Back in 1984, author Douglas Adams wrote the fourth book of his ‘Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy trilogy’ (yes, I did say fourth book, so if you’re not familiar with Adams’ work, you will deduce that he’s something of a joker).
Anyway, this book was titled ‘So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish’ in reference to a message supposedly left by the dolphins as they departed Planet Earth before it was demolished to make way for a hyperspace bypass. (FYI: We are apparently now living on an alternate earth to which we were transported without our knowledge before our other planet earth was destroyed).
Well, anyway, the implication is that the dolphins saw the writing on the wall. Well, they are pretty smart creatures. After all, don’t they always look happy? And why wouldn’t they be, when they get to swim and play all day and people admire them, scratch their bellies and throw fish to them? Certainly doesn’t sound like much of a tough gig to me!
Well, anyway, the dolphin thing came to mind the other night as I was sitting watching TV with a great lump of Scruffy Dog positioned awkwardly on my lap while I stroked his head and scratched behind his ears. I thought to myself, “This dog has the life!” If I dared to stop stroking or scratching, he would gently take my hand in his mouth and ‘insist’ that I get back to my job.
Thus, it occurred to me that perhaps I am not his ‘Mistress’ after all. In fact, I started to wonder if, quite to the contrary, I am actually his PET? And a rather well trained pet at that!
I pondered the way dogs greet each other and wondered if perhaps, like the dolphins, their communication is way more sophisticated than we know.
As they sniff each other’s posteriors, might they really be having an inaudible discussion on the vagaries of ‘pet’ training?
“How’s your human doing?” Jake the Staffy might be saying to his buddy, Deefer the Beagle as they both cock their legs on a tree. “Got him trained up yet?”
“I’m working on it, Jake -- but he’s a tough one. Mind of his own! Got him opening the door for me on command, though. And, he’s getting the hang of ‘throw the stick’. But there’s a lot more work to be done. Might take him along to one of those pet obedience classes, actually.”
“Great idea. I once took my girl there and she caught on really quickly to the ‘give me treats if you want me to do something’ lesson. The look on her face is priceless when I ‘sit’ on command. Haven’t the heart to tell her I was planning to sit anyway but, hey, she gets a kick out of thinking she’s in charge, so why spoil her fun?”
“Ha ha! That’s hilarious, Jake. Well, must go! Gotta have his ‘walkies’, you know. Yes, I know you and I prefer to think of it as our ‘cardio vascular workout’ but, let’s face it, we need to keep the language simple for this lot. That’s why I usually stick to ‘woof’. It’s about the only thing they seem to understand.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Not the smartest breed on the planet, but at least they feed us twice a day, scratch our bellies, give us the odd bath and vaccination and get us out of the house every morning. So we can’t complain. Too bad they have to go to work every day to support us. But hey, I guess that’s what pets are for! ……….
Nice collar, by the way. Are those diamonds real?”
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Li’l Vampires?
The other day I was surfing the internet looking for ideas for curtains for my lounge room. After browsing several home interior sites I finally found what seemed to be a stylish site with some very nice, elegant ideas.
As I trawled through the photos on the site, I noticed that one picture showed a baby of around eight months in the foreground, sitting on a sofa.
“How cute,” I thought, assuming that perhaps the owner of the company had, like many a proud parent, decided to show off their offspring. I was a little surprised that they had chosen their business site to do so but conceded that there are many advertising photos on the internet of real people. Besides, I thought, many people are drawn to babies, so perhaps it wasn’t such a bad marketing ploy, after all.
But as I continued to scroll through the rest of the photographs, I came across the baby again. This time it was a close up. He or she was smiling cutely but there was something disturbing about the image.
When I looked closer I noticed the following words emblazoned in red writing across the baby’s tiny white singlet: “I’d rather be drinking blood”.
Now, forgive my bewilderment but, at what point in a marketing campaign might one decide that a photo of a small child wearing a tacky and potentially offensive singlet might send sales skyrocketing?
I’m imagining a bunch of trendy curtain-design people hunched over a worktable, sifting through dozens of photos when suddenly one of them has an epiphany;
“I know!” he shouts, ‘Let’s include Mini Me Dracula drooling and wearing a distasteful little shirt. Surely THAT will get the curtain-buying punters in!”
At the other end of the marketing equation, can you visualise the curtain-buyers embracing this quirky little advertising stunt?
“Oh, look, Sebastian. This evil-looking child who prefers drinking blood looks just perfect against those amazing plantation shutters. I simply must have them.”
Shhhhrighhhht.
Surely the twits must have realised that not everyone would take kindly to the image? So why on earth include a photo that could polarise – and in many cases actually turn away - potential customers? Not to mention, that they portrayed their own child in a bad light.
It just made no sense, but then again, I have come to realise that some parents are quite odd. On the one hand they say they want the absolute best for their kids; but on the other hand, they don’t seem to be very clear about what, exactly, that is.
Surely, even posting a normal photo of one’s child on the web should be given a reasonable amount of consideration, let alone posting a child wearing a slogan with offensive and/or evil connotations.
Anyway, even though I realise my non purchase will not even be noticed by the vendors, at least I’m satisfied that Vampire Boy’s thoughtless parents won’t be getting my curtain business any time soon.
“I’d rather have bare windows!” was my response to their website and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one.
As I trawled through the photos on the site, I noticed that one picture showed a baby of around eight months in the foreground, sitting on a sofa.
“How cute,” I thought, assuming that perhaps the owner of the company had, like many a proud parent, decided to show off their offspring. I was a little surprised that they had chosen their business site to do so but conceded that there are many advertising photos on the internet of real people. Besides, I thought, many people are drawn to babies, so perhaps it wasn’t such a bad marketing ploy, after all.
But as I continued to scroll through the rest of the photographs, I came across the baby again. This time it was a close up. He or she was smiling cutely but there was something disturbing about the image.
When I looked closer I noticed the following words emblazoned in red writing across the baby’s tiny white singlet: “I’d rather be drinking blood”.
Now, forgive my bewilderment but, at what point in a marketing campaign might one decide that a photo of a small child wearing a tacky and potentially offensive singlet might send sales skyrocketing?
I’m imagining a bunch of trendy curtain-design people hunched over a worktable, sifting through dozens of photos when suddenly one of them has an epiphany;
“I know!” he shouts, ‘Let’s include Mini Me Dracula drooling and wearing a distasteful little shirt. Surely THAT will get the curtain-buying punters in!”
At the other end of the marketing equation, can you visualise the curtain-buyers embracing this quirky little advertising stunt?
“Oh, look, Sebastian. This evil-looking child who prefers drinking blood looks just perfect against those amazing plantation shutters. I simply must have them.”
Shhhhrighhhht.
Surely the twits must have realised that not everyone would take kindly to the image? So why on earth include a photo that could polarise – and in many cases actually turn away - potential customers? Not to mention, that they portrayed their own child in a bad light.
It just made no sense, but then again, I have come to realise that some parents are quite odd. On the one hand they say they want the absolute best for their kids; but on the other hand, they don’t seem to be very clear about what, exactly, that is.
Surely, even posting a normal photo of one’s child on the web should be given a reasonable amount of consideration, let alone posting a child wearing a slogan with offensive and/or evil connotations.
Anyway, even though I realise my non purchase will not even be noticed by the vendors, at least I’m satisfied that Vampire Boy’s thoughtless parents won’t be getting my curtain business any time soon.
“I’d rather have bare windows!” was my response to their website and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
The Naughty Finger
You know how in the cartoons when a character hurts their finger, it’s animated into this huge, red, pulsating digit? (I’m visualising Fred Flintstone going “Yeeeeeooooow!” as I write).
You do? Well that’s me right now. Except, if I’m totally honest there’s really no huge, red, pulsating finger, just rather a poor excuse for a cut on the end of my ‘pointer’ which has been giving me absolute grief for days.
And I’m getting no sympathy from my dog, Moses, either as it was an attempt to swat him that caused the injury in the first place. In fact, I can almost hear a smug little doggie “serves you right” as he reminds me that he was just trying to ‘help’ me when my finger connected rather sharply with some woodwork instead of him.
But the reason I am even writing about this is that it’s almost as if this sore finger has its own dastardly agenda. Whatever I’m doing it seems to find itself in an awkward (read ‘excruciatingly painful’!) spot.
I have a shower; it clunks itself on the soap tray. I try to dress; it gets itself caught in the elastic of my undies. I rummage through the cutlery drawer; it finds a couple of loose spoons to wedge itself between. I flick on the car blinkers; it goes one step further and whacks the steering wheel. It’s on a mission to make me notice it!
“Look at me!” it seems to be saying. “Don’t just go about your daily life like a normal, pain-free person. We have an ‘injury’ here, woman! Suffer!”
My handbag is like a mobile torture chamber. A simple search for the car keys has now become an exercise that must be planned with military precision. Firstly, the bag must be placed on a flat surface.
Then, using LEFT hand only (the non injured hand), items impeding the view of said car keys, are removed one by one. At NO point whatsoever in this delicate operation is the right hand permitted to engage in the activity. That is, until my mobile starts ringing in the bowels of the bag and ‘Old Righty’ goes into auto-response and dives foolishly into the fray.
Result? Me hopping around, waving my sore finger in the air like a mad woman and trying to stop myself from turning the air blue with expletives ….. and a missed call.
“Was it really worth it?” I ask Old Righty grumpily (yes, now I’m even talking to the thing). “You’ve just set your healing process back by about three days, I reckon.”
Old Righty just gives a sickening throb and says ‘Whatever’. He’s had his fun.
And then there’s night time. You wouldn’t think one could continue to injure one’s finger in bed, would you? But yes, that’s exactly what I can do.
