The Perfect Sunday Session - Key Ingredients

1. Preparation
Prepare for your perfect Sunday Session by ensuring in advance that you have the following:
a) A minimum of two people. Preferably, two people who are remarkably similar in every respect to the Dreamboat and Your Correspondent.
b) A suitably relaxed environment. Arise early in the day (like, before noon), prepare a cooked brunch and serve it to your Session Partner in bed. Then you'll have an excuse to loll around reading until the middle of the afternoon.
c) An attentive demeanour. Otherwise, when your Session Partner suggests watching DVDs and drinking heavily, you might miss the moment and waste the rest of your day.
d) Good timing. A holiday weekend is best, because then you can relax in the knowledge that you have the next day to recover. Too bad if your Session Partner doesn't get the holiday and still has to go to work. That's his problem. Besides, the Sunday Session was his idea.
d) Three bottles of red wine and half a dozen bottles of full-strength beer.

2. Props
Wine glasses, a corkscrew and a couple of movies. Nothing else is necessary. Do try to find excellent movies like this, rather than strangely unlikeable stuff like this. Or at least make sure you watch the decent one first, when you're still mostly sober and need the distraction.

3. Social Intercourse
Dialogue is important. Treat your Session Partner to a half-hour analysis of your relationship with your father. If you're lucky, he'll respond with a month-by-month account of his five years at university, delving into such fascinating subjects as where he lived, who he shagged and why he got arrested.

When conversational possibilities have been temporarily exhausted, start ringing people in Britain. It's afternoon over there and they've probably just had lunch. Maybe they've been toying with the idea of joining a cult, or considering weeding the garden or contemplating having a snooze with the weekend newspaper over their faces -- in short, any of those sad things people do when they're bored out of their minds on Sunday afternoons. What they need -- nay, crave -- is a diversion.

If your Session Partner rings a friend in Scotland he hasn't seen for years and hands the phone over to you, ensure it's a good line and you're still capable of understanding a broad Scottish accent. Otherwise, your conversation will go like this:

Scottish Friend: Hi. Congratulations on your engagement.
Niki: Hi. Thanks.
Scottish Friend: (four or five sentences)
Niki: Pardon?
Scottish Friend: (four or five different sentences)
Niki: I'm sorry ... I didn't catch that.
Scottish Friend: (a few more sentences)
Niki: Look, mate, I'm going to have to hand you back to [the Dreamboat] because I can't understand a word you're saying.

4. Food
All caring, responsible drunks should want to feed their Session Partners, even if the only food in the house consists of four pieces of bread, a can of spaghetti, a couple of pieces of salami and half a punnet of cherry tomatoes. The creative cook will always be able to make a satisfying and nutritious meal and still find ways to incorporate that 'special' touch.

DB: Um ... what's that in the microwave? And why is the timer set to twenty minutes?
Niki: Ssshh ... go 'way, baby. Ish a surprise. Ish gourmet.
DB: Are they tomatoes? Are they s'posed to be bubbling and spitting everywhere like that?
Niki: Yep. Thash part of the drying process. Our very own home-made semi-dried tomatoes for extra flavour. Now go away and lemme get it ready.
DB: (exits, obviously thinking "Yummo!")

Cautionary Note: Microwaving cherry tomatoes for twenty minutes on 'high' is possibly a tad long for the semi-drying process. The tomatoes have a tendency to shrink quite a lot and they may have to be chiselled off the plate with a knife, on account of their having mysteriously bonded at an atomic level with the china. But any good cook will tell you that the resultant taste sensation is always worth that little bit of extra effort.

5. Knowing When to Call it Quits
(After you've both retired to bed)
Niki: Hey, have you worked out who your Best Man's gonna be?
Sleepy DB: No, not yet.
Niki: You know how I'm having a bridesmaid?
Sleepy DB: Yeah ...
Niki: Well, I wanna manmaid as well.
Sleepy DB: (chuckles)
Niki: I do! I wanna manmaid!
(Ten minutes later)
Niki: Hahahahaha! Manmaid!
DB: (Reaches over and turns out the light)
(Five minutes later ... in the dark)
Niki: Manmaid ... thash so cool!

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Coming Soon: "Key Ingredients of the Perfect Sunday Session" ...



... because perfect Sunday Sessions don't just happen by themselves, you know.

More when I've recovered. If I ever do.

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After four (4) days in bed, approximately sixty (60) hours sleep, three (3) novel-length books and one (1) Empire magazine, Your Correspondent is finally starting to feel better.

Which is just as well, really, because there's too damn much to live for without perishing from something as stupid as the bloody flu. Like my job, for instance. Oh, how I've missed my job. Even the thrill of waking up with a wet face from a few hours' worth of dribbling various secretions over one's pillow doesn't come close.

Then there's the whole physical activity thing. When you can barely muster the energy to go to the loo (let alone shower), volleyball games and killer gym sessions are suddenly the most desirable pastimes in the world.

