily agreed and, to his satisfaction, found that the new room was almost identical to the other room, apart from the fact that the layout was completely reversed. But this minor inconvenience certainly posed no problem to X who went about his day unperturbed and finished the evening with a drink or nineteen in the bar with his colleagues.
After the twenty-somethingth ale, X was feeling decidedly sleepy and wobbled his way back to his room. He donned his ‘night shirt’ (forgetting to add any ‘night pants’) and climbed into bed to catch some ZZZs.
Sometime in the night, however, he felt the urge of nature and fumbled his way in the dark across the room to the bathroom. As he entered the room, he noted (in a foggily surprised kind of way) that the bathroom was extremely well lit.
“Hmmph!” he thought. “They must have a very large electricity bill!” And that’s when he realised that he was not in the bathroom at all. Being momentarily confused by the reverse layout of the room, the poor chap had wandered half naked into the hotel hallway!
Just as this realisation was making its way into his still slightly befuddled brain, X heard something that no man devoid of underpants and standing in a brilliantly lit hallway in the middle of a swanky hotel wants to hear.
Click! The sound of his bedroom door snapping locked behind him!
You can imagine the poor man, trying to get his muddled neurones to come up with a feasible plan for getting out of this sticky situation with his reputation in tact (and his private bits kept…well…private). But the neurones were evidently in no state to be much help. They didn’t even suggest that X take off his T Shirt and use it as a loin cloth in order to maintain some modesty! Let alone provide him with some logical advice about getting someone else to phone Reception for him.
No. Instead they suggested he sneak down to Reception and get someone to give him another key to his room. They didn’t contemplate that, when the lift arrived, it would be jam-packed with shocked onlookers who were on their way down to dinner (apparently it turned out to be not the middle of the night at all – but rather only about 8.00 pm).
But anyway, eventually our poor hapless hero did indeed waddle embarrassedly into Reception with his T Shirt dragged down at the front (but unfortunately leaving his bare bottom exposed at the back) and was thankfully (and expediently, I’m sure) returned safe and sound to the privacy of his own room.
No doubt the other hotel patrons heaved a sigh of relief as the semi-naked man was quickly spirited away, but I’ll bet the security guys checking the CCT had a great laugh at the evening’s footage!
Moral of the story? Never place your trust in a bunch of paralytic neurones.
But perhaps more importantly, never forget your undies in public!
Friday, June 4, 2010
How to get to Deception Bay
Deception Bay. What a deliciously named place!
It makes you just want to go there and see all the naughty people getting up to all sorts of naughty things and being all clandestine and deceptive, doesn’t it?
I can just imagine people ducking furtively in and out of shops and alleyways, hiding behind bushes and peeping out between Venetian blinds (and that’s just to see if the postman’s been, imagine what it’s like when there’s a real scandal!)
But then again, maybe it’s just my slightly maladjusted mind and perhaps regular people don’t find anything amusing or interesting about the place at all. Perhaps they just look down their noses at the Deceptionites and say “fancy living in a place that isn’t even honest about its own name!”
Well anyway, when a friend recently inquired about directions to another friend’s home in Queensland’s ‘Sneakiest of All Cities’ I just couldn’t resist forwarding him the following advice:
Directions to Deception Bay
(please destroy this message after reading)
Travelling north from Whopper Inlet, deviate from the truth at Cheaters Gully Lane and continue, undetected, to Fibbers Rest.
Enjoy a great meal of Forked Tongue or Pork Pie at the infamous Trickery Tavern, then treat yourself to a Bare Faced lie down. Or why not experience the excitement of taking a Polygraph test? Vehemently deny the results and make sure to keep your poker face.
Try your hand at making up a few creative ‘terminological inexactitudes’, pull a few beers (or legs) or simply get economical with the truth at Paddy Pretext’s Pub. The nightlife attractions will have everyone going, and before you know it you will be separating fact from fiction (unlike the local postmistress!) A few calming ales will distort the facts nicely before you head back, oblivious to the truth, to your lodgings on Queensland’s best kept secret, Misconception Isle.
Next day, after a bath (that simply won’t wash), head up Denial Road and turn left (when no one is looking) at the first available alibi. When you pass Little White Lie Cottage make a slight deviation from the facts, but make sure to cover your tracks.
Finally, hide away at Cheaters Refuge until the coast is clear, making sure to watch out for the native ‘Liar’ Birds!
And don’t disappear in a smoke screen, will you?
It makes you just want to go there and see all the naughty people getting up to all sorts of naughty things and being all clandestine and deceptive, doesn’t it?