After several pain-wracked moments of arranging myself under the covers, I attempt to roll on to my side, only to find Old Righty’s having none of it. He’s decided to wind himself defiantly into the corner of the sheet where he stays until he is ripped forth by the momentum of me doing my beached whale impersonation.
“Yeeeeeeeoooooow!” hollers Miss Flintstone as her pulsating, red, swollen digit wins again.
I lie there for the next several hours with my hand in the air in an attempt to keep the blood from flowing freely into the end of the finger.
“What the hell are you doing?” the spouse inquires after waking to find me looking like a zombie-fied, horizontal goal umpire.
Well, anyway, I think Old Righty might have won, afterall. I reckon it could be a trip to the doctor for some antibiotics in the very near future.
“I told you so,” says Old Righty, smugly admiring his latest bandage.
Argghhh! There’s nothing worse than the finger of scorn!
You do? Well that’s me right now. Except, if I’m totally honest there’s really no huge, red, pulsating finger, just rather a poor excuse for a cut on the end of my ‘pointer’ which has been giving me absolute grief for days.
And I’m getting no sympathy from my dog, Moses, either as it was an attempt to swat him that caused the injury in the first place. In fact, I can almost hear a smug little doggie “serves you right” as he reminds me that he was just trying to ‘help’ me when my finger connected rather sharply with some woodwork instead of him.
But the reason I am even writing about this is that it’s almost as if this sore finger has its own dastardly agenda. Whatever I’m doing it seems to find itself in an awkward (read ‘excruciatingly painful’!) spot.
I have a shower; it clunks itself on the soap tray. I try to dress; it gets itself caught in the elastic of my undies. I rummage through the cutlery drawer; it finds a couple of loose spoons to wedge itself between. I flick on the car blinkers; it goes one step further and whacks the steering wheel. It’s on a mission to make me notice it!
“Look at me!” it seems to be saying. “Don’t just go about your daily life like a normal, pain-free person. We have an ‘injury’ here, woman! Suffer!”
My handbag is like a mobile torture chamber. A simple search for the car keys has now become an exercise that must be planned with military precision. Firstly, the bag must be placed on a flat surface.
Then, using LEFT hand only (the non injured hand), items impeding the view of said car keys, are removed one by one. At NO point whatsoever in this delicate operation is the right hand permitted to engage in the activity. That is, until my mobile starts ringing in the bowels of the bag and ‘Old Righty’ goes into auto-response and dives foolishly into the fray.
Result? Me hopping around, waving my sore finger in the air like a mad woman and trying to stop myself from turning the air blue with expletives ….. and a missed call.
“Was it really worth it?” I ask Old Righty grumpily (yes, now I’m even talking to the thing). “You’ve just set your healing process back by about three days, I reckon.”
Old Righty just gives a sickening throb and says ‘Whatever’. He’s had his fun.
And then there’s night time. You wouldn’t think one could continue to injure one’s finger in bed, would you? But yes, that’s exactly what I can do.
After several pain-wracked moments of arranging myself under the covers, I attempt to roll on to my side, only to find Old Righty’s having none of it. He’s decided to wind himself defiantly into the corner of the sheet where he stays until he is ripped forth by the momentum of me doing my beached whale impersonation.
“Yeeeeeeeoooooow!” hollers Miss Flintstone as her pulsating, red, swollen digit wins again.
I lie there for the next several hours with my hand in the air in an attempt to keep the blood from flowing freely into the end of the finger.
“What the hell are you doing?” the spouse inquires after waking to find me looking like a zombie-fied, horizontal goal umpire.
Well, anyway, I think Old Righty might have won, afterall. I reckon it could be a trip to the doctor for some antibiotics in the very near future.
“I told you so,” says Old Righty, smugly admiring his latest bandage.
Argghhh! There’s nothing worse than the finger of scorn!
Friday, August 12, 2011
Location! Location! Location!
Isn’t it sad that the older we get, the harder it is to keep fit, healthy, trim, taut and terrific.
The kilos pile on at an alarming rate, the muscles hurt for days after a bit of exercise and the wrinkles and grey hairs seem to be competing to see which can multiply the most in the shortest space of time. Even the brain cells seem to be winding down. What was that other thing I was going to mention? Oh I forget…never mind ……...it might come to me in the morning……
Yes, it hardly seems fair that the human form seems so hell bent on dilapidation. After all, it’s not like most of us don’t take care of ourselves. We eat our fibre, drink our water, eat fruit and walk the dogs. What more do we have to do?
I mean, if I was a house, I would simply be in need of a renovation and some cashed up property mogul would come along and weave some creative magic on my tired façade. Some render here, some new stumps there, an electrical overhaul and a new roof, perhaps.
Or better still, wouldn’t it be great if I could just flog off the old body and upgrade to a new “residence”?
I can just imagine the advertisement for that!
For Genuine Sale
Renovators Delight
Female Human Body
Circa 1960
Solid construction
Rustic charm
Some ornamental features
Give the old girl a new lease on life!
Yes, buyers, this yesteryear beauty may be in need of renovation, but with a little TLC, some spakfilla, a good paint job (and perhaps even some minor earth moving equipment), she could be given a whole new lease on life!
The following minor defects have been identified:
• Sagging awnings
• Creaking frame
• Cracked external cladding
• Leaky plumbing
• Loose wiring
• Faded roof tiles
• Bats in the attic
So Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! buyers.
This little beauty won’t last!
(Inspection by appointment only. Bring wine)
The kilos pile on at an alarming rate, the muscles hurt for days after a bit of exercise and the wrinkles and grey hairs seem to be competing to see which can multiply the most in the shortest space of time. Even the brain cells seem to be winding down. What was that other thing I was going to mention? Oh I forget…never mind ……...it might come to me in the morning……
Yes, it hardly seems fair that the human form seems so hell bent on dilapidation. After all, it’s not like most of us don’t take care of ourselves. We eat our fibre, drink our water, eat fruit and walk the dogs. What more do we have to do?
I mean, if I was a house, I would simply be in need of a renovation and some cashed up property mogul would come along and weave some creative magic on my tired façade. Some render here, some new stumps there, an electrical overhaul and a new roof, perhaps.
Or better still, wouldn’t it be great if I could just flog off the old body and upgrade to a new “residence”?
I can just imagine the advertisement for that!
For Genuine Sale
Renovators Delight
Female Human Body
Circa 1960
Solid construction
Rustic charm
Some ornamental features
Give the old girl a new lease on life!
Yes, buyers, this yesteryear beauty may be in need of renovation, but with a little TLC, some spakfilla, a good paint job (and perhaps even some minor earth moving equipment), she could be given a whole new lease on life!
The following minor defects have been identified:
• Sagging awnings
• Creaking frame
• Cracked external cladding
• Leaky plumbing
• Loose wiring
• Faded roof tiles
• Bats in the attic
So Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! buyers.
This little beauty won’t last!
(Inspection by appointment only. Bring wine)
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Dem Bones!
Picture this. A friend of mine, living in London at the time, is heading to Gatwick airport to pick up his wife from a plane trip.
My friend -- known as X -- is in a hurry as his wife’s plane has already landed and he promised to be waiting for her. After several weeks away on business for the couple’s orthopaedics company, the wife is understandably keen to get home.
Nearing the airport, X whizzes (upon reflection, a little too swiftly) through a roundabout. Unfortunately, given that it’s only a few days since a terrorist scare in the vicinity of the airport, the place is crawling with police. Sure enough, Mr Plod pulls X over.
“’Allo, ‘allo, ‘allo,” says Mr Plod (well, actually he probably didn’t say that; I’m just setting the English scene here, folks).
“So wots the big ‘urry, Sonny Jim?” says Mr Plod, leaning in the car window.
“Well, you see, officer,” gushes X, trying to look appealing and innocent, “I’m late to pick up my wife from the airport. And you know how cranky these women can be if we’re late, don’t you?” X tries a conspiratorial wink for good measure.
Mr Plod’s not buying.
“Would you mind removing the keys and stepping from the car, sir?” he asks.
X looks anxiously at his watch and sighs. He opens the door and gets out. The Bobby checks his licence then motions towards the rear of X’s car.
“Do you have anything in the boot, sir?” he inquires.
“Nah…” says X automatically, before suddenly remembering something worrying. His heart rate quickens and his mouth suddenly becomes dry.
“Umm,” he squeaks, “ahh …..actually I do have something in the boot. But, um, it’s, well……..” his voice trails off as the Bobby raises a quizzical eyebrow and motions for X to open the trunk.
“But it’s not quite what it seems!” cries X, his voice now shrill and somewhat desperate.
“Just open it, Sunshine!” says Mr Plod (well, okay, maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of the The Bill; perhaps he didn’t really say ‘Sunshine’).
But anyway, X, looking paler by the second, reaches down to unlock the boot.
“I can explain!” he wails. “It’s not as bad as it looks! Honest!”
By this stage Plod is getting cranky. He reaches forward and hoists the boot open himself only to find he’s looking at every policeman’s worst nightmare.
Lying in the boot is a complete adult human skeleton!
“What the…?” shouts the policeman recoiling instantly from the car.
“It’s okay – it’s fake!” shouts X, trying to sound all perky; like he hasn’t just opened the boot of his car and exposed what appears to be human remains to an edgy policeman who’s been on an active hunt for terrorists and other maniacal killers.
“We’re in ‘orthopaedics’!” squeals X emphatically. “It’s a demonstration skeleton, that’s all!
Plod takes Xs keys from him and eyes him nervously for a few minutes while radioing in to headquarters. A few minutes later, he’s confirmed X’s story.
X heaves a sigh of relief and returns to his car.
“Thank God you didn’t find the drugs in the glove box!” he jokes as he’s about to drive off. Unfortunately Plod is not in the mood for levity.
