Pluvial Parables

* There is the sound of rain on the roof.  Decent rain.  It is very welcome, for the nearby town is looking very brown and it is said that farmers are complaining.

My next door neighbour and I were conversing today.  We rarely get the chance to chat, for I am in and out with busy-ness - and we do have a big wooden fence with just enough gap for recognition.

The weather was mentioned.  When you are a gardener, when you live in this neck of the woods - and in a few of the industries in which I am currently employed ** - weather and all the nuances of the topic are considered part of  a rich cultural exchange.

"When I was a boy" he said.  He said it in the twisted rope of his version of English, learned as a young migrant in outback towns, wrapped around his native Italian - although it isn't Italian, it is the name of a region that I can never quite grasp as it has never made the leap from the native tongue to my plummy Au-strai-li-an ear. ***

"When I was a boy."  From the stories that he tells, this boyhood was on the sides of Italian hills in a tiny village with poverty as its main career path.  There were many of them.  They were the original boat people.  They were invited.

"When I was a boy" he said "there was a big drought.  Everyone was complaining."

There is richness in telling a story with crocheted stitches of sounds and syllables rolled and sung.

"Everyone went to the church, to the priest, the man who is in the business of organizing miracles and asked for his intervention for it to rain."

On the Sunday, everyone was gathered in the church and the priest said "Okay.  I have decided I will make it rain on Monday."

A farmer at the back right of the church stood up.  "Sorry Father.  But you can't make it rain on Monday, I have hay to harvest on Monday."

The priest thought for a minute and then said "All right then, how about Thursday?" but a few of them had problems with Thursday too.  It was a busy time of the year.

"Saturday?" But that was market day, and market day is never a good day for rain.

The priest considered.  "Okay, I tell you what then.  I have decided to just let it happen the old-fashioned way."

The next door neighbour smiled.  "There are a few lessons in that."  he said.  "Farmers are always complaining, you can't make everybody happy and never trust a priest".

---

* The things you learn on a surf.  

** Part of the "busy-ness" is three part-time jobs - and I honestly enjoy them all.  Its like a job cocktail, with private sector, government sector and community sector giving me the sweet, the sour and the satisfaction of umami with a side-serve of healthy human interaction.

*** There have been many comments about our "accent" over the years.  When I was at boarding-school, people could not place us by our accents - but our accent is the accent of our mother, our most constant influence, and the accent of her mother, brought up by spinster aunts in a prim, scholarly household, and their accents and the accent of their mother, ingrained in history as the grandmother who came into a marriage with ten thousand pounds and was left with pride as opposed to the grandmother who came into a marriage with a thousand pounds and could count on exactly that when widowed - or was it the other way around?

---

So - is it raining your way?

Lipon

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, a young(er) mother lived in a share house with her daughter and two other ladies.

One was a beautiful Asian princess and one was a glorious Australian poet - but this story is not about them...

Once upon a time I sat on the back deck after the child's book time and song time and story time and sleep time to muse - but this story is not about her either...

Once upon a time, overlooking the glistening lights of  the 'Gabba and hearing crowds go home from yet another Lions victory *, I sent a query out to the universe.

The universe responded.  Yay universe.

Of late, Mrs Woog has come to bemoan the world of the online date, jaded as it is by charletan pollution and unsolicited daguerrotypes of appendages - and it brought to mind a little story from the beginning of the courtship of V and I.

Very early on in our long-distance communication, our conversations jumped from the computer screen to telephone screen.  We had interacted vocally, but at an exhorbitant fee **

I have told you that this was a long time ago - a long, long time ago, in fact.  So long ago, that when you texted, you had to not just type each letter individually  but r-e-a-l-l-y type each letter.  And not just no-predictor-text level of slowness, but a truly challenging task ***.

For example, to type in the world "understandably", you had to press "88663(wait a second for the phone to recognise that as "d")33777(pause)7777826632(pause)22555333" - and if you wanted to type "distraction", it was "3444777787772(pause)222844666(pause)66" - and as texts were CHARGED and limited in numbers of characters, you learned to abbreviate and spelling errors existed.

