Happy New Year for tomorrow, superheroes (it's 2.05am NZ time on 31 December). I'm too busy soaking up the beauty of NZ's Marlborough Sounds and drinking fine wines to write anything of any substance, but will give the full version (including the 14th Commandment) when we return.

Hope Santa spoiled you rotten and the rest of the world's being nice to y'all.

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Boris, Santa's little construction elf / tree ornament, says:



"Merry bloody Christmas, ya pack of mongrels, and get a few coldies down ya for New Year."

Your Correspondent will be back in three weeks, but may post once or twice from NZ if she gets around to it.

Take care til next ... and special good wishes to Boris, wherever you may be.

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It's Christmas in Heaven

Because even deities need to cut loose sometimes ...

The CELESTIAL DELI is draped in fairy lights. A banner bearing the legend "Happy Birthday, Big Guy" hangs from the roof. Above it is a cardboard cutout of Santa's legs protruding from a chimney. The BIG CHEESE, fake reindeer antlers askew and obviously a bit worse for wear, is wearing a Kath & Kim 'I'm not a housewife, I'm a hornbag' apron and clutching half-empty bacardi breezers in each hand. A flashing Christmas Tree earring dangles from one ear. Amplified, drunken voices are singing an off-key version of The Doors' Riders in the Storm in the background.

BC: Hey there, piddling little female human dude. Merry Christmas.

Niki: Yeah. Merry Christmas to you too, Holy Fromage. Love the earring.

BC: Cool, isn't it? Zeus pierced my ear with one of his thunderbolts earlier on. Hurt like hell but hey, it's the festive season. I'm thinking about getting my tongue done next.

Niki: Who's making that racket?

BC: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Last time I ever let them anywhere near a karaoke machine, but even that's got to be better than Shiva doing the macarena again. He's such a bloody show-off. All those arms, you see, and that reputation for being Lord of the Dance. It's given him a big head.

Niki: So, is JC enjoying his party?

BC: JC? What's he got to do with it?

Niki: Well, hello ... Christmas party, 'Happy Birthday, Big Guy' ... what's all that in aid of, if it isn't for JC?

BC: Silly wench. Young JC isn't even here. He's stuck at home with his dad and the archangels watching Miracle on 34th Street. He told me he'd try to sneak out later. No, this party's for Mithras.

Niki: Mithras?

BC: Yes, Mithras ... deity bloke who was around long before JC. Actually, he was JC's biggest competitor for the first four centuries AD. Born of a virgin on 25 December, had twelve disciples, died and rose again, blah blah. Hugely coincidental, non? There were more than a few raised eyebrows up here when Christians started telling the same stories. Look it up on that Net thing if you want to know more. I'm too busy to enlighten you further ... I've got a simply divine party to host. (swigs from one of the bottles) What are you doing here, anyway?

Niki: I was just wondering if you had a Christmas Message you wanted to pass on to everyone back on Earth. A bit of godly wisdom or something. Nothing too long-winded or boring or pious, mind you. And make sure it's PC so you don't offend anyone.

BC: What am I, a fucking copywriter? Look, girlie. I'm a god. My only job is to simply be. If people want to worship me and consume lots of sacred yummo dairy products in my name, fine. But if it's profundity and a sermon they're after, send them to a church.

Niki: Yeah, ok. I was only asking.

BC: You want some wisdom? How about this: stuffed green olives taste like crap, so don't eat them? Or what about: don't drink and drive? Or even: if you're going to the southern parts of West Australia these holidays, frequently and liberally apply insect repellent to prevent being bitten by mosquitoes carrying the Ross River virus?

Niki: Wow. Don't knock yourself out or anything. (pause) So I guess I'd better leave you to it, then.

BC: Right. (someone starts singing Eye of the Tiger by Survivor) Hey, who's that? Is that you, Hermes, you little shit? (stamps off, muttering.) Bugger. I wanted to do that one. I freakin' love that song ...

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The unheard-of happened last night: I was invited to a party and I didn't go.