And, of course, it just wouldn't do to expire from a surfeit of snot, phlegm and greasy sweat when there's a wedding to plan. Especially if your Intended stoically endures four days of your grumpiness, makes a point of trying to ignore the colossal zit on your chin, still smiles sweetly in spite of it all and reminds you in some unrecognisable but bravely-attempted accent, "You is goin' to be mah wife."

The other reason I'm relieved not to be shuffling off this mortal coil just yet is that earlier today I decided it was very important to sometime in the future go to India and score a part as an extra on a Bollywood flick.

As you do.

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Your Correspondent has spent the last couple of days sleeping, feeling sorry for herself and reading.

Today, she had exactly two (2) thoughts. Here they are:

Thought #1
Life of Pi by Yann Martel is a strange, haunting little book about belief. The story is very simply (and therefore powerfully) told, it's chock full of symbolism and hints at meanings on many different levels. It won't appeal to everyone, but it's the sort of book that can linger on in the memory in a niggling, frustrating sort of way. I found it clever, funny at times and very moving.

(I promised Jas over at whimsicality that I'd give him my verdict on the book when I'd finished it. Jas, I don't know your tastes but I think it's definitely worth a look. Hope this helps.)

Thought #2
I wonder how many kilojoules there are in a sachet of Lemsip ...

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Today I remembered a conversation I had back in NZ many years ago with a vet. I'd brought in a kitten with 'snuffles' -- the feline version of a cold or flu. The first question this vet asked me was if she'd recently had a fright or a bad shock.

I must've looked a bit confused because he went on to explain that cats will only contract viral infections if their immune systems are down, and the most effective way to send their systems plummeting is to give them a good scare.

I've long suspected the same to be true of humans. Shock, depression, prolonged stress -- I firmly believe they play havoc with our ability to fight disease.

Which is a long and drawn-out way of saying I spent today in bed battling symptoms that are suspiciously flu-like, and I blame it all on the maggots.

(P.S. The Dreamboat and Your Correspondent react to being sick in very different ways. Just how differently is documented here.)

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After weekend negotiations, the Dreamboat and I have decided to bring the wedding forward to October next year. This is a great relief. Not only have family members assured us they'll be overjoyed to take out third mortgages to cover their travel expenses, but Your Correspondent's ever-eroding face won't yet have reached "bull mastiff" status. With trick lighting and the clever use of concealed mirrors, she might look almost presentable at the blessed nuptial photo shoot.

As it's apparently customary to make out a gift list, here's what I've come up with so far:

1. A hammock.
2. Botox injections and laser treatments (commencing at 2.00pm tomorrow and continuing on an as-needed basis for the rest of my life).
3. A river. (Must have lots of trees along the bank. Otherwise, what's the point of having a hammock?)
4. A crown for one of my teeth. (Let's make Genghis' day.)
5. A star named after the Dreamboat, but only if a) it's a blue one, and b) doesn't in any way hinder my chances of getting Items 2 and 4 real bloody soon, thank you very much.
6. A written, signed and notarised guarantee from the Big Cheese that we'll live happily and healthily ever after. And be rich and famous. And have a nice house. With a heated swimming pool and spa. And a border collie who may or may not be called Baxter.

I will no doubt add sundry other items to this list over time, but fear not, my superheroes. You're all in the loop.

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More Divine Retribution

THE BIG CHEESE is sitting out the back of the Celestial Deli, drinking retsina and playing poker for souls with the Greek God PAN. Enter NIKI in a highly agitated state.

Niki: Holy-Fucking-Fromage! Where the hell are you?

BC: (winking at Pan) Out here, my little darling. Come and join us. Pull up a pew. We're starting a new hand.

Niki: (storms up) Don't you 'little darling' me. Not after what you've done.

BC: There now, poppet. (to Pan) Told you she was a bit of a hellion, didn't I?

Pan: (smirks)

BC: (slurring slightly) This might take a few minutes, mate. D'you mind ..?

(Pan exits, leering)

BC: Nice bloke, Pan, once you get used to the smell. He's the god of goats, did you know that? With goats' cheese so popular at the moment, it's a good idea to keep the little guy happy. D'you think you could maybe flash him a bit of leg when he comes back?

Niki: You've got to be joking. Why the hell would I do you any favours? And stop that stupid grinning. It's not funny.

BC: Naughty girl. There you go, forgetting yourself again. You see, I am the god. I can do whatever I like. I'm allowed to be capricious and cruel if I feel like it. You, however, are not. You are less than nothing and totally subject to my whims. Like a worm. Or an ant. Or even a ... maggot. (laughs uproariously)

Niki: Oh yeah, you're a real scream. What I want to know is ... why? Why did you do that to me this morning?