I can just imagine people ducking furtively in and out of shops and alleyways, hiding behind bushes and peeping out between Venetian blinds (and that’s just to see if the postman’s been, imagine what it’s like when there’s a real scandal!)
But then again, maybe it’s just my slightly maladjusted mind and perhaps regular people don’t find anything amusing or interesting about the place at all. Perhaps they just look down their noses at the Deceptionites and say “fancy living in a place that isn’t even honest about its own name!”
Well anyway, when a friend recently inquired about directions to another friend’s home in Queensland’s ‘Sneakiest of All Cities’ I just couldn’t resist forwarding him the following advice:
Directions to Deception Bay
(please destroy this message after reading)
Travelling north from Whopper Inlet, deviate from the truth at Cheaters Gully Lane and continue, undetected, to Fibbers Rest.
Enjoy a great meal of Forked Tongue or Pork Pie at the infamous Trickery Tavern, then treat yourself to a Bare Faced lie down. Or why not experience the excitement of taking a Polygraph test? Vehemently deny the results and make sure to keep your poker face.
Try your hand at making up a few creative ‘terminological inexactitudes’, pull a few beers (or legs) or simply get economical with the truth at Paddy Pretext’s Pub. The nightlife attractions will have everyone going, and before you know it you will be separating fact from fiction (unlike the local postmistress!) A few calming ales will distort the facts nicely before you head back, oblivious to the truth, to your lodgings on Queensland’s best kept secret, Misconception Isle.
Next day, after a bath (that simply won’t wash), head up Denial Road and turn left (when no one is looking) at the first available alibi. When you pass Little White Lie Cottage make a slight deviation from the facts, but make sure to cover your tracks.
Finally, hide away at Cheaters Refuge until the coast is clear, making sure to watch out for the native ‘Liar’ Birds!
And don’t disappear in a smoke screen, will you?
Monday, May 31, 2010
The Revenge of Sponge-Woman (a post dental tale)
Having just returned from another fun-filled visit to the dentist and, with a numbness that rivals catalepsy spread across my entire face, I now understand how people who have Botox injections must feel.
But why would anyone voluntarily paralyse their face? I wonder. I am living proof that, from a cosmetic improvement perspective anyway, it doesn’t work; for I am certainly no prettier for the experience. In fact, with not much capacity for animated expression at all, it’s quite a grim little reflection that greets me in the mirror as I inspect the damage.
So bland is my expression that Number One Son (who has apparently been taking full advantage of the ‘Unlimited Home Phone To Mate’s Mobile’ option in my absence) appears confused as I motion for him to hang up the phone.
“What?” he splutters, feigning innocence.
I try a scowl. Nothing. I try a grimace. Still nothing.
“Grof-de-fern” I mumble. Amazingly he seems to understand. He bids his buddy farewell and hangs up the phone as requested.
“What’s your problem?” he asks, peering bewilderedly at my expressionless face.
I act out a (somewhat embellished) dentist-drilling mime. I use a pretend jackhammer for the charade. Number One seems to get my point.
“Oooh, filling, huh?” he grins sadistically, in the way that people do when they don’t have a dentist appointment looming. “Aw, shucks. It’s too bad you won’t be able to eat those chocolates in the fridge, isn’t it?”
He realises by my haughty grunt that he has probably gone a bit far, and makes a hasty retreat.
It is true that I am not a happy camper. My head seems like a giant, lifeless kitchen sponge and, to make matters worse, I am hungry.
Having not eaten for several hours (which is pretty much hitherto unheard of by my digestive system) I head for the kitchen in search of something soft – yet tasty – to sate my appetite.
I decide on a vegemite sandwich of soft white bread. I cut it up into small pieces so I can feed it gently between the numb lumps that are currently posing as my lips.
Chewing proves to be difficult because the inside of my mouth resembles an alien planet full of strange, out-of-whack machinery. But, eventually I manage to suck the bread into submission and the swallowing mechanism (which thankfully seems to work on “auto”) pushes it down.
“Ahh!” I can almost hear the fat cells give a little sigh of relief as the first morsel slides past my comatose tonsils and into cellulose depositing territory. No doubt, having been on ‘famine alert’ for the past two hours, the little chaps are rushing about multiplying feverishly to ensure that this situation never arises again. (You’ve truly got to admire the tenacity of fat cells, and believe me, currently on my body, there are plenty of opportunities to admire them!)
After the sandwich and a warm cup of coffee (slurped half into my mouth, but mostly down my front) I am beginning to feel almost human again, and by the time Number One returns I am even feeling a little friendlier. I try a little smile.
