A public warning:

Last night, while staying in the gorgeous place I've already mentioned, I dreamt I was in the Catholic Basilica in Barbadoes St, Christchurch, and pretending I'd been shot in the abdomen. This was all pre-arranged. Priests were going to pray over me and then mime operating on me on the main altar. I think they were wanting a guaranteed miracle for the plebs or something.

The plot thickened when I discovered the Dreamboat (who was all solicitious concern, playing his part to the max, carrying me into the church and draping a blanket over my pretend pain-wracked limbs) had a Russian wife he'd never told me about. I was not impressed, and was planning to terminate our relationship after my convalescence.

Then, because it was Christmas, large green rectangular balloons with high-rise buildings drawn on them in black marker pen were released in the church, while the Dowager Empress' parish priest walked down the main aisle with good-looking black priests behind him carrying baskets filled with mushrooms. He kept intoning (about the mushrooms), "You don't need batteries to operate them, and they can be stuffed with anything except meat," while afore-mentioned black guys doled them out with tongs to the adoring congregation.

This is what happens when the love of your life insists on playing Pink Floyd before going to bed.

|

Yesterday, the Dreamboat spirited the Dowager Empress et moi to Apollo Bay, where we stayed overnight in a gorgeous place and ate at La Bimba cafe - a place I can't recommend highly enough if you're a debauched sybarite like myself with a weakness for great food with a North African influence, an extensive grog list and a fabulous atmosphere.

(No-one pays me for these recommendations, by the way. I just do it because I'm a caring, sharing individual who wants other people to be as fat, jolly and broke as I am.)

Apollo Bay really turned it on for us. It was raining and freezing cold, but it's hard to object because the place is so damned lovely. As are the locals. I could tell I was an instant hit with the hostess of our accommodation when she asked the Dreamboat and I where we were headed next. He said something about driving on to see the local sights and added that we were shortly about to commence our exile in Karratha, at which point she started talking about her own fondness for Western Australia.

Hostess: Are you going there for work, or something?
DB: Yes. Construction Engineer on the North-West Shelf (etc etc...)
Hostess: (looks impressed)
Niki: Yeah, and I'm going to start up sherry mornings for all the other bored women in Karratha.
Hostess: (doesn't look impressed at all, and addresses the rest of her remarks to the Dreamboat)

We spent this morning driving around looking for koalas in their natural habitat (ie lolling around halfway up a certain type of gum tree, looking stoned out of their little minds) and we actually succeeded in spotting eight of the wee darlings. I'm not sure why it's so exciting to see koalas in the wild. Initially, I theorised that the onset of middle-age might have something to do with it. Then, after driving back on the main road for about ten minutes, we came across a stretch where approximately half a dozen vehicles littered the asphalt with their engines still running while demented humans of all ages pointed up at various trees and smiled, and I realised it's a madness that infects absolutely everyone.

When we got home we rented Bridget Jones's Diary for the Dowager Empress' comic enjoyment. She really liked it, in spite of the bad language and:
DE: The other thing that I haven't mentioned... you know...
Niki: The sex?
DE: (nods vigorously, relieved that I was the one who said it)

Which makes me bloody glad I didn't give in to my initial evil impulse and instruct the Dreamboat to rent this - a truly awful movie that's one of our personal favourites.

|

Yesterday was sad, so I'm going to talk about something else (my standard method of dealing with emotion when the Dowager Empress is around and it's too early in the day to start drinking). The problem is in knowing where to start.

In exactly one week's time, we'll be leaving Melbourne and driving off in the fiery chariot to begin our Brave New Life in the wilds of Western Australia. People keep asking me if I'm excited and I nod obligingly and murmur in the affirmative, but the truth is that everything's been so hectic over the last month I haven't really thought much about it. I don't think the reality will sink in until next Thursday, when a few really efficient guys from a removal company will start waving full ashtrays under my nose and asking, "Are these to go?".

Because of the very fact of their outstanding efficiency, you have to be careful what you say 'yes' to where moving company guys are concerned. When the Dreamboat emigrated from the UK to New Zealand, his worldly goods arrived three months later and included a beautifully-packed wastepaper basket still full of rubbish. And when we moved to Melbourne from Whyalla we discovered some kindly soul had re-corked and wrapped sellotape around a third-full bottle of Banrock Station 2000 Merlot left over from our farewell debauch. It's still sitting in the booze cupboard. I didn't have the heart to throw it out. It might come in handy if we have any emergencies in Karratha.

Another interesting fact about moving company guys is that they are very often flirtatious, particularly the middle-aged ones with the loud, cheerful, witty banter. These blokes almost invariably wear really skimpy shorts and have plenty of bum-crack action happening. The younger, better-looking ones are usually quiet, don't drink coffee and are dressed in the moving company equivalent of priestly vestments.

As we've been informed it may take up to three weeks for our possessions to reach Karratha, I'm going to have plenty of time to meditate further on the subject of moving company guys. I'll let you know if I come up with anything interesting.

|

The Dreamboat's parents leave tomorrow and I'll be very sad to see them go. We've had a terrific three weeks together and I'll particularly miss the great talks I had with the Dreamboat's dad. Somewhere along the line I'd stopped mixing with people who enjoy discussing subjects like the Albigensian Heresy at length. Perhaps when we move to the charming hamlet of Karratha I'll discover a few like-minded individuals, but I'm not exactly holding my breath.

