‘Cos on Tuesdays, they all try to catch them

(Steph, look away now, although this isn’t so much a “last night I dreamt”, so you might be okay… and if you can bear with it until the end,  you might be glad).

I must have driven my parents mad as a child. I don’t know whether it was a regular thing, or whether it just stands out in my memory, but I have vivid memories of the nightmares I suffered as a child- thereby keeping my parents awake at all hours with crying (and no doubt screaming).

These days, nightmares are few and far between. In fact, I can only really recall one nightmare as an adult (there are more, but they’ve faded into oblivion). A few months ago I dreamt I was dying- there was nothing wrong with me, as such, but I was dying and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. So my mum was organising a funeral/going away party for me- while I was still alive. It was dreadfully morbid, and I woke nearly in tears- I blame watching Empire Records that day. Obviously the scene where they hold a mock funeral for Deb stuck in my brain.

As a kid though, I can remember three distinct themes in nightmares, recurring at different ages.

Around the age of 8, I was plagued with recurring nightmares about fire, all through summer. I think it was the time of the massive bush fires in the Blue Mountains, so I was seeing images of it every night on the news. We lived in a rural area, and while we weren’t on a farm with no neighbours for miles around, we were still isolated enough that my 8 year old brain was convinced if a fire did come along, no one would see it and we’d be burnt to a crisp. I used to dream that the fire was racing down the hill on the opposite side of the creek which ran across the bottom of our property. From there, it was just a quick leap across the creek, and it would be racing up the hill to our house. I remember wishing we could move into town, because at least that way, if a fire came someone would see it. I still remember thinking, when Mum told us she was leaving Dad and moving near our school, that at least we’d be safe from bushfires (the separation wasn’t a surprise, they’d been sleeping in separate beds for about 18 months while Mum saved the money she needed). To be fair, the idea of a bushfire ravaging the property wasn’t at all unlikely- in fact one of my best friends from primary school nearly lost everything when a bush fire wiped out much of their property. But the nightmares were persistent, and I remember waking up in the night, only to have Mum reassure me that there was no fire, and that we’d be safe if there was.

The second theme I can’t place in time. I think I was probably in early primary school, since that would fit the time we were moving into the new house Dad had built, but there was still a lot to be finished on the house. One night I woke to the sounds of Dad attempting to hit a rat over the head with a cricket bat. We hadn’t finished all the eaves, I think, so rats could get in from the outside world. From then on, I had nightmares about the house being invaded by rats. It wasn’t helped by my over active imagination- any flash of light on a shiny surface in the dark looked like rat eyes to me- like you see in films. So I would wake up, crying from a nightmare, only to be faced by these shiny things in the dark. The silly thing is these rats were native  bush rats, not gross city rats- completely harmless, and not dirty. Try telling that to my imagination, which saw rat bites, and rats crawling all over me- although I don’t think the rats were ever in swarm proportions. Now I think about it, that could also have been the time of a mouse plague across the Wheatbelt- images of hundreds upon hundreds of mice on farms on the TV probably stuck in my mind too.

By far the most vivid memory of nightmares from my childhood was the one that plagued me on and off for years- always the same dream. Why this particular dream continually haunt me is anyone’s guess. Given the subject, you’d assume it would actually have been a nice, straight forward kids dream.

For some reason, probably only to be revealed through intensive hypnotherapy, for several years- perhaps around ages 3-5, but I’m not certain- I was visited by a recurring nightmare which involved the Bananas in Pyjamas chasing my cousins (in the pic at the top) down our driveway, towards me. Our drive was maybe 100m long, so I could see them coming from quite a distance. I don’t  know why they were chasing them, or even why I was so concerned about my cousins, who lived in another town and I only saw 2 or 3 times a year. Perhaps just because they were running towards me, thereby increasing the chance that they’ll catch me unawares.

I’ve done some research, and it would seem that my dreams predated the TV show by several years, so I can only conclude it was either the song itself, or that little animated short on Playschool that did it to me. It may be that even at such a young age, I was paying too much attention to song lyrics, and literally believed that B1 and B2 would catch me unawares on Tuesday (presumably I also believed I was a teddy bear).

