In the truest style of avoiding a problem rather than fixing it, I’ve found a workaround to post photos. I uploaded a month’s worth of snapshots and wondered, oh my god, what if I lost my phone and some poor bugger snooped through the photo gallery?

A rolling car gathers no grass?

I was on a work trip last week and found this label on a toilet cistern. I’d like to know: how many ducks fit in a toilet bowl?

Marketing: fail. Would you?

My gym has large families of stuffed toys in the change room. I still don’t know why, but I think it’s because they run kids’ martial arts classes and maybe the l’il girls need something to hug after kickboxing the bejesus out of their friends. But if the rocking horse is rocking, don’t bother knocking (I didn’t assemble the animals in that position, by the way).

Crank-o-meter: momentarily distracted

I’m house sitting at the moment and I’m rapt to be given free reign of an awesome book collection and to be acting custodian of a black and white kitteh who chirrups like a cheering little bird when she’s happy.

I’m looking over my shoulder, however, thinking about what might go wrong. I’ve minded houses before and nothing untoward has happened to the homes or furry occupants, but something always happens to me.

Years ago I looked after a beautiful home in Brighton for a workmate and his new wife while they were honeymooning. From their house I rode my bicycle to a race one day and was hit by a car and taken to hospital. The being taken to hospital part of the last sentence was the best thing that could have happened, because, when I was curled on the bitumen like a snapped pretzel, the man who hit me said he considered fleeing and leaving me unconscious in the middle of Geelong Road. Thankfully he ended up parking his car behind me as a barrier from passing traffic and gave me a lift to a teammate’s house. His family drove me to hospital as I was unbroken but a bit space-cadety and I spent the day in the children’s ward as there were no beds for banged-up adults. I was ensconsed back in the borrowed house that night, no one was the wiser and I was mobile enough to re-fill the lolly jar before the happy couple’s return.

Another time I minded a house for an in-law in the defence force and his family. I was out of lease and they were going away so I offered to mind their house and Samoyed. All went well (except for the dog eating most of my underwear on the clothes line) until the night before Christmas. I was sleeping when from the foggy recesses of my dreams I could hear a siren of sorts and a tapping sound like a magpie at the window. A few seconds later my brain was spinning enough to realise the siren was a blaring car horn and the tapping was someone bashing on the front door. Snapping into instant panic, I launched out of bed, ran down the hall and threw open the door. A man wearing clothes was standing before me. I realised I was still naked. I also realised it was my car’s horn that had chosen midnight to jam and wake the neighbourhood. After I donned some clothes, he kindly helped me identify and disconnect the wires that had chosen to shortcircuit so theatrically. I couldn’t thank him enough and I bought the gallant man and his family a small gift a few days later when my embarrassment had settled.

I told this story to the person who usually occupied the home and he shuddered with dread. Apparently I was living in the middle of defence force-rented housing near an army base and my saviour was a regimental sergeant major.

“So, what’s that?” I said.

“He’s the most senior non-commissioned officer in the place and marches around kicking everyone’s arses for a living: every soldier should be — and is — terrified of him.”

“Well, how about that then? He invited me in and asked me to stay for dinner with his family.”

I never confessed that I almost piddled my pants (and replacement undies) after that exchange.

Crank-o-meter: all good

I went to a gig at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival the other night. The first thing I didn’t find amusing was the layout of the Trades Hall building in Carlton. The welcoming eight-foot by eight-foot picture of Gough Whitlam’s face was inspiring, but not even the magic of Gough’s visage could direct me around the fucking shitfight of a venue. I swear the architects and builders were imbibing in some top-notch opium when they kitted out the interior — go left here, upstairs here across a landing there, turn right and down some other stairs to find the toilet on the same level you started from because someone put walls in really inconvenient places, such as in the middle of hallways.

After directional assistance every five seconds or so, I found the women’s toilets. Two cubicles, one hand basin (this is important). I went about my business and stood to assemble my clothing and press the button, when suddenly the main door to the toilet banged against the wall and a blk blk blek BLERRRRRKKKKKKKKKKK noise echoed throughout the space. Oh, that would be someone vomiting in the only hand basin because she didn’t make it to the other toilet. As much as I felt sorry for the woman, I was in a quandary about how to get out of the toilet with clean hands for me and dignity for both of us.

I’m quite the rational and logical thinker and my thoughts went along the lines of:

Selfishness: Bloody hell, how am I going to wash my hands?
Ethics: What’s worse: not washing my hands or swishing them about in a potentially vomit-contaminated basin?
Reasoning: Rubbing my hands on clean toilet paper is allllmost the same as washing, surely?
Fear: The second wave of BRRRK BRRK BLERRRRRRRRRRRK splashed around the basin and I thought I’d be long jumping out of there if her vomit spilled onto the floor

I eventually had to leave the cubicle and she looked at me, I looked at her, we exchanged brief apologies and she chose to hide behind the door of the second cubicle while I washed my hands and rubbed them on my clothes. She left the tap running so I didn’t have to touch any surfaces. I hope she’s okay now and I coudn’t have asked for a more considerate vomiter.

