Everlasting Love

As it is Mothers' Day here in Australia (Note my positioning of the apostrophe - as it is a day for mothers!) I thought I'd pay tribute to mothers across the globe.

A boy's best friend is his mother.

A mother is often shocked by her kids, but she still loves them.

She will do anything to protect her offspring.

...ANYTHING

A mother can get angry...

... and may disprove of things you do...

...but she is also very supportive when things matter.

She may have very strong opinions...

...and may often embarrass you...

...but she loves you

So, love the matriarch...

...allow nap time...

...and she'll be with you forever.

(Even if she ends up forgetting you...)

I Miss You

Many years ago, I used to suffer from a bizarre malady. I would get through each day reasonably well, but feeling slightly off-colour all the time. I once described it to a doctor as being in a dream and as if my soul was slightly displaced a few centimetres to the left of my body.

It kind of felt like I was on Valium, but with a touch of nausea and a troubled bowel. The headaches were not intense like my migraines (Vestibular or otherwise) can be, but more like the moment you first resurface after diving in a pool.

Through a number of tests, my doctor and I eventually came to the realisation that I had an odd allergy… to beef.

Yes. Beef.

So, for the past decade, I have avoided beef wherever I can. (It’s hard in Australia as they use beef instead of pork in their sausages, so sometimes I can’t avoid it!)

(Oh, delicious pork sausages! You are the finest of all foods!)

Last night, I had a friend over for dinner (not in the Hannibal Lecter sort of way) and I was planning on doing my old favourite, lamb chilli. However, the local supermarket had no lamb mince!!

So, I thought I’d be brave and have a crack at beef mince again. Well, it certainly tasted very nice.

Today? Hmmm. Well, I am feeling a tad spaced out and my daily trip to the room of requirement was a little more uncomfortable than usual. It’s not fun.

The worst thing is? I made shitloads of this chilli, and I have frozen it in batches to last a few meals.

*big sigh*

I miss you, beef...

This takes me onto another story.One which might disgust you (as it should!)

I used to work at a family-run steakhouse in Derbyshire. I was 19 years old and I did a damn good job as a waiter. The customers found me very entertaining and I was efficient and respected.

However, in my personal life, I was going through some rough stuff and I had "come out" of the legendary closet, but I kept this to my friends and family. However, after many months working bloody hard on those busy Friday and Saturday nights at, perhaps, one of the most popular family-run joints in the area, the bosses caught the breath of a rumour on the wind of gossip. Yes, someone let it slip that I was a DIRTY HOMOSEXUAL! (Despite the fact that I had actually not become a practising one at this point!)

Well, that evening, i turned up for work and one of the managers (a pretty female blonde young thing - perhaps a member of the Aryan Race) and she told me that the owners didn't want me to talk about my sexuality in front of anyone (I hadn't) and I wasn't to flaunt myself (never did) as, and I quote verbatim, "We don't want to attract that kind of clientele!"

Then, to "punish" me, they didn't allow me out on the restaurant floor that night, they made me clean out all the massive bins out the back. They were so big, I had to climb in them. I got filthy and smelly.

That was the last night I worked there. I didn't hand in my notice, I just never went back.

Which is a shame, as I really liked their steaks with peppered gravy.

People can really be vile, can't they?!

Is It Only Me?

This morning, I was perusing Facebook and I saw a comment on somebody else's post that made me shudder. The lack of punctuation, decent spelling or grasp of grammar just made me angry. I was mostly angry because he was sarcastically calling somebody else a "genius".

As it was early in the morning, my hackles rose quickly (so, that's what that is... oh... no. That's something else!) and I was stood in the shower getting all antsy and frustrated, and I began planning the blog you are about to read. Throughout the day I thought of additions to this post and I scribbled them down. However, now that I am home and the day has passed (and I am snacking on Red Rock Deli's 'Jalapeno and Mature Cheddar Corn Chips'), I have calmed down and realise that a rant is not going to solve anything and, truth be told, I will just come across a tad self-righteous and annoying (more so than usual!)

I am also cognizant of the nature of learning disabilities or dyslexia etc. I am not evil or stupid. My problem lies elsewhere.

Here is the post in all its angry glory, for what it's worth.