I'll also miss the restraining influence these wonderful people have had on the Dowager Empress, who has limited herself to only one critical remark about my smoking since her arrival on Sunday. I'm expecting all hell to break loose shortly after their departure.

More goodbyes...
My writing group had its final meeting yesterday. It can't continue in its present form because its funding has dried up. Apparently, with the exception of two people (me, and another woman who is kind of ever-so-slightly unhinged and keeps trying to convert me to Christianity), everyone in the group has a university degree. The funding agency would rather use its money to support recently-arrived immigrants who want to improve their English and get real jobs. (And when it's put like that, I have to say I can't really blame them.)

We were informed that the only way the moribund Creative Writing group will get any financial support is if it changes its name and focus to something like "Creative Résumés". It doesn't affect me because I'm leaving anyway, but the poor guy who gave the group the news yesterday afternoon was treated to some excellent Creative Invective from the other members, and shuffled out with his hands protectively covering his jewels and an expression of barely-concealed terror.

I've long suspected it doesn't pay to piss off 'creative' types. You can never be sure what will finally push them over the edge. And when I'm giving my humble-but-incisive acceptance speech after having been awarded the Booker Prize, I'll make sure I say something to that effect.

|

One of the little-known benefits of having assorted parental-type individuals cluttering up all the available bedrooms, is the fact that you get to snooze on the futon/couch in the living room with your loved one and watch cinematic masterpieces like The Adventures of Captain Zoom in Outer Space. (These activities are not mutually exclusive.)

Of course if that isn't excitement enough, there's always the amazing Body Blade to stimulate your jaded neurons...

|

Three women.

One kitchen.

Not pretty.

Therefore, we ate out tonight.

|

One-UpMUMship:



After hearing that the Dreamboat's mum had brought over some of his baby photos, the Dowager Empress just had to follow suit.

|

There's no competition for this week's Nong of the Week Award. It goes to me, for dragging the household out to the airport to greet the Dowager Empress (my mother), only to find the flight details I'd memorised were those of the Dreamboat's parents. I got the airline wrong, the flight number wrong and we arrived two and a half hours early.

But at least the date was spot-on.

|

Emotional Scenes in North Melbourne Hairdressing Salon:



Not even a glass and a half of wine and the transformation of her lank, greying tresses into chemically-coaxed chestnut locks of great style and beauty could console Niki when she realised she had just experienced her last hairdressing appointment in the civilised world.

|

Today is the Dreamboat's last day at work and it's something of an understatement to say we're both thrilled about it.

There are jobs that suck, and then there are jobs that suck so much they should be imprisoned in lead-lined boxes and dumped somewhere out in space. The Dreamboat's job falls into the second category. I know what I'm talking about, because up until July I worked for the same company.

I won't bore you by cataloguing everything that's wrong with the place, but suffice it to say that in a working life littered with disastrous career moves, this was without a doubt the worst job I ever had. I hated it so much I resigned by email. I hated it so much I wasn't bothered that I resigned by email. It was that bad.

The Dreamboat is made of sterner stuff than I. He has one of those huge, throbbing Protestant work ethics that drains away all other considerations in its insatiable hunger for exercise. My own work ethic is of more modest proportions, although it swells impressively when I'm doing something I enjoy. It tends to vaporise when it rocks up to a new job and discovers the role it had been employed to fill no longer exists and would it mind spending the forseeable future scanning documents and burning up CDs?

Of course not, Worthy Employer - provided you don't object to my increasingly frequent psychotic episodes and the prospect of having your CDs burnt by Melbourne's newest serial-killer-in-the-making.

So, yes... I'm very glad that my Rampant Tiger in the Boudoir is getting out of there. From what I gather, his last day in the job will probably look something like this:

8.00am: Arrive.

8.01-11.59am: Gloat. Smirk. Smile pityingly at all the other poor bastards still stuck there. Accept well-wishes. Regretfully refuse bribes from colleagues to take them with him to the new job at Karratha. Wander around office at will, looking relaxed and handsome. Pretend unsuccessfully to take an interest when consulted about anything work-related. Ignore any and all ringing telephones.

Midday-4.25pm: Go to pub for farewell drinks. Make frequent toasts in own honour.

4.30pm: Head back to office for monthly Friday-night drink session. Start slurring words.

5.00pm: Smile in delight when joined by his Ravishing Vixen, fresh from the hairdresser and looking damned comely, eh what.

5.01pm onwards: Continue to celebrate in characteristically restrained manner.

???: Somehow make it home with Ravishing Vixen. (His mother has promised not to ring us this time, no matter what the hour.)

I suspect this could end up being one of those really messy 'can't remember anything after 2pm but I had a great time anyway' affairs, but what the hell. He deserves it.

|

O Me Miserum! This is Latin for 'Bugger me days, I really am a dirty reprobate and a pathetic excuse for a human being'.

Sin Number One:
This will sound petulant, childish and ungrateful (now there's a first, Niki), but I am getting really sick of eating in restaurants.

For one thing, over the last couple of weeks I've been amassing huge quantities of blubber at a rate close to light-speed. Last night I put on a pair of knee-high boots and couldn't do up the zip on the left one. I managed it in the end, but only at the cost of my circulation. So much for all the trudging around the city (ie exercise) I've been enduring lately.

It appears that not only am I destined to become the sort of grumpy old woman who, without provocation, pelts attractive young men with empty beer cans and the occasional handful of legumes from her assiduously-tended cottage garden, but I am also going to end up with legs that are the width of my thighs all the way down. I'll have to wear sensible shoes. Gravity will cause the flesh around my ankles to flow down and pool over the tops of said shoes like some kind of alien lava and small children will flee from me in terror.