So, given it is the middle of Winter and given that there are no floor coverings where I was living (but moving from, to Paradise) and given that V was in warmer climes , our discussions turned to footwear and their relative merits.

Now, I am not renowned for my shoe-surety...  but it turned out to be V's toe in the door, his great step forward, emerging from the pond of hopeful suitors to contemplation of worth.

He lyrically described to me his slippers (there was one point in time when I could have quoted exactly the phrasing used) and its merits.  There was possibly an entendre or two thrown into the 160 character mix.  And then he told me The Pet Name.  He refered to his "lipon".

I nearly choked on my wine.   Who was this wierdo?

Then, he asked if I wanted to see a photo of "it".

I panicked and raced downstairs to where my poet-companion resided.  What the actual?

His fate was to be decided by his next missive.

A photo of a great big hairy (tartan) slipper! **** *****

It turned out, he had meant to type "slip-on" - and just like that, the courtship was back on track...

And the rest, as they say, is history.

---

* yes, once upon a time the Lions won many games - even in a row.

** Doesn't that date a story - telephone calls used to be expensive and not part of a BUNDLE, children

***yet still legal to undertake while operating a motor vehicle, folks - the veritable dark ages

*** Unfortunately photographic proof is impossible as the phone has long since passed this mortal coil and it was so long ago, children, that CLOUDS did not exist - and

**** We have never since seen such a perfect pair of backless tartan hairy slipper suitable for a size 12 bloke.

So - what was your most memorable courtship gift - and was it solicited...

Public Service Announcement: Something happened...

If ever you want to feel good about yourself, take a brief glance into the Spam folder of the average backwater blog of a recalcitrant writer.

 

See - there IS good in the world if you look hard enough.

---

And if you want to feel REALLY good about yourself, please feel free to feel superior to me right now...

(Unless you are my mum.  If you're my mum - thanks - you did an awesome job having me as a daughter, and I really want you to just rest on your laurels and feel you did pretty well so probably would be best if you clicked away now and, you know, not find out that it is possible that I may be an inferior product.  Okay mum?  Love you.  x) 

(Oh, and Mum - click Dad away too)

---

See, a funny thing happened on the way to the blog.

Well, when I say funny, I mean funny in a pah-culiar sort of way, not funny in a rofling sort of way.*

It is Wednesday night here, and Wednesday nights tend to meander along a path towards slumber ** that has slight variation on my Monday and Tuesday versions of that time-period.

Tonight, however - tonight had an added element that could not be strictly ascribed to Wednesday.

As a result, I am sitting here holding an ice-pack that V has thoughtfully given to me.

See?

 

oops - wrong photo uploaded there!  And no, this isn't the cause of the ice-pack.  Also, fair to say, what went down tonight would have happened had my thigh been either slack or taut.  It wasn't a Wednesday thing and it wasn't a thigh thing...

 

and I am neither confirming nor denying that some of the above challenges may have been inadvertently involved in the "Wednesday nights tend to meander along a path towards".  I will neither confirm nor deny any butts about what happened.  I can say with assurance that the above challenge was not directly involved in the ice-pack requirement.

Please be assured you that NO PLANKS WERE BROKEN (or attempted) in the journey that became my Wednesday night lament.  Its not about me going crazy, okay?

 V is concerned that it doesn't look good for him - but I truly think that on occasion his left arm is his good side...  ***

I am afraid that it is I, and I alone completely responsible for this busted lip...

and I may have both egg on face and egg on forehead, folks.  How superior are you feeling?

Twas I who stood up from a short recline on the bed, sans glasses, turned and walked directly into an open cupboard door.

Yes!  I know!! I truly did walk into a door.  A door that I myself had opened only one half-hour earlier and failed to close properly!!

What a complete fail, eh?  Yes, that voice inside my head that very rarely gets any heed paid is smirking smugly like nobodies business now!