I’m pleased to say that the Bananas in Pyjamas no longer haunt me, either awake or asleep. I have always been able to quite happily sit through an episode of the TV show, I have been known to quote from it (believe me, you get odd looks if you say “trust me, I’m a rat!” when you’re in your mid-twenties, they either just don’t get it, or they think you’re a wee bit odd), so it would seem that my most vivid memories of childhood nightmares have not stuck with me to drive me into therapy with a Freudian analyst intent on telling me that the bananas represented my jealousy that my cousins had penises and I didn’t, or that the phallic bananas had to do with my relationship with my father.

Did you have any unusual dreams as a child?

Boobs

My cat growing up used to be rather unaffectionate. On the odd (cold) nights when she would sit on your lap, she would dig her claws into your legs.

The big cat in my house now likes sitting on my feet when it’s cold and I’m watching TV.

The kitten though? The kitten has a boob fetish.

She’s obsessed with sitting on my chest. Particularly if I’m using my laptop, on my lap- she insists on crawling up onto my chest. It makes typing rather difficult, as I often can’t see around her.

But she doesn’t just sit there. Oh no. She kneeds my poor abused boobs with her claws. I’m not sure what she’s trying to do, mould them into a more satisfying shape perhaps? I’ve tried throwing her off, but she always comes back for more, and always kneeds the boobs. It’s lucky her claws aren’t all that sharp, really.

She was kneeding the whole way through typing this post. I want to know what the fascination with my boobs is.

Some points

I want to write stuff, but I have nothing of substance to write about.

• My dad rang me yesterday. Twice. Once to ask me to pay my phone bill (okay), once to ask me if the Monday he’s driving me to Perth (to get on the plane) is the long weekend, because he has things to do over the long weekend. Aside from the fact it’s not (I leave a week or two before the long weekend), it does beg the question of whether he was planning on ditching me if it was that weekend. “Sorry Amanda, my one and only daughter, who’s leaving the country with no plans to return, I can’t take you to Perth, or the airport, I have to play my bagpipes that day. Take the bus”. WTF? My family are special.*
• Speaking of special, I was talking to the temp at work on the way out this afternoon. Turns out she’s doing what I’m doing, about a month later. We were talking about visas and British passports etc, I was whinging about my “but Grandad was born to British civil servants working for the fucking government, it’s not their fault it was in Fiji not the UK (plus, to rub salt into the wounds, my mother qualifies for a British passport even though he’s born in Fiji, whereas I seemed to get nothing…)”, and a random woman on the street interrupted and said her friend was in a similar situation- and got around it. Apparently, there’s special rules if the parents were in the army, or WORKING FOR THE GOVERNMENT. I alway knew there must be a loop hole there somewhere- seems there is one… I just don’t know how to get around it . Yet. I’ll keep it in mind if getting a working visa seems too much like hard work… Ancestry Visa lasts the same length of time, costs half the amount, and is potentially a lot easier to get (doesn’t require two separate application processes for a start, including one where original documentation, like my university degrees, has to be sent from Australia to Sheffield). Yay for random lady (who actually works for my company, she was in uniform, but I don’t know who she is).
• I have some shitful music on my computer. I’ve got “random play all” going on… fucking Brian Adams- Have You Ever Loved a Woman? Spare me.
• I just got my first ever completely random friend request on Facebook. Literally as I was typing this. We have one friend in common, apparently, but looking at his profile he seems to have far too many friends (1100+), so I think he just adds people at random. Maybe he thinks I’m hot. The mutual “friend” is actually a friend of a friend who I don’t know very well. Decline. I also got poked tonight by an old school friend who hasn’t spoken to me since he added me several months ago. I find that a bit creepy.
• I discovered stuff I forgot I had, and never listened to though- Headlights. They’re delightful.
• I’m going to this in August. Anyone want to come? I got ridiculously nostalgic and excited reading about the balloon festival today (I missed it last time, it was about a month after I left ). Particularly the public transport info… all these names and bus pick-up places I RECOGNISED. It made me very happy. I looked at the map and said “There! That’s where I lived!” and “There! That’s the route I took to get to uni!” and “There, that’s where KentBoy lived above a picture framing shop, next to Boots where the homeless man lived in the doorway and played his radio all night long outside KentBoy’s window, keeping both of us awake many nights!”. Good times.
• I’m also planning on going somewhere interesting for the August bank holiday. I haven’t decided where yet.
• I’ve also picked at least two musicals I’m planning on seeing at some stage in London. Leicester Square discount tickets booth, here I come!
• I already have European or English money. A family friend rocked up at Mum’s house on the weekend, and gave her 5 gold coins (which Mum then passed to me when I saw her on Monday). I’m not sure what they are, they’re stapled into an envelope so they don’t get lost. Mum said, and I quote “they’ve got her head on them”, so I presume they’re British £1 coins, rather than Euros (”her” being QEII). They feel the right size for £1 coins… yay for free money (plus the novelty of free foreign money).
• I think my typing fingers (as opposed to those other fingers, you know?) have chav/bogan syndrome. I keep typing “me” instead of “my” by mistake. As in, “I was whinging about me”… damnit. Scrap that, I think my fingers have dyslexia, I keep coming across typos mixing up the “e” and the “y”, and it doesn’t seem isolated to “my”.
• 12 days of work left. That makes me infinitely happy. Only 7 work days with Old Boss. Also, only 2 weekends left in Perth. I actually will have to start packing for real soon (as in, packing up my room etc, not just my bag).
• Sorry about the crappy blogging of late. I have very little to say beyond: Excitement, it is building at a rapid rate; Work, it is nearly finished; the weather, it is getting cold (yay!). That’s my life right now.