“I think we’ve had enough hilarity from you for one night, sir,” he says gravely.
X concedes it’s probably not a good idea to be teasing someone who has a gun.
Not a good idea at all, Sunshine.
My friend -- known as X -- is in a hurry as his wife’s plane has already landed and he promised to be waiting for her. After several weeks away on business for the couple’s orthopaedics company, the wife is understandably keen to get home.
Nearing the airport, X whizzes (upon reflection, a little too swiftly) through a roundabout. Unfortunately, given that it’s only a few days since a terrorist scare in the vicinity of the airport, the place is crawling with police. Sure enough, Mr Plod pulls X over.
“’Allo, ‘allo, ‘allo,” says Mr Plod (well, actually he probably didn’t say that; I’m just setting the English scene here, folks).
“So wots the big ‘urry, Sonny Jim?” says Mr Plod, leaning in the car window.
“Well, you see, officer,” gushes X, trying to look appealing and innocent, “I’m late to pick up my wife from the airport. And you know how cranky these women can be if we’re late, don’t you?” X tries a conspiratorial wink for good measure.
Mr Plod’s not buying.
“Would you mind removing the keys and stepping from the car, sir?” he asks.
X looks anxiously at his watch and sighs. He opens the door and gets out. The Bobby checks his licence then motions towards the rear of X’s car.
“Do you have anything in the boot, sir?” he inquires.
“Nah…” says X automatically, before suddenly remembering something worrying. His heart rate quickens and his mouth suddenly becomes dry.
“Umm,” he squeaks, “ahh …..actually I do have something in the boot. But, um, it’s, well……..” his voice trails off as the Bobby raises a quizzical eyebrow and motions for X to open the trunk.
“But it’s not quite what it seems!” cries X, his voice now shrill and somewhat desperate.
“Just open it, Sunshine!” says Mr Plod (well, okay, maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of the The Bill; perhaps he didn’t really say ‘Sunshine’).
But anyway, X, looking paler by the second, reaches down to unlock the boot.
“I can explain!” he wails. “It’s not as bad as it looks! Honest!”
By this stage Plod is getting cranky. He reaches forward and hoists the boot open himself only to find he’s looking at every policeman’s worst nightmare.
Lying in the boot is a complete adult human skeleton!
“What the…?” shouts the policeman recoiling instantly from the car.
“It’s okay – it’s fake!” shouts X, trying to sound all perky; like he hasn’t just opened the boot of his car and exposed what appears to be human remains to an edgy policeman who’s been on an active hunt for terrorists and other maniacal killers.
“We’re in ‘orthopaedics’!” squeals X emphatically. “It’s a demonstration skeleton, that’s all!
Plod takes Xs keys from him and eyes him nervously for a few minutes while radioing in to headquarters. A few minutes later, he’s confirmed X’s story.
X heaves a sigh of relief and returns to his car.
“Thank God you didn’t find the drugs in the glove box!” he jokes as he’s about to drive off. Unfortunately Plod is not in the mood for levity.
“I think we’ve had enough hilarity from you for one night, sir,” he says gravely.
X concedes it’s probably not a good idea to be teasing someone who has a gun.
Not a good idea at all, Sunshine.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Winners are Grinners
I’ve always thought of myself as a fairly ‘non competitive’ person. Not for me the ‘stoush to the end’ for winners glory. “I’m a lover – not a fighter!” I would cry if challenged to any kind of sporting duel.
However, when I reflect more closely on my personal history of competition, I find that I was not, in fact, the little mouse who stood in the corner of the court/stadium/spelling bee podium and let everyone walk, run, throw, smash balls (or verbs) all over her. No, I could hold my own and did so in quite a feisty fashion.
First there was netball. After the insult of not being picked for the top Grade 6 team, I set about forming my own little team, known (perhaps somewhat unfortunately, upon reflection) as “The Way Outs”.
We were a motley little crew with more artistic than ball-throwing talent. What hope did we have – sickly looking in our pallid lemon-coloured tunics -- against the vibrant and physically superior ‘A Team’ resplendent in their royal blue shifts with snazzy gold lettering emblazoned on their bibs? Not much hope at all, seemingly, but that didn’t stop us -- and we even made it to the semi finals that year.
Then there was tennis. For years I played all around the district. On hard court and lawn, in all kinds of weather. As a young mum, I dragged babies and toddlers (and everything but the kitchen sink!) to stinking hot, dry, out of the way places -- just to play tennis.
But even though I could whack my way around the court pretty well, I never quite managed to work my way up to Number 1 pair in the Mixed round. Usually I ended up playing with my spouse (never a good idea if marital bliss is your ultimate aim) or got landed with the ‘fourth’ guy who always seemed to think he was John McEnroe but played, in fact, more like Elmer Fudd.
So why am I ruminating about my competitive spirit? Well, since taking up golf in recent times, I have played in several competitions; most recently in a Mixed 4 Ball tournament. Our team, two men and two women, headed out to the first tee with no real hopes of winning. However, as our Stableford score mounted encouragingly we realised we may well be actually in the race and started getting excited. With each extra point earned we hopped madly around the greens doing “Hi Fives!” and “Woohoo-ing!” much to the bemusement, no doubt, of our fellow golfers.
As we made our way back to the clubhouse, our Captain tallied up the score and excitedly informed us that we had 100 points. This, he assured us, was a very good score for Stableford. But was it enough, we wondered? Especially given that we were nearly all relative beginners (which kind of explains why our scores were so high; it’s not hard to be competitive when you have a handicap of 39!) Surely, we thought, there will be plenty of higher scores than ours.
However, when the announcements were later made at the 19th Hole, we found we did, indeed, have the top score. Unfortunately we shared the same score with another group and lost on a countback -- so even our rubbish handicaps couldn’t save the day.
But anyway, as I gathered up my prizes (six balls and a golf towel) I couldn’t help but feel pretty smug and pleased with myself.
“Watch out for us next time!” I whispered silently to the team who had pipped us at the post (conveniently forgetting that they are all on one figure handicaps and are therefore still actually much better players than us. My competitive tail was up!)
And now, my pretties, to figure out how I can keep my astoundingly high handicap and still win lots of golf in the future!
Cue ‘Evil Laugh’. Bruuhhhaahha!
However, when I reflect more closely on my personal history of competition, I find that I was not, in fact, the little mouse who stood in the corner of the court/stadium/spelling bee podium and let everyone walk, run, throw, smash balls (or verbs) all over her. No, I could hold my own and did so in quite a feisty fashion.
First there was netball. After the insult of not being picked for the top Grade 6 team, I set about forming my own little team, known (perhaps somewhat unfortunately, upon reflection) as “The Way Outs”.
We were a motley little crew with more artistic than ball-throwing talent. What hope did we have – sickly looking in our pallid lemon-coloured tunics -- against the vibrant and physically superior ‘A Team’ resplendent in their royal blue shifts with snazzy gold lettering emblazoned on their bibs? Not much hope at all, seemingly, but that didn’t stop us -- and we even made it to the semi finals that year.
Then there was tennis. For years I played all around the district. On hard court and lawn, in all kinds of weather. As a young mum, I dragged babies and toddlers (and everything but the kitchen sink!) to stinking hot, dry, out of the way places -- just to play tennis.
But even though I could whack my way around the court pretty well, I never quite managed to work my way up to Number 1 pair in the Mixed round. Usually I ended up playing with my spouse (never a good idea if marital bliss is your ultimate aim) or got landed with the ‘fourth’ guy who always seemed to think he was John McEnroe but played, in fact, more like Elmer Fudd.
So why am I ruminating about my competitive spirit? Well, since taking up golf in recent times, I have played in several competitions; most recently in a Mixed 4 Ball tournament. Our team, two men and two women, headed out to the first tee with no real hopes of winning. However, as our Stableford score mounted encouragingly we realised we may well be actually in the race and started getting excited. With each extra point earned we hopped madly around the greens doing “Hi Fives!” and “Woohoo-ing!” much to the bemusement, no doubt, of our fellow golfers.
As we made our way back to the clubhouse, our Captain tallied up the score and excitedly informed us that we had 100 points. This, he assured us, was a very good score for Stableford. But was it enough, we wondered? Especially given that we were nearly all relative beginners (which kind of explains why our scores were so high; it’s not hard to be competitive when you have a handicap of 39!) Surely, we thought, there will be plenty of higher scores than ours.
However, when the announcements were later made at the 19th Hole, we found we did, indeed, have the top score. Unfortunately we shared the same score with another group and lost on a countback -- so even our rubbish handicaps couldn’t save the day.
But anyway, as I gathered up my prizes (six balls and a golf towel) I couldn’t help but feel pretty smug and pleased with myself.
“Watch out for us next time!” I whispered silently to the team who had pipped us at the post (conveniently forgetting that they are all on one figure handicaps and are therefore still actually much better players than us. My competitive tail was up!)
And now, my pretties, to figure out how I can keep my astoundingly high handicap and still win lots of golf in the future!
Cue ‘Evil Laugh’. Bruuhhhaahha!
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Kermit and the Conference of Gloom
The other day I attended a conference which was, to be frank, my kind of conference.
You see, unlike many other conferences I have attended, there was no boring 1.5 hour monologue by some boooring (yes, albeit very clever) academic, waffling on ad nauseum about his or her particular bent and expecting us poor, pathetic, ignorant lay people to be similarly enchanted.
No, in stark contrast, this most recent conference was comprised of short, sharp spurts of information, delivered in neatly packaged twenty minute lots and including plenty of activities to keep us engaged and occupied.
After the conference, I commented to a colleague about my comparative enjoyment of this kind of forum to the dry ones I had previously experienced.
“So you don‘t really like the ‘adult learning model’, then?” he asked politely.