The Dreamboat's mum has a theory that it's alcohol rather than food that piles on the weight and I suspect she's right. However, if I didn't have this necessary emotional crutch to mellow me out, I'd probably end up giving in to my baser instincts and becoming a sadistic customs officer. I'd see out my days making life hell for hairy young back-packers at airports.

When faced with such a horrifying prospect, I cannot view drinking wine as merely an optional part of a fine dining experience. Nope, it's a necessary social service, and I only participate for the benefit of humankind. With weighty responsibilities like these, giving the stuff up for a while is simply out of the question.

Sin Number Two:
I've also found myself becoming more critical lately. The service was too slow. The menu was boring. The gnocchi were too salty. I listen to myself and I think, 'What a fucking spoiled brat you've turned into! So what if the gnocchi were salty? At least you won't get a goitre. And, considering the fact that your throat is the only part of you that's still slim, that's bloody significant.'

Sin Number Three:
While I'm in confessional mode, let's add cynicism to the list too. The Dreamboat, his parents and I had dinner last night with a couple we hadn't met before. At the end of the night, I found myself muttering to the Dreamboat, "When you meet someone who spends the whole night relating witty, intelligent and funny anecdotes from their own life and never once asks you anything about your own, it's obvious that as far as they're concerned, you're never going to meet again."

Shame on you, Niki. You are the naughtiest pirate there ever was.

I've been trying to work out what sort of penance I should give myself for these mortal sins. I thought about a month-long diet of soup made from potato peelings and salads of rotting cabbage stalks with no vinaigrette at all, not even olive oil and lemon juice. Then I considered squeezing myself into any or all of the clothes that don't fit me any more and walking around in public until the seams split. But then I remembered that in two weeks we're moving to Karratha, where there will be far fewer restaurants, no visitors and not a hell of a lot to do. And I bowed my head in shame with the understanding that my own ridiculous attempts at making reparation were unnecessary. Far higher powers than me have already determined my penance and a long and arduous road of character-building stretches interminably ahead into the distance.

|

Hi to miel and Sam, and thanks for the links. Thanks are also due to Fluffy for the honourable mention.

While I generally give out virtual bath toys and accessories as a mark of my gratitude for linkage, today I thought I'd go the imaginary services route. Therefore, miel and Sam are offered a pretend back scrub from the fantasy bath partner of their respective choices. And as cats and baths are not generally compatible, I humbly offer Fluffy a month's supply of virtual catnip mice.

I hope these meet with your approval. They'd better, because I have nothing left to offer save a few remaining red spots and a purple inner arm from the blood test I had yesterday.

Enjoy!

|

The best five minutes of our weekend away:

The Dreamboat, his parents and I are eating dinner outside the Boat House Cafe by the lake on Saturday night. A large duck and drake, accompanied by a moorhen-type bird, wander onto the verandah and proceed to waddle past all the patrons. With much running around and quacking of obscenities, another drake runs up, clamps his beak down on the duck's neck and commences to hump the poor lady with great gusto, while drake no. 1 lowers his head down next to hers and starts either uttering encouragement or threatening divorce. Yours Truly begins to applaud and various other patrons join in, laughing and yelling encouragement. After a few minutes of this Discovery Channel-esque entertainment, the Dreamboat's mum gets out of her seat, approaches the orgy and starts clapping her hands loudly. Coitus interruptus ensues. The Dreamboat's mum announces to the amused diners, "I can't concentrate on my meal with that going on." A waitress nearby is heard to mutter, "Well, it is Spring..."

Other highlights:

* Where we stayed ("French Doors" - up on the hill by the lake)
* Where we ate on Friday night (although the Dreamboat and I were still too tired and hungover from the night before to properly appreciate it)
* The beautiful Convent Gallery
* The wineries we visited: Leura Glen Estate, Big Shed Wines (complete with a litter of border collie puppies that I was invited to slobber over), Zig Zag Road and Hanging Rock
* Climbing Hanging Rock itself

I still enjoyed the duck-porn the best, though.

|

Barry, the Dreamboat's friend (and now hopefully mine too), is a great guy and a total scream...

...which is why we had a great meal on Thursday night and then decided to kick on to the Kitten Club...

...which is why we started drinking Bollinger (a first for me) and, positively overflowing with bonhomie, got talking to the waitress (a fellow Christchurch lass) and asking for recommendations on where to go next...

...which is why we found ourselves in the Melbourne Supper Club...

...which is why we drank more Bollinger...

...which is why cigars became involved in the equation...

...which is why, before we knew it, we were the only people left in the place...

...which is why we headed on to the 24 hour bar in the Crown Casino...

...which is why we switched to beer...

...which is why our friend Marie, who was on her way to work, found the three of us sitting outside the casino at 8.30am, absolutely shit-faced and trying to choke down glasses of carrot juice...

...which is why she got extra-special effusive hugs from all of us, including Barry whom she has never met...

...which is why we will probably never hear from her again...

...which is why we decided we needed to sober up and hailed a cab to Lygon St for breakfast...

...which is why the Dreamboat and I eventually stumbled home at 10am, very much the worse for wear...

...which is why the Dreamboat's mother had been so worried about us and had called him on his mobile at least twice over the course of the night...

...which is why even I felt ashamed of myself for once... briefly, on the way to bed...

