"Wordfire With Franzy And Mele Was The Greatest Night Of My Life......"

....is the title hinted at by Franzy as one I should use in today's blog article. I thought to myself, "Self, it's as good as any, so why not?"

In fact, this year has given me more than my fair share of ups and downs and I'd like to hope that next year is a tad more Even-Steven because even an overly-caffeinated crackhead with a middle ear infection can tire of an endless rollercoaster ride loosely termed as normal life, but, and yes, this sentence will end pretty soon, through this humble blog I have had the honour of meeting some truly amazing people that it is very likely I would never ever have had the good fortune to meet otherwise.

And thus, Monday night found us packing young Sapphire off to her mate Maya's for a Monday Night Sleepover. This was not difficult; in fact it was about as difficult as asking Pamela Anderson to not wear pants because a school night sleepover is waaaaay cool. Love Chunks and I then made the momentous decision to take the bus into the city so that we both could drink. I know, could us young kids be any wilder and crazier?

That's right dear reader; we were Out There in the heavingly busy Adelaide social stratosphere, on a weeknight. Together. Not at a school meeting, karate class or sitting in the park while a stranger was having a second look inside our house but going to a real social event. And that event was Franzy's Wordfire at the Crown and Sceptre.

We almost ended up at the Club X peep show for a moment there. La Trattoria has a take-away pizza and gelati shop on one side and a sit-down restaurant at the other and let's just say that the staircase in the middle leading skywards was not where the wood-fire oven was located. LC did a passable impression of being puzzled that this was not the case and seemed contented enough to move back to the left and order a marinara and cold chardonnay.

A little later, we walked through the front bar of the Crown and Sceptre, feeling a bit stalkerish, nervous and well, kinda old and daggy. What were sensible, forty-something suburbanites like us doing in a pub on a Monday night? What on earth were we doing going to a literary event when, at times, The Sunday Fail was difficult to interpret? Why had I bothered to put on mascara?

All silly worrying for naught. I recognised Franzy straight away, even though he was sporting an approximation of a beard and not wearing his yellow clogs - perhaps they weren't the most appropriate footwear when reading an excerpt from an almost-finished book and then having to step down from the podium with confidence and grace. His wife, Mele, was also recognisable from Franzy's blog about their wedding photos but looked even more beautiful. To top it all off, I saw Myninjacockle rock up - broad grin, coke in hand and clearly just as excited as we were to be out on the town long after the demise of the 4pm express bus time. We sat next to Franzy's folks (just as cool as I'd imagined) and heard their progeny and progeny-in-law read. Both were brilliant and made me realise yet again just how much talent there is 'out there' and how lucky I was to have just witnessed some of it.

All too soon the readings were over, and a nervous musical threesome called 'Blind Mary' were about to make their inaugural debut. I really should hunt them down (in a nice way) and sincerely apologise to them for chattering on throughout their rather lovely traditional Irish set - Love Chunks tells me that I earned some - wait for it - stern looks - from fans of Blind Mary sitting up the front who wanted me to either shut up or jump through the window. I chose the latter option so that we bloggers could shoot the breeze outside. Besides, the window didn't have any glass and it was relatively easy to climb through and not spill a drop of wine doing it.

Irish fiddle-de-deeing about suffering through the potato famine and a broken heart would just have to wait for another day - I was just too thrilled to meet two of my utterly favourite bloggers and discover that they are just the kind of blokes I'd want as friends in real life. Oh and the same goes for RedCap and Ashleigh too. At the insanely late hour of 10:30pm Love Chunks and I reluctantly headed for home - we had an early start in the morning - via the 106 bus.

What a bugger I'll be leaving South Oz for Phlemington next month but thank God (or the banana) for the blogosphere, email and the occasional crazy airfare sales.

No Franzy, Noooooo!

One of my favourite bloggers-with-brawn-and-brains, the inimitable Franzy, said the words that no ex-banker ever wants to hear from anyone they admire. ~Shudder~ Franzy said.... he said....he..... OK. I can do this! I'll be brave and just do a copy and paste. He said: I wish I had bank job.