“What?” he cries defensively (suggesting that the smile muscles are still a little haywire).
“N’fn,” I grunt, conceding that my post-dental emotions will probably remain a mystery to everyone else for at least another hour or two.
Number One grins and crunches a chocolate loudly in his mouth.
I smirk (inwardly, of course) silently vowing that, as soon as my mouth starts to work again, I will ring the dentist and book Number One in for a check-up.
That'll have him smiling on the other side of his face! He he!
But why would anyone voluntarily paralyse their face? I wonder. I am living proof that, from a cosmetic improvement perspective anyway, it doesn’t work; for I am certainly no prettier for the experience. In fact, with not much capacity for animated expression at all, it’s quite a grim little reflection that greets me in the mirror as I inspect the damage.
So bland is my expression that Number One Son (who has apparently been taking full advantage of the ‘Unlimited Home Phone To Mate’s Mobile’ option in my absence) appears confused as I motion for him to hang up the phone.
“What?” he splutters, feigning innocence.
I try a scowl. Nothing. I try a grimace. Still nothing.
“Grof-de-fern” I mumble. Amazingly he seems to understand. He bids his buddy farewell and hangs up the phone as requested.
“What’s your problem?” he asks, peering bewilderedly at my expressionless face.
I act out a (somewhat embellished) dentist-drilling mime. I use a pretend jackhammer for the charade. Number One seems to get my point.
“Oooh, filling, huh?” he grins sadistically, in the way that people do when they don’t have a dentist appointment looming. “Aw, shucks. It’s too bad you won’t be able to eat those chocolates in the fridge, isn’t it?”
He realises by my haughty grunt that he has probably gone a bit far, and makes a hasty retreat.
It is true that I am not a happy camper. My head seems like a giant, lifeless kitchen sponge and, to make matters worse, I am hungry.
Having not eaten for several hours (which is pretty much hitherto unheard of by my digestive system) I head for the kitchen in search of something soft – yet tasty – to sate my appetite.
I decide on a vegemite sandwich of soft white bread. I cut it up into small pieces so I can feed it gently between the numb lumps that are currently posing as my lips.
Chewing proves to be difficult because the inside of my mouth resembles an alien planet full of strange, out-of-whack machinery. But, eventually I manage to suck the bread into submission and the swallowing mechanism (which thankfully seems to work on “auto”) pushes it down.
“Ahh!” I can almost hear the fat cells give a little sigh of relief as the first morsel slides past my comatose tonsils and into cellulose depositing territory. No doubt, having been on ‘famine alert’ for the past two hours, the little chaps are rushing about multiplying feverishly to ensure that this situation never arises again. (You’ve truly got to admire the tenacity of fat cells, and believe me, currently on my body, there are plenty of opportunities to admire them!)
After the sandwich and a warm cup of coffee (slurped half into my mouth, but mostly down my front) I am beginning to feel almost human again, and by the time Number One returns I am even feeling a little friendlier. I try a little smile.
“What?” he cries defensively (suggesting that the smile muscles are still a little haywire).
“N’fn,” I grunt, conceding that my post-dental emotions will probably remain a mystery to everyone else for at least another hour or two.
Number One grins and crunches a chocolate loudly in his mouth.
I smirk (inwardly, of course) silently vowing that, as soon as my mouth starts to work again, I will ring the dentist and book Number One in for a check-up.
That'll have him smiling on the other side of his face! He he!
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
A Stone's Throw from Paris
We all know people who seem to attract inordinate amounts of terribly bad luck. The poor things seem to just have “wound me!” tattooed on their unfortunate foreheads.
Then there are others, like me apparently, who seem inclined to woo the low level, garden-variety kinds of bad luck. Nothing to get one’s face plastered across the Sunday papers, but enough to be annoying.
Like the time at Montmartre in Paris. Well, admittedly, being in Paris in the first place was actually pretty GOOD luck, so I probably shouldn’t be whingeing … but anyway, there I was.
Having ridden the famous Funicular up Montmartre ‘hill’, viewed the beautiful Basilica of the Sacre Coeur and dined in the history-drenched cobbled Artist’s Quarter, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. That was until, waiting innocently at the bottom of the hill with our tour group, I took a sudden sharp whack to the head.