...which is why the Dreamboat didn't make it in to work and we didn't leave for our weekend away in Daylesford until 4pm instead of 2pm as originally planned...

...which is why I didn't post anything on Friday.

|

I am almost completely covered in tiny red spots - arms, legs, abdomen, the pair of Good Things on my chest and that couple of Immense Things located around the other side and further down. I discovered them (the spots, that is - you can't exactly miss the Immense Things) last night before I went to bed.

Scene: Pan across a darkened bedroom to rest on a recumbent form sleeping peacefully and no doubt dreaming of being marooned on a desert island with a bevy of supermodels whose advances he spurns out of love for me. Enter a semi-naked blob of cellulite, red spots and terror, who rushes into room and comes to a halt directly over the head of the sleeper.

Niki: (shrill with panic) Are you asleep?
DB: (mumbles) Yes.
Niki: I'm covered in tiny red spots.
DB: What?
Niki: I'll show you, but I have to turn on the light. (turns on light and shows him the insides of her arms)
DB: (blinded) Uhhhh....
Niki: They're everywhere. All over. Check it out.
DB: (gets out of bed and shambles into bathroom behind Niki)
Niki: Look!
DB: Wow.
Niki: (on the verge of tears) So...what do you reckon?
DB: Allergy, I think. (shuffles back to bed)
Niki: (runs to the medicine cabinet and swallows an anti-histamine tablet. This, on top of the wine she drank earlier in the evening probably accounts for the snore-fest which the Dreamboat will be privileged to witness in a few hours time.)

The Dreamboat is not a doctor, but he's as good-looking as any of the ones I've seen on TV, so I trust his diagnosis.

I also have small blisters all over my hands. They turned up yesterday morning, but I didn't worry too much about them because I've had their like before - a form of dermatitis that is usually brought on by stress (not that I've got anything to worry about at the moment, she said in a voice heavily laden with irony). However, there was never any red spot action occurring anywhere else, so now I'm not sure what the hell is going on. The sunscreen I slapped over myself on Monday might be the culprit.

To make matters worse, last night I dreamt the Dreamboat left me for not one, but two people - some guy called Wolfe and a girl I went to school with. This kind of sucked, in my opinion. Come to think of it, maybe the Dreamboat mistook my heartbroken sobs for snores.

Finally, to top everything off, tonight I'm going to meet an old friend of the Dreamboat's for the first time. His name is Barry. I've spoken to him once on the phone and he sounded very intelligent and funny, so I'm sure he's going to be really impressed when the Dreamboat rocks up at Bistrot d'Orsay tonight with Mutant Spotty Reptile Woman.

I think it's about time I booked in for an exorcism.

|

The Dreamboat was woken up at 5.30 this morning, the poor lamb.

What woke him was me...

... fucking snoring. Very loudly.

Christ, what next?! Hair growing out my ears?!

|

Here's one I didn't make up:

Jonas from somewhere in that vast continent known as Hotmail has a problem. He needs advice. So he did what anyone who has a bit of sense and something problematic to wrestle with does: he emailed moi, the world's premier bottom-of-the-glass philosopher and oracle. Here's what he has to say:

...A girl chatted me up the other night at the pub. I am 23. She is 26. She doesn't seem perturbed by the age difference. Nor the fact that I am a journalist. I got her phone number and we are arranging to meet up again. My question is: what does she expect from me and how long do I have before she tosses me aside, spent and exhausted, like the cheap toy boy I am willing to become?

Hail, Jonas

Ah yes... the eternal theme of the younger man being accosted in a social setting by an attractive older woman. I know this one well. So does the Dreamboat, who, chronologically speaking, is a couple of years my junior. In fact, if I recall correctly, one of my former husbands was three years younger than me, but I could be mistaken. It's so difficult to keep track of them all. I still get confused over which surname I should be using at any given time.

The three year age difference of which you speak is not an issue. We're not exactly talking a May-December relationship here. It's not in the league of, say, Harold and Maude, The Graduate or even Class (although it's interesting to note in that last example that the youthful college hornbag pretends to his older femme that he's a journalist).

The fact that you are a journalist is a far more serious impediment, but given your age and the fact that this woman chatted you up and not the other way around, I am assuming you are not fat, drunk, middle-aged and wearing something hand-knitted like a large proportion of the male journos I have met in my time. It crossed my mind to prepare a series of Venn diagrams for you to illustrate the relationships between the various groups - journalists, fat people, drunk people etc - but I was overcome by an irresistible urge to hang out the washing and, being a slave to my impulses, was forced to obey.

You want to know what this girl expects of you. Well, expectations change over time and are often governed by factors such as the amount of alcohol consumed during the course of the conversation. At the point, she might have mistaken you for Orlando Bloom, in which case her expectation would be for you to procure a dashing steed and take her away to be crowned an elf queen. On the other hand, she may not expect anything at all because the events of that fateful night in the pub are nothing more than a blur and she doesn't remember even meeting you. But what she most likely expects is that you'll meet up as arranged, find out each other's favourite colour etc and generally get to know each other a bit better. This is pretty much what any woman, regardless of age, expects to happen on a first date. How it develops from there depends on so many things it's not worth thinking about. Just go with the flow.