I hate the phrase Grammar Nazi. It implies that those of us who do not want the English language to be abused and eroded are simply fascists who despise the notion of change. I disagree wholeheartedly. I welcome change (I can hear some of you laughing with derision) but I think some things should be taught and expressed correctly. Seeing misplaced apostrophes or bad spelling is like someone writing 2 + 2 = 79. It's just WRONG!

People say "Oh, but at least you know what they mean..." but I say "NO!" - If I have to spend longer than necessary (even if it's a split-second longer) deciphering some text, then they are writing it incorrectly!
In texts and friendly emails I understand that there is a lackadaisical approach to sentence structure and spelling. The familiarity between the participants allows for a great deal of leeway. I have often sent off a quick email during work hours to a pal but failed to proof-read it but the recipient rarely admonishes me for it. (Admittedly, I do want to beat myself around the head with a stocking full of Lego bricks when I spot my error!)

My main concern is for those whose job it is to create official documents or permanent signage and they don’t even think to check the work before signing off on it.

I have regaled stories frequently about the Direct Factory Outlet with massive banners erected during their exterior refurbishments announcing ‘WERE STILL OPEN’ (so they aren't any more?) and the all-time classic signs in the old chip shop in Matlock Bath:

Nice! To see you again
&
WERE GLAD YOUR HERE
Hilarious!

One of the things that annoys me the most is misuse of apostrophes in plurals.

Some seem to think if a noun ends in a vowel, the plural must feature an apostrophe. I have no idea where this logic comes from.

Pizzas
Menus
Photos
Ideas
Giraffes
Apostrophes
They don't need bloody apostrophes!

It’s not always words that end in vowels. The music store JB Hi-Fi in Elizabeth Street, Melbourne had a very large sign out the front for many years advertising its vast collection of ‘Compact Disc’s’.
Yesterday, I received a letter that mentioned taking ‘Survey’s’. Part of me wants to dismiss the rest of the contents and throw it in the bin! (This would be, of course, a very silly thing to do.)

I'm not saying I'm perfect! Heaven knows I am deeply flawed and make all kinds of mistakes. I am not a genius, I am socially awkward, have a terrible sense of fashion, and sometimes lick my dinner plate when no one is looking. This is just an area I can "attempt" to excel in or at least improve my understanding of it all.

There are lots of lessons in grammar that I need to learn too! I am still a little bemused about a lot of it.
I am not asking people to learn to play the oboe with their toes or splice atoms with a pair of curling-tongs; it's just really not that difficult!

One of the mistakes I used to make is in regards to the words Stationery and Stationary.

I always remember this one by a little imagery. Picture the capital letters A and E. The A is stood firmly on the ground, feet apart, so obviously not going anywhere. The E looks like some shelves like the sort one might find in WHSmiths with assorted stationery awaiting their purchase or theft.

I won't go into the whole Your versus You're and all those similar errors, for we see plenty of rants about those on a regular basis (not that people seem to pay any attention!), but I will post this screencap from IMDb as it just makes me chuckle:

There is a cafe near to my place of work that (coincidentally) until today advertised "Egg's Benedict". OK, so maybe the head chef whose 'Benedict' is an outstanding culinary treat has been nicknamed 'Egg' because he bears a resemblance to a young Andrew Lincoln... but until I am given proof of this, I shall assume the person who wrote on the chalk board is a moron.

I trust that a number of my vastly more educated friends will be able to sweep through my posts and find numerous grammatical errors and I will actually enjoy learning where I have gone wrong and how not to make those sorts of mistakes again. Life is one long learning curve.

Oh, as an aside, any evangelical Christian who calls it ‘The Book of Revelations’ is obviously more ignorant than a lobotomised goldfish. If they loved the old book so much, they’d know it was ‘Revelation’.

As I wrote this post, I was extra cautious about avoiding errors. When it came to "bears a resemblance", I had to stop and check if it was 'bears' or 'bares'... But that’s the thing, you see... If I am unsure, I look it up!

So, that's my rant. I hope I didn't come across too aggressive. If so, I apologise. I just need to vent sometimes.

I Listen to the Rain

Today was my first day back at work after ten days off. You’d think that a rest would have done me good, but it just made it so much harder to cope as I returned to the evil open-plan of the office.

Originally, I wasn’t going to take the long break (Easter through to ANZAC Day weekend) but my doctor advised me to do so for my own mental health. A friend wisely told me to make the most of the time and get out and do things. Initially, I thought this was a great idea; I didn’t want to just become the old pomme de terre of the chaise longue. I had plans to go out and about, visit museums, sit in parks, exercise, and do a number of relaxing (free) things.