* I’m sure he wasn’t… but it’s an interesting thought. I doubt very much that my father would refuse to drive me to Perth, he’s obliging like that.

3 weeks

21 sleeps.

Too soon?

P.S. Who manages a typo in a post of SIX WORDS including title?

The minute you let her under your skin

Last week, we had Jay writing the sense of smell, today we have Evan Maloney writing about songs that can induce memories of all sorts of memories… it would seem that, while I should be cleaning my room, the universe is pointing me to write about my own recollections, triggered by the senses. Plus, it’s not like I could disturb the cat, she’s curled up near my feet… much nicer than when the kitten tries to sit on my chest or head.

I believe that the sense of smell has the best ability to bring back memories- too many times I’ve walked past a guy, caught a wiff of his deodorant or cologne, and been transported back to my times with either of my exes- although Adrian was decidedly the better smelling of the two, even at such a young age. The smell of cocoa has a tendency to leave me puzzled- we always drank Milo as kids, but Mum must have given us cocoa once, because for years smelling (or tasting) it would take me back to that kitchen- but unable to work out the exact memory associated with it. I’m sure I have other memories attached to smell, but it’s the sort of thing that comes to me unexpected… thinking of them spontaneously isn’t so easy.

Songs, on the other hand… memories of songs go back well into my childhood.

Any bagpipe band track will almost undoubtedly take me to car rides with Dad as a kid.

Freestyler, by Bombfunk MCs will always, always take me to Countryweek in Year 11, the song that was played seemingly on repeat for the week, the week my school took the trophy for the first time in years, when I was captain of the (look away now if nerdiness offends you) speech team, and so was one of the only people with a full uniform in Perth, and represented the school at both the opening and closing ceremonies. Likewise, We are the Champions will always be linked with the same week, but specifically the bus ride home. I made sure I was on the bus with the soccer teams (boys and girls) and some of the volleyball team- somehow my extended group of friends made up two sports, and we managed one of the small buses… where ridiculous amounts of Red Bull were drunk and as a group of hyperactive teenagers we sang victory songs for well over 5 hours on the way home. I even remember I was sitting next to TallBoy on the bus.