As for how long before she discards you like a flaccid piece of something that once was not flaccid... well again, that depends. If you show up wearing a hand-knitted cardigan and a Sherlock Holmes hat, I'm willing to bet it will be almost immediately. If the conversation doesn't flow and she spends more time looking at everything else in the room than at you, it's not likely you'll see her again (especially if she shakes your hand at the end of the night). If you wake up the next morning in a strange room wearing nothing but a paper bag over your head with a life-size head shot of Orlando Bloom pasted on it, I think it's safe to assume you've just participated in a one-night stand. But if she smiles at you a lot and says something about how much she's enjoying herself... if she's happy to lean in close while you talk... if she makes a point of really listening to what you have to say and responds in a way that indicates she's actually interested rather than just looking for an opening to talk about something else... well then, young Jonas, it might be Quite A While before you find yourself chucked out of her life.

Failing all that, you could find yourself a gorgeous woman in her 30s and be a real toy boy.

Good luck!

niki

|

It's official: we're moving again.

Yes, in three and a half weeks, we will be leaving the Melburnian metropolis and its diverse but exhausting range of attractions in order to take up residence here. (Another, somewhat more enthusiastic, info sheet can be found here.) Aren't we lucky little pirates?!

Significant Dates:

24 Nov: The Dowager Empress (my mother) arrives
28 Nov: The Dreamboat's folks leave
3 Dec: The Dowager Empress leaves
(Note: Over this period, we can expect the real estate agent to traipse through the apartment with prospective new tenants at any time that's convenient to them.)
4-5 Dec: We arrange movers to pack up and cart away most of our worldly goods. We clean the apartment in readiness for the cleaners we'll be paying to clean the apartment.
6-13 Dec: We leave Melbourne and drive approximately 5,500 kilometres/3,410 miles to our new home on the other side of the continent, where we'll be ensconced for anywhere between 18 months and five years.
16 Dec: The Dreamboat starts new job

We have chosen to view all of this as 'an adventure'. I understand there'll be no time for sight-seeing on the way over. I can live with the fact that the average daytime temperature in Karratha for the next week will be 40°C/110°F and will remain so for two or three more months. I am aware that the climate is tropical and we'll be arriving smack-bang in the middle of the rainy season and there could be cyclones. I can accept the reality that I might not be able to find work for quite some time.

I will handle all of these issues with the cheerfulness and aplomb for which I am deservedly famous. But believe me, if I discover the new abode doesn't have a dishwasher and I can't find a decent hairdresser, by god there'll be trouble.

|

There is way too much to do in this city. It's bloody exhausting, especially when the capricious Melbourne thermostat heaves itself off the 'freeze' setting and on to 'fry' with little notice of its intention.

I am of the opinion that cities should only have four or five featured activities at most. All of these should involve air-conditioning and nothing more strenuous than propping up a bar.

In the last three days we've checked out:

* Sovereign Hill at Ballarat (definitely worth the $25 pp entry fee, although the novelty of trudging through vast quantities of dust and an all-pervading odour of horse shit in temperatures that could easily sauté onions in 5 minutes flat tends to pall after a few hours) and the neighbouring Gold Museum (a must-visit for the air-con alone);

* The Flower Drum restaurant. This is as fabulous as everyone says, but you'll need to sell your car or take out another mortgage beforehand if you're planning on paying the bill;

* The Rialto Towers Observation Deck. I could see our apartment from there (and the rest of Melbourne too, but that wasn't important). Very cool.

* The Immigration Museum. There's a great art exhibition on, if great art exhibitions at the Melbourne Immigration Museum are what you're into.

Apart from these, there have been forays to the Queen Vic Market and a shopping expedition that I didn't go on - choosing instead to stay at home and graciously receive presents when the intrepid shoppers returned.

I have walked for miles. I have behaved myself. I have refrained from making caterwauling noises in the bedroom. I have cooked a meal that was more or less edible. I have been having a fantastic time with the Dreamboat's folks and I love every minute I'm spending with them, but they really put me to shame in the stamina department.

I'm too knackered to write any more, so please excuse me while I retire to my scented bower and fall into a coma.

|

Best Behaviour



After dining at a local Italian restaurant with the Dreamboat and his parents, Niki had a pensive moment in the taxi home when she realised:
1) she hadn't used a single swear-word all day
2) one bottle of wine had been shared between four people.

|

The Dreamboat and I were having a conversation with his dad about how parochial the media coverage in Australia can sometimes be. He said, "We Scots had the most parochial news headline ever written." He went on to relate the story of how, in 1912, an Aberdeen newspaper ran a front-page story with the headline "Aberdeen Woman Lost At Sea".

In fact, a lot of people were lost at sea on that particular occasion. The missing woman had been a passenger on the Titanic.

|

More help for the hopeless

A Deranged Suburban Neurotic from Somewhere Along the Pacific Rim writes:

Dear Niki

I was googling in the forlorn hope I'd find a chat room full of nice clean people (like myself) who think it's perfectly normal to save old toothbrushes for scrubbing the grouting between the tiles in the shower, when I stumbled across your blog. I have to say I was very impressed by what I read. Very impressed indeed. You are a total legend. I truly hope one day we can meet in person so I can tell you all about the home-made paint stripper I invented using only common prescription drugs and that cheese stuff you get in a can.

Since you're so wise and everything, I was hoping you could clarify something for me. Why is it a woman can spend two hours getting ready to go somewhere, come out of the bedroom looking stunning, and her bloke merely mumbles 'that's nice' while checking his watch; whereas the moment she puts her hands in the sink or starts some serious housework with next-to-no time to complete it, he wants to jump her bones?