Once I realized I hadn’t been fatally wounded (which was fairly obvious because I was still standing up and breathing), I started scanning the ground to see what had hit me. But it was dark so I then directed my efforts to trying to work out who the flinger of the projectile may have been; for clearly whatever had just hit me had not flown through the air by itself (unless it was a stone-like bird with very bad eye-sight). I was looking for a smug attitude; a face that had that “I’ve just sconed that dippy Aussie tourist with a rock” look written all over it but, alas, in a city full of smug looking tourists it was difficult to spot.
My spouse could barely hide his astonishment as I hopped around whimpering and clutching my head.
“What the hell happened?” he demanded, clearly bemused that I, alone could have been harmed when no-one else appeared to have been similarly stricken. When I explained my dilemma he just rolled his eyes.
“Jeez!” he said, “You must be the only person I know who can get injured by just standing still.”
Which I know may sound a little callous but, when you consider he had only the day before witnessed me plummet like a limbless sack of spuds to the floor of the bus for no apparent reason, you can perhaps see why he was a little less than concerned by my latest catastrophe.
Fortunately, as evidence, I did have a speck of blood and a slight ‘egg’ on my head where I had been hit. Even the spouse began to get intrigued and we speculated about who would be throwing things and why.
“Did you look at anyone strangely?” he asked. “Did you see anyone behaving suspiciously?”
I shook my head.
“I did wonder if it was some kind of nut falling out of that tree,” I said pointing above me. But then I realized that it would have to have been a nut falling at a rather peculiar trajectory to have hit me at a 45 degree angle. And a rather forcefully falling nut at that. While I’m sure many things in Paris are avante garde, artistic and unique, I am similarly sure that Parisian nuts falling from trees would still be required to adhere to the regular laws of gravity as per nuts falling in, say, Cobram, Australia. So the tree was off the hook.
“What happened?” cried my fellow bus travelers when they saw me nursing my wounded head.
“Someone threw something at her,” volunteered the spouse casually, seeming less surprised by the minute that some random stranger might take a sinister delight in clomping his wife with a lump of God Knows What at the bottom of a hill in Paris. Like it happens every day!
“I wonder if they were aiming at you, or whether you just got in the way?” speculated someone.
And that, my friends, is something we will never know. But I would like to think that they were actually aiming at the spouse.
After all, he was the dill who’d just paid 18 Euro ($31.56 AU) for a single pint of beer on Montmartre!
And he thought I was silly!
Then there are others, like me apparently, who seem inclined to woo the low level, garden-variety kinds of bad luck. Nothing to get one’s face plastered across the Sunday papers, but enough to be annoying.
Like the time at Montmartre in Paris. Well, admittedly, being in Paris in the first place was actually pretty GOOD luck, so I probably shouldn’t be whingeing … but anyway, there I was.
Having ridden the famous Funicular up Montmartre ‘hill’, viewed the beautiful Basilica of the Sacre Coeur and dined in the history-drenched cobbled Artist’s Quarter, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. That was until, waiting innocently at the bottom of the hill with our tour group, I took a sudden sharp whack to the head.
Once I realized I hadn’t been fatally wounded (which was fairly obvious because I was still standing up and breathing), I started scanning the ground to see what had hit me. But it was dark so I then directed my efforts to trying to work out who the flinger of the projectile may have been; for clearly whatever had just hit me had not flown through the air by itself (unless it was a stone-like bird with very bad eye-sight). I was looking for a smug attitude; a face that had that “I’ve just sconed that dippy Aussie tourist with a rock” look written all over it but, alas, in a city full of smug looking tourists it was difficult to spot.
My spouse could barely hide his astonishment as I hopped around whimpering and clutching my head.
“What the hell happened?” he demanded, clearly bemused that I, alone could have been harmed when no-one else appeared to have been similarly stricken. When I explained my dilemma he just rolled his eyes.
“Jeez!” he said, “You must be the only person I know who can get injured by just standing still.”
Which I know may sound a little callous but, when you consider he had only the day before witnessed me plummet like a limbless sack of spuds to the floor of the bus for no apparent reason, you can perhaps see why he was a little less than concerned by my latest catastrophe.
Fortunately, as evidence, I did have a speck of blood and a slight ‘egg’ on my head where I had been hit. Even the spouse began to get intrigued and we speculated about who would be throwing things and why.
“Did you look at anyone strangely?” he asked. “Did you see anyone behaving suspiciously?”
I shook my head.
“I did wonder if it was some kind of nut falling out of that tree,” I said pointing above me. But then I realized that it would have to have been a nut falling at a rather peculiar trajectory to have hit me at a 45 degree angle. And a rather forcefully falling nut at that. While I’m sure many things in Paris are avante garde, artistic and unique, I am similarly sure that Parisian nuts falling from trees would still be required to adhere to the regular laws of gravity as per nuts falling in, say, Cobram, Australia. So the tree was off the hook.
