“I’ll be riding shotgun…”

Today’s commute was…eh…interesting. I thought – foolishly – that, as I was taking a half day, I’d treat myself to driving to work. Didn’t realise that that decision had already been taken for me!

So it’s all so quiet on the road but as I near the next town, the volume of people starts to build. People are walking. People are waiting at bus stops. Bikes that haven’t seen the light of day are now being peddled furiously townward. The cyclists vary between those who are quasi-professional and those whose cycling and buttocks are wobbling in unison.

Seems people lost the run of themselves. Cyclists narrowly escaped scrapping off the sides of cars. Motorbikes sideswiped pedestrians and cyclists. Pedestrians stepped out in front of cars or deliberately blocked the road. And the motorists were just as bad – perhaps worse. Trying to drive into lanes where no gap existed. The end of the world as we know it? Certainly had that vibe about it.

I wanted to give a few people a lift but the bay of wobbly, hairy legged, cyclists (and that was just the gals…) blocked the way each time.

Eventually managed to give one girl a lift. As she rode shotgun, she shouted at the cyclists coming too close for comfort, gave a few choice gestures to cheeky cars trying to cut in and marshalled me into the Bus Lane. I didn’t fear a policeman catching us as I reckoned she’d box the bleedin’ head off them if they even looked sideways at us!



The Postman always rings twice…

“Do X and X live here?”
“You sure?”
“Yes, they left 11 years ago.”
“That’s very exact.”
“We bought the house from them.”

“Do X and X live here?”
“You sure?”
“Yes, they left 11 years ago. We bought the house from them.”
“Oh. We had this conversation yesterday, didn’t we?”
“Yes we did.”

This morning
“X and X still don’t live here?”
“No change from yesterday.”
“No harm in asking.”

Legal Eagles…

“Big case coming up.”
“What’s it about?”
“Can’t say. But what I will say is this – up to my *moobs* in prep work.”

<Beavis and Butthead guffaws>

“Where is it?”
“Reckon it’s the High Court. Not sure if we’re before a judge or judges.”
“When will you know?”
“On the day probably. Leads to a question though.”
“What question?”
“What’s the plural of judge? Judge or judges?”

<Say ‘No. I think you’ll find the plural of “judge” is Jedi’ I scream inside my head. Jedi. Jedi. Jedi!!!>

“Think it’s ‘judge’.”

<Oh, sweet Lord…!>

Ah, children…

“Coming to town on Saturday?”
“Huh? I’m driving in. Come with us.”
“No babysitter.”
“I thought you’d a gang of them to choose from.”
“Oh, we had. And now we have none.”
“How did that happen?”
“The ‘Animal Whisperer’ saw each and every one of them off.”
“We didn’t know what was going on. The missus pays them well. Often leaves them dinner even. They all seemed fine and then I’d phone and they were busy. When it got to the last one, I wasn’t letting it go. Had to know why.”
“So why?”
“Poor girl stuttered out her reason. I think she thought I’d be angry with her. I was angry but not with her. With my darling 3 year old.”
“No sooner would we be out the door than herself would throw a fit and become totally catastrophic.”
“Ah, the poor pet!”
“Poor pet, me arse. She had them looking for her pet lizard. Inside and outside.”
“Why did the lizard keep going missing?”
“There is NO lizard!”
“She got to stay up late and the babysitter was in such a tiss when she couldn’t find the lizard. Afraid to come back and find out what happened to it.”
“So what now?”
“Stern words to herself and a lot of nights in for the foreseeable.”

Communing with nature…

For years, I have put bread and nuts out for the birds. Not any more. For the past two weeks, I have a seagull coming to the window and banging on it to be fed. The Apres Teen thought I was making it up until she witnessed it first-hand. Her reaction? “Mum, you have created a monster. Would serve you right if it breaks through the glass, comes into the room and pecks at you!”

Now me and that bird – we play a game of tag. It knocks and I run it off. If I don’t, it keeps banging on the glass.

One morning, I heard it knocking downstairs. Deciding to ignore it, I fell back to sleep. And then there was more knocking but this time it sounded as if it was on my bedroom door. Freaked that the Apres Teen’s prophecy had come true, I got up to investigate. More knocking. This time at the window of my *first floor* bedroom. Pulled back the blind expecting to see that damn seagull again but no, it was a Magpie taking up the charge!

Hitchcock would be loving this!


Days later…

Pottering around upstairs while the Apres Teen eats brunch lounging on one of our many couches. Next I hear… “STOP!” “Go away!” “No, I am not feeding you !!!” “I am NOT my mother!”

And the seagull still keeps tapping!

I hadn’t seen it in days so it obviously thinks the AP is a safer bet. “Film it!” roars me down the stairs. “I. WILL. NOT!” comes the reply. “That will only encourage the fecker!”

Dressing for the occasion

“You’re so lucky not to wear a uniform.”
“I know!”
“I hate this uniform.”
“When you come home from school, do you change?”
“What do you change into?”
“Depends on what?”
“My mother.”
“If she’s made soup, I change into my onesie.”
“If she’s made me a sandwich, I change into pyjamas.”

Happy piggy…

“Love dem crisps!”
“Which ones?”
“Keogh’s chore-eat-zO and cherry tomatoes.”
“Why so?”
“Can really taste the chore-eat-zO in dem. And love da pack.”
“What’s with the pack?”
“Look! See dat. It’s such a happy, smiley, pig. Lovely.”
“Bet the other side isn’t as ‘lovely’.”
“Bet if you flip it over, there’s a pic of a very unhappy pig with half his arse gnawed off to make those crisps!”
“Dat’s awful!”