Sure, we've all been discussing the profanity of an article describing how some South Yarra wankers only getting a million for their five bedroom houses are doing it tough in this current economic downturn and maybe even have to sell their Mornington Peninsula hobby farms or the iconic post-modern beach house at Portsea, and how insultingly offensive it is to a Gen Y professional student who has both a HECS debt and rent that's too high to save for a deposit, let alone a reasonably-manageable mortgage.

I feel Franzy's pain. And fear. And envy. I've felt all of them too. Still do in fact. But now, I want to address the most horrific sentence I've had the misfortune to see him write: I wish I had bank job and share my own experience of having such arse-puckeringly awful employment with you all. It is a tale of heartache, terror, rubber bands, endless signatures and hopefully one of caution for you all.

Way, waaaay back into the deep mists of time at the end of 1988 when 1927 were going to dominate the airwaves forever, spiral perms ruled and raging was a social past-time and not a personality affliction I was in my third and final year of uni, fully aware that I belonged to a group of students who were the last to receive a HECS-free tertiary education.*** From term two onwards I dutifully borrowed my Mum's sensible black power suit and scrunched my perm into a sleek French braid and sat through lots of group interviews held on campus, to be informed just before Christmas that the ANZ Bank wanted to employ me in 1989 as a Graduate Trainee.

I was thrilled - as a lowly Arts Graduate who endured seeing 'Arts Degrees - please take one' scrawled oh-so-wittily underneath the loo sheet dispenser in the Uni Bar loos, the thought of either doing honours or teaching were not happy ones and thus to land a real job outside of those areas was a big feat. Twenty two thousand dollars per year seemed like a fortune to someone who received $9 Austudy a fortnight, $20 per week from Mum and Dad and worked all holidays doing truly craptastic stuff like apricot cutting, garlic picking, waitressing, babysitting, cucumber polishing, capsicum weeding and leaflet folding to pay my rent, food and cider bills.

Despite being told by the recruiting bloke that they wanted to place me in Human Resources, when the January starting day arrived, I was lumped with a dozen other newbies - aloofish maths graduates and nervous school leavers, all ready to do a week's induction training and, in my case, become a Lending Officer, not an HR henchwoman. Oh, was my first little twinge; so somehow my Roman Art & Archaelogy and Major English Texts studies were deemed to be more suited to mortgages than staff issues.

Sadly, my twinge became a fully-fledged thorn in my side about a month later when I was stationed to their North Adelaide branch, helping out their Commercial Lending side hand out money to the already wealthy and already snobby customers. My day entailed smiling at the sleazy male lending managers pretending I was interested in what they had to say instead of loathing them and finding little else to occupy me amongst the reams of paper work, numbered dockets and certificates of title that were still typed via a manual typewriter. Freezing cold air conditioning, paper cuts and viewing too many yellow sweat stains under the Gordon Gecko-style striped shirt worn by the young yuppie jerk alongside of me. Yep, five o'clock couldn't come soon enough.

Later that year, I was posted to my permanent position as Assistant Bank Manager, Gawler Place (corner North Terrace, when Henry Buck's now is). Most of my day was spent running credit checks, processing card applications, approving mortgages, personal loans and high yielding term deposits. I was very firmly 'encouraged' to sign up to study Accounting in the evenings but lasted only three lectures: I had barely scraped through year eleven maths, so surely they could have seen that I would have studied economics and spreadsheets at uni if I was remotely inclined? My boss shook his head in disappointment and told me he'd ordered the Financial Review for us every day, and it was my job to read, note anything relevant and report it to him. My first thoughts were, 'Oh bugger, there aren't any pictures in here.'

This first foray into real paid professional work was boring, dispiriting and energy sapping. My Manager disliked me because I was a jumped-up young lady who went to uni and didn't join the bank at fifteen years of age in 1950 and move up, step by step whenever somebody older than him died or was found slumped over some carbon paper. Plus, I towered over him by seven inches (he was five feet tall with conspicious lifts inserted in the back heels of his brogues) and he insisted I call him "Mr" every time we spoke.