BC: Well, you've been getting a bit up yourself lately, kiddo. Thinking you're shit-hot because of the engagement thing, and all. Pan had a word for it -- he's been teaching me some Greek -- what was it? It means "insolent pride or presumption" ... hubris! That's it. Hubris. You needed to be knocked down a peg or two. I knew it for sure yesterday, when I saw you making light of your poor sister's battle with her little girls' headlice. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get rid of those things? It didn't endear you to Pan, I can tell you. (sound of an angry bleat in the background) It's a sensitive issue with him, what with having goat's legs and all. Last millenium alone, we had to fumigate him fourteen times.

Niki: Whatever. Look, I got up this morning. I was happy. It was a beautiful day. I wanted to cook the Dreamboat a really nice breakfast. Everything was going great until I went to put the damn eggshells in the rubbish bin and discovered ... (sniffles) ... I couldn't work out what they were! I thought they must've been grains of rice until they ... moved.

BC: Yeah, ok, so there were maggots in your rubbish bin. Deal with it.

Niki: Fucking maggots! I suppose you arranged for the hole in the rubbish bag too ... so they'd start falling onto my beautiful, freshly-mopped floor?

BC: (looks up and starts whistling tunelessly)

Niki: I knew it. Half an hour the Dreamboat and I spent with a dustpan and broom, getting them out of the house. Half a bloody hour. It was disgusting. Gross. I was scared to put my feet down in case I stood on one.

BC: So let me get this straight: someone else's headlice are funny but your maggots aren't? Get over yourself, girlie. Serves you right, I reckon. You got exactly what you deserved. (yawning) Now go away. You're starting to bore me. Go on, bugger off. And it wouldn't hurt you to spend a little time reading the Good Book and meditating on your sins, either.

(Niki exits, chagrined. Pan, holding a fresh bottle of retsina, rejoins the Big Cheese. They look at each other for a long moment, then high-five and burst out laughing.)

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Another reason why I've never been in any rush to become a mother ...

This, from a phone conversation with my long-suffering sister Jo this morning:

Jo: Bridie [six-year old daughter] was sick with a stomach bug all yesterday and last night. Then she had me up at six this morning. I kept thinking, "Noooo! I've just worked six days straight and I should at least be allowed to sleep in 'til 8 o'clock."

Niki: Great, isn't it? School holidays start and they get sick.

Jo: Tell me about it. Every holidays they're either sick or they've got headlice. This is the sort of glamorous life I lead.

It's no wonder she's so eager for me to arrange marriages between her three girls and the Dreamboat's three nephews. I just hope they sell nit combs in Scotland.

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One Ring to Rule Them All ...

I know I said I wouldn't rabbit on any more about wedding stuff, but today's a special case. Today we went hunting for The Ring.

That sounds slightly more dramatic than it actually was, given that Karratha has only two jewellers.

Located in the same shopping mall.

About twenty metres away from each other.

After spending ten minutes in the first place and less than three in the second, we decided we might have to hunt for The Ring elsewhere. Somewhere where the range of wares is a little more ... extensive. A tad more ... cutting edge. Which basically means waiting until Christmas, when we fly to NZ for three weeks.

In the absence of having something on her finger to flash around under admiring friends' noses, Your Correspondent decided to adopt a philosophical approach. It is, after all, only a ring. Your Correspondent has managed to lead a reasonably fulfilling life in the last five years without one. Sure, it's a time-honoured tradition, but the Dreamboat and I are wild, unfettered creatures, forged by the desert sun and low-carb diets into steely individuals with no need for the restrictive ways of tradition.

Which is why I suggested he buy me a pair of Engagement Shoes instead. (The shoe shop's close to one of the jewellers and sports some pretty funky footwear at present.) He had a better idea. We trotted down the mall into Retravision and spent some time looking at Engagement Fridges. They were impressive, but not quite what we were after.

It was with an air of unmistakable dejection that we finally approached the supermarket. Inside, at the Dairy section, we scanned the shelves, looked at each other and nodded before picking up a packet of Engagement Low-Fat Processed Cheese Slices.

We took our slices home. We ate two each. They were rather good. They were even tasty, thanks to a what-the-hell kind of attitude in the manufacturing process when it came time to add the sodium. Yes, they were satisfying in a nutritionally-bankrupt kind of way, but when you boiled down to it, they just weren't good enough.

It's going to have to be a ring after all.

Roll on Christmas ...

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Welcome to My Logistical Nightmare

I'm not planning to turn this into a "wedding blog" because it'll probably bore the taut 'n' toned glutes off most of you before long, so after today I'll only talk about wedding stuff if it's:
a. funny
b. disastrous
c. a tragi-comic mixture of the two

I suspect there'll be plenty of scope for these, because here's what we're up against when planning our nuptials:

1. The Dreamboat's family and many of his friends live in the UK.
2. My family and a small, but important, collection of friends live in New Zealand.
3. We live in a semi-arid backwater in Western Australia and have friends dotted all over the country.

It gets better. The Dreamboat's contract here finishes next May. We have no idea where we'll be living after that. We might not even be in Australia.