This is what Your Correspondent does when she doesn't go to parties:

1. Eats toast thickly smeared with mushed-up avocado for dinner.
2. Ignores ringing phones.
3. Reads a decent book, for a change.
4. Smokes the occasional cigarette outside while hiking up skirt and checking reflection in glass doors to see if thighs have reached desired toned state (ie, if feet are together but there's still visible air space between the legs above the knees).
5. Rejoices that there is, indeed, a glimmer of light from the street lamps visible between one's upper legs, and ignores the fact that this only happens after one has gone to the trouble of standing on the extreme outside edges of one's feet and rotating one's knees 45 degrees outward.
6. Resists any and all urges to drink alcohol, permitting only water and Earl Grey tea to pass one's lips.
7. Retires to bed before 8:00pm.
8. Wakes up at 10:15pm and finds one is unable to get back to sleep.
9. Smokes more cigarettes and checks to see if thighs shrank during sleeping period.
10. Gets back to sleep at usual time (between 1:00 and 2:00am).
11. Wakes up the next morning feeling like shit but probably in better shape than the Dreamboat, who did go to the party.

It's time to face the unpalatable truth: I'm worn out and in dire need of a holiday. I produced our last radio show for the year yesterday and now have a whole glorious month of R&R to look forward to. On Sunday, we'll be flying off to NZ for three weeks. Which leads me on to what we're doing with ...

... the hellspawn.

Don't let the cute photo fool you. These cats are evil, the black ones in particular.

The slutty little technicolour one is Buffy. Her paw rests on the head of Eva, whose sister Diva is lying below. Between them, they are doing an admirable job of destoying everything in our house.

While it's obvious all three are of mixed pedigree, I suspect there's a bit of Siamese or Burmese in the black pair. They're very intelligent. They don't miaow; they shriek. They climb. They've learned how to open kitchen cupboards and hurl the contents onto the floor. They've chewed their way through two house plants. They gnaw on the metal legs of the ironing board. Mealtimes take on a surreal, orgiastic dimension. In desperation, the Dreamboat and I bought a water-spray bottle a few weeks ago. We use it whenever we catch them doing naughty shit. They hate it, but it doesn't stop them.

So ... back to the story. We're going on holiday for three weeks and Your Correspondent is paying a nice lady who's married to a local copper to come to the house twice a day, minister to their needs, clear the mail and do security checks. She came over earlier this morning to familiarise herself with everything. Here's some of what happened:

NICE LADY has been ushered into the kitchen by NIKI. She starts writing information down on a clipboard. THE CATS are running around screaming.

Nice Lady: So ... feeding regime.

Niki: Right. Feeding regime. Uhh ... I held off feeding them until you got here so you'd get an idea of what you're in for.

THE CATS are chasing each other in and out of their playhouses (two empty beer cartons). One of them sits inside a carton and starts tearing off hunks of thick cardboard with her teeth. Another jumps on top of the same box, which then collapses.

Nice Lady: What I'm 'in for'?

Niki: Yeah. Don't worry. You'll see soon enough.

One of THE CATS starts ripping up a newspaper and scattering the pieces over the floor. Another CAT runs around dragging one of NIKI'S gym shoes by the laces. The third CAT watches for a second and starts giving chase. Both CATS run head-first into a wall.

Nice Lady: Um ... will they be alright?

The same two CATS resume their chase. This time they run directly into the backs of NICE LADY'S legs. NICE LADY skitters away from them.

Niki: Yeah, they'll be fine. They do it all the time.

NIKI goes to the laundry and gets the cat bowls. THE CATS immediately stop what they're doing and start trying to run under her feet, squealing in demand. Two CATS get ahead, then turn around while still running to make sure NIKI'S behind them and inadvertently smash into the pantry doors. The third CAT careers into them.

Nice Lady: They're very keen, aren't they?

NIKI takes a can of cat food out of the fridge. All hell breaks loose. THE CATS are screeching and running around in circles. The black pair try to jump up onto the bench. Every time a pair of front paws gets over the top, NIKI bats them down again, then chases the offender, brandishing the squirt bottle. NICE LADY looks troubled.

NIKI doles out cat food into each bowl and heads back to the laundry. After some hesitation, NICE LADY follows. THE CATS are running so fast they miss the turn-off into the laundry and are forced to execute perfect 180 degree skids with their back legs. One of them misjudges and slides into a wall at high speed.

Niki: Now, here's the order for giving them their food. If you don't do it this way, there's trouble.