The general staff - the tellers - also resented me because I didn't have to serve customers all day every day except at lunchtimes and was on at least eight grand a year more than they were. This was in spite of the fact that I had to arrive before they did to unlock the strong room and office, go to evening classes (paid only by the bank if I passed them), take my four weeks' annual leave all in one go ('What do you mean you don't know anyone else who has the entire month of June off?') and not be permitted to have a cup of tea on my desk 'because the customers can see over the counter and your desk is visible.'

However it was the two hour lunch rush I dreaded even more than the boring old 'War with Westpac' stories from Mr C or the 'she-thinks-her-shit-doesn't-stink-just-because-she-went-to-uni-but-look-at-her-she-still-has-to-wear-navy-blue-and-grey-uniforms-like-we-do' glares of the tellers because I had to open up a booth, get the cash out and serve customers for two hours so that the tellers could take their lunch breaks.

I had to take my 45 minute break at either 11:15am or 2pm - no less and no more. The other tellers used to make sure they'd take their time serving someone, drop their pens or have a phone call to answer every single bloody time a drunken, piss-soaked wino would stagger in with his coffee jar full of coins, the doddery pensioners would rush in on every second Thursday with their outdated bank books and endless questions or the insane, 1000 year-old biddy who had several millions dollars with us but thought she could fling off her fox fur and flick spittle in my eyes for half an hour during her passionate rant about how much she hated us each time she came in to collect her statements.

Some of the staff I worked with were great, but some were questionable and borderline retarded, not to be too delicate about things. One woman - let's just call her Deb for reasons of me not wanting to be sued - could barely put the letters A, N and Z together in the same order, but had a relative higher up in personnel who ensured that she was a 'relief' staff (the irony of that word doesn't escape me) member who could stuff up and leave before any ramifications were felt. Anyhoo, she was one of many such blocks of dead wood who were hanging around because they had mortgages at a reduced rate that would automatically increase to 17.5% if they left. Not me, unfortunately. The days of cheap staff rates ended about a month before I got there, as did the Christmas cash bonus - I got a mini-Christmas pudding and a cinema ticket instead.

At the end of the day, we'd all have to balance our cash and it was very rare that I ever did on the first try. I ain't a fine details gal; never was, never will be. Counting and recounting fives, tens, twenties, fifties and wrapping them in groups of ten in rubber bands, bagging the gold, silver and bronze coins and entering and re-entering the figures was humiliating and mindless. I'd eventually manage it and have to hang around for Mr C to climb back into his stacked heels, find his key and lock up with him - he and I had the only sets that would lock up the pitiful little branch 100% securely every night. I'd walk dejectedly home through the beautiful old grounds of Adelaide uni, through the Botanic gardens to my Hackney sharehouse, feeling like a right twit in my daggy bank uniform when Jo was having a wonderful time searching for rocks and jocks via her geology PhD, and Charlotte was still studying piano at the Elder conservatorium and moonlighting in a techno jazz band.

Worse still was the recession that Paul Keating said "we had to have." Interest rates for mortgages climbed to 17.5% and in my second year at the bank ('Don't leave before two years or it will look really bad on your CV, I was told over and over again by my concerned parents, my friends and myself), I was doing more collecting work than loan approvals. It is hard to describe just how horrible it was to be given an armful of files and be told, at the ripe old age of 22 with a personal credit card with a $500 limit and a 1971 Renault bought for $1600, that I had to ring up working couples and parents and hassle them about missed payments, bounced cheques or negative bank balances. I did it coolly, professionally and efficiently and got results. Mr C and head office loved me for it, but I'd go home and wonder just why I felt like hiding and crying. Meeting anyone at a party at that time wasn't fun either - I'd invariably end up in a corner, cowering, listening to someone rant about the Bastard Banks and pointing angrily at me. "Nice talking with you, er, Dennis, isn't it, but I'd like to go and get drunk now....."