Fawning at your feet, etc...

Yo, Deranged

Yeah, they do that, don't they?

It never fails to amaze me that they'll ignore all sorts of seductive simpering from the goddess next to them on the couch in order to watch a movie they never liked on any of the three other occasions when they saw it, featuring an inarticulate hulk with a ponytail who spends his time constantly beating the shit out of a bunch of weedier individuals who never learnt to shave properly.

And what do we, the spurned seductive simperers, do? We do Something Else. No complaints, no trantrums, no insistence. We just wander off and dig through the sock drawer for that novelty Rob Lowe vibrator someone bought us for our 21st birthday.

And yet..! And yet the minute we have something urgent to do that involves donning a pair of rubber gloves and fiddling around with bottles of bubbling liquids that are emitting sulphurous vapours into the local stratosphere, arms suddenly wind around our waists and someone is singing an off-key version of 'That's Amore' in our delicate, shell-like ears.

God forbid that we should diplomatically try to explain that we're busy. The hurt puppy-dog eye action commences and our ears fill with gusty sighs of rejection. We are cruel, cruel individuals. We were in the mood three days ago, so what's the problem now? We're always saying we like spontaneity. Etc. Etc. Etc.

My advice is to simply go along with it. If nothing else, you get to have a snooze afterwards - always useful if you're feeling a little woozy from the oven-cleaner fumes. And then you can shame him into helping with the rest of the cleaning because his little initiative made you lose so much time.

As for the 'why'... much as I like to pretend that I know everything, in this instance I have to admit that I don't.

Beats me.

Good luck with that paint-stripper patent...

niki

|

The Dreamboat and I have what you could call 'an arrangement': he puts up with my dazzling array of quirks and foibles, continues to support my currently non-existent writing career, chokes down the inedible messes that I persist in feeding him, valiantly refrains from shrieking in horror at my ravaged visage first thing in the morning, doesn't tell me I drink and smoke too much, dutifully chuckles at my lame attempts at humour and smiles indulgently when I nag him about how much I want a border collie puppy called Baxter and a fluffy tortoiseshell kitten called The Dread Pirate Roberts - Pi for short. (Actually, I think his tolerance in this last area stems from relief that I'm not nagging him about wanting a baby.) And in return for all this forbearance, I clean the apartment and try not to tease him too much about actually buying the single of 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' in his youth.

Cleaning is the only domestic art I excel at. Oven needs napalming? Shower requires scouring? Dunny to be dredged? I'm your girl. But if it's gourmet cooking or - god forbid - anything to do with a needle and thread that you're after, take your grumbling stomach and tattered vestments elsewhere, my friend.

The Dowager Empress taught me to knit when I was six or seven years old. My first project was a scarf for my Dad. I found some wool that, interestingly enough, was exactly the same colour as the gunge I've just spotted at the bottom of the waste disposal unit, and set to work. After a few days of dropping stitches and driving the Dowager Empress mad with my constant demands for them to be reinstated on the needle, I'd crafted something that was about as wide as my wrist and exactly 12 inches long. Being a somewhat impatient child, I decided enough was enough, cast off the few stitches that were left, put one end of the 'scarf' underneath a chair leg and pulled on the other end as hard as I could, thereby increasing the length of the garment by another couple of inches. For months afterward, my father couldn't leave the house without my checking to ensure he was wearing his designer gunge-coloured accessory. It disappeared at the end of the winter and I forgot about it until one day I saw it lying in the boot of the car, covered in turtle wax. He'd been using it as a polishing rag.

Sewing wasn't much better. Oh yes, I totally sucked at sewing. I knew it too, but I kept trying because I loved the idea of owning clothes that were unique. The apron I made for my mother that fell apart after two washes was totally unique, as was the skirt I ended up paying the dressmaker over the road to fix and finish and never wore. By the time I was in my third year of school sewing classes, I detested anything to do with fabric and sewing machines and decided to have as little to do with either as was humanly possible. So while my friends were making funky denim jackets and off-the-shoulder tops by which to inflame the passions of their prospective boyfriends, I made... doll's clothes. At least that was the idea. I never finished any of them. My sewing teacher, a jolly fat little nun called Sister Patricia, charitably wrote "Nichola tries hard" on my end of year report. But she and I both knew the ugly truth. At least I was lucky enough to be born in an age where it no longer mattered.

I've known people who embroider, who make tapestries, who spin their own wool, who talk intelligently about things like découpage (always sounded like a fancy name for a cleavage to me) and a truly soporific-sounding activity called paper tole, who cover every available surface in their homes with stencils, who cut things out, glue things together, drown everything in lacquer (probably drink it too) and god knows what else. Me, I just clean.

And as the Dreamboat's parents arrive in 24 hours, I'd better get back to it.

|

I think one of the human body's most incredible features is that of being able to repair itself.

I thank the Cosmic Brie (ie 'Big Cheese', ie God) from the remnants of my liver for this feature, because the notion of spending the rest of my life feeling like I did after Monday night's revels in Frankston is just too bloody horrifying to contemplate.

|

To Mary at the Tamari Restaurant on the Nepean Highway Frankston, who gave us such great service last night and who I insisted on calling Marie for reasons that continue to elude me:

See? Told you I'd do it.

The food was great. Thanks.

|

Because none of you live for anything else other than gathering these pearls I offer you on a daily basis, I'm sure you've noticed there was no Nong Of The Week Award dished out over the weekend.