“No,” I replied honestly, “give me the ‘Sesame Street model’ any day. Short snippets of info and fun and not a wordy powerpoint presentation in sight!”
He smiled politely, no doubt ‘noting to self’ not to expect too much of me in terms of academic prowess or stickability.
But it’s true. I’m not a sticker when it comes to boring stuff. And I mean no disrespect to any speaker in saying so but, unless you keep me entertained with startling insights, humour or the odd magic trick, you can forget it. I will switch off quicker than a lightbulb in a greenie’s outhouse.
Not even some of the great orators of the world could keep my attention if it decided to so wander. For example, I can see me in biblical times with my Bedouin brain awandering. At the Sermon on the Mount, there I’d be fidgeting and checking my wrist-sundial every five shadows. Who were the Beatitudes anyway? I’d be wondering. Saint John, Paul, George and Ringo?
As Churchill delivered his moving “We shall fight them on the beaches!” speech, I’d have probably been doodling idly and wondering what was for lunch.
When JFK blasted out, “We choose to go to the moon!” I’d likely have been watching ‘Adventure Island’ (NASA’s space program not being exactly the thought fodder of most rural Australian kids).
But, oddly and in stark contrast, my attention was fully there for Lord Spencer as he railed against the paparazzi over the death of Princess Diana. It was a gut-wrenching time during which I came to better understand the pull of ordinary people towards celebrity. On the day of Diana’s funeral I sat in front of the telly and cried for six hours straight. It was both pathetic and enlightening to realise that someone I’d never met could move me so much.
Getting back to the speeches, let just me clarify one thing. If you are going to throw in a little humour, please make sure your audience will get the joke.
I recall an engineer friend who was preparing a speech for an international conference. He ran his speech past me beforehand, complete with (what he thought was) a very amusing joke. My non-amusement was palpable but I tried to cover it by suggesting perhaps I just didn’t understand engineering humour. He unfortunately didn’t take my hint to rethink his ‘joke’ and went on to include it – apparently quite unsuccessfully -- in the speech.
And so, here’s my public speaking advice in nutshell:
Keep it simple. Keep it quick. Wear a muppet costume……….. and get off as soon as possible!
You see, unlike many other conferences I have attended, there was no boring 1.5 hour monologue by some boooring (yes, albeit very clever) academic, waffling on ad nauseum about his or her particular bent and expecting us poor, pathetic, ignorant lay people to be similarly enchanted.
No, in stark contrast, this most recent conference was comprised of short, sharp spurts of information, delivered in neatly packaged twenty minute lots and including plenty of activities to keep us engaged and occupied.
After the conference, I commented to a colleague about my comparative enjoyment of this kind of forum to the dry ones I had previously experienced.
“So you don‘t really like the ‘adult learning model’, then?” he asked politely.
“No,” I replied honestly, “give me the ‘Sesame Street model’ any day. Short snippets of info and fun and not a wordy powerpoint presentation in sight!”
He smiled politely, no doubt ‘noting to self’ not to expect too much of me in terms of academic prowess or stickability.
But it’s true. I’m not a sticker when it comes to boring stuff. And I mean no disrespect to any speaker in saying so but, unless you keep me entertained with startling insights, humour or the odd magic trick, you can forget it. I will switch off quicker than a lightbulb in a greenie’s outhouse.
Not even some of the great orators of the world could keep my attention if it decided to so wander. For example, I can see me in biblical times with my Bedouin brain awandering. At the Sermon on the Mount, there I’d be fidgeting and checking my wrist-sundial every five shadows. Who were the Beatitudes anyway? I’d be wondering. Saint John, Paul, George and Ringo?
As Churchill delivered his moving “We shall fight them on the beaches!” speech, I’d have probably been doodling idly and wondering what was for lunch.
When JFK blasted out, “We choose to go to the moon!” I’d likely have been watching ‘Adventure Island’ (NASA’s space program not being exactly the thought fodder of most rural Australian kids).
But, oddly and in stark contrast, my attention was fully there for Lord Spencer as he railed against the paparazzi over the death of Princess Diana. It was a gut-wrenching time during which I came to better understand the pull of ordinary people towards celebrity. On the day of Diana’s funeral I sat in front of the telly and cried for six hours straight. It was both pathetic and enlightening to realise that someone I’d never met could move me so much.
Getting back to the speeches, let just me clarify one thing. If you are going to throw in a little humour, please make sure your audience will get the joke.
I recall an engineer friend who was preparing a speech for an international conference. He ran his speech past me beforehand, complete with (what he thought was) a very amusing joke. My non-amusement was palpable but I tried to cover it by suggesting perhaps I just didn’t understand engineering humour. He unfortunately didn’t take my hint to rethink his ‘joke’ and went on to include it – apparently quite unsuccessfully -- in the speech.
And so, here’s my public speaking advice in nutshell:
Keep it simple. Keep it quick. Wear a muppet costume……….. and get off as soon as possible!
Monday, May 2, 2011
OOO Boy!
A friend and I were recently discussing our wonderful police and emergency services and admiring the fantastic job they generally do in responding to all manner of crises.
During this conversation, I raised the question of how the 000 emergency hotline manages to deal with large numbers of calls, all coming in at once, such as when a major emergency like a flood, storm or fire occurs. For example, I wondered if they ‘queue’ calls or whether the calls ever go to an answering machine until an operator can get to them.
My friend (who apparently had some insight into such matters) informed me that 000 service centres generally have an ‘overflow’ system, whereby if all the lines are busy, calls are diverted to other parts of the organisation or to other ‘manned’ sites. That was a relief, as the idea of hearing a recorded message when one is in the middle of an emergency is a scary thought.
But this got me thinking about what such a scenario might look like and made me giggle. Imagine. You dial 000 and a recorded voice says something like this:
“Hi. You’ve called Triple O, the emergency specialists. Our operators are all busy dealing with someone else’s crisis at the moment, but please hold and one of our friendly team will be with you shortly.”
You then hear the piped music. ‘California Girls’ pumps chirpily through the phone before this next round of info:
“Thank you for holding. Your emergency is important to us so please keep holding. Or if you would prefer to be transferred directly to the department that deals with your specific issue, please select one of the following options:
If you have an axe-wielding maniac hacking through your flywire door, please press 1.
If there’s a seventy foot gum tree (or part thereof) imbedded in your lounge room, please press 2.
If you’re trapped by the huge huntsman spider that’s on the wall between you and the nearest exit, please press 3 (ya sook!)
If there’s a runaway car protruding from your front fence, please press 4.
If you’ve misplaced your children, please check under the beds, in the laundry basket or in your neighbour’s lounge room, then press 5.
If you’ve misplaced your husband, please check the couch thoroughly, then press 6
If you need an ambulance, please check that you have cover and, if not, take this opportunity to get some (dial 123SICK for some great February deals! Buy one paramedic and get an ashen-faced work experience kid for free!) Then press 7.
If there’s a snarling dog attached to your leg, please press 8 (and try not to yowl into the phone too much, okay?)
If the storm water drain outside your house now appears to be flowing inside your house, please press 9.
If your spa bath isn’t operating at the right temperature, please press 10.
Yes, we here at Triple O cater for ALL kinds of emergencies. No job too big or small. And yes, we DO deliver.....eventually…..
Now…. if you can just keep the compression pack on the axe wound, chainsaw the tree off your telly, flick the spider outside, hoist the car off your fence, locate the kids and hubby, drive yourself to the hospital, feed the dog something other than your shin, unplug the stormwater drain and press “On” on your spa, you can get your life back to normal and we can go back to checking out Ebay.
Thank you for calling Triple O. We really do care. Just not today.”
During this conversation, I raised the question of how the 000 emergency hotline manages to deal with large numbers of calls, all coming in at once, such as when a major emergency like a flood, storm or fire occurs. For example, I wondered if they ‘queue’ calls or whether the calls ever go to an answering machine until an operator can get to them.
My friend (who apparently had some insight into such matters) informed me that 000 service centres generally have an ‘overflow’ system, whereby if all the lines are busy, calls are diverted to other parts of the organisation or to other ‘manned’ sites. That was a relief, as the idea of hearing a recorded message when one is in the middle of an emergency is a scary thought.
But this got me thinking about what such a scenario might look like and made me giggle. Imagine. You dial 000 and a recorded voice says something like this:
“Hi. You’ve called Triple O, the emergency specialists. Our operators are all busy dealing with someone else’s crisis at the moment, but please hold and one of our friendly team will be with you shortly.”
You then hear the piped music. ‘California Girls’ pumps chirpily through the phone before this next round of info:
“Thank you for holding. Your emergency is important to us so please keep holding. Or if you would prefer to be transferred directly to the department that deals with your specific issue, please select one of the following options:
If you have an axe-wielding maniac hacking through your flywire door, please press 1.
If there’s a seventy foot gum tree (or part thereof) imbedded in your lounge room, please press 2.
If you’re trapped by the huge huntsman spider that’s on the wall between you and the nearest exit, please press 3 (ya sook!)
If there’s a runaway car protruding from your front fence, please press 4.
If you’ve misplaced your children, please check under the beds, in the laundry basket or in your neighbour’s lounge room, then press 5.
If you’ve misplaced your husband, please check the couch thoroughly, then press 6
If you need an ambulance, please check that you have cover and, if not, take this opportunity to get some (dial 123SICK for some great February deals! Buy one paramedic and get an ashen-faced work experience kid for free!) Then press 7.
If there’s a snarling dog attached to your leg, please press 8 (and try not to yowl into the phone too much, okay?)
If the storm water drain outside your house now appears to be flowing inside your house, please press 9.
If your spa bath isn’t operating at the right temperature, please press 10.