NICE LADY nods. NIKI is holding the food bowls level with her shoulders. Two CATS are attempting to jump up to reach them. The third CAT has decided it's quicker to just climb up NIKI'S bare legs. NIKI grits her teeth in pain.

Niki: Give this little shit Buffy hers first. Otherwise, she'll try to eat the others'. Then you've got about three seconds to give the other two little bastards theirs before they start fighting.

NICE LADY is looking dazed. NIKI leads her back into the kitchen. Loud growls are emanating from the laundry.

Nice Lady: Errrr ... twice a day, you said?

Niki: Yes, please.

NICE LADY totters out the door, no doubt thinking that the rate she's charging for this one isn't nearly enough.

Note: OK, so I exaggerated a bit. I didn't swear at the cats until after the nice lady left.

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Exactly one year ago we arrived in Karratha. Twelve whole months here ... I can hardly believe it.

I could waffle on about how the Pilbara region of West Australia is a special place and a very well-kept secret but you'll just have to come here, swell the local economy with your tourist dollars and bloody well find out for yourselves. In the meantime, here's some Christmas spirit, Karratha-style:

It's Saturday night. The Dreamboat and Your Correspondent, having made it out alive from the first Chrissie function of the evening, are busily engaged in sampling the delights of the second. The Dreamboat is outside, 'mingling' (drinking and talking shop). Your Correspondent is inside, 'mingling' (drinking and dancing). The music suddenly stops. Santa's arrived.

Santa is a small man with a large pillow stuffed into his suit to provide the necessary rotundity. Your Correspondent becomes aware that Santa is looking at her. She smiles, clasps her hands and traces a huge imaginary belly in tribute. Santa nods solemnly. Then he points to the anatomical region below his pillow - the region of his Santa Package - before holding up his hands a metre apart and nodding solemnly once more.

I've noticed on these sorts of festive occasions that Nice Girls get their names drawn out of hats and are presented with vouchers for facials and shit. Naughty ones obviously have to be content with viewing the exaggerated dimensions of Santa's schlong.

I guess that pretty much sums up which category Your Correspondent falls into this year.

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Christmas is killing me. I shit you not ... I really don't know how many more boozy lunches, dinners and visits from neighbours I can take. Luckily, following a phone conversation with my brother Steve, I have just learned a cool new word that perfectly describes how I've been feeling upon awakening every morning this week. I give you the wonderfully evocative munted.

Niki: How are you?
Steve: Hungover as hell.
Niki: Really? What were you up to last night?
Steve: The Iranian guy next door had his last football game of the year so I sank a few with him to celebrate. Don't ever drink with Iranians. I don't know what that stuff they pour down their throats is, but this morning I was absolutely munted.

I sympathise with him wholeheartedly because this is what my own week's been like:

Tuesday
Work lunch. Your Correspondent arrives at 2.00pm and leaves somewhere around 7.30pm to continue festivities at another restaurant. Patrons of this establishment are treated to very loud, drunken Christmas carols from Your Correspondent and a colleague. The Dreamboat eventually pours Your Correspondent home somewhere around 10.30pm.
Result on Wednesday morning: totally munted.

Wednesday
Farewell dinner for former boss. Your Correspondent drinks three glasses of wine on an empty (and still churning) stomach, then goes home with the Dreamboat to drink beer and eat pizza.
Result on Thursday morning: fairly munted.

Thursday
Quiet night at home ... until über neighbour Janet knocks on the door, clutching a glass of bourbon. The Dreamboat and Your Correspondent put away two bottles of wine over the course of her visit and inexplicably chase these down with a couple of beers after she leaves. 'Quiet night' bedtime: 1.00am.
Result on Friday morning: completely and utterly munted.

Friday
Another work lunch. Your Correspondent heroically manages to put away a glass and a half of champagne. A few hours later while sailing, she rallies enough to consume three beers but it's definitely a half-hearted effort. Her lack of enthusiasm even extends to a confession to the Dreamboat that she's 'getting sick of this'. For the first time in months, she goes to bed before midnight.
Result on Saturday morning: slightly less munted than usual.

So now it's Saturday. We have two functions to attend tonight. Tomorrow, we plan to spend the day sailing. We've been invited to another function tomorrow night.

I suspect you're going to hear a lot of this term 'munted' in the forseeable future.