Sadly, this didn’t happen.

Most of the week was spent in my apartment either cleaning like a madman or lazing on the settee watching Futurama and Bates Motel.

Oh, I did get to finish my M.C. Escher Jigsaw on Good Friday, so that was a positive thing.

I did catch up with a handful of people. The lovely Rohan & Vanessa came over on Easter Saturday and we had cake and chatted for a few hours. On the Thursday night prior to ANZAC Day, my talented friend Tim came over and I made some pizzas and we watched the classic Genevieve and some Murder Most Horrid. The most recent Saturday, I ventured down to Keysborough to catch up with the lovely Nola and her family. It’s always good catching up with her as she shares my sense of humour.

Outside of these lovely catch-ups, the major highlight was attending a live interview with Jennifer Saunders (luckily, I was given a free ticket from somebody at work – it’s nice to get some perks from the job!) and I finally got to meet one of my greatest idols.

I had a brief chat with her and got her to sign my copy of A Feast of French and Saunders alongside Dawn French's autograph. This book will be an even more prized possession now!

The rest of the break was not as I had intended. My depression kicked in quite heavily and when that happens, I tend to become a shut-in. Even the notion of going out in public chills me to the core and I find any excuse to not get dressed and venture out. Fizzgig kept me company, of course, and I found myself washing clothes that didn’t need to be washed, shelves got polished, cakes got made (and eaten), DVDs were watched, and… well… that’s about it.

I found myself thinking "Nine more days to go…", "Seven more days to go…" etc until it was Sunday night and I was engulfed in the crippling fear one had the night before school restarted for the new term.

The problem is, when I get like this, I tend to dwell on problems large and small and everything is exacerbated to a ridiculous degree. I stress about money, debt, work; I question why some people don’t like me, why I’ll never be loved again, why I have no discernible talents to get me out of this quagmire of stagnant drudgery; I beat myself up over my weight, my lack of confidence, and my stupid brain.

One of the things I find most comforting about being indoors is feeling secure. I can not only hide from the crowds of scary humans, but I can hide from the evil sun (I'm not a goth, I just burn REALLY easily) or enjoy the view of the rain pelting down my window panes. The sound of rain is gloriously effective in its attempt to soothe my nerves.

Of course, there are moments when I have clarity and I understand that there is a chemical reason behind my more depressing thoughts. I won’t take anti-depressants (been there, done that, doesn’t work (for me)!) but I should do the things that provide real-life crutches instead of hiding in fear of the world. I should try and see more people (although, mad brain insists that they would prefer it if they didn’t get to see me, because my evil brain has already decided that, hey, who’d want to see me!) and be more social. It’s sadly not that simple…

The one crutch I did grant myself was the occasional glass of wine. It does have certain healing properties. The only problem is, it often made me wake up looking like this...

Anyway, today was my first day back at work and it wasn't a good one. When a job affects you both mentally, emotionally and physically in a negative way, there is definitely something wrong. I just need to find a way of harnessing my skills - but first I need to discover what they actually are...

Anyway, my apologies if this post came across a little morose. I write as I think, so sometimes it's not quite as coherent or jolly as I might intend.

Castle in the Clouds

Numerous amongst us have often wondered what it would be like to be paid for something that we actually enjoy doing. For those who have found that perfect job, I commend you. For the rest of us, we are spinning around like someone who has had their left foot nailed to the floor and are left to rotate like a panicking sentient wurlitzer. "Why am I here? What is my duty? Ou est le gare?" OK. So the latter is more for those still steeped in the early chapters of Tricolour and the antics of the visitors in La Rochelle; but for the rest of us, we are caught in a quagmire of indecisive angst and weary lack of direction.

I am one of those who feels the almost umbilical pull toward the old qwerty keyboard. There is something inside of me that wants to emulate the script of the likes of Victoria Wood, Alan Bennett, or the chap who wrote the OXO commercials. I want to WRITE!! I want to be someone who one day is studied by Generation F-point-2. Is that too much to ask??