Yes, we here at Triple O cater for ALL kinds of emergencies. No job too big or small. And yes, we DO deliver.....eventually…..
Now…. if you can just keep the compression pack on the axe wound, chainsaw the tree off your telly, flick the spider outside, hoist the car off your fence, locate the kids and hubby, drive yourself to the hospital, feed the dog something other than your shin, unplug the stormwater drain and press “On” on your spa, you can get your life back to normal and we can go back to checking out Ebay.
Thank you for calling Triple O. We really do care. Just not today.”
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Collectible Chaos
Over the years I have known many people who collected items such as antiques, dolls, guns, china, books, artworks and Elvis memorabilia. And while I have always admired the single-mindedness of these people to devote so much time and energy towards their hobby, personally, I found the whole idea a bit boring.
I mean if you’ve got one of something, what the hell do you need another one for? was my view. And why, oh why, I asked myself, would someone be interested in collecting ugly seventies glass vases and plastic travel clocks in the first place? I just couldn’t see the point. In fact, I even wondered if these collecty-type people were ever so slightly unhinged. I mean, didn’t the need to surround oneself with hundreds of similar looking items, only to keep polishing and rearranging them, smack rather heavily of obsessive-compulsive behaviour?
However, as I’ve become older, while I would certainly never profess to becoming a collector myself (not unless you count hoarding old makeup in my bathroom cupboard) I must admit that I have perhaps started to gain a better understanding of the collector’s motivation.
After all, to these people it’s not just about staring admiringly at their latest acquisition as it takes pride of place amongst its four thousand cousins on the shelf. It’s quite often about the challenge of finding it in the first place. The thrill of the hunt. The adrenalin of the kill (or, in this case, the auction). The triumphant moment when that funny little object of your desire is finally in your hot little hands. THAT is what collecting is all about.
Of course, I must admit this is mere speculation on my part. Collectors world-wide might hunt me down and boil me in hot wax for saying these things about them, but I don’t mind going out on the occasional philosophical limb. (In fact, I’m thinking about starting a collection of philosophical limbs. What do you think?)
Anyway, having watched ‘The Collectors’ on TV for some time now, I feel I can speak with reasonable authority on this matter. I have seen how these collecty-people’s eyes glaze over when they talk about their latest ‘find’. Their hunter-gatherer instincts are strong. It’s a prehistoric penchant for getting stuff and keeping it. Lots of it.
The only difference between regular people and collecty-people is that regular people like to get lots of different stuff, while collecty-people like, well, all the same stuff. It’s their prerogative of course, and I will defend the right of all collecty-people to go forth and collect as much as their little collecty-hearts desire.
So what has led me to wax lyrical about all things collectable? Well, you see the spouse has started collecting ceramic beer steins. Mostly from Germany and other parts of Europe and damn it if those colourful little jugs aren’t sucking me in too! I find myself gazing at them inexplicably as I sip my morning coffee. I find myself talking about them to visitors and examining them closely. I even started cataloguing the little beasts!
And I am actually getting a bit worried about the spouse too. He seems to need to buy these things on a regular basis. He becomes fixated when his eyes drift to the Stein Shelf and he seems to need to touch them rather more often than is, I feel, strictly healthy.
What on earth has happened here? Have we created a pair of ceramic-collecting monsters? Franken-Steins perhaps? Is there any hope for us, or will we soon be collecting all manner of collectables? Will our house become so full of 19th Century Dentistry Equipment, Commemorative Tea Towels and Scowly Faced Baby Dolls that we will need a guided tour just to get to the toilet?
I certainly hope not. And just to make sure, I think it’s best if I stick to my ‘philosophical limbs’. At least they won’t need dusting.
I mean if you’ve got one of something, what the hell do you need another one for? was my view. And why, oh why, I asked myself, would someone be interested in collecting ugly seventies glass vases and plastic travel clocks in the first place? I just couldn’t see the point. In fact, I even wondered if these collecty-type people were ever so slightly unhinged. I mean, didn’t the need to surround oneself with hundreds of similar looking items, only to keep polishing and rearranging them, smack rather heavily of obsessive-compulsive behaviour?
However, as I’ve become older, while I would certainly never profess to becoming a collector myself (not unless you count hoarding old makeup in my bathroom cupboard) I must admit that I have perhaps started to gain a better understanding of the collector’s motivation.
After all, to these people it’s not just about staring admiringly at their latest acquisition as it takes pride of place amongst its four thousand cousins on the shelf. It’s quite often about the challenge of finding it in the first place. The thrill of the hunt. The adrenalin of the kill (or, in this case, the auction). The triumphant moment when that funny little object of your desire is finally in your hot little hands. THAT is what collecting is all about.
Of course, I must admit this is mere speculation on my part. Collectors world-wide might hunt me down and boil me in hot wax for saying these things about them, but I don’t mind going out on the occasional philosophical limb. (In fact, I’m thinking about starting a collection of philosophical limbs. What do you think?)
Anyway, having watched ‘The Collectors’ on TV for some time now, I feel I can speak with reasonable authority on this matter. I have seen how these collecty-people’s eyes glaze over when they talk about their latest ‘find’. Their hunter-gatherer instincts are strong. It’s a prehistoric penchant for getting stuff and keeping it. Lots of it.
The only difference between regular people and collecty-people is that regular people like to get lots of different stuff, while collecty-people like, well, all the same stuff. It’s their prerogative of course, and I will defend the right of all collecty-people to go forth and collect as much as their little collecty-hearts desire.
So what has led me to wax lyrical about all things collectable? Well, you see the spouse has started collecting ceramic beer steins. Mostly from Germany and other parts of Europe and damn it if those colourful little jugs aren’t sucking me in too! I find myself gazing at them inexplicably as I sip my morning coffee. I find myself talking about them to visitors and examining them closely. I even started cataloguing the little beasts!
And I am actually getting a bit worried about the spouse too. He seems to need to buy these things on a regular basis. He becomes fixated when his eyes drift to the Stein Shelf and he seems to need to touch them rather more often than is, I feel, strictly healthy.
What on earth has happened here? Have we created a pair of ceramic-collecting monsters? Franken-Steins perhaps? Is there any hope for us, or will we soon be collecting all manner of collectables? Will our house become so full of 19th Century Dentistry Equipment, Commemorative Tea Towels and Scowly Faced Baby Dolls that we will need a guided tour just to get to the toilet?
I certainly hope not. And just to make sure, I think it’s best if I stick to my ‘philosophical limbs’. At least they won’t need dusting.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Grand Designs? I don't think so, Tim
Picture this. Somewhere in a laboratory in Zurich, a team of nerdy looking scientific guys with fruzzy hair and white coats are huddled around a stainless steel workbench. They are so engrossed in their project that they barely even notice the sound of atoms splitting in a nearby nuclear collider (or even the smoko bell, for that matter).
On the bench before them lies the blueprint for one of the most dastardly weapons against mankind ever invented. The Nerdy Scientist guys cackle gleefully as one of them adds yet another masterstroke of design to their drawing.
“Aha!” cries Professor Springbunger delightedly sketching his infamous vicious coil-shape, “Vee must never forget zat our ultimate aim is to ensure that zee person who uses ziss device suffers greatly.”
The other Nerdy Guys nod in agreement. They know that the entire future of the universe depends on their ability to design the most uncomfortable sofa bed; thus preventing many millions of unwanted houseguests from staying too long at many millions of other people’s places.
Unlikely, you say? Well, then, you try explaining why fold-out beds have so many extraneous coils, bars and bumps in them or why they tip you into the middle whilst simultaneously being noisy and cold! You can’t, can you? So my theory persists.
Surely it must be deliberate, for I can’t imagine that any sofa-bed-architect could actually believe they have invented something comfortable. I mean, don’t these people ever test their products? Don’t they know that sleeping on a sofa-bed has been named in the top-ten Most Annoying Things To Do Before You Die list?
Of course, sofa beds aren’t the only badly designed products on the market these days. Take for example, those prams with big side wheels that hook onto everything in their path – meaning that someone’s furniture, gate, pet or small child may be still attached to you by the time you get to your destination.
Then there are mobile phones that are so complicated you need a degree in technology and aerodynamics to operate them (and that’s just to open ‘em!) And how sensible is it that we must work our way through six layers of plastic and cardboard before we even get to a bar of soap yet, ironically, every day millions of unprotected city folk are breathing in toxic gases from the poorly designed, fuel-guzzling motor vehicles? Why don’t they cling-wrap the cars, for goodness sake and leave us humble soap-opening people alone?
And what about shampoo and conditioner bottles? Given that millions of people wear glasses, doesn’t it seem plausible that these same people probably don’t wear their glasses in the shower and therefore cannot read the miniscule writing on the bottles? Only yesterday I managed to shampoo my hair three times in one session because I couldn’t read the labels. Surely amongst the Einsteins of the design world there must be at least one or two bespectacled types who could have raised this particular issue?
I just shake my head in disbelief at times. We’ve come so far and yet still can’t seem to perfect the simplest of design feats.
And as I take the bread knife to a tightly wrapped package after five minutes of frustration and futility trying to open the damn thing, I once again question the ingenuity of mankind.
We can put space shuttles into orbit, create the World Wide Web and pack millions of gigabytes into a single pinhead, yet we still can’t seem to invent an easy-open box of tea-bags. Sheesh!
On the bench before them lies the blueprint for one of the most dastardly weapons against mankind ever invented. The Nerdy Scientist guys cackle gleefully as one of them adds yet another masterstroke of design to their drawing.
“Aha!” cries Professor Springbunger delightedly sketching his infamous vicious coil-shape, “Vee must never forget zat our ultimate aim is to ensure that zee person who uses ziss device suffers greatly.”