No matter which way we look at it, it's going to be tough to get everyone together. A lot of our friends have young families and aren't in a position to just pack 'em up and go gallivanting off to other countries. So Option #1 is to get hitched in April 2005 in Brisbane and hope everyone will have enough time to save their pennies and get their kids adopted out.

Why Brisbane? That's where we officially started living together in glorious sin. We love the place, we've got good history there and it's easily accessible for anyone flying in from elsewhere. The main drawback is that we'll have to arrange everything at distance. It's also tricky to book venues and supply numbers of guests in advance when you (and the guests themselves) have no idea if they'll be able to make it.

The second drawback is that I'll be two years older, will have no doubt turned into a total hag and won't be able to wear this.

Option #2 involves admitting it's all too hard, buggering off to Hideaway Island, Vanuatu for two weeks next year with some close friends to act as witnesses and doing the whole thing there instead. (Hideaway Island's another of those special-type places from our past.) The biggest drawback to this plan is that many people we care about -- parents, in particular -- will miss out and we really don't want that to happen.

Option #3 goes something like this: next weekend, we throw a tarpaulin over the clothesline, call it a marquee (à la Kath & Kim) and invite anyone who can get the time off work. After a non-denominational ceremony conducted by a celebrant (who's preferably drunk - I had one of those last time and he was a total hoot), we pile into the waiting utes, drive to the local burger bar and eat a few battered pineapple rings. Then we meet at the Karratha Tavern, where we can shoot pool, get shit-faced and watch whatever football match is playing on the big screen. Heterosexual male, lesbian and bisexual guests will also have the opportunity to ogle the skimpies working behind the bar.

The drawback? The Dreamboat doesn't like pineapple rings. That could be awkward. But the 'drunk celebrant' scenario definitely has merit.

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Divine Retribution Visited Upon the Dreamboat:

There is a certain order in the universe that shouldn't be interfered with, lest dire and disturbing things happen. The Dreamboat has recently learned this, to his cost.

Less than 24 hours after proposing the tying of the conjugal knot to Your Betrothed Correspondent, he developed the flu. I'm fairly sure this was visited upon him as a punishment because of the following exchange:

DB: (sly grin) One of these days you're going to have to learn to do as you're told ...
Niki: No!
DB: ... especially now that you're going to be my chattel.

It's all about knowing one's place, you see. I'm supposed to be the funny one. He's supposed to be the straight guy. He's supposed to be gob-smacked at my audacious quips, not the other way around. The universal balances were upset. A roar of protest was heard in the heavens. The full weight of cosmic wrath came crashing down on the Dreamboat's head and quickly made itself at home in his sinus cavities.

That'll teach him to sass his sweet, beautiful fiancee.

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Would I Lie to You?

Of course not. Your Correspondent's faults may be legion, but dishonesty is one character flaw she's never been able to master. So believe me when I say that what I'm about to relate is the absolute truth:

When: Late Saturday night
Where: Around a campfire at Deepdale Station
Who: The Dreamboat and Your Correspondent
What: We'd had drinks with two other couples. One pair had retired to bed. The other two had stayed on for a while and then returned to their own campsite. The Dreamboat and I had reached that stage of proceedings where we'd felt compelled to solve all the world's problems. This was taken care of with relative ease and to mutual satisfaction over the next hour or so. Then silence descended.

Niki: What's on your mind?
DB: Do you want the truth?
Niki: Yeah.
DB: (pause) Will you marry me?
Niki: What? You're kidding. You're kidding, aren't you? (DB shakes head) Oh god, have I pushed you into this? Is this because Kev's just got engaged?
DB: No, I've been thinking about it for a long time. I just wanted the time to be right. And the place. I told you, this is my favourite place in the world.
Niki: Oh shit. Are you sure? Why don't you have a 24 hour retraction period so you can think about it a bit more? If you change your mind, that's OK. How about that?
DB: No.
Niki: Or six months, even. Ask me again in six months.
DB: No. I'll only ask once.
Niki: But I just wrote all that smartarse stuff on the blog -- the answer's "yes", by the way -- and now I'll have to write about this and it'll be the very next post and I'll look like even more of a dick than usual ...
DB: (grinning broadly)

So, yes. We're engaged. The Serial Bride strikes again.

I am very happy.

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How do you announce to your friends that you're engaged? If you're our friend Kev, you send the following one-line email:

If you've got nothing to do next Easter weekend you're quite welcome to attend our wedding !!!!!!

I was tempted to send a one-line response ("Nah. Too busy.") but decided this probably wasn't the best time to showcase my odd sense of humour. So I turned my attention instead to how I could offer something useful.

After much deliberation, I've decided to dedicate today's post to Kev and to Karen, his fiancee. I've never met Karen but I've seen a photo, which more than entitles me to poke my nose into her business and dish out lots of useful advice.

I'm something of an expert on getting and being married, you see, having done it twice already. Staying married, however, does not fall within my sphere of expertise. I strongly suggest consulting somebody else if anyone has any questions on that score.