The problem is, I suffer from so much self-doubt and anxiety. Give me a glass of Pinot Grigio and a bag of Red Rock Deli chips, and I feel like Chaucer! But come daylight, I want to hang myself in an oven full of razor blades like the Plaths or Woolfs before me

In a perfect world, I would live, quite peacefully, in a lighthouse (or other remote abode) smacking my fingers against the horrific plasticity of the modern version of Jessica Fletcher's modus operandi and channel dialogue into the fictional larynxes of my beautiful creations (Microsoft Word will not accept 'larynxes' as an acceptable word - which is just one of the many reasons we should have an uprising against the USA. Jeepers, we Brits INVENTED the language, I think we know how to bloody use it... fuckers!), but, alas, no. I am (apparently) condemned to a life of menial tasks and obligatory abeyance of the "system" and the monstrosities within. Who came up with this?? Flippin' 'eck!

So, tell me, my ardent friends, would you appreciate a caustic vendetta against the inhuman system that currently harpoons our simplistic lives, written by the aggressive, yet verbose and articulate ME?

If so, send your written approval on a postcard to the following address. No correspondence will be entered into.

Me

My (rather cripplingly expensive) apartment

Melbourne

Buttocks of the world

Earth

FQ2 UR1

P.S. My "sitcom" has a working title of Mondays and is set in the post-work world of two male flatmates (one gay, one straight) and, each week, vent and condemn the entirety of our modern era and those who work within it over a few glasses of New Zealand white plonk. Sounds workable? I think so!

Preliminnary notes below! Gosh, I am so professional!

This could be MY Castle in the Clouds...

Phoenix From the Fire

OK, so the post heading is a little overly dramatic, but whilst sticking to the song title rule (currently those of Beverley Craven) it gets a bit limiting. Basically, it is about me being sort of back from the Blogging Dead

The thing is, I have finally got my backside into gear and figured out the long-forgotten password to this site, so I can finally blog again.

Passwords are actually driving me crazy. I have spent the last hour going in and out of various accounts (Hotmail, Gmail, Facebook etc.) trying to get verification codes, change addresses, fight zombie chickens, spin plates and catch the smell of purple in a handbag. Basically, it made me very tense and I snarled through my teeth and spat venom. I currently have two hot cross buns in the oven to appease this tension coursing through my body. Those with butter and a hot cup of Yorkshire Gold tea will help, methinks.

Anyway, this is just a quick post to say "Ta-da! I'm back" and you can expect a few indignant rants, some jolly photos, and some efforts at pure hilarity coming your way soon. Well, maybe not the latter as my humour is an acquired taste.

There... isn't that something to look forward to?!

IN the meantime, here is a picture of a man running with some balloons in the rain.

Mr Know-It-All

Yes, the title to this is ironic. I know very little about politics. That being said, I feel the need to get something off my chest. As I am not an Australian Citizen, people may think that I have no right to have an opinion on Australian politics, but I have had to endure weeks of bilge inflicted upon me as a resident of the country, so here's my opinion (for what it's worth).

I simply don't understand why anyone would vote for Tony Abbott. As far as I can tell, voting for him is akin to voting for Pauline Hanson. Those who say "Well, I'm voting for him because I am sick of the Labor Government!" need to realise that this is like saying "I'm going to eat this rat-poison infused dog turd because my recent diet hasn't worked!"

The man has proven himself to be foolish, archaic, homophobic, sexist and an all-round dodgy player. What really upsets me is that I know a handful of people who are quite content to support this mad bastard and I take it too personally because a vote for him is like saying that you have no care for your fellow citizens; you don't think gay men and women are equal to you - that they are second class citizens. A vote for Tony is a vote for prejudice and bigotry. Thanks, twats.

Yeah, yeah... I know a lot of politics is also about money, but nothing I have seen proves that the Australian economy is going to improve. And why are people always swayed by their pockets rather than their hearts or brains? So many political ads this year have been saying "We'll give you $XXXX if we're in power!" - Hmm, bribery... good start. It's maddening to think that so many thick shits will be blinded by this shiny waving golden ticket. YES, economy is important, but there are so many quick-fix answers which seem to persuade the short-sighted. I have said similar about the way businesses work these days - instead of striving to be better and succeed that way, they work to grow the cheapest possible way. I can think of a few gardening and/or architectural analogies about the futility of such ventures, but I think you can see where I am going. Stop me... I am digressing...

I can see some people reading this shaking their heads and thinking 'Yeah, but...' and wanting to slap me. This is why I tend not to discuss politics.

What I would love to see is a Government that puts the rights of people and the community first; a Government that has a heart.

I should stick to writing about trivial nonsense.