The other Nerdy Guys nod in agreement. They know that the entire future of the universe depends on their ability to design the most uncomfortable sofa bed; thus preventing many millions of unwanted houseguests from staying too long at many millions of other people’s places.
Unlikely, you say? Well, then, you try explaining why fold-out beds have so many extraneous coils, bars and bumps in them or why they tip you into the middle whilst simultaneously being noisy and cold! You can’t, can you? So my theory persists.
Surely it must be deliberate, for I can’t imagine that any sofa-bed-architect could actually believe they have invented something comfortable. I mean, don’t these people ever test their products? Don’t they know that sleeping on a sofa-bed has been named in the top-ten Most Annoying Things To Do Before You Die list?
Of course, sofa beds aren’t the only badly designed products on the market these days. Take for example, those prams with big side wheels that hook onto everything in their path – meaning that someone’s furniture, gate, pet or small child may be still attached to you by the time you get to your destination.
Then there are mobile phones that are so complicated you need a degree in technology and aerodynamics to operate them (and that’s just to open ‘em!) And how sensible is it that we must work our way through six layers of plastic and cardboard before we even get to a bar of soap yet, ironically, every day millions of unprotected city folk are breathing in toxic gases from the poorly designed, fuel-guzzling motor vehicles? Why don’t they cling-wrap the cars, for goodness sake and leave us humble soap-opening people alone?
And what about shampoo and conditioner bottles? Given that millions of people wear glasses, doesn’t it seem plausible that these same people probably don’t wear their glasses in the shower and therefore cannot read the miniscule writing on the bottles? Only yesterday I managed to shampoo my hair three times in one session because I couldn’t read the labels. Surely amongst the Einsteins of the design world there must be at least one or two bespectacled types who could have raised this particular issue?
I just shake my head in disbelief at times. We’ve come so far and yet still can’t seem to perfect the simplest of design feats.
And as I take the bread knife to a tightly wrapped package after five minutes of frustration and futility trying to open the damn thing, I once again question the ingenuity of mankind.
We can put space shuttles into orbit, create the World Wide Web and pack millions of gigabytes into a single pinhead, yet we still can’t seem to invent an easy-open box of tea-bags. Sheesh!
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Foul Language Gone Wilde
Oscar Wilde, the famous 19th century Irish poet once said: “The expletive is the refuge of the semi-literate”. In other words; swearing is for dumb heads.
Well, all I can say is, if the ‘refuge’ was an actual place, it would be packed to the rafters -- considering the number of foul-mouthed ‘dumb heads’ around these days. And yes, okay, I might be among their number too at times, I admit. (Before anyone starts calling me a hypocrite because they’ve heard me say naughty words). Yes, we 21st century folk say lots of words that would’ve made our grandparents’ hair curl.
As a kid I was aware of most of the swear words but would never dare use them. And, even though my Dad was always careful not to swear around us kids or in public, I still, in fact, heard my first F Bomb from his own lips as he wrestled angrily with some recalcitrant piece of machinery in his shed. He must have thought the tin shed walls were soundproof!
Mum was not a swearer. In fact, the worst thing I ever heard her say was when she called our kelpie “Face Ache” as he persistently tried to herd her around the clothesline. I thought this was hilarious. In her later years, after a severe stroke had sadly stolen much of her capacity to remember words, she adopted the unlikely (for her) “Bugger Awful!” when things displeased her. Coming from my Mum it was priceless!
Then came my own parenting. We were always careful to keep it nice around the kids and I used to warn them thus (and forgive me Oscar!): “Only dumb people swear because they are too stupid to know any better words.”
The kids got it (I guess no-one likes to be labelled as stupid) and pretty much refrained from using bad language -- around me anyway. I told them I didn’t actually care what they said when they were somewhere where no-one could hear them. BUT (and this was my big stipulation) if there was even just ONE person who might be offended -- or little kids -- within earshot, they were not to do it.
I’m not sure how effective this advice actually was but the fact that the kids spent quite a lot of time down the river suggests maybe they had more words to get off their chests than I realised. (If only the gum trees had ears!)
But anyway, a while ago I was with my sons (now young men) when one of them accidentally dropped the F Bomb. Before I’d even raised an eyebrow in protest, he quickly apologised to me. My heart swelled with pride that my child was so respectful, until his brother chimed in that what he had said was nothing compared to what he usually says! Hmph!
More recently, after a local outdoor rock concert, I commented to Number Three Son that I wished the band hadn’t sworn so much as the microphones were carrying the offensive words all over town.
Number Three just rolled his eyes and said, “Will you just get over this swearing thing, Mum? It’s just part of life. You make such a big deal out of it!”
“So you don’t have a problem with it then?” I asked him. “You’re okay with people swearing anytime and any place, are you?” He nodded emphatically.
“Well, okay. How about getting your own (*F Bomb*) breakfast then?” I inquired politely. Number Three nearly fell off his chair!
Funny how something’s okay until your mother does it. I guess it’s all a matter of perspective. (Sorry Oscar, but we 21st Century mums have to work with what we’ve got!)
Well, all I can say is, if the ‘refuge’ was an actual place, it would be packed to the rafters -- considering the number of foul-mouthed ‘dumb heads’ around these days. And yes, okay, I might be among their number too at times, I admit. (Before anyone starts calling me a hypocrite because they’ve heard me say naughty words). Yes, we 21st century folk say lots of words that would’ve made our grandparents’ hair curl.
As a kid I was aware of most of the swear words but would never dare use them. And, even though my Dad was always careful not to swear around us kids or in public, I still, in fact, heard my first F Bomb from his own lips as he wrestled angrily with some recalcitrant piece of machinery in his shed. He must have thought the tin shed walls were soundproof!
Mum was not a swearer. In fact, the worst thing I ever heard her say was when she called our kelpie “Face Ache” as he persistently tried to herd her around the clothesline. I thought this was hilarious. In her later years, after a severe stroke had sadly stolen much of her capacity to remember words, she adopted the unlikely (for her) “Bugger Awful!” when things displeased her. Coming from my Mum it was priceless!
Then came my own parenting. We were always careful to keep it nice around the kids and I used to warn them thus (and forgive me Oscar!): “Only dumb people swear because they are too stupid to know any better words.”
The kids got it (I guess no-one likes to be labelled as stupid) and pretty much refrained from using bad language -- around me anyway. I told them I didn’t actually care what they said when they were somewhere where no-one could hear them. BUT (and this was my big stipulation) if there was even just ONE person who might be offended -- or little kids -- within earshot, they were not to do it.
I’m not sure how effective this advice actually was but the fact that the kids spent quite a lot of time down the river suggests maybe they had more words to get off their chests than I realised. (If only the gum trees had ears!)
But anyway, a while ago I was with my sons (now young men) when one of them accidentally dropped the F Bomb. Before I’d even raised an eyebrow in protest, he quickly apologised to me. My heart swelled with pride that my child was so respectful, until his brother chimed in that what he had said was nothing compared to what he usually says! Hmph!
More recently, after a local outdoor rock concert, I commented to Number Three Son that I wished the band hadn’t sworn so much as the microphones were carrying the offensive words all over town.
Number Three just rolled his eyes and said, “Will you just get over this swearing thing, Mum? It’s just part of life. You make such a big deal out of it!”
“So you don’t have a problem with it then?” I asked him. “You’re okay with people swearing anytime and any place, are you?” He nodded emphatically.
“Well, okay. How about getting your own (*F Bomb*) breakfast then?” I inquired politely. Number Three nearly fell off his chair!
Funny how something’s okay until your mother does it. I guess it’s all a matter of perspective. (Sorry Oscar, but we 21st Century mums have to work with what we’ve got!)
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Nothing Worse?
Yesterday, as my colleague and I scrounged around our office looking for some staples, I found myself blurting out one of those inane, ill-considered, sayings.
Having finally found some staples that were the right size, I bleated: “Thank goodness! There’s NOTHING WORSE than having no staples.”
Realising my gaff, I quickly added, “Unless of course you get hacked to death by an axe murderer. That might be worse.”
You see, I have made a mental pact with myself that I will never utter such ludicrous words in relation to mundane, everyday annoyances. After all, when you really think about it, there are just so many worse things.
Nothing worse than missing the bus? Yes, getting HIT by the bus would be worse.
Nothing worse than having a cold? Try pneumonia, typhoid, malaria, dysentery or The Plague perhaps?
Nothing worse than running out of milk for your cereal? How about out and out starvation. That’s gotta be slightly worse.
Nothing worse than getting up to crying baby in the night? What about lying there for hours worrying that it’s not crying? I’ve been there. It’s definitely worse!
Nothing worse than a sore toe? You’d prefer amputation maybe?
Nothing worse than forgetting to turn your electric blanket on? How about no bed on which to affix the lecky in the first place?
Nothing worse than a slow email connection? Umm…do the words ‘snail mail’ mean anything to you?
Nothing worse than dry elbow skin? One word. Leprosy.
Nothing worse than waiting for the phone to ring? OK, maybe being stood on by a stampeding African elephant might be a tad worse.
Nothing worse than kids who don’t listen? What about kids who DO listen but still don’t give a toss? They are definitely much worserer (new word for the occasion).
Nothing worse than having to go to work on Monday? Does it really get any better on Tuesday? Nah? Thought not.
Nothing worse than dog poo on your shoe? How about dog teeth imbedded in your ribcage? (With an angry dog still attached!)
Nothing worse than slow traffic? Well, arriving by slow ambulance to the morgue could be slightly worse (not that we would be in any position to notice nor care).
Nothing worse than a dodgy computer mouse? Scabies. Scabies would be worse.
Nothing worse than cold coffee? How about warm beer? Eeuw!
By this stage I assume you get my point, so I will shut up now.
After all, I’m sure there’s nothing worse than a Kitchen Philosopher who waffles on ‘ad nauseum’.