Don’t Look Back in Anger, one of the songs my band performed for our music school’s Christmas concert- the band I met Adrian in. He was lead singer, lead guitar (what a fucking cliche), I was keyboards and back up vocals, and I did sing on that song. Don’t Speak by No Doubt reminds me of a different band, but with no romantic attachments- and singing at a lunchtime concert at my old primary school. The kids thought we were rock stars, presumably because we were all late high school by that stage, so much bigger than the primary kids.

Tubthumpin’ always reminds me of the bus rides to the beach for Term 1 PE in high school. The bus rides were fun, the PE not so much- beach running will never be a favourite activity of mine… but at least I could beat people in the surf swimming. Amazed, as performed by Lonestar takes me to my Yr 11 ball, when TallBoy and I danced (purely platonic) so we could laugh at one of our friends slow dancing with whoever the boy she was lusting after at that point in time was. But I don’t have any songs attached to my Yr 12 ball.

I’ve got my entire digital music collection playing on random as I write this, but I haven’t had any memories triggered yet.

Monsters, Something for Kate… I remember buying the album because a family friend had reviewed it in the local newspaper and given it a rave review… also the first album to steer me away from sugar sweet pop music. Scrap that… anything from The Living End’s self-titled album was probably the first, although it’s debatable which came first- but I think it was the LE in around year 9, and the whole album always takes me to long afternoons on the phone to my friend, even though we’d been at school together all day. But one of the most emotionally charged songs, bound to forever conjur memories, is <cringe>Honey to the Bee</cringe>, by Billie Piper. Oh god… it connects to both the exes, one in a good way, one in a not so nice way (especially since it was all my fault).

A lot of Red Hot Chilli Peppers songs, particularly from Californication take me to the summer between Yr 11 and Yr 12, when GingerGirl, TallBoy and a few of our other high school friends (who I’ve all lost contact with now) would have extended sleepovers in a friend’s caravan, watching endless movies and eating rubbish. Best. Summer. Ever. The next summer was characterised by sk8er boi, good old Avril

YMCA…the theatre, when I was heavily involved with pantomimes. We changed the words and had fishermen Irish dancing… comedy gold right there. Mr Brightside, dancing drunk at 4am at the end of my hall’s Summer Ball in Bristol, when all my friends had disappeared and I was alone, in front of the speakers, not ready for bed. Same goes for Franz Ferdinand’s Take Me Out.

As I finish this, I realise I’ve done the same thing before, by playing my Zen on random and writing the memories attached to songs. Strange that I didn’t realise until I got to the end…. and those are just the songs that come to me off the top of my head.

It’s a Blokes’ World after all

Forward: If you’re not into sport, you may not enjoy this. Alternatively, if you don’t know anything about AFL, you might not enjoy this. However, I think most people can at least appreciate the gender inequalities in the world, which is what this is really about.

Eddie, you had me. You really did. Right up until this:

“Mateship. Friendship. It will, by its very nature, remain a male stronghold.”

Fuck right off already.

As a generalisation, I have no problems with the term “mateship”. It’s a pretty central term in Australian history, centreing largely around conflict, and the bonds formed between soldiers in wars. I do however have a problem with the suggestion that it’s a “male stronghold”. Yes, it’s roots may be in male friendships- but should something that is so adamently pushed by so many quarters as central to what makes Australians “Australian” really be considered a wholly male domain (politicians love it, historians love it, teachers love it, the media loves it)?

<rant>That’s before we even consider looking at the downright offensive suggestion that friendship is, “by it’s very nature… a male stronghold”. Excuse me? Eddie McGuire, as most of this country knows, except perhaps for people who support Collingwood in such a one-eyed manner that they can’t see it, you’re a fucking idiot. How you’ve managed to make your way to the top of one of the coutries oldest (and largest) football clubs, and sat for a time at the top of Channel Nine is beyond me, although perhaps it’s further proof that the less intelligent one is, the more chance you have of being promoted. </rant>

I fail to see why women are still struggling to be accepted in the football world. We make up over 50% of the population, and there are a hefty number of women who are genuine fans of the game. But idiots like Sam Newman are doing nothing for the sport, and Eddie certainly isn’t helping with the insinuation that women just can’t be a part of “mateship” and “friendship”.