"What do I tell you?  Shut the doors properly.  Close the lids tightly.  Always allow an extra half-hour.  Tidy as you go along."

Blah. blah-blah. blah-blah blah blah.

BANG.

---

Yep, that is about how it went down folks!!

Now, do you feel better now?

---

* ever since learning certain initialisms were considered passe by those who are hip and young in this era, I have taken it upon myself to be a thoroughly modern fogey, deliberately choosing such just to get up their left nostrils.  Consider it a Public Service.  You're welcome.

---

**  

Huge shout-out to the amazing Flight of the Conchords - fourth most popular guitar-based, digi-bongo, acapella-rap-funk-comedy folk duo from New Zealand.

(not safe for work - or parents.  Well, my parents)

 

****

---

***

Bonus points to those who noticed that behind V, I had carefully placed another booby trap should the first cupboard door failed to find its target.

---

**** and double-bonus points if you noticed that I really backhanded V by linking that song.  Sorry honey.  What I really meant was

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hoF_fa9TMDk

(very much not safe for my Mum, my Dad or your Boss)

---

So.  How's your Wednesday.  And improve mine - how were you superior today?

Why I drink...

I had reason to have to try to be in contact with a government department today.  Luckily we live in a modern era and have modern technology to enable modern people to do what modern governments think is a fair thing in their requirements.  

Unluckily, there is no alternate avenue available.

You heard the ominous music there too?  That “dah dah DAAAAH” that always precedes these moments in our lives should be paid more attention to.  The volume should be turned up and a handy Acme sign would be of use.

 I remember rumours yonks ago that interaction with said government department was going to become “stream-lined” – and you know as well as I do that “stream-lined” is gubmint speak for Expletive-Deleted You Little Guy!!!! – and we were to be given the suepr-highway that is MyGov.

My Freaking Gov.

Now, it may be a personal vendetta against just me, I am prepared to wear this.  But the whole MyGov and my relationship got off to a particularly rocky start.

---

For those who have not had past dealings with this particular government department, they tried this little trick on me once before, in the previous technological “stream-line” on the telephone “helpline”.

I tried, I really did. 

But when the voice-recognition technology kept wanting me to repeat a phrase and it didn’t recognize me, I knew I was wading in merde, and once it couldn’t count me in I knew that the phone system and I were no longer partners in this war.


Now, it may well be that I have attempted to breach the walls of the new technological revolution in the past and, for my own sanity, wiped it completely from my memory banks – and so working on the profound possibility of amnesia, I poured myself a coffee and contemplated my strategy.

 ---

I must admit, I have avoided having to go to the Evil Empire's webpage since someone mentioned they are all forcing us to go through the My Gov avenue.

For a start, there is the whole principal of the matter, especially those of us old enough to remember the Australia Card debacle and what it means to have the government privy to all of your avenues of dealing...

---

First step is to try and get access to my account.  I remember trying once before, so I requested they send me a new code to my usual address.  Nothing comes.

Okay - the other avenue is that I try to make a new account with my usual address - I receive a code and so attempt to get through the next gate.  Flicked back to the start screen.

So I ask for a new code to my usual address again and get told that I can't use that address as it is in use for an account.  Feck.  Add a dash of port to the coffee.

Third?  Fourth go, and I try my backup email address.  Of course, this means I have to go through the rings of hell to get a new password for that, as ever since I changed the GOOD password I had a few years ago, I can never remember the darned password.

Get a code and through to level two - hooray!!  Enter my phone number (with appropriate swear words about privacy invasion) and get to the questions.
I don't like their questions because I am contrary and so click on the "make my own question" option.

Gah!!!  Back to the entry point.  Can't get in because I haven't set a user name.  Request for user name doesn't work.  Can't get a new code as it is in use for an account.

Thinking of just chugging from the port bottle!

BTW - help - the HELP option is so laughable it should be called "mirth" or "example of why your misery is not of our concern".

I know in the grand context of the current stamping of human rights that is going on, it is miniscule and petty - but oh, how I wish for the good old days of a letter and a few hours in the Evil Empire offices people watching...