On the other hand, those who had already paid off their mortgages (Baby Boomers, I'm looking at you), could invest their considerable savings in term deposits with interest rates that hit 15.5%. "Yeehah" one particularly obnoxious customer yelled when I opened up such an account for him. "This'll pay for our Europe trip and hopefully allow me to lease a newer Beamer at the end of the year." How nice for you, I remember thinking, and noticed that the person behind him in the queue was coming in every week - with cash earned from a second labouring job - to pay off some arrears that had accrued when he'd got sick and had his overtime cut.

You'll be relieved to read, if you're still here, that I did a nannying course in the evenings and on the 730th day, handed in my notice, bought a plane ticket to London and left the country the week after. I felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders and still, to this day, haven't been able to wear anything navy or grey ever again.

So Franzy? Dear, sweet Franzy. Make coffee, make books, make blogs, make wild monkey love to M, but don't DON'T ever make a bank job your wish. I beg you!

*** I paid HECS later when I returned to Adelaide Uni to do my Grad Dip Ed. I lasted a year, but the repayments took me four!

I'll pick Magic Johnson's face, thanks

Gosh golly darnit, it's been at least three months since my last meme.

This time, the tenacious Terence McDanger has tagged me, and seeing as I'm an unabashed fan of his blog, I'll accept his challenge.

What are your nicknames?

Used to be ‘Ready’ as a kid, or ‘reeds by the river’ because we lived in a river town, in a street named ‘River’ street even though it was actually nowhere near the river or even afforded any views of said river.

When gifted assassin and earless bad-boy Mark ‘Chopper’ Read became slightly more well known than feared, I was called ‘Chopper’ by the brave few. Of course, after I married Love Chunks and got ‘Lockett’ as part of the package deal the nickname changed to ‘Plugger’.


What TV gameshow/reality show would you like to be on?


I always say I’d like to be on Survivor, but I know full well that I’d be lying under a tree with a migraine sobbing uncontrollably within an hour of setting foot on an island with nothing but a dodgy swimsuit, even dodgier fellow contestants and only soggy bamboo with which to rub together for a fire.

In my own reality I’ve actually been on two game shows:

1988, Wheel of Fortune. Channel ten was then located in Walkerville and we poor students lived in Hackney so I could walk there, and hoped to win a colour TV, stereo, heater and some clothing to replace that which was stolen from us a few months earlier. My eighties spiral perm was blowdried out so hilariously hugely I looked like Bonnie Tyler in a wind tunnel and my request for ‘very little make up’ was translated to ‘I want to BE a peacock, I mean really BE one.’ Won the show, but realised that the room of prizes they show on TV is just a video for the home viewer while the contestant is being given the ‘hurry up you dick’ sign by the Floor Manager and being forced to pick from only ten items (such as cast iron cookware, mag wheels, skin care and diary sets and a poxy mat you place in your normal bath and pretend that it’s a spa) scrawled on a clapperboard.

Sale of the Century, 1997. My vanity – and love of useless trivia – allowed me to pass the audition and, seeing as we were living in Melbourne where the show was being filmed and I was a sheila, they were gagging for me to go on. Best moment of the show (a very long day in which up to seven episodes were filmed back to back, months in advance, so Glenn and whatsherface would whitter on about the Melbourne Cup even though it was June), was seeing a big headed contestant who’d annoyed the rest of us in the Green Room be led out by a hunky male model to the hot seat only to have her heel catch in the carpet and go arse over rack. Cracked us and the audience up and ruined her concentration so that she started on 20 points and left on twenty points; a comatose deer-in-the-headlights who might – I hope – have then gone home and taken a good hard look at herself.

As I did, but for different reasons. Won a few ‘Who am I’ segments (with those ‘pick a face’ prizes that are beyond tragic) and knew most of the other answers but just wasn’t as lightning fast as the two dudes on either side. Still have the Italian leather briefcase and the diamond set stickpin. Didn’t breathe a word to anyone at work that I’d been on the show (as if EPA greenies would watch it) during my flex day, and when it finally screened I was ribbed mercilessly by everyone there who’d somehow seen it.