The show I saw was passable but the most entertaining time for me was checking out the old honour rolls of union leaders from the early 1900s (don’t be messing with the tailoresses, I tell you) and the old directional assistance boards (see, people have been getting lost here for a goddamn century!). I’m glad the cemetary [sic] unionists didn’t have to face the death penalty for poor spelling.

Crank-o-meter: 8 hours of labour, 8 hours of rest, 8 hours of relaxation, people

When I’m not trawling the web for baby elephant photos, I occasionally catch up with the news and the creative ways people find to hurt themselves.

The story below about a sensible, kindly old gent captured my attention.

90-year-old loses licence for speed, drink-driving

March 1, 2010

VICTORIA has a new oldest hoon – a 90-year-old man has lost his licence after drink-driving at more than 20 km/h over the speed limit.

Police detected the man driving along Thompsons Road, Lower Templestowe, on Saturday just after 8.30pm at a speed of 83 km/h in a 60 km/h zone. The Craigieburn man blew more than double the blood-alcohol limit, with a reading of .112.

He told police he had been out with his son for celebratory drinks. He received two fines for excessive speed and drink-driving and immediately lost his licence.

An 80-year-old driver who had previously claimed the title as the state’s oldest hoon was blasted last month by a magistrate after saying he had dozed off when speeding at 150 km/h for more than 20 kilometres.

Farmer and former Sunday school teacher Ron Bell had originally blamed his lead foot on being late for an appointment but later said he had temporarily fallen asleep at the wheel.

AAP

Source: http://www.theage.com.au/victoria/90yearold-loses-licence-for-speed-drinkdriving-20100228-pb7l.html

I know police officers have seen everything and are hard to surprise after a few years of cleaning human debris, but wouldn’t you raise an eyebrow if you were on booze bus duty or driving the streets to attend a rowdy party when a nonagenarian fangs past at more than 20km/h over the speed limit? And is pissed as a newt to boot?

And the drunk, lead-footed old dickhead was celebrating something with his son, who it’s safe to assume is of retirement age – what the fuck was he thinking letting his dad drive home? Did father and son have a mature-age arm wrestle to fight over the car keys and the more senior idiot won?

Pensioners are given half-price taxi cards – use them! We the taxpayers would prefer to subsidise your nights on the shandies if you promise to stay off the roads.

Crank-o-meter: i worry for the future

Everyone outside Victoria picks on Melbourne’s weather with the same rabid assertiveness when debating other national obsessions like Tony Abbott’s choices of sports wear each week.

I love Melbourne’s weather. I love telling visitors to wear their bathers but bring an overcoat when they pack, I love not putting away the bulk of my winter clothes until late November (and never putting them all away just in case!) and I have an absurdly passionate relationship with the upside-down days when sweltering nights are hotter than the days that follow. All that wasted time trying to sleep in the heat when the cool change could have rolled in a few hours earlier – you bitchface, Mother Nature, but I still love you!

Sydney’s energy-sapping humidity sucks. I remember the week I moved there and was sporting perennially Shirley Temple-curled hair from the humidity, and the first rain I’d experienced dripped down the office windows. I yelled something along the lines of “EUREEEEEEKA, A COOL CHANGE!” and ran from my desk past surprised co-workers who were wondering why the new person had gone troppo. I shot down to ground level, burst out of the building and almost cried in public when I discovered the air-temperature rain just made the heat more wet and soul draining. I took my sopping self (now with new and improved double frizzy curls) back to the office and the sympathy of other homesick Melburnians who got the whole cool change thing. The locals thought I was a fucking idiot with impulse control issues.

Brisbane’s morning heat in summer is horrid. I’ve walked from hotels no more than 200 metres to offices and dripped sheets of sweat, which wasn’t a good look when trying to impress groups of impressionable young folk. The attempts I made to sound convincing as a trainer were belied by my crumpled clothes and sweaty pink face that made me look more like a late-night TV used car salesperson. The balmy climate was more pleasing though at night when I got lost going for walks and spent hours trying to work out how to get out of the big park I’d accidentally discovered. The park was probably a relaxing, pretty place during the day but I scanned the papers to make sure Brisbane wasn’t overrun by warm weather-loving, park-dwelling serial killers at night.

Perth is nicely hot and the Freo doctor is a marvel of refreshment but does it ever rain there? I receive e-mails from a friend high in Perth’s tallest building complaining when a cloud passes by but he has never mentioned the trauma of water falling from the sky.

I’ve never been to Darwin but the locals seem addicted to air conditioners and copious amounts of beer six months of the year so I already know it’s not the city for me. Now that I can knit above the level of piss-poor amateur, I think I’d like Hobart very much because I can wear my scarf and beanie experiments more often. I’ve never been to Adelaide but the summer seems similar to Melbourne’s except for the lack of psychotic cool changes so it might be a nice place to admire the weather, and Canberra, well, it seems too hot in summer and too frosty in winter but kind of unexciting the rest of the time. Landing at Canberra airport once on a frosty morning made me vow never to fly near the place between April and October.