This was deliberate. I figured it was time to give something back to you, the loyal readers. After two minutes spent in intense, meditative prayer, the inspiration did cometh to me like an itching sensation in the night. So yea verily, dear friends, I give unto ye your very own blank Nong Of The Week Award to bestow on the deserving individual or group of your choosing.

The degree of restraint I had to exercise in resisting the temptation to make Nongs everywhere quake in their plimsolls has cost me dearly. So please... accept this humble token of my regard and use the power wisely and well.

|

Meet "World Turtle".

This suave individual hangs with a bloke called Miles, who's a friend of my little brother. Whenever any of Miles' people travel overseas, World Turtle accompanies them as guide, chaperon and raconteur of racy in-flight anecdotes that usually involve a variety of different life-forms and large quantities of linseed oil.

He has seen most of Europe and a sizeable portion of the US. His travels have not been without adventure - in Greece he narrowly avoided being blown up while posing for a photo on the steps of the Parthenon. The local police, not realising that the person wielding a large and impressive Nikon nearby was a travel companion, assumed he was a bomb.

It beats me how any creature with World Turtle's charisma and the words "Hi. My name is World Turtle. If I get lost, please send me home to Miles, (address etc)" written with black marker pen in a kiwi accent on his stomach could possibly be mistaken for a bomb, but there you are. Greek policemen obviously don't have as complacent and self-centred a view of the world as I.

Anyway... last year when my brother accepted our invitation to fly across the ditch and spend a week camping in the Outback, World Turtle felt compelled to accompany him and keep a kindly but watchful eye on us. (In his opinion we're all babes in the wood and don't have a bloody clue about anything.)

This picture was taken on the second day of the camping trip, at the Arcoona Bluff campsite in the Gammon Ranges, South Australia. After a gruelling hour or so spent supervising the erection of tents and the lighting of the fire etc, World Turtle starred in his own animated film. This was shot on a Super 8 camera by my brother. The 'Best Boy' was the Dreamboat (a most fitting title, in my opinion). World Turtle slithered along the ground, demonstrated his prowess as a soft-porn star by humping a turtle-shaped rock and smiled patiently while my brother, the Dreamboat and I giggled like the cultural philistines with no appreciation of True Art that we really are.

When shooting was over for the day, this candid shot of World Turtle relaxing with a cold beer and the obligatory post-coital cigarette was snapped for posterity.

It happened a year ago almost to the day and as I write this from the perspective of 12 months' water under the bridge and roughly 2,000 kilometres distance, I really wish the four of us were back there - in the middle of nowhere, smothering ourselves with insect repellent and sunscreen, and sinking a few cold beers with nothing but the flies for company.

|

I am the only woman the Dreamboat has ever met who hates shopping. He told me this today while we were shopping and I was hating it.

I don't have a problem with spending money. I like having well-stocked cupboards. Clothes and shoes aren't an obsession of mine, but I enjoy having 'em as much as anyone else. I just hate the whole process of acquiring them.

When I lived in Sydney I had a girlfriend who loved nothing more than spending an entire day shopping. Occasionally she would fly down to Melbourne with another friend and shop for a whole weekend. She couldn't understand why it fell somewhere below getting a root canal while simultaneously having my toenails pulled out to the background strains of "Summer of '69" on a perpetual loop on my own list of Fun Things To Do. I'm certain she thought I was a total freak. My only saving grace where she was concerned is my weakness for hair-care products. I have bags of the stuff. But that's another story.

My approach to shopping owes a great deal to guerilla warfare tactics. I never go without knowing what I want to achieve. I target a place where I'm likely to get what I want. I race in, do what I have to and get the hell out of there. Mission accomplished.

It didn't take the Dreamboat long to discover this endearing quirk in my character. I can't say in all honesty say he's grown used to me yelling 'beep! beep!' or baa-ing like a sheep when we get stuck behind obese zombies in the supermarket, but at least he knows it's likely to happen at least once on any given occasion and can prepare appropriate evasive action.

Which is probably why his words to me before we entered the first hallowed shrine of suburban retail bliss today were: "OK, baby. This place is going to be packed. There'll be a lot of people walking around very slowly and they'll probably really piss you off. Will you be alright?"

I was. Just.

|

It's genetically transferred. It must be. After telling my sister Jo about last night's 'spontaneous absorbent paper combustion' episode, she revealed unto me that my niece Jordan once managed to set herself alight while making 2 Minute Noodles.

Jordan, I'm sorry. You and I were obviously never meant to cook. We were destined to be wined and dined in restaurants all our lives. It's a hard fact, but experience has taught me it's simply not possible to fight one's intrinsic limitations.

|

A Glossary of Culinary Terms

Mandoline: An efficient kitchen tool having three different blades to slice, dice and shred vegetables and fruits. Caution is advised when hand-operating this extremely sharp instrument.
Alternative definition: A monstrous invention that gives you eight perfectly-spaced bleeding cuts on the heel of your hand just when you thought you were starting to get the hang of it.

Chicken Breasts With Parmesan Crust: A simple dish that can easily be mastered by a 12 year old with average intelligence and minimal culinary skill.
Alternative definition: Sad, over-cooked specimens with all the mouth-watering appeal of week-old turds.

Rösti: Thin, crunchy little pattie-type things usually made from grated potato and/or carrot and then fried.
Alternative definition: Just a senseless jumble of lank, gluggy stuff that won't hold any recognisable form. Perfect for burning on the outside while remaining raw on the inside.