I think I’ve probably been lucky in my encounters with the football world. The Dockers have special programs and memberships to encourage female supporters, and while I haven’t been involved I believe they’re highly successful. I seem to remember reading once (although I could be wrong) that we have the highest proportion of female members of any club in the code (and considering we’re also one of the largest clubs, despite our lack of premiership success, that’s a lot of women). I used to spend a lot of time hanging around Dockerland, I think the largest fan forum for the club, where women were always supported by the regular male contingent- to the point where the few times when women were attacked (always by supporters of outside clubs… take a guess which one featured the most), everyone would jump to their support, men and women alike. I met a couple of guys from the site in a pub one afternoon, because I was obviously alone (watching one of the finals), and they adopted me- they were perfectly lovely, and valued my opinion on the sport.

But the code as a whole still has issues. This probably applies across a lot of sport. The clip I’ve included below is The Footy Show’s response to the Caroline Wilson stunt (I can’t link to that, because the only clip I could find was appalling quality). In it, you’ll see Newman claiming that women have no place in football. At least, no place in football at board level. I assume he means “become a member if you like, ladies, but you’re opinion isn’t really wanted, so keep your mouth shut and make sure you look hot”.

I don’t care how you look at it- football at AFL standard is big business. Every club in the competition is striving to make healthy profits and ensure the survival of the club- and to do that, you need to have the best people available running the business. This is not always, and never will be always, men. Many people at very high levels in organisations have little knowledge experience at operational level. Sure, some of the women at board level may not be able to walk out onto the field and accurately instruct a forward on the best way to ensure his set shot on goals veers 2cm to the right in order to score- but a hefty proportion of men wouldn’t be able to either. But these people, male or female, do have experience in business- and that makes them valuable, regardless of the operations of the business. There is no reason at all that women shouldn’t sit on the boards of AFL football clubs provided they have the expertise to do what is required of them.

That’s without even getting into the women- and there are almost certainly some- who are highly skilled in the operational side of the sport. Women capable of running the Football Department, capable of working as trainers. The boys’ club mentality is entirely unnecessary, and insulting. No one suggests that elite swimming coaches should be able to swim as well as the people they’re training- it’s their skill in coaching that’s valuable. The same should go for women in football- their skill in their job is what’s important.

As for Sam’s stunt regarding Caroline Wilson, I can’t comment. I haven’t really seen it, and the only links I can find online are crap quality. If he did grope the mannequin, then it’s incredibly distasteful, and his constant assurances that he “likes Caro” are patronising to say the least.

Urgh. Rant over… Sam Newman, you’re a dick.