Useful Insight #1: Getting Married is Lots of Fun
I personally like to get married once every decade. Not only does it give me something to look forward to in those boring years after the divorce, but it also ensures my household appliances will always be updated with funkier models right around the time they're due to wear out.

Useful Insight #2: Sex is Better than Talking, Unless You're the Sort Who Likes to Combine Them
Wedding days and honeymoons don't last long (which is a shame, because they're generally the best bits) and one can't sit around admiring the new toaster forever, so one's attention must inevitably turn to the new spouse and what to do with him/her. Many people say good communication is essential for a lasting relationship. I agree, although I think it's a poor second to mind-blowing sex involving prolonged sessions of crazed tantric ecstasy and judicious use of That Thing With the Courgette. But we probably shouldn't go there.

Useful Insight #3: Examples of Good Communication Between Couples
These come from actual conversations conducted between the Dreamboat and Your Correspondent over the course of this week. I think they illustrate very well how enriching true communication between loving couples can be.

Example #1: When He Arrives Home From Work
DB: Hi, gorgeous! I'm home!
Niki: Ewww ... a boy! A dirty boy in my house! Get out!

Example #2: At Mealtimes
Niki: I haven't cooked any dinner.
DB: Why not?
Niki: I couldn't decide what to make.
DB: How come?
Niki: I think it's because I cooked all last week. I think I'm burnt out where the whole cooking thing is concerned. (pause) Yep, I'm definitely over it.

Example #3: When He's in the Bathroom Putting in Contact Lenses
Niki: Let me at the sink! Quickly!
DB: What's wrong?
Niki: There's a ... a booger on my hand.
DB: How'd that get there?
Niki: I don't know. I just looked down at my hand and there it was. Quick! I've got to wash it off!
(a couple of minutes later)
Niki: I need the sink again! There's another one. It didn't come off. I have the Adhesive Booger of Death on my hand!
DB: So where'd this one come from?
Niki: Probably fell out of your nose.
DB: I think it fell out of your nose.
Niki: Babe, you're not here to think.

I didn't get around to mentioning the need for lots of patience and copious amounts of tolerance, but I'm sure you can now see exactly what I have to put up with on a daily basis in the name of love.

Seriously, though: Congratulations, K&K. We're thrilled for you. I hope these little pearls of wisdom glow softly to light your way on the path of marital felicity, and all that. (The Dreamboat read this post before I published it and then went to bed, cringing with embarrassment and muttering, "My girlfriend's mad.") And can we still come over at Easter?!

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The Train Wreck that is My Mouth: a Harrowing Tale in Seven Scenes

Scene One: Sunday Night
NIKI is indulging in a little bit of casual mastication, when her exquisite face suddenly creases in pain. She approaches THE DREAMBOAT.
Niki: I think I need to see a dentist.
DB: Have you got a hole in your tooth?
Niki: I'm not sure. It's a bit sensitive. It could just be a sinus toothache. I've had hayfever all week. Maybe it's that.
DB: I've heard there's a three-month wait to get into a dentist here.
Niki: Yeah. (giggles in that pathetic fashion peculiar to all cowards) Suits me fine.

Scene Two: Two Hours Later
Niki stands in front of the bathroom mirror, trying with her fingers to smooth out all the creases that inexplicably still line her exquisite face. Horror dawns when she realises the awful truth. She stares at her relection, aghast. "Middle age," she whispers brokenly, before fleeing the room.

Scene Three: The Next Day
Niki is standing at the reception desk of a local dentist. THE RECEPTIONIST looks up. Something about her is familiar. Niki realises they'd shared a very drunken conversation at the recent Whitlams concert. She wonders if this was a good thing or a bad thing.
Niki: Hi. I've come to put my name down on the waiting list.
Receptionist: What's the problem?
Niki: (a little too quickly) Oh, nothing that can't wait.
Receptionist: How does 8:20 tomorrow morning sound?
Niki: Tomorrow? (thinking: Bugger! Shit! Fuck!) Uhh ... yeah, that would be ... great.
Receptionist: See you tomorrow, then.

Scene Four: The Following Morning
Niki is introduced to GENGHIS*, dental surgeon and sociopathic sadist. He and his ASSISTANT subdue her, throw her into the chair and secure her with chains.
Genghis: What can we do for you today?
Niki: I have a tooth that's a bit tender, but I think it's a sinus thing. I'm probably wasting your time.
Genghis: Let's have a look, shall we?
He begins his examination by calling out secret code names that presumably correspond to teeth, and detailing what's been done to each one. This is then recorded by the assistant.
Genghis: 1-1: missing.
Genghis: 2-8 ... (mumble) ... botched.
Niki: Wha'? Wha's 'otched?
Genghis: (ignoring her) 2-1: um, I don't ... just write 'unsure'.