Absorbent Paper: The stuff that you rest the "cooked" rösti on to absorb excess oil from the frying process.
Alternative Definition: The stuff sitting on a plate right next to the gas-powered stove-top that decides to catch on fire while you're doing something else.

Asparagus: A choice vegetable with purported aphrodisiac qualities.
Alternative definition: The only thing from last night's meal to turn out the way it was meant to.

|

Sssshhh. Be very quiet. Make no sudden movements. Do not eat, drink or smoke. Think only pure thoughts about bunny rabbits and cheeful little primroses. You see, the comments have reappeared and are peering shyly out from the thick tangle of words at the end of each post. I don't want 'em scared off again.

|

Welcome to 'Quizine Questions' - where fictitious individuals get to ask someone who doesn't know what the hell they're talking about for advice on important matters pertaining to food.

An Imaginary Person from Melbourne writes:

Dear Niki

You really rock. I bet you're dead gorgeous too. I think everyone in the world should read your blog. Publishers from around the globe should slobber over your feet on a constant basis and then wipe off their drool with (USD)$100 notes. After a suitable period of decontamination, this money should be humbly offered to you for disposal as you see fit. I'm sure it'll come in really handy for all those darling papier mâché installations you'll one day fashion in the rest home.

Anyway, as I follow your endeavours with great interest, I know that on Monday night you made Smoked Cheese Damper. Do you recommend I try doing this myself? And how was dinner at Scusa Mi on Wednesday night?

Yours in blind devotion, etc...


Dear Imaginary Person

Thank you for your charmingly sycophantic letter. Yes indeed, I am a most fetching creature, especially when viewed at night by the sputtering illumination of a single tea-light candle from a distance of 10 metres.

As you are no doubt aware, Australian damper has a reputation for being something that vaguely resembles bread. It was an important source of food for stockmen out in the bush once they discovered it made an effective tool for clubbing small animals to death.

For some reason, I had always been under the impression that damper was mixed up from plain flour and beer and then thrashed in mysterious but time-honoured ways to give it that Special Damper Consistency. Imagine my desolation on a couple of camping trips last year when our friend Brett whipped it up using only milk and some stuff out of a packet! "Where's the bloody beer?" I mentally wailed, but mastered my grief sufficiently to pour more champagne and resume cutting slices of smoked salmon for the wok-prepared scrambled eggs.

So I knew what to expect when I decided to make damper at home the other night: no beer, and having to make do with that horrible self-raising flour instead of the proper authentic weevil-infested stuff. (This really is an effete culture we live in, alas.)

One of the biggest hurdles you'll come up against when trying to be a gourmet cook in this day and age, Imaginary Person, is having to deal with recipes that are wrong and ovens that don't work properly. You see, damper is supposed to be ready in 40 minutes and everyone knows that it's done when you get a hollow sound after tapping it lightly. Well, after sixty five minutes and numerous light taps, I was still getting a spludge sound. Nothing hollow about it at all. And after scraping it off the oven tray and looking underneath, it soon became apparent that the bottom of my damper was raw. I could look through the cracks in the upper crust and see something liquid moving around in there. Yeah, it was damper alright - way damper than it should've been.

I cooked it for a while longer until the Dreamboat and I got sick of waiting, took the damn thing out of the oven and just fucking ate it, along with the soup I'd already prepared (which was gorgeous and behaved itself perfectly).

So in answer to your first question about making damper yourself, the answer is 'no'. Don't bother. Just go to the supermarket and buy some ready-made bread like normal people do, you pretentious asshole.

As for Scusa Mi - well, on Wednesday night the Dreamboat politely declined my offer to make him a nutritious Anniversary meal of tinned sardines and left-over damper and reserved us a table at this famous Melbourne restaurant instead.

So ok, the food and wine were good, which is what you'd expect for the price. But at the risk of provoking the ire of the Italian President (who apparently dines there when he's in town), assorted devoted Melbournian foodies and/or people who lost their virginity in the toilets and have since always held a special place in their hearts for Scusa Mi, the Dreamboat and I concluded we wouldn't go back and we wouldn't recommend it to anyone else.

Pourquoi? The service, that's pourquoi. It was polite and super-efficient to the point of being brusque, robotic and almost snooty. It was from the 'I'll attend to your requirements and do everything perfectly but I am incredibly busy so don't waste my time with anything inconsequential' school of service. At least, that's the impression we were left with.

Whether we were correct in our assessment or not, Scusa Mi seems to be the sort of place that polarises opinion. A review like this one (admittedly for lunch, not dinner) illustrates what I mean.

Anyway, Imaginary Person, I have devoted way too much time and energy to answering your non-existent queries and feel it best to leave things here. Write back another time soon and stun me with the fatuousness of your concerns all over again.

Have a nice life.

niki

|

Sometimes it's worth being an insomniac, just so you're awake when emails arrive like the one below.

It's from our very dear friend Kev, who just happened to be the 'other guy' at the fateful Halloween party where the Dreamboat and I... um... connected:

Oh but you've left out SOOOOOO much from the first meeting !!!!

And I still swear that I didn't hear a thing !!!!

Could you please add the other guy isn't gay as well - thanks.

Happy to oblige, Kev, me darlin'. As of right now, I am hereby informing the whole world (or at least the microscopic portion of it that reads this blog) that you, like the Dreamboat, are gorgeous and straight. And taken.

Just remind me to have a wee chat with you one day about those other sentences in your email...

|