Observations and Perculiarities

• Hot boys are a goddamn health hazard. Seriously, they must be banned from the gym post haste. In a dramatic break with tradition today, being distracted by hot boy didn’t lead me to trip over something in a highly dramatic manner.* However, having a hot boy on the bike next to me in RPM meant that I couldn’t, under any circumstances, slack off- must endeavour to appear a fit alluring woman. Instructor says turn up the resistance, I turn up the resistance. Instructor says GO FASTER AND DON’T STOP- STOP BEING SO SLACK I go faster. Must keep up with hot boy. After track three I was on the verge of collapse… only 4 working tracks to go. After track 5, I’m on the verge of an asthma attack. End of track 7 I’d almost lost my mind and considered doing something silly. Managed not to stumble off bike at appropriate point in time. Perhaps hot boys should be compulsory in the gym, to make me work my hardest?
• News Ltd. bloggers were in brilliant, fine form today. I like reading Evan Maloney’s blog, because he’s a dirty lefty like me, I almost always like and agree with what he writes, and the people who comment are entertaining and mostly dirty lefties too. I like reading Andrew Bolt’s blog, because he’s conservative and some of the people who comment are highly entertaining. Today, they were at each other’s throat, I’m surprised the site didn’t implode with all the intra-office (albeit trans-continental) bitching. It. Was. Awesome.
• My 2nd boss/ boss’ replacement (no one has really told me who I should be reporting to) is awesome. Almost awesome enough to wish I was staying, since things are being FIXED and my department is suddenly valued within the organisation.
• On that note- I have a pretty decent work ethic, woop! This might seem weird, but I’ve been a bit worried that the months and months of sitting around with nothing to do, which led me to procrastinate over the few things I occasionally had to do, would have destroyed my entire work ethic, and when presented with work I’d be incapable of rising to the challenge. Fear completely unfounded, I’d done a pile of work this week, the replacement boss seems to value my opinions, I’m helping her everywhere I can in the handover/ fixing the department process… and I think I’m doing pretty well. I’m about 2/3 through putting together my handover manual already, then I can move onto devising an entirely new electronic filing system. Then, I just need to work out how to make “devised new electronic filing system” look good on a resume, because this is going to be quite a significant task. So, work ethic present, this is comforting.
• Who’s entitled to an opinion? Some older people say young people aren’t entitled to voice an opinion because they “lack life experience”. Some young people say older people aren’t entitled to voice an opinion because they’re “out of touch”. Some right-wing conservatives say those on the left of politics aren’t entitled to voice an opinion because they are extreme, or not considering the economic implications of social advances. Some on the left of politics say right-wing conservatives aren’t entitled to voice an opinion because they’re narrow minded and too interested in capitalist values, to the detriment of those with less privileges in life. Some people say artists in the vein of Cate Blanchett aren’t entitled to voice an opinion because they’re stupid and just performing parrots. Some Christians say atheists aren’t entitled to voice an opinion because they’re immoral. Some atheists say that Christians aren’t entitled to voice an opinion because they base their beliefs on a book which isn’t supported by hard evidence. Who decides who gets to voice their opinions?
• On that note, where did the idea that atheists (and to a lesser degree agnostics) have no morals come from? Just because we don’t base our lives around the teachings of an organised religion, who’s to say that means we’re “immoral”? I don’t kill or steal, I try not to lie, I work to support myself and don’t think that people who are capable of working should be allowed a free ride just because they want one, I believe in monogamy… to name a few. Let’s not get into what’s “moral” and “immoral”… but why is there such a view that atheism and agnosticism is immoral come from?

* Not that I’ve ever fallen over because I was distracted by a hot boy, but I have fallen over in the gym before, because I was distracted.

Insecurities

If there’s anything I hate more than my own insecurities, it’s being forced by circumstance to reveal them to others. It makes me feel vulnerable.

I also think I think too much, and may possibly be developing insecurities as a result. In all areas of my life, not just one or two.

At least I scubbed up alright for the wedding (which was lovely):

Yay for small mercies. Although apparently you can see straight down my top.

What do you hate?

Suspicions

Just a friendly suggestion. If you happen to be someone I know in real life, someone who once read my blog because you thought you were oh so clever using Google to find it, and perhaps weren’t all that happy with what you found, you’d do well to not be reading now. I don’t know for sure that you are, but I have my suspicions because of something you said to someone.

There’s a chance you got the information from another online source, like Facebook, in which case you’re not reading this anyway, and it doesn’t matter. I only once hinted at who the friends I watched the film were, and it wasn’t a completely identifying detail, given I know several people who fit that position- but you wouldn’t know that, because even when we spent a lot of time in the same place you didn’t really have any interest in my life. And now that we have nothing to do with one another, and are unlikely to again in the near future, why would you be interested in my blog?