But now I have to buckle and confess that Melbourne’s weather is well and truly bizarre. The days have been sweltering all week, and the nights not dipping below 22 degrees, but what the hell is this pea-souper fog? I turned on the headlights, fog lights and windscreen wipers yet had the windows open and took some clothes off because it was so bloody hot outside. Freaky weather town, I still love you but I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.

Crank-o-meter: dumb-arse weather

Lordy, lordy, it’s the last day of January and I haven’t shown off half the people and places I thought I would. I feel like Willy Wonka at the chocolate factory gates, urging the golden ticket winners on: “Hurry, please! We have so much time and so little to see. Wait a minute — strike that! Reverse it! Thank you.”

Today’s planned outing was to Mulberry Hill, the Baxter (or Langwarrin South as some cheeky landgrabbers believe) home of famed artist, Sir Daryl Lindsay, and Lady Joan Lindsay, also an artist but best known for her writing, including Picnic at Hanging Rock. However, Mulberry Hill is open only for a few hours on Sunday afternoons and it’s 37 degrees with a nasty hot wind outside, so I’m bunkering down inside with my internet connection instead.

Source: www.visitsorrento.com.au

Source: www.visitsorrento.com.au

Many historic properties pepper the area including Sage’s Cottage in Baxter, McCrae Homestead and Coolart Mansion, but I also wanted to show you the property of one of Langwarrin’s most treasured residents, Dame Elisabeth Murdoch. Dame Elisabeth opens Cruden Farm several times a year and my timing was out by a week to sneak in during a jazz festival.

Source: www.aaa.org.au

There’s a whole region along the southern flanks of the Mornington Peninsula I haven’t covered, mainly because of the difficulties travelling around the area during summer and my weekends have been evaporating so quickly of late. One place I adore is the Point Nepean National Park at the tip of Portsea, firstly because it has among the prettiest ocean views you’ll ever see and, secondly, because I used to have custody of the master keys to more than 200 hectares of fenced-off land and we’d go four-wheel driving during work hours through the tracks and sand dunes (I swear it was all in the name of checking boundary fences). A battle raged for years whether to sell the former Commonwealth-owned land for conversion into luxury private developments or donate to the Victorian State Government and the land is now in the State’s hands.

Source: www.parkweb.vic.gov.au

I also wanted to go to some of the burgeoning markets, but my favourite day is the Mornington market on Wednesday, and I now work on Wednesdays. I missed the weekend markets this month as I have been so tired by Friday night that I’m less than functional by lunchtime on Saturday, when most markets are winding down. Here, have a box of fresh local produce instead. The asparagus spears are already in my tummy.

I suppose it’s back to being cranky. I’ll work on that soon. Right now my washing machine has taken my doona captive and I can’t find the bloody instruction book to unlock the door and get it out — what is a water outlet fault anyway? It sounds costly.

Crank-o-meter: but wait, there’s more!

Art comes in many guises. One of those guises is the Baxter dog kennel maker’s giant wooden dog. I don’t know, it doesn’t seem high art or accessible public art, but, um, seems representative of the large art movement. We don’t have a giant prawn or big banana or oversized sheep in our locality, so the large wooden dog it is.

I’m not apologising for the poor photo quality as I almost got the car stuck in a culvert on a busy road and I don’t know how many locals/friends/relatives saw me hanging out of the car while trying to photograph the large wooden dog. I’ll suffer for my work but I refuse to incur ongoing humiliation.

Crank-o-meter: woof?

Adjacent to Crib Point is the small town of Somers. I’d have taken photos of its pretty surrounds for you, but I have a hideous habit of getting lost when driving to Somers and ending up in completely disparate places without realising. The nice people at my last job ended up banning me from driving to lunches at the Somers Store as I’d end up in Balnarring or on the main road to somewhere else even though I’d photocopied the Melway page and had the route down to no more than two turns.

But Somers is a hidden gem on the peninsula, so perhaps other people get as disoriented as I do. The houses are mainly single-storey or timber split-level on generous blocks with simple but complementary native gardens and many street trees. The population seems to be comprised mainly retired folk who enjoy the relaxed lifestyle, self-employed people and tradies who like taking their boards to the nearest surf beaches and artistic types who appreciate the quiet beauty of the area.

One artistic type in Somers specialises in pastel animal portraits and she’s been working on capturing the meezers and sausage dogs over the last few months. Kathryn is rather forgiving of my inability to find her house and allows me to spoil her lovely Labra-poodley-spoodle dog rotten and drool over her kick-arse Apple Mac where she stores photos for commissions. She said no to me living in her sun-drenched and spacious studio though.

The four cat portraits are complete (I wish I had taken photos *before* having them framed so excuse the glare) and the dogs’ portraits will be finished last December. Trying to ask an artist about a deadline is like trying to herd cats, so things will be done when they’re ready. She has done an amazing job and the picture of the late Tabasco as a wee thing brings tears to my eyes.

Crank-o-meter: artist envy