What was the first movie you bought in VHS or DVD?

This is Spinal Tap. Then got it on DVD in 2000. “We were called the Originals until we found out that there was another band called the Originals and we didn’t want to be known as the Original Originals….”

First video watched at home, on a top-loading BETA video player at a friend’s house in Murray Bridge, 1982. Porky’s. Of course. It was only one of three choices at that stage – Porky’s, Stir Crazy and Emanuelle.

What is your favourite scent?

Can I have more than one? As a low maintenance gal who rejects make up, I do like perfume – Chloe by Karl Lagerfeld to be precise; worn it regularly since 1990, and occasionally veer to Joop, CKOne and even good old refreshing 4711.

Non perfume scents include Sapphire’s hair, vanilla, bacon frying, melted chocolate, freshly ground good quality coffee and clean dog fur.

If you had one million dollars to spend only on yourself, what would you spend it on?

Just me, eh? So no guiltily-obligated sharing or being good….

A really good car. Not a Ferrari because such an ostentatious set of wheels is only going to earn you sneers and catcalls, but a gleaming, high performance machine that, like Rexona, won't ever let me down.

A stonkingly fabulous, first-class-all-the-way world trip. Shopping spree with a personal stylist who actually cares. A self published book that looks good enough to convince all bookstores to stock, earns me more millions that I then could spend on family, friends and charity.

One place you've visited, can't forget and want to go back to?

London. Lived and worked there for two years and still hadn’t discovered it all. Damp, grotty and expensive but I loved the place. Cutting my toe nails out of my bedsit window one minute and down Churchill’s underground war rooms the next.

Do you trust easily?

Yes, bugger it. I have a heart bigger than my cynical rants on this 'ere blog would lead you to believe. It gets shocked, hurt, squeezed and disappointed often, despite me telling myself to harden up, be colder, feel colder, eat or be eaten.

Do you generally think before you act, or act before you think?

When I have the time, I think. And plan. And worry. And get anxious and all guts-churny and hate myself for and wish I was a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-trousers kind of person.

Other times, I can seize the moment and act in a kind of ‘fight instead of flight’ way. I’ve punched a cabbie in the face who pretended he was lost in Finchley and decided to reach over and try his luck with me; I’ve thrown a drunk bloke’s shopping bags off a bus so that he’d get off and stop bothering other passengers and bawled out people for littering in public. If only I could bottle that kind of attitude for stuff like public presentations or for dealing with the ‘Mummy Mafia’ who lurk at the school gates…..

Is there anything that has made you unhappy these days?

My previous boss. HR departments that support the management regardless of truth, fairness or abuse of power. The fact that Ryan Shelton is on TV. Dove removing their dark chocolate from their block range and KitKat for continuing to release shiteous versions of a classic that should be left in dignified peace. Any jerk who thinks that abortion – under any circumstances – should not be granted. Saying yes to public speaking opportunities even though I crap my body weight out for weeks beforehand. Oh and enormous boxy houses without eaves or adequate environmental provisions that accommodate fat kids and need as much artificial heating and cooling as a city office block. Is that enough?

Do you have a good body image?

It’s getting there. I won’t pretend that I don’t wallow in the ‘I’m not good enough’ kinds of whingeing that most women are prone to but I’m proud of the fact that I keep pretty damn fit by running, walking and pummelling the punching bags in our garage gym.

What is your favorite fruit?

Darren Hayes. Oh, sorry, passionfruit. Ridiculously expensive, so it’s important to know someone who actually grows them, like my Grandpa did. Nothing nicer than to hollow a few out on a hot day and suck down those ridiculously sweetly sour seeds.

What websites do you visit daily?

Blogs (see my sidebar), The Age, Perez and D-listed (I know, I know), E!, Tom’s Trivia Challenge and a host of news and writing-related sites. Was a regular on Facebook but now just go to read what other friends are up to: 'Darryl is sitting at his desk in silence with a Cadbury Creme Egg wedged in each cheek when he should be on the phone talking to his boss about their next ministerial briefing'

What have you been seriously addicted to lately?