Scene Five: Ten Minutes Later
Genghis: The problem isn't a cavity. The gum's shrunk and it's exposing a part of the tooth that wouldn't normally be exposed.
Niki: (attempting to rise from chair) Oh, that's ok then. I'll just ...
Genghis: (slamming her back down) But I'll cover it with a filling anyway.
Niki: (thinking: Bugger! Shit! Fuck!) Can I please have an injection? Triple strength, preferably. I used to get them all the time back in NZ. I don't have a problem with needles or anything. Needles are fine. Even big ones. (continues to babble uncontrollably until needle makes contact with gums)

Scene Six: Fifteen Minutes Later
Genghis: The x-rays show some decay under one of your fillings. Other than that, you're fine.
Niki: I guess when you have as many fillings as I do, nothing much else can go wrong. (laughs)
Genghis: (expression of distaste) Yes. Please make another appointment. Goodbye.
Receptionist: That'll be $150.00.

Scene Seven: That Night
Niki tosses and turns sleeplessly. Newly-filled tooth now aches ten times more than it ever did before visit to Genghis the Phlegmatic.
Niki: I hate my teeth. Bugger. Shit. Fuck.
(lights down to pitiful moans)

Note: some of the above was slightly exaggerated for dramatic effect. But not much.

* OK, so it's not his real name.

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Some stories are just too good to pass up ...

Anyone who stays in this town for longer than a week will eventually find themselves moaning about the local service industry. I don't care how nice you think you are; come to Karratha and you'll soon be whining and carping in shrill tones along with the rest of us.

It's not that service in the shops is rude -- I've only come across one customer service 'professional' who sorely tempted me to file my teeth before applying them briskly to her neck (all the better to bite your head off, my dear). It's more that it can sometimes be ... well, a bit stupid. Particularly at the local supermarket:

Checkout Person: Um ... is this spinach?
Customer Niki: No. It's a lettuce.

This wasn't some high-school kid, incidentally. She was a woman my own age.

Then there was the time the Dreamboat came home fuming after this little exchange:

Checkout Person: What are these?
Customer Dreamboat: They're limes.
Checkout Person: What are limes?

I take it you're getting my drift?

I thought I'd heard all the best supermarket stories until today, when a couple of work colleagues told me about a recent Letter to the Editor in the local Port Hedland rag. (Port Hedland is approx. 250km north of Karratha.) I'm not sure of the connection between the letter's author and the female customer involved, but here's what happened:

Female customer is standing at the checkout in a Port Hedland supermarket. The checkout operator is swiping her groceries. Everything proceeds satisfactorily until the operator swipes an item that won't register on the -- um -- register. She tries again. No result. And again. Still no result. After a few more unsuccessful attempts, she looks at the customer and says in a helpless voice, "It won't go through."

The customer gives a gentle smile and says, "It's ok. I don't think I'll buy that today, anyway."

The item? The little divider thing that separates your groceries from those of the next person in the queue.

Update: The Dreamboat told me this story may be an urban myth. He thinks he's heard it before somewhere else. It's possible that whoever wrote the letter to the Port Hedland paper did it as a joke. If so, he/she succeeded beyond his/her wildest dreams, because it sparked off a 'reply war' that lasted for two weeks and took on the dimensions of a full-scale feud.

Further Update: As of today (Tuesday), I have, imprisoned in the dank confines of my handbag, a copy of the Actual Letter. The events as written differ slightly from what I'd heard, but the gist is the same. The letter was penned by the Actual Female Customer. She signed her real name and everything. Judging from the quality of the writing, I think it's unlikely this person had the wherewithal to fabricate her experience, but I could be wrong. Let me know if you want it posted here so you can decide for yourselves.

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Today I remembered why the Dreamboat and I tend to write ourselves off on Saturdays: if you don't (a) own a boat, or (b) have a honking great hangover to deal with, Sundays in Karratha are exceedingly boring.

This was brought to my attention in a rather poignant way when I asked the Dreamboat what he wanted to do today. His reply: go to an art gallery, then sit outside at Pontoon for the rest of the afternoon, drinking wine. Pontoon is a bar in Darling Harbour, Sydney. It may as well be on the other side of the galaxy.

I started thinking about all the other Sunday afternoons we've spent in the various places where we've lived: walks along the Brisbane river, terminating at Gilhoolies or the Adrenalin Bar to play pool; easy-going ambles along Derby Street in Newcastle; visits to the Queen Vic Market followed by brunch at the Hot Poppy in North Melbourne ... it's enough to make a girl and her Dreamboat feel a little wistful.

It's not as if I didn't have plenty to do. I could've worked on a writing assignment and justified all the expense the Dreamboat went to when he paid for me to do a writing course a few months back. I could've mopped the kitchen floor or written promotional material for the animal welfare group I belong to. These are all worthy pursuits. But they're not fun.