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A Recipe for Disaster

Take one Toshiba laptop computer purchased for $6,000 in August last year. Add one hard disk drive that decided yesterday morning to go into TOTAL. FUCKING. MELTDOWN. Mix this useless machine with an idiotic owner who never bothered to make back-ups.

And the result?

Not happy, people. Not happy at all.

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Saturday night. Oh god.

So we had a Christmas function to attend. We were expecting it to be quite a sedate affair because the other attendees were mainly engineers and their wives. In my experience, if you're looking for wild table-top action, you're better off hanging out with tradesfolk like boilermakers, welders, riggers and scaffolders. However, as I discovered on Saturday night, engineers can be quite impressive in their own right once they start drinking shots and letting all their hairs down.

The best way to provide a sense of the evening's festive merriment is to break it into snapshots, so here they are:

Snapshot One: A Restaurant in the Nearby Town of Dampier - 6.30pm
After ninety minutes in this establishment, the Dreamboat announces to Your Correspondent that he's drunk. Your Correspondent isn't exactly a model of sobriety herself but is in far better shape than the Dreamboat who is, in fact, the drunkest person in the Southern Hemisphere. His colleagues are too busy balancing someone's handbag on an empty beer glass and trying to kick it between two chairs a dozen metres away to notice.

Snapshot Two: On the Booze Bus Back to Karratha - 11.30pm
Everybody is singing Christmas carols at the tops of their voices because someone went to the trouble of preparing song sheets. Your Correspondent is hard pressed to convince the Dreamboat that Away in the Manger has already been murdered twice and it might be time for him to consider moving on to another carol like everyone else did ten minutes earlier. The guy sitting in front of us accuses Your Correspondent of hen-pecking. Your Correspondent sulks for the rest of the journey.

Snapshot Three: At the Karratha International Hotel - midnight
Outside bar Geckos is filled to capacity and the queue is half a mile long, so a group of us saunter through the main hotel entrance, then dash through the restaurant and out to the poolside bar Montebellos, which has just closed for the night. One of the party decides the exertion justifies a swim, so strips to his undies and does a few refreshing laps before announcing he's going to try bribing one of the Geckos bouncers to let us in. He returns after five minutes, having been forced to admit defeat. There's no option but to head off to the infamous Trawlers, Karratha's only nightclub.

Snapshot Four: Trawlers - 12.30am
Trawlers is the sort of place people swear they'll never go back to, but still end up patronising because there's no other choice. The Dreamboat and Your Correspondent immediately hit the dance floor and, being somewhat relaxed in the inhibition department, proceed to dance up a storm. The Dreamboat is boogieing in his usual manner -- totally going off, with eyes shut. Your Correspondent manages to convince other guys in the vicinity that his flailing arms aren't meant for them personally.

You can always be assured of 'interesting' conversations at Trawlers. Like this, for instance:

Guy: Excuse me. Would you please do me a favour? It'll only take a couple of minutes of your time.
Niki: And what's that?
Guy: See those guys over there? (points to a group of nervous-looking young Cambodian guys seated at a nearby table) You're their ultimate fantasy. You're the sexiest woman in the whole place.
Niki: I'm not interested in your flattery, mate. What do you want?
Guy: They really want to dance with you. (takes Your Correspondent's arm) It would make their whole night. Truly. Just one dance.
Niki: (shrugs off arm) Alright. One dance and that's it.
Guy: Great. So if you could just stand over here with each one while we take a few photos ... beautiful, sexy woman like you. It'd mean a lot to them.
Niki: Are you a pimp?
Guy: Er ...
Niki: Because you bloody talk like one.
Guy: ...
(Half an hour later, he comes back and tries a few sleazy dance moves)
Niki: I think you should go away. I don't like you very much.
Guy: (slinks off)

Trawlers is also a great place for reminding one that middle-age has nigh-on arrived. This, from a girl who looked about eighteen:

Girl: Excuse me, can I ask you a personal question?
Niki: Go for it.
Girl: How old are you?
Niki: Forty.
Girl: You dance like you're a lot younger.
Niki: I used to be a professional dancer. Maybe that has something to do with it.
Girl: I thought so. You look younger too. I really wish my Mum looked liked you.
Niki: Er ... thanks.