Which brings me to this: why the fuck are you reading my blog? You don’t care about me in any way, you’ve made that perfectly clear, so why the fuck are you still hanging around. More to the point, how the fuck did you find this? I know blocking search engines isn’t perfect, but I doubt anything you would have used to search for me would have brought you here, since there seems to be a limited amount of searches that actually work. Why would you even bother? In case you’re wondering, moving address had nothing to do with you, so don’t think you’re that important that I’d go to all the effort to move because of you. Or perhaps you were one of the few people to email me after I moved to ask for the new address? In that case, you’re a dishonest bitch who took advantage of my trust by making up a name. You might be a lot of things, but I never thought you were a spiteful, nosey, dishonest bitch- so you couldn’t have done that, right? Because that would be as bad as complaining about you online where no one you know would see it, never using your name. Or worse, because you’d be deliberately taking advantage. Or you’re reading some of my friends’ blogs, and found me linked through there. I’m sure they’ll be flattered to have you as a lurker, assumedly only to get through to mine.

I’m flattered that you still think that what I write is so interesting that you think you should hang around. What are you hoping for? Mention of you? Not going to happen. I also very rarely have contact with many of the people you know, so it’s not like you’re going to get information or gossip on anyone you do care about. You don’t like me- I can only assume you think it’s a great spectacle to laugh at me, and bitch and moan about whatever it is I write about that you find so fascinating.

Whatever you might think, just because this is a public blog, it doesn’t mean that you have open permission to hang around. There’s a big difference between my online friends, or readers I don’t know well, hanging around, and someone who knows me offline hanging around in secret. I’ve had friends read in the past- but I knew they were reading. I also have a lot of friends who know of it’s existance, but seem to understand that if they’re going to read, it shouldn’t be a secret thing. If you want to know how I am, you can pick up the phone, but we both know you’re not going to do that, so why bother hanging around here? It’s a bit like me reading your diary just because you left it around.

So, I know there’s nothing I can do to stop you reading, but I can tell you to fuck right off. You’re not going to get anything out of it, apart from whatever moral superiority you gain. There’s no way you’re reading because you enjoy it, since you hate me. There’s no way you’re gaining information that could be in any way useful to you. I can just assume you’re reading because you get some sort of perverted thrill out of me. You know that deliberately going out of your way to do things that make you mad will poison your brain?* Do yourself a favour, click that little cross in the top right hand corner of your browser- Firefox, I believe?- and don’t come back. And don’t stalk my friends’ blogs either, because they actually like me, so you’re unlikely to get any confirmation of whatever you seem to think I’m like.

Fuck off already.

*I realise reading various news sites is doing the same to me, but there’s a big difference between the work of paid journalists and a personal non-commercial blog.

Happy B’Day to Me

Today’s self indulgent post below this one. However:

I started this blog, in it’s previous address, 2 years ago today (ignoring the fact that it’s currently after midnight… the powers of WordPress will allow me to post yesterday). Hooray for me.

I don’t think I have anything of awe inspiring importance to write about to mark the event, I might come up with something tomorrow. It’s handy having a blog anniversary so close to Anzac Day, it helps me to remember.

On that note, please take a moment to remember Anzac Day tomorrow, be you Australian or New Zealander (or from other nationalities). Anzac Day means a lot to me, as it has very significant ties to Albany- the ANZACs who fought in Gallipoli left Australia from Albany- our town was the last piece of home many of them ever saw. We hosted the first Dawn Service, we have a monument on the mountain which can be seen from vast distances at night, many an ANZAC morning was spent crawling out of bed in the pitch black, climbing the staircase to the monument, and attending the Dawn Service, while my father played the bagpipes. The day may mark one of our most significant military losses- but the manner in which the retreat was executed was something extraordinary (and if you don’t know how the retreat was run, I would encourage you to look into it).

I’m not at all an advocate of war, particularly the current conflicts, but I also think it’s important to support the individuals who fought in those wars, both past and current. There’s a reason practically every single local council area has a war memorial, I drive past one on the bus daily- because there is barely any towns, perhaps none, in Australia that have not lost someone to a military conflict, be it either of the World Wars, Vietnam, Korea, the Gulf War, the current Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts, or other military conflicts.

They shall not grow old
as we that are left grow old
Age shall not weary them
nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun
and in the morning
We Will Remember Them.

Lest we forget.