The best way of dealing with boredom, I've found, is to hassle the Dreamboat. Today he had to put up with:
1. listening to mangled song lyrics that deliberately mispronounced his name
2. being flashed at
3. having a can of cat food shoved under his nose for no reason, with the instruction to "smell this"
4. standing in the kitchen while Your Correspondent made farting noises with her mouth on his shoulder blades

He was given a brief respite when I scrubbed out the shower. A friend had waxed lyrical earlier in the day about the miraculous powers of vinegar mixed with dishwashing liquid to shift all things soapy, scummy and calcified, so I decided to give it a go. It worked fairly well, considering I didn't know the quantities or proportions and just poured vast amounts of both onto a sponge. The shower was cleaned. The environment was spared. The house reeked of vinegar for a couple of hours. Your Correspondent didn't evolve into a higher being.

And there you have it. See? This is the sort of crap I am forced to write about when I have quiet weekends. Holy Fromage, I hope you're bloody happy.

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The Dream Job Revealed:

I have a new hobby. It's called 'going to work'. And as three and a half weeks have elapsed there without Your Correspondent's summary eviction from the premises by big men with stern expressions, I think it's time to shout it from the rooftops:

*drum roll*

Radio producer.

Yes, that's right. Your Correspondent produces a radio show. God help us all.

Do you have any idea how much I love this job? Of course you don't. I love it more than hot showers. I love it more than champagne. I love it more than breakfast in bed, perfectly painted toenails and whining about nothing in particular. I don't love it more than the Dreamboat or getting drunk or being the centre of attention, but it's early days yet.

This wonderful job combines three of the things I do best: talking, writing and being nosy. I get to ring up interesting people, ask them lots of questions, arrange interviews and then write scripts. I also get to swan into a sound booth, sit at a desk sporting lots of knobs and sliding things, and then twiddle around with them in the name of 'editing'. Learning the meaning of esoteric radio jargon is pretty cool too.

Radio is the most fleeting media form, so it's also the hungriest ... which is perfect if you're a person who's forever coming up with kooky ideas. The folk you work with actually listen and, more often than not, act on them. If you've spent years having your ideas slapped down or ignored, finding yourself in a receptive environment can be an intoxicating thing. Unfortunately, it doesn't do one's blog much good.

Creativity doesn't appear to be 'bottomless pit' stuff like I always thought it was. Once I use up my daily dollop it doesn't matter how desperately I want to put an original twist on something, or make up an entertaining dialogue ... it simply won't come. This doesn't bode well for the future of hot water in its current form, but it may just be part of an adjustment thing. I'm hoping it'll settle down and become manageable soon.

In the meantime, Your Correspondent will continue to float through her working days, all sparkly and overwhelmed to finally be in a job she actually loves and which seems to love her back. There's probably some moral to this story ... some crap about it never being too late and never giving up on one's dreams, but that's all bullshit, really. Good luck was what got me this job. That, and the merest sliver of experience gained many years ago as a co-presenter on a weekly half-hour community radio show that no-one listened to.

So I suppose the 'moral' of the story is that no experience is ever wasted, or something. Whatever. I'll leave it up to wiser souls to work out. Me, I'm just happy to keep basking in the happy ending.

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A Dressing-Down from the Big Cheese:

BC: There you are. Sit down. Get that cigarette out of your mouth. I want a word with you.

Niki: Oh great. A holy lecture. Most gods just sit around ignoring people. Trust me to get stuck with one that wants to be all interactive and shit.

BC: Quiet, you bellicose brat. I don't generally intervene in the affairs of my followers, but you're starting to become an embarrassment.

Niki: Embarrassment? Cool! More embarrassing than that St Paul nutter? More embarrassing than that St Augustine dude with his colossal sexual frustration and demons? More embarrassing than Jerry Falwell and the Rev Ian Paisley, even?

BC: Don't flatter yourself. I just think you've gone a bit too far lately. That piece you wrote about your shenanigans on the weekend ... some of the content was a little disturbing. Veiled references to illegal substances and smutty films. "A bad influence on young people," was Thor's remark to me yesterday.

Niki: Thor? Ah yes. Norse guy, big horned helmet. Berserker hammer-wielding psychopath. A shining example to 21st century youth everywhere.

BC: That's as may be. The point is, how long do you think you're going to get away with continually writing about your childish drunken escapades? And at your age, too. It's ridiculous. Do you really think anyone's interested?

Niki: Dunno. Don't care.

BC: Look, you like to give the impression you're intelligent. Why don't you write about things that really matter ... issues like globalisation and political and economic policy and humanitarian crises?

Niki: Reason One: because there are plenty of people out there already doing it. Reason Two: I gave up trying to save the world five years ago. Reason Three: I'd rather use my intelligence for my own amusement. Reason Four: you won't admit it, but you love me just the way I am. Don'tcha?

BC: Infuriating creature! I'm warning you ... if you can't learn to become a bit more responsible, I'll be forced to take matters into my own hands. Do a little miracle-working, if you get my drift.

Niki: You don't mean ..?

BC: Yes. Motherhood would slow you down a bit.

Niki: You wouldn't!