“What happened?” cried my fellow bus travelers when they saw me nursing my wounded head.
“Someone threw something at her,” volunteered the spouse casually, seeming less surprised by the minute that some random stranger might take a sinister delight in clomping his wife with a lump of God Knows What at the bottom of a hill in Paris. Like it happens every day!
“I wonder if they were aiming at you, or whether you just got in the way?” speculated someone.
And that, my friends, is something we will never know. But I would like to think that they were actually aiming at the spouse.
After all, he was the dill who’d just paid 18 Euro ($31.56 AU) for a single pint of beer on Montmartre!
And he thought I was silly!
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Best In Show
Having recently become a bit of a “Dog Fancier” I, and the object of my canine affection, Scruffy the Mini Schnauzer pup, went for a peek at a dog show that was held here a few weeks back.
I had actually forgotten the show was on, until halfway through our morning walk and so (resplendent in daggy track pants and bed-hair) decided on a little walkies diversion so that Scruffy and I could see how the ‘other half’ (i.e. dogs with manners and cute hair styles) live.
We were very impressed too. Fluffy Pomeranians and elegant Afghans, sleek Rottweilers and cute Malteses, adorable Shar Peis and handsome Dobermans all marching around the ring or patiently enduring another grooming -- or reclining, bored, in their shaded crates.
Their owners, mostly smartly-coiffed women, paraded with them in the ring. It struck me as a little odd that these ladies would wear business suits in a dog ring but, then again, I guess dog breeding is very serious business and they figure they must do whatever they can to improve the overall picture for the judges. Either that or they are living in a corporate 90’s timewarp.
Anyhow, Scruff and I innocently parked ourselves not far from the entrance to Show Ring 1 and settled down to watch proceedings. All was going well: Scruff was fascinated but well behaved. Then a couple of huge ‘blue’ dogs (I have no idea what breed they were; sort of a cross between a fat blue Labrador and a St Bernard) made their way to the Show Ring entrance, waiting for their turn. These dogs were twenty times the size of Scruff; big powerful, but gentle-looking dogs. One of them noticed Scruff and pulled towards him to say hello.
“Ruf!” squeaked little Scruff in delighted approval.
“Don’t you DARE!” shrieked Fat Blue Boy’s Prada-Coiffed Handler, glaring at Scruff indignantly as if he was about to leap upon her precious mutt and tear him limb from limb!
She must have noticed the surprised look on my face, because she suddenly forced a quick ‘smile’ before turning her attention back to Fat Boy. (Presumably this was some kind of apology for being a vicious puppy hater).
Anyhow, Scruff and I decided we’d had enough so we wandered off in search of a fellow Miniature Schnauzer fancier. We soon found a lady grooming her hairy-faced boy, and stopped for a chat.
“Are you going to do something about his ears?” she asked looking disapprovingly at Scruff.
“Why?” I asked, “What’s wrong with his ears?”
She advised me that Schnauzer ears are supposed to fold forward. Scruffy’s point up and outwards (kinda like the ‘Flying Nun’ — for those of you old enough to remember her). Her advice was to tape a five cent piece to each ear, then tape his ears to his head. God knows for how long! I was too taken aback to actually ask.
“I don’t intend to show him or anything,” I said -- probably irrelevantly, because clearly Flying Nun Boy was never going to be a serious contender.
She kindly went on to give me some advice on grooming and maintaining the Schnauzers, and informed me that her dogs are never allowed to get fully wet as it ‘softens’ the coat (apparently this is an undesirable outcome in Schnauzer Land).
“So they never get to have a swim?” I asked in disbelief.
“Never,” she confirmed.
“Phew, Scruff!” I said as we made a hasty exit from the strange world of dog showing. “I’ll bet you’re glad you’ve got ME as your Mum and not THAT lady!”
“My fur coat!” agreed Scruff as he steered me towards the river for a quick dip and a roll in the dirt. “My furrrr coat!”
I had actually forgotten the show was on, until halfway through our morning walk and so (resplendent in daggy track pants and bed-hair) decided on a little walkies diversion so that Scruffy and I could see how the ‘other half’ (i.e. dogs with manners and cute hair styles) live.
We were very impressed too. Fluffy Pomeranians and elegant Afghans, sleek Rottweilers and cute Malteses, adorable Shar Peis and handsome Dobermans all marching around the ring or patiently enduring another grooming -- or reclining, bored, in their shaded crates.