Aside from perhaps …….
Nah. Nothing.
Okay, I take your point.
Having finally found some staples that were the right size, I bleated: “Thank goodness! There’s NOTHING WORSE than having no staples.”
Realising my gaff, I quickly added, “Unless of course you get hacked to death by an axe murderer. That might be worse.”
You see, I have made a mental pact with myself that I will never utter such ludicrous words in relation to mundane, everyday annoyances. After all, when you really think about it, there are just so many worse things.
Nothing worse than missing the bus? Yes, getting HIT by the bus would be worse.
Nothing worse than having a cold? Try pneumonia, typhoid, malaria, dysentery or The Plague perhaps?
Nothing worse than running out of milk for your cereal? How about out and out starvation. That’s gotta be slightly worse.
Nothing worse than getting up to crying baby in the night? What about lying there for hours worrying that it’s not crying? I’ve been there. It’s definitely worse!
Nothing worse than a sore toe? You’d prefer amputation maybe?
Nothing worse than forgetting to turn your electric blanket on? How about no bed on which to affix the lecky in the first place?
Nothing worse than a slow email connection? Umm…do the words ‘snail mail’ mean anything to you?
Nothing worse than dry elbow skin? One word. Leprosy.
Nothing worse than waiting for the phone to ring? OK, maybe being stood on by a stampeding African elephant might be a tad worse.
Nothing worse than kids who don’t listen? What about kids who DO listen but still don’t give a toss? They are definitely much worserer (new word for the occasion).
Nothing worse than having to go to work on Monday? Does it really get any better on Tuesday? Nah? Thought not.
Nothing worse than dog poo on your shoe? How about dog teeth imbedded in your ribcage? (With an angry dog still attached!)
Nothing worse than slow traffic? Well, arriving by slow ambulance to the morgue could be slightly worse (not that we would be in any position to notice nor care).
Nothing worse than a dodgy computer mouse? Scabies. Scabies would be worse.
Nothing worse than cold coffee? How about warm beer? Eeuw!
By this stage I assume you get my point, so I will shut up now.
After all, I’m sure there’s nothing worse than a Kitchen Philosopher who waffles on ‘ad nauseum’.
Aside from perhaps …….
Nah. Nothing.
Okay, I take your point.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
ANZAC Magic
I’ve learned a valuable lesson this morning. Never mess with the knowledge, experience and cooking skills of our pioneering womenfolk.
I say this because today I decided to cook some ANZAC biscuits. I checked the pantry to make sure I had all the ingredients: Butter — check (well, the cholesterol-fighting spread that we artery-challenged middle-agers use). Flour, coconut, oats — check. Golden syrup — check. Sugar — check. Bicarb soda — check. Great! All systems go.
But as I am wont to do (even though experience proves I should really know better) I decided to give the old ANZACs a new twist. Perhaps it was the Scotsman’s daughter in me who was reluctant to use the expensive, sterol-enhanced spread, or maybe it really was a genuine belief that I should not be consuming so much unhealthy fat in the first place, that made me decide to replace some of the ‘butter’ with olive oil. After all, I concluded, it was still wet stuff, so it really shouldn’t make much difference, should it?
I heated the wet ingredients and stirred them into the dry ingredients but instead of glugging up into a sticky ball as required, the ingredients obstinately refused to come together. Thinking it was just due to the strange butter and olive oil mix I conceded that, yes, they will be a bit dry, but we will get over it.
Somehow I managed to squeeze the mixture into kind-off lumps and popped them into the oven, but as I cleaned up the kitchen I made a mental note to never again mess with those early Australian chicks. After all, they’d probably tried and tested many versions of ANZAC biscuits before finally settling on something that actually worked. Who was I to question their wisdom? I, who has had many tragic cookery moments and whose love of cooking is rivalled only by her love of having dental surgery without anaesthesia.
But as I opened the pantry door to replace something, I saw a disconcerting sight. There, sitting on the shelf in front of my nose, was the Golden Syrup! Only THE most important ingredient of the ANZAC biscuit!
Unopened.
No wonder there’d been no glugging! I quickly dashed to the oven and removed the lumps which had already begun to harden, tossed them unceremoniously back into a mixing bowl and smashed them with a wooden spoon. I heated the golden syrup and glooped it into the crumbling mess and WHAMMO: straight away there was ‘glugging’ and I knew I had managed to resurrect the ailing ANZACs. It was truly a moment of culinary magic!
Back into the oven and shortly afterwards out they came, all golden and yummy-looking. In fact, I’d almost go as far as saying they may be the best batch I’ve ever produced. (And the Scotsman’s daughter was quite relieved that she hadn’t just wasted $8 worth of sterols too!)
Yes, those ANZAC chicks may not have had olive oil and sterol-enhanced spreads to choose from in those days so, indeed, the ANZAC biscuit may truly be an artery-hardener-to-the-max.
But the real problem with ANZAC biscuits is not that they contain so much fat and sugar. It’s that people like me, whose cholesterol levels correspond directly with their lack of willpower, are unable to stop eating them!
What we really need is a recipe for “Anti-ANZAC-Scoffing”.
Now THAT, I definitely wouldn’t mess with! Promise.
I say this because today I decided to cook some ANZAC biscuits. I checked the pantry to make sure I had all the ingredients: Butter — check (well, the cholesterol-fighting spread that we artery-challenged middle-agers use). Flour, coconut, oats — check. Golden syrup — check. Sugar — check. Bicarb soda — check. Great! All systems go.
But as I am wont to do (even though experience proves I should really know better) I decided to give the old ANZACs a new twist. Perhaps it was the Scotsman’s daughter in me who was reluctant to use the expensive, sterol-enhanced spread, or maybe it really was a genuine belief that I should not be consuming so much unhealthy fat in the first place, that made me decide to replace some of the ‘butter’ with olive oil. After all, I concluded, it was still wet stuff, so it really shouldn’t make much difference, should it?
I heated the wet ingredients and stirred them into the dry ingredients but instead of glugging up into a sticky ball as required, the ingredients obstinately refused to come together. Thinking it was just due to the strange butter and olive oil mix I conceded that, yes, they will be a bit dry, but we will get over it.
Somehow I managed to squeeze the mixture into kind-off lumps and popped them into the oven, but as I cleaned up the kitchen I made a mental note to never again mess with those early Australian chicks. After all, they’d probably tried and tested many versions of ANZAC biscuits before finally settling on something that actually worked. Who was I to question their wisdom? I, who has had many tragic cookery moments and whose love of cooking is rivalled only by her love of having dental surgery without anaesthesia.
But as I opened the pantry door to replace something, I saw a disconcerting sight. There, sitting on the shelf in front of my nose, was the Golden Syrup! Only THE most important ingredient of the ANZAC biscuit!
Unopened.
No wonder there’d been no glugging! I quickly dashed to the oven and removed the lumps which had already begun to harden, tossed them unceremoniously back into a mixing bowl and smashed them with a wooden spoon. I heated the golden syrup and glooped it into the crumbling mess and WHAMMO: straight away there was ‘glugging’ and I knew I had managed to resurrect the ailing ANZACs. It was truly a moment of culinary magic!
Back into the oven and shortly afterwards out they came, all golden and yummy-looking. In fact, I’d almost go as far as saying they may be the best batch I’ve ever produced. (And the Scotsman’s daughter was quite relieved that she hadn’t just wasted $8 worth of sterols too!)
Yes, those ANZAC chicks may not have had olive oil and sterol-enhanced spreads to choose from in those days so, indeed, the ANZAC biscuit may truly be an artery-hardener-to-the-max.
But the real problem with ANZAC biscuits is not that they contain so much fat and sugar. It’s that people like me, whose cholesterol levels correspond directly with their lack of willpower, are unable to stop eating them!
What we really need is a recipe for “Anti-ANZAC-Scoffing”.
Now THAT, I definitely wouldn’t mess with! Promise.
Monday, January 17, 2011
The Age of Unreason?
Age is a relative thing. When you are seven, anyone over the age of twelve is grown up. And when you are sixteen, thirty is the gateway to drool and incontinence pads.
As an eight year old I recall being quite relieved when my twenty five year old teacher FINALLY married and had a baby. I feared if she didn’t hurry up, she would be waaaay too old.
When I reached twenty-five, myself, it was quite a different story. I felt young; my life stretched before me and the world was at my feet. Conversely, my approaching-their-thirties siblings seemed ‘mature-aged’ and my parents …. well … they were positively ancient!
Around this time, a relative died at age 55 and I actually thought, “Oh well, he’s had a good innings! “ A good innings? What was I thinking? Now that 50 looms in my not too distant future, 55 is like the prime of youth! At 55 you should be dancing til midnight, riding surf boards and seeing the world, not six foot under pushing up daisies. Goodness, how my perspective has changed!
And what has brought about this sudden interest in our varied perspectives of ageing?
Well, the other day I heard on the radio that a local girl had been invited to join a group of ‘young people’ to meet the Pope. Oh, how lovely I thought. A bunch of teenagers hanging out with the God Squad. I had visions of Benedict XVI, cross-legged in St Peter’s Square in hoodie and jeans, downing a Big Mac and chilling out with the kids.
My vision was short lived. The news report concluded by interviewing the ‘young woman’ in question.
At first, however, I thought they must have mistakenly interviewed her mother, for clearly the voice on the other end of the phone was not that of a teenager. In fact, without even setting eyes on our Little Miss Vatican 2010 I guessed she was somewhere in her late thirties. I was prepared to wager that if she was a teen, then the Pope was certainly no Catholic!
So what was this ‘young people’ thing all about? When I was thirty I was an adult mother of three with responsibilities and a mortgage. I didn’t consider myself to be exactly ‘old’ but to me ‘young’ was anything under 25.