My liver may be better off for that also.

---

Postscript is - guess who had to find a new password to get into her much neglected blog?

Long Drive to the Power of Paris

On the weekend, we (Paris and I) had occasion to embark on a journey together through distance and time.

It so happened that 'Salina was being returned to our fold, and we had been counting down the hours until this one for several days prior.

As a result, seven minutes into an forty-five minute journey (15.55% for those of you in the Advanced Class) the first rendition of "I'm bored" emanated from the back seat.

Me?  I was in a "oh its nice to have some peace and quiet after a morning of pushing a mower around awaiting the call from a long lost daughter' frame of mind, and so some shifting of gears in my attitude was called for.

While searching for the ideal meeting point between instant entertainment now requirements and economy-sized effort available for input, I hit upon something that I consider A BRILLIANT IDEA!!

"How about we count all of the cars that go past us on the drive?" I asked.

Immediately (and true to form - takes after her mother too darned much) she decided to test the rules and bend where possible.

"I'm counting the parked ones too."  The demand for instant perfection was also made.  "I am counting as far ahead as I can see - and I will see how much you are paying attention by counting certain cars several times."  She didn't actually add that codicil out loud.

I was quite surprised how the car tally mounted as we worked our way through the nearest big smoke.  When not enough cars were on offer going past on the historic bridge we had to cross, she spied below a park near a boat ramp, with an assortment of vehicles and trailers.  There was some debate about the need to count the attached playground's special feature - a half-submerged ship, with climbing opportunities a-plenty and a grim reminder of the possible fate of the voyage for the adult observers.

We had a swift lesson in the relationship of 1000 to 100 as we went through some roadworks, and learned the shorthand for counting in three digit numbers as we finally escaped the confines of the town.

One hundred and seventy through to two hundred seemed to pass so readily, only occasionally having to resort to tractors plowing fields to keep our momentum, but the first few decades after two hundred were interminable (although she still flatly refused to allow the burned out shell of a victim of theft and Easter joyriding to join the tally),

The second major hamlet  of our drive co-incided with two hundred and ninety, and I mentioned it was "only ten until three hundred" and you could see the stars aligning in her eyes.

The next car went past.  "Two hundred and ninety-one" we exclaimed, and she added "nine more to go."

"Two ninety-two."  "Eight more."

"Two ninety-three. Two ninety-four."  "Seven.  Six."

I sat back and she commentated the last few - and suddenly there was a convoy.  We stopped at three hundred and three because we thought that was a big enough number.

She offered the next diversion.  I spy.  We did some good ones.  The rule is, if the other person can't get your spy, you get to spy again.  If the other person fails three times in a row, you win.  Doesn't everybody have that rule?  Its funny, but this is one game that Mummy is HAPPY for her child to win - because it really is win-win.   It is fairly manageble, so you can stay playing as long as you want to, but once your patience has started to flash, its amazing how little perception one can have.

That being said...  I must admit, I have never spied "a - air", it does sometimes take a leap to realise that the "y - yellow" was on the cards, and "f - fingers" can come from left field these days.  I do admit to throwing the first two in the final spies - but the third was a doozy that I could not have got had I actually tried.  Who spies the "h - humans" at age five?

Songs was the next suggested past-time.  I vetoed her first suggestion (shoot me, but I am not a fan of Old McDonald as a starter song.  You need to warm up to that) and taught her the clapping song, B-I-N-G-O, and then I allowed her "If you're happy and you know it clap your hands" [clap your hands] (with those other well-known verses, "If you're sad and you know it, cry boo-hoo" [cry boo-hoo with fully faked tear-ed up eyes] and "If' you're angry and you know it, have a frown" [dramatic frowning required])

When I offered the next suggestion, it was met with "but Mummy, I haven't done frustration yet."

"Okay" I said.

Silence.

Then a huge grin.  "By you not singing, I am getting so frustrated!"

The little minx burst out laughing.

"Get it" she cried.