Their owners, mostly smartly-coiffed women, paraded with them in the ring. It struck me as a little odd that these ladies would wear business suits in a dog ring but, then again, I guess dog breeding is very serious business and they figure they must do whatever they can to improve the overall picture for the judges. Either that or they are living in a corporate 90’s timewarp.
Anyhow, Scruff and I innocently parked ourselves not far from the entrance to Show Ring 1 and settled down to watch proceedings. All was going well: Scruff was fascinated but well behaved. Then a couple of huge ‘blue’ dogs (I have no idea what breed they were; sort of a cross between a fat blue Labrador and a St Bernard) made their way to the Show Ring entrance, waiting for their turn. These dogs were twenty times the size of Scruff; big powerful, but gentle-looking dogs. One of them noticed Scruff and pulled towards him to say hello.
“Ruf!” squeaked little Scruff in delighted approval.
“Don’t you DARE!” shrieked Fat Blue Boy’s Prada-Coiffed Handler, glaring at Scruff indignantly as if he was about to leap upon her precious mutt and tear him limb from limb!
She must have noticed the surprised look on my face, because she suddenly forced a quick ‘smile’ before turning her attention back to Fat Boy. (Presumably this was some kind of apology for being a vicious puppy hater).
Anyhow, Scruff and I decided we’d had enough so we wandered off in search of a fellow Miniature Schnauzer fancier. We soon found a lady grooming her hairy-faced boy, and stopped for a chat.
“Are you going to do something about his ears?” she asked looking disapprovingly at Scruff.
“Why?” I asked, “What’s wrong with his ears?”
She advised me that Schnauzer ears are supposed to fold forward. Scruffy’s point up and outwards (kinda like the ‘Flying Nun’ — for those of you old enough to remember her). Her advice was to tape a five cent piece to each ear, then tape his ears to his head. God knows for how long! I was too taken aback to actually ask.
“I don’t intend to show him or anything,” I said -- probably irrelevantly, because clearly Flying Nun Boy was never going to be a serious contender.
She kindly went on to give me some advice on grooming and maintaining the Schnauzers, and informed me that her dogs are never allowed to get fully wet as it ‘softens’ the coat (apparently this is an undesirable outcome in Schnauzer Land).
“So they never get to have a swim?” I asked in disbelief.
“Never,” she confirmed.
“Phew, Scruff!” I said as we made a hasty exit from the strange world of dog showing. “I’ll bet you’re glad you’ve got ME as your Mum and not THAT lady!”
“My fur coat!” agreed Scruff as he steered me towards the river for a quick dip and a roll in the dirt. “My furrrr coat!”
Monday, May 17, 2010
The Weather Girl
We all like to know what the weather’s doing. And there are a variety of methods to decipher, describe, monitor and predict weather patterns and many dedicated weather boffins are out there risking life, limb and reputation just to bring us our 'Seasonal Climate Outlooks'.
But few of us everyday, meteorologically-challenged types ever wonder about what they actually do, these Meteogram junkies, or how the heck they come up with their predictions.
For example, who has ever heard of the 'MJO' (Madden-Julian Oscillation)? Apparently this is not some crazy Anglo-Greco dance, as I first suspected, but a periodic increase in rainfall which moves regularly across the tropics. Some guy (presumably in a tree-house somewhere in the Daintree Forest) checks satellite cloud loops and atmospheric pressure changes to predict bursts in monsoon activity during the wet season.
And you, at home, just go, “Ho hum, another wet week ahead”.
Well, that’s if you happen to live in the tropics.
Not around here though. We haven’t had a wet week for so long that the old saying; “Face like a Wet Week” had been changed to “Face like a Dry Winter”; that’s how bad it is! But I digress.
The real reason I wanted to write about all things meteorological this week, is that I may have accidentally uncovered a fool-proof method of predicting rain.
No, I haven’t been consulting the ‘Koppens Classification of Climates System’; nor have I been checking the ‘Rainfall Variability Index’ (although I do admit to having a peek at my Aneroid Barometer which has been pointing — somewhat optimistically, I would say — to RAIN for the past two years. I threw it out).
I haven’t even been consulting my aching sciatic nerve or arthritic tennis elbow and I certainly wasn’t listening to those cheeky ‘rain birds’ who have been squawking madly for weeks. I will admit the ants in the sugar bowl had me momentarily convinced but, like the promising clouds that have been gathering regularly for the past few months, I eventually ignored their teasing antics and went in search of a more reliable method of forecasting some long-desired precipitation.