But of course I have overlooked the Baby Boomer Factor. After all, if there’s one thing we BBs hate it’s to lose control. Thus ageing is not on our agenda. No, instead we have simply reinvented the standard stages of maturity to suit ourselves. ‘Old’ is becoming the new ‘young’.
‘Young’ is everything up to and including whatever age we Boomers currently are, and ‘old’ is anything beyond the next twenty years. We reserve the right to revisit and manipulate this to suit our egos and lifestyles, so be prepared to see 80 as the new 50; 50 as the new 30; 30 as the new 18; (16 as 16 - some things don’t get any better) and pre-pubescent tweenies will be the new toddlers. Babyhood will be retained in its current form, mainly because babies don’t give a toss about getting older (in fact they quite like being babies) and besides, going back to the womb might be a bit tricky.
So, anyway, I guess I don’t need to worry about the crows-feet or saggy bits that are coming my way. After all, thanks to our ageless Baby Boomers, these are about to become synonymous with eternal youth. In fact, it will be so cool to be wrinkled, all the kids will be wanting turkey-necks for Christmas. Their mantra will be ‘Old dudes ROCK!’ and we will approach our twilight years happy in the knowledge that we’ve still got ‘it’…..
……um….that’s if we can remember what ‘it’ actually is….
As an eight year old I recall being quite relieved when my twenty five year old teacher FINALLY married and had a baby. I feared if she didn’t hurry up, she would be waaaay too old.
When I reached twenty-five, myself, it was quite a different story. I felt young; my life stretched before me and the world was at my feet. Conversely, my approaching-their-thirties siblings seemed ‘mature-aged’ and my parents …. well … they were positively ancient!
Around this time, a relative died at age 55 and I actually thought, “Oh well, he’s had a good innings! “ A good innings? What was I thinking? Now that 50 looms in my not too distant future, 55 is like the prime of youth! At 55 you should be dancing til midnight, riding surf boards and seeing the world, not six foot under pushing up daisies. Goodness, how my perspective has changed!
And what has brought about this sudden interest in our varied perspectives of ageing?
Well, the other day I heard on the radio that a local girl had been invited to join a group of ‘young people’ to meet the Pope. Oh, how lovely I thought. A bunch of teenagers hanging out with the God Squad. I had visions of Benedict XVI, cross-legged in St Peter’s Square in hoodie and jeans, downing a Big Mac and chilling out with the kids.
My vision was short lived. The news report concluded by interviewing the ‘young woman’ in question.
At first, however, I thought they must have mistakenly interviewed her mother, for clearly the voice on the other end of the phone was not that of a teenager. In fact, without even setting eyes on our Little Miss Vatican 2010 I guessed she was somewhere in her late thirties. I was prepared to wager that if she was a teen, then the Pope was certainly no Catholic!
So what was this ‘young people’ thing all about? When I was thirty I was an adult mother of three with responsibilities and a mortgage. I didn’t consider myself to be exactly ‘old’ but to me ‘young’ was anything under 25.
But of course I have overlooked the Baby Boomer Factor. After all, if there’s one thing we BBs hate it’s to lose control. Thus ageing is not on our agenda. No, instead we have simply reinvented the standard stages of maturity to suit ourselves. ‘Old’ is becoming the new ‘young’.
‘Young’ is everything up to and including whatever age we Boomers currently are, and ‘old’ is anything beyond the next twenty years. We reserve the right to revisit and manipulate this to suit our egos and lifestyles, so be prepared to see 80 as the new 50; 50 as the new 30; 30 as the new 18; (16 as 16 - some things don’t get any better) and pre-pubescent tweenies will be the new toddlers. Babyhood will be retained in its current form, mainly because babies don’t give a toss about getting older (in fact they quite like being babies) and besides, going back to the womb might be a bit tricky.
So, anyway, I guess I don’t need to worry about the crows-feet or saggy bits that are coming my way. After all, thanks to our ageless Baby Boomers, these are about to become synonymous with eternal youth. In fact, it will be so cool to be wrinkled, all the kids will be wanting turkey-necks for Christmas. Their mantra will be ‘Old dudes ROCK!’ and we will approach our twilight years happy in the knowledge that we’ve still got ‘it’…..
……um….that’s if we can remember what ‘it’ actually is….
Saturday, January 8, 2011
A Modern Christmas Tale
T’was the night before Christmas and all over the house not a sound could be heard, not even a mouse.
Well okay, maybe a mouse, but not the kind of mouse you’re thinking of. Not the ‘eek eek’, furry kind, but the kind that moves the cursor on my computer.
Frantically typing a late yuletide article got me thinking about how different the very first Christmas might have been had it occurred in the modern age.
First of all, it strikes me that the Great Universal Architect probably wouldn’t have wasted a whole supernova in an effort to attract the attention of the Three Wise Men (climate change and all). Surely he would have just Tweeted about the imminent arrival. The guys, in turn, would have punched the street directions for uptown Bethlehem into their latest ‘Nav Desert Man’ technology and sped towards their destination in a trusty Commodore V6 with mag (or was that Magi?) wheels and subwoofer.
As for the Holy family, rather than staying in a stable, they would have logged onto Wotif and secured a 5 star room at the ‘Grand Sands Hotel and Birthing Unit’ complete with complimentary champagne on arrival, a continental breakfast and a gift voucher from Holy-Bubs-R-Us.
Not that Mary would have been very interested in brekky or gift vouchers. She would have been too busy browsing Ebay for a Post-Baby-Ab-Buster, catching up with her girlfriends on Facebook and texting her mother (in between contractions).
Joseph, apart from acting as Mary’s ‘birthing coach’ would be checking his mobile for the latest cricket scores, watching the big Nomads v Kings game on the huge flat screen TV and listening to Carols by Candlelight on his iPod.
Oh wait, perhaps that’s not exactly historically accurate. Carols by Candlelight might not have been invented at that stage, given that the subject of the carols was yet to actually arrive. A minor oversight on my part, but suffice to say that Joseph would have had plenty to amuse him (if the imminent arrival of the saviour of the world weren’t enough, that is).
Of course the whole event would have been filmed in digital living colour to ensure that every moment was saved for biblical posterity (movie rights pending) and/or posting on YouTube.
The Three Wise Men (Micko, Stevo and Davo) would have been milling around taking photos with their iPhones and helpfully making e-lists of really useful things to do with Myrrh and Frankincense. And, as no animals are allowed on the premises without EU accreditation, the donkeys and cattle would be banished to the nearby Happy Hoofs Pet and Ghecko Resort. This would be a relief to Mary as they generally make a hell of a racket with all their braying and lowing. Not to mention the stains on the Berber carpet.
And as the big day ends, Mary pops the little one into his crib, cranks up the Bob the Bedouin crib mobile and the Hark the Herald infant intercom. She then phones room service for a gourmet dinner and a good bottle of red.
Joseph enters the date in his Blackberry because he’s lousy at remembering birthdates and anniversaries and they all settle down to, what they hope will be, a reasonably Silent Night.
(2 a.m feedtime notwithstanding).
Well okay, maybe a mouse, but not the kind of mouse you’re thinking of. Not the ‘eek eek’, furry kind, but the kind that moves the cursor on my computer.
Frantically typing a late yuletide article got me thinking about how different the very first Christmas might have been had it occurred in the modern age.
First of all, it strikes me that the Great Universal Architect probably wouldn’t have wasted a whole supernova in an effort to attract the attention of the Three Wise Men (climate change and all). Surely he would have just Tweeted about the imminent arrival. The guys, in turn, would have punched the street directions for uptown Bethlehem into their latest ‘Nav Desert Man’ technology and sped towards their destination in a trusty Commodore V6 with mag (or was that Magi?) wheels and subwoofer.
As for the Holy family, rather than staying in a stable, they would have logged onto Wotif and secured a 5 star room at the ‘Grand Sands Hotel and Birthing Unit’ complete with complimentary champagne on arrival, a continental breakfast and a gift voucher from Holy-Bubs-R-Us.
Not that Mary would have been very interested in brekky or gift vouchers. She would have been too busy browsing Ebay for a Post-Baby-Ab-Buster, catching up with her girlfriends on Facebook and texting her mother (in between contractions).
Joseph, apart from acting as Mary’s ‘birthing coach’ would be checking his mobile for the latest cricket scores, watching the big Nomads v Kings game on the huge flat screen TV and listening to Carols by Candlelight on his iPod.
Oh wait, perhaps that’s not exactly historically accurate. Carols by Candlelight might not have been invented at that stage, given that the subject of the carols was yet to actually arrive. A minor oversight on my part, but suffice to say that Joseph would have had plenty to amuse him (if the imminent arrival of the saviour of the world weren’t enough, that is).
Of course the whole event would have been filmed in digital living colour to ensure that every moment was saved for biblical posterity (movie rights pending) and/or posting on YouTube.
The Three Wise Men (Micko, Stevo and Davo) would have been milling around taking photos with their iPhones and helpfully making e-lists of really useful things to do with Myrrh and Frankincense. And, as no animals are allowed on the premises without EU accreditation, the donkeys and cattle would be banished to the nearby Happy Hoofs Pet and Ghecko Resort. This would be a relief to Mary as they generally make a hell of a racket with all their braying and lowing. Not to mention the stains on the Berber carpet.
And as the big day ends, Mary pops the little one into his crib, cranks up the Bob the Bedouin crib mobile and the Hark the Herald infant intercom. She then phones room service for a gourmet dinner and a good bottle of red.
Joseph enters the date in his Blackberry because he’s lousy at remembering birthdates and anniversaries and they all settle down to, what they hope will be, a reasonably Silent Night.
(2 a.m feedtime notwithstanding).
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