BC: Try me.

Niki: No! Anything but that!

BC: Then get your shit together before it's too late.

Niki: Yeah, ok. I'll be good. I will. I'll only get messy, say, once a fortnight, and I'll try not to write anything even remotely entertaining about it. How does that sound?

BC: And no more references to dodgy activities.

Niki: No, of course not.

BC: Fine. Away with you, then. I'll be watching. Don't mess up, do you hear me? (exits)

Niki: (makes socially unacceptable gesture with fingers and pours large glass of wine) Loud and clear, Holy Fromage. Loud and clear.

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The Weekend, in Truncated Style:

Thursday
Attend music concert with the Dreamboat. Main act: The Whitlams. Spend entire evening drinking truly obscene quantities of beer and wondering whether to be more surprised by the idea of The Whitlams actually coming to Karratha or the fact that it's been seventeen years since Your Correspondent last went to a concert. Dance around at foot of stage (even if you stretched it, you couldn't exactly call it a mosh pit), sing/yell until completely hoarse and go to great lengths to draw Tim Freedman's attention to a friend of ours who is convinced she was put on this earth to bear his babies. After concert, fork out $25.00 for CD of opening band out of sympathy and drink more beer. Stagger off to 24-hour gas station to buy munchies and cigarettes. Treat sleeping suburban Karratha to own renditions of favourite Whitlams songs at 1.00am while lurching home down the middle of the road, eating potato chips.

Friday
Spend entire day being very unwell. Inform work colleagues of the fact in a hoarse whisper because nothing louder can issue from Your Correspondent's ravaged throat. After work, go home to bed. Wake up a few hours later and remember last week's pledge of a gourmet brunch to be prepared by Your Correspondent for a couple of friends tomorrow. Groan and go back to sleep.

Saturday
Start the day with a 45-minute workout and the vague idea of "being healthy". Have shower. Clean house. Prepare shopping list. Pick up female friend. Watch her load an incalculable number of bottles containing alcoholic liqueurs into the fiery chariot ... "for brunch". Gulp audibly in trepidation. Buy brunch ingredients from supermarket. Go home with female friend. Start cooking at 1.00pm. Drink mango liqueur as warming-up exercise. Greet Dreamboat and male friend when they get home from gym. Drink more liqueur. Start preparing refreshing alcoholic drink recommended by fancy gourmet magazine. Continue cooking, and damn! that mango liqueur goes down nicely.

Eventually sit down to brunch at 5.00pm. Proudly pour and offer sangria before realising that Your Correspondent has forgotten to add the honey. Male friend sloshes some mango liqueur into glasses to "sweeten it up a bit".

Polish off sangria and switch to red wine. Talk a lot. Puzzle over male friend's mysterious twenty-minute disappearance and his instruction to "drink heaps more". Admire for quite some time the interesting smoking paraphernalia he brings back, then head out to local cinema for screening of Finding Nemo. Realise after five minutes that this is a very, very, very, very, very, very, very funny movie. Cry at the end for no reason.

Return home with Dreamboat and friends, drink more wine and continue to admire beautifully-crafted smoking implement. Employ the next couple of hours of one's life very wisely and well by dancing, doing chin-ups on carport cross-bar ten feet above the ground, and learning martial arts in back garden. Make up bed in spare room for friends. Fall asleep on floor ten minutes into DVD that seems to feature a lot of nice ladies who can't afford clothes but who care for each other very much.

Wake up after an indeterminate period of time. Attempt to awaken Dreamboat by dragging him off the couch. When he lands on hands and knees on the floor, try to make him budge. Give up after five minutes and go to bed, leaving him still asleep on all fours.

Sunday
Realise it's very unlikely that the snoring Dreamboat (who has somehow found his way to the boudoir d'amour) will be able to make breakfast as promised the night before. Arise from scented bower, greet very seedy-looking friends and start preparing food. Female friend does dishes while male friend throws some bacon onto the barbie. Dreamboat gets up just as breakfast is being served. Give him a dirty look.

Sit around chatting for an hour or so until friends leave. Retire immediately to bed. Refuse to stir for rest of the day.

Monday
Much the same as Friday, with the exception of making announcement to work colleagues this time in clear and ringing tones. The state of Your Correspondent's throat, at least, seems to have greatly improved over the weekend.

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Remember how I talked recently about Wild Weekends and Recovery Weekends and how nice it is to have one of the latter occasionally because they're very important to one's continued well-being? Yeah, well, this most recent weekend wasn't one of them.

Even at cellular level there's hurting going on. Anyone standing very close to me would, if they had a sudden urge to lower an ear to my arm, hear millions upon millions of piteous little cries and groans. Since Thursday night, tiny amino acids have been shaking their microscopic fists and cursing the gods for making them suffer. Those tough little powerhouses of the cell -- the mitochondria -- can barely produce a spark. Billions of assorted mites and bacteria have fled our house forever, wailing in terror and anguish.

More later.

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