And found it.
Via my house renovation.
Well, more specifically, the fitting of a new roof and its inherit necessity to remove the old roof, thus exposing the upper reaches of my abode to the heavens (and all that falls therefrom).
You guessed it. The one day of the millennia when I could really have used a bit of dry weather, and the skies open up!
Of course, I predicted this … with unwelcome accuracy.
And not only did it pour but, in an effort to check if the tarps were holding up, my intrepid spouse climbed up to check out the potential damage and went soaring from the slippery rooftop. He landed with a sickening thud, face down on the front lawn. (I did accurately predict this too, I might add, although, “I told you so’s” are not much appreciated by injured — although miraculously, alive — roof-skaters).
So from now on, dear reader, I will not be relying on weather men and their little formulas; their radars and isobars and satellites and gigabytes and frosty-bytes or whatever it is they claim gives them the forecasting edge.
Instead, I will check the local Council building permits and see whose doing a little roof-raising … and when. And if the renovators are as unlucky as us?
Well, we’ll all be jumping for joy ….. (while they get out the buckets!)
But few of us everyday, meteorologically-challenged types ever wonder about what they actually do, these Meteogram junkies, or how the heck they come up with their predictions.
For example, who has ever heard of the 'MJO' (Madden-Julian Oscillation)? Apparently this is not some crazy Anglo-Greco dance, as I first suspected, but a periodic increase in rainfall which moves regularly across the tropics. Some guy (presumably in a tree-house somewhere in the Daintree Forest) checks satellite cloud loops and atmospheric pressure changes to predict bursts in monsoon activity during the wet season.
And you, at home, just go, “Ho hum, another wet week ahead”.
Well, that’s if you happen to live in the tropics.
Not around here though. We haven’t had a wet week for so long that the old saying; “Face like a Wet Week” had been changed to “Face like a Dry Winter”; that’s how bad it is! But I digress.
The real reason I wanted to write about all things meteorological this week, is that I may have accidentally uncovered a fool-proof method of predicting rain.
No, I haven’t been consulting the ‘Koppens Classification of Climates System’; nor have I been checking the ‘Rainfall Variability Index’ (although I do admit to having a peek at my Aneroid Barometer which has been pointing — somewhat optimistically, I would say — to RAIN for the past two years. I threw it out).
I haven’t even been consulting my aching sciatic nerve or arthritic tennis elbow and I certainly wasn’t listening to those cheeky ‘rain birds’ who have been squawking madly for weeks. I will admit the ants in the sugar bowl had me momentarily convinced but, like the promising clouds that have been gathering regularly for the past few months, I eventually ignored their teasing antics and went in search of a more reliable method of forecasting some long-desired precipitation.
And found it.
Via my house renovation.
Well, more specifically, the fitting of a new roof and its inherit necessity to remove the old roof, thus exposing the upper reaches of my abode to the heavens (and all that falls therefrom).
You guessed it. The one day of the millennia when I could really have used a bit of dry weather, and the skies open up!
Of course, I predicted this … with unwelcome accuracy.
And not only did it pour but, in an effort to check if the tarps were holding up, my intrepid spouse climbed up to check out the potential damage and went soaring from the slippery rooftop. He landed with a sickening thud, face down on the front lawn. (I did accurately predict this too, I might add, although, “I told you so’s” are not much appreciated by injured — although miraculously, alive — roof-skaters).
So from now on, dear reader, I will not be relying on weather men and their little formulas; their radars and isobars and satellites and gigabytes and frosty-bytes or whatever it is they claim gives them the forecasting edge.
Instead, I will check the local Council building permits and see whose doing a little roof-raising … and when. And if the renovators are as unlucky as us?
Well, we’ll all be jumping for joy ….. (while they get out the buckets!)
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Why Dieting Doesn’t Work – The Morning Tea Factor
Being a true martyr to science I have fronted up to many a morning tea in search of clues to help solve the great mystery of how and where calories congregate (and why they always seem to end up on my hips).
I realise there could be a prize for scientific discovery in this for me, but unravelling this puzzle means more to me than mere public accolades. There are bigger things at stake here (i.e. fitting into my size 12 jeans again) and I intend to get to the ….um.…bottom of it.
Day after day I have selflessly gone in search of data to support my theory that calories are attracted to people who are dieting. This theory has arisen from the observation that slim people seem to be able to eat whatever they like without getting fat, whereas we dieters only have to look at a pastry or crème brulee and the calories seem to leap aboard.