Snapshot Five: Al's Burgers - 3.00am
The Dreamboat rings for a taxi. We while away the next hour and a half eating burgers and watching a fight in the carpark. Your Correspondent is invited by another interested onlooker to smoke dope down at the beach. She declines. The onlooker nods understandingly, warns her he's about to pee against the wall and suggests she moves somewhere out of the line of vision.

Snapshot Six: 5.45am
In the absence of any cabs, Your Correspondent and the much-sobered Dreamboat have just completed the ten kilometre walk home. The sun has risen. The flies are out. Your Correspondent, having made the trek in high heels, can barely totter to the bedroom. We give ourselves up to unconsciousness. We remain in that state for rather a long time.

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On average, Australian women start menopause when they're fifty-one years old. I learned this today at work, and even though I have quite a lot of years to go before menopause becomes a personal reality, I thought it would be a good idea to start obsessing about it now. One can never be too prepared.

Menopause strikes me as one area where evolution is a bit behind the times. After all, 'The Change' signifies the end of a woman's reproductive years, which is fair enough if she's done some reproducing and is too busy cleaning up after her twenty-something offspring who won't leave home, to remember important stuff like when she's supposed to stop. Menopause in this instance is a good thing. It's the handy biological equivalent of an oven timer. But for women like me, who don't have kids and don't plan to, menopause shouldn't be necessary. Who needs an oven timer when they have no intention of cooking?

I think the whole reproduction issue should be handled like a tax return form, issued to every young woman fresh out of puberty:

Question 1: Do you plan to have kids? Yes/No
If you answered Yes, go to Section 17 on page eight.
If you answered No, go to Section 19 on page nine.

Section 17: Declaration of Intention to Have Children
I hereby solemnly declare that I, ___________, intend to bear children and my subsequent reward shall be menopause and ongoing HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy).

Section 19: Declaration of Intention Not to Have Children
I hereby solemly declare that I, ___________, do not intend to bear children and my subsequent reward shall be life-long PMT and ongoing contraception.

Too easy and really quite beautiful in its simplicity. Adopting such a method would even be good for the global economy: either way, the pharmaceutical companies would benefit and (thalidomide, tetracycline and, according to some, HRT itself notwithstanding) we all know that pharmaceutical companies are the good guys of the health system. They've always had the interests of we sistahs at heart.

Therefore, I urge female readers to start lobbying their local Evolutionary Representatives immediately. Let's put an end to the outdated biological tyranny of the menopause. Let's have The Change made optional, at the very least. We can start a campaign. We'll call it 'Menopause - a Woman's Right to Choose'.

Don't put it off. Act now. Right away. I want this stitched tightly into the fabric of creational legislation before my quite a lot of years are up and I find myself standing in an interminable queue with exhausted and relieved mothers, waiting for my next shot of hormonal goodies ...

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Gripping Headlines

Even though I sometimes pretend otherwise, I have to admit to a sneaking affection for our local rag. It only comes out once a week and is usually good for at least one evening of hilarity when there's nothing very interesting on TV.

I particularly like the column put together by a local Senior Constable. This guy makes free and frequent reference to 'delinquents' and 'young idiots', and who can blame him when he has to deal with serious offences like this:

"In a recent incident at Karratha Primary School, offenders broke into the school sports shed over the weekend by gaining entry through the roof. Police were shown one recovered item of stolen property, being a volleyball with the culprits' names written on it!" (His exclamation mark.)

Talk about a 'criminal signature' ... but wait. There's more. The grown-ups are just as bad:

"November 23: The loud music of Slim Dusty and the disruptive antics of a household in Alexander Stephen Court, Pegs Creek, after midnight saw police attend the premises. Peace to the neighbourhood was soon restored."

For those who haven't heard of him, Slim Dusty (recently deceased) was a country-singing Aussie icon. One wonders what the world is coming to when an entire neighbourhood's repose is rudely interrupted after midnight by blaring country music. Then again, this is Karratha.

My favourite headline this week is in the real estate section. The copy accompanying the headline is also brilliant. This is from the second paragraph:

"With cathedral ceilings a feature, there is a large lounge/dining area big enough for any family with a ducted air conditioning unit, and ceiling fans throughout."

I'm sure all those homeless families carting their cherished ducted air conditioning units around will breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that there's a place in Karratha just for them.