Of course, like all reputable researchers, I feel compelled to offer supportive evidence for my hypothesis. So here’s how I believe it works. According to my clinical studies -- carried out courageously; with no concern for my own dangerous exposure to potential flab -- I have noted that slim people tend to stand some distance away from the morning tea table. When the hot food arrives, they swoop swiftly across the table; securing a sausage roll, a lump of mudcake and three chunks of cabana in one deft grab. They then scurry quickly away from the table, keeping their distance until the need to feast arises again.
Having witnessed this on many occasions I have finally figured out what they are up to. By slipping quickly away from the centre of feasting activity (i.e. the table) they seem to be evading the calories!
Meanwhile the dieters (weak from avoiding food for the entire morning) lean gratefully on the edge of the table, supporting their wobbly legs and light heads. They scan the contents of the table, taking care not to dwell on the party pies, cream sponge or iced donuts, then dutifully make a beeline for the carrot and celery sticks, low fat dip and cardboard crackers. They stuff the aforementioned into their salivating mouths and smile smugly, congratulating themselves on not succumbing to the lure of the forbidden fare.
But little do they know their efforts are all in vain.
For the calories they have been so carefully avoiding — having eagerly leapt skywards during the initial ‘slim-person swoop’ — now find themselves hovering mid-air in search of a suitable ‘host’.
As all the slim people have removed themselves quickly from the incubation area, only the dieters remain in the ‘zone’ — dangerously at risk of calorie infestation. The calories, being none too picky about where they land, deposit themselves on the slimmers, and bingo! There you have it; fat deposited!
Devastatingly simple, isn’t it? But at least with the benefit of such knowledge, we chronic would-be-slimmers can protect ourselves from such onslaughts.
In future I intend to stand with the slim people at morning tea and when they make their speedy dive for the hot/fattening food I will be amongst their number. I will grab the nearest cream puff and mini-quiche and dash furiously for the door in the hope that the calories will not be quick enough to catch me.
And if you ever see me looking slim and sylph-like, you will know that I finally managed to give ‘em the slip!
I realise there could be a prize for scientific discovery in this for me, but unravelling this puzzle means more to me than mere public accolades. There are bigger things at stake here (i.e. fitting into my size 12 jeans again) and I intend to get to the ….um.…bottom of it.
Day after day I have selflessly gone in search of data to support my theory that calories are attracted to people who are dieting. This theory has arisen from the observation that slim people seem to be able to eat whatever they like without getting fat, whereas we dieters only have to look at a pastry or crème brulee and the calories seem to leap aboard.
Of course, like all reputable researchers, I feel compelled to offer supportive evidence for my hypothesis. So here’s how I believe it works. According to my clinical studies -- carried out courageously; with no concern for my own dangerous exposure to potential flab -- I have noted that slim people tend to stand some distance away from the morning tea table. When the hot food arrives, they swoop swiftly across the table; securing a sausage roll, a lump of mudcake and three chunks of cabana in one deft grab. They then scurry quickly away from the table, keeping their distance until the need to feast arises again.
Having witnessed this on many occasions I have finally figured out what they are up to. By slipping quickly away from the centre of feasting activity (i.e. the table) they seem to be evading the calories!
Meanwhile the dieters (weak from avoiding food for the entire morning) lean gratefully on the edge of the table, supporting their wobbly legs and light heads. They scan the contents of the table, taking care not to dwell on the party pies, cream sponge or iced donuts, then dutifully make a beeline for the carrot and celery sticks, low fat dip and cardboard crackers. They stuff the aforementioned into their salivating mouths and smile smugly, congratulating themselves on not succumbing to the lure of the forbidden fare.
But little do they know their efforts are all in vain.
For the calories they have been so carefully avoiding — having eagerly leapt skywards during the initial ‘slim-person swoop’ — now find themselves hovering mid-air in search of a suitable ‘host’.
As all the slim people have removed themselves quickly from the incubation area, only the dieters remain in the ‘zone’ — dangerously at risk of calorie infestation. The calories, being none too picky about where they land, deposit themselves on the slimmers, and bingo! There you have it; fat deposited!
Devastatingly simple, isn’t it? But at least with the benefit of such knowledge, we chronic would-be-slimmers can protect ourselves from such onslaughts.
In future I intend to stand with the slim people at morning tea and when they make their speedy dive for the hot/fattening food I will be amongst their number. I will grab the nearest cream puff and mini-quiche and dash furiously for the door in the hope that the calories will not be quick enough to catch me.
And if you ever see me looking slim and sylph-like, you will know that I finally managed to give ‘em the slip!
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