The blurb is accompanied by a photo of a rather ordinary-looking property that features a roof with a standard pitch. I'm not quite sure how the architect found room for 'cathedral ceilings', but like I said ... this is Karratha.

As for the headline that's going to fire the imaginations of this eminently desirable dwelling's prospective new owners: "All this plus a mango tree".

If you really want to see some serious printed excellence, though, you can't go past the notorious British tabloid News of the World. One balmy evening when we were in France, The Dreamboat and his brother told me about a certain story featured in this wonderful publication that almost had Your Correspondent soiling her undies.

It was front-page breaking news. There was a photo of an old lady, mournfully looking at a small, black, oblong-shaped object resting on the palm of her outstretched hand. And the headline?

"Aliens Turned My Son into an Olive"

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From a recent phone conversation with my sister Jo:

Niki: So, how are you?

Jo: More to the point, how are you? Mum told me you'd hurt your back pretty badly.

Niki: Yeah, well, I've decided to stop talking about it. You can only announce so many times that your back hurts before people start yawning and saying stuff like, "Fuck off. You're boring."

Jo: Yep. Then they start edging away and giving off a vibe like, "Oh nooo! Go away, back-moaning person. Find yourself a chiropractor and stop annoying the rest of us with your whining drivel."

Niki: That's it, exactly.

Jo: I mean, let's face it, Nik, it's not like you're special or anything. Most people in the world have back problems. What gives you the right to bleat on and on about it? Just get some of those back exercises that really old people do and shut the fuck up.

Niki: Absolutely. I totally agree. It's very selfish of me. And boring. Over the last few weeks I've been seriously considering telling myself to fuck off, but my back hurts too much to do the whole fucking off thing convincingly. It's severely hampered all of the fucking off processes I've attempted lately.

Jo: Bummer.

Niki: Yeah. So now I just don't talk about it.

Jo: Good idea.

See? Support, encouragement, the willingness to validate your sibling's point of view ... these are the keys to close familial relationships, my superheroes.

Sharing the same sense of humour helps, too.

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Firsts ...

So it's the first of December, which also makes it the first official day of Summer in these parts. Karratha celebrated by clocking up a not unreasonable temperature of 42degC (somewhere around 110degF). This means it's time to start a) hanging out the washing at night and b) checking the colour of one's urine to ensure one isn't suffering from dehydration. (If it's light, you're fine. If it's really dark, you probably only have ten minutes left to live and will expire wishing you'd made more of an effort to look attractive the night before so you could've had Farewell To Life sex.)

Other Firsts:

1. Tonight, we in the back-blocks of regional West Australia finally caught up with the rest of the world by watching our first episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

I must admit I considered shedding a sentimental tear in memory of all the wonderful gay male hairdressers who've bullied me into trying to look fashionable over the years. (That includes you, Brisbane Babe from three years ago, who was so busy telling me about your former career as a drag queen in Sydney that you messed up my hair and gave me watermelon-pink tresses three days before I was due to fly to Scotland to meet the Dreamboat's family for the first time. Yes, you're definitely on the list, even though I immediately walked out of your salon and straight into another down the road, begged one of the hairdressers there to strip the colour and was out of pocket $350 as a result.)

I don't hold grudges. No way. Not me.

2. The Return of the King had its world premiere in Wellington, NZ, tonight. Was I homesick? Yes. Did I wish I was there? Yes. Am I looking forward to three weeks hence when I'll be back home and snoring from jet-lag over dinner with my family? You bet.

3. I realised today at Karratha's public swimming pool that I'm only proficient at side-stroke when I do it on my left side. If I attempt it on my right, it's all I can do not to drown in a particularly ungainly fashion.

This is what happens when you're born left-handed in an intolerant time in history and your parents bow to pressure and force you to use your right: your body gets confused. It wants you to play guitars upside down. It makes you stand on the wrong side of the batter's plate in softball games. It forces you to drink heavily on Monday nights. It convinces you that eating sugar-laden grapes at midnight is a Good Thing.

It also renders you incapable of saving a drowning person's life unless you're permitted to perform the side-stroke thing on your left side. If I could stop myself eating grapes long enough to concentrate on the deeper ramifications, this would be a sobering thought.

A real, live, sobering thought ... now that would truly be a first.

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