Flight of the Conchords and Seinfeld DVDs. Chocolate. Great coffee from beans roasted at Simply Coffee in Kent Town. Sapphire's soft cheeks. Milly’s soft, velvety ears. Skipper nibbling my fingers. Red Rock chips.

What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is?

Terence McDanger is hilarious, intelligent and a bloke I’d love to meet should I ever wind up in Ireland. With a wit and attitude to life sharper than a stick insect on a razor blade, he clearly is wasting his skills in whatever day job he has and should try doing some comedic writing for a living. With Franzy, Radgery, Myninjacockle and Miles McClagan.

What's the last song that got stuck in your head?

Sapphire was singing that old Rolf Harris classic about the powder on the noses of the ladies of the harem of the court of King Caractacus….who were just passing by and the pharkin’ thing is now firmly wedged in my grey matter. Trying to explain who Rolf was to my nine year old (who only knows him from the rather pleasantly enjoyable ABC portrait painting program) was impossible: "What do you mean there were lots of Rolfs that the Goodies had to track down?" "Why did he have a third leg - was he being naughty and rude?"

Favourite clothing

Brooks running shoes. My first pair beyond $150. Make me feel like wearing a firm pair of Crocs - but are socially acceptable - and make my running seem effortless: What are your legs? Springs, steel springs. And how fast can they run? As fast as a leopard! In Kathland anyway.

Do you think Rice Krispies are yummy?

No. They possess about as much mastication-fascination as a wood dust and interest my early morning taste buds about as much as powdered chipboard. I hate eating any kind of cereal for breakfast, especially meusli. I can force a bowl down a couple of times a week but it takes so bloody LONG to chew all the nuts, bolts and widgets and it’s so unfun to taste.

When Sapphire is around, I’ll do fruit and coffee. When she’s not, I’ll do leftover cake, chocolate, reheated spaghetti bolognese or a Farmers Union Feel Good Iced Coffee and a custard tart from the corner shop.

What would you do if you saw $100 lying on the ground?

Have a quick squizz around to see if anyone’s patting their arse in dismay, and if not, shove it in my own arse pocket. Knowing me, then head off to the nearest bookshop, newsagent or chocolatier and blow it all. Found a ten quid note on the Tube three days before payday in London which was a lifesaver, as I was in the habit of walking into my local McDonalds and yanking out a handful of their paper napkins to see me through a few days of toilet paper – monthly paydays were a horror.

Items you couldn't go without during the day?

My shoulder bag. Sunnies, wallet, little notebook and pen (for writing ideas), tic-tacs, keys, bus tickets and wet ones. Wet ones because the mother in me had found, too many times, that stingy café napkins placed directly UNDER sticky cakes aren’t helpful, especially if you have a child with caramel and cream smeared all over their face or your hands are covered in orange juice because the Fruitbox exploded like a grenade when you inserted the straw….. And some chocolate – couldn’t go without some every single day.

What should you be doing right now?

Writing a proper blog post that I thought of myself, preparing for my workshop, helping Love Chunks tizzy up our house plus discover the cure for zits in mature-aged women.

Single Sentence September

.....isn't happening here. Although I do wish I'd been smart enough to think of it first.

Blogger buddy, Franzy, owner of the superb blog 'Writing' and the bloke with the amazing capacity to always provide intelligent, hilarious and/or thoughtful contributions to comments sections near and far, has set himself a challenge.



















He's going to write one sentence for every day of this month - hence the title, Single Sentence September. After enthusiastically supporting my Appreciative August-a-thon (37,000 words, 263 comments) he's decided to set himself a challenge that only a Queensland-dwelling, Coffee Club Cocoa Dust-inhaling, PhD student can handle. He explained:

Kath, I take my hat off to you. Well done. You have inspired me. Kind of. In the opposite direction.This isn't a piss-take, but next month on Writing has been declared Single Sentence September. I will be posting every day, Kath-style. One sentence. And one sentence only. Per day.

If you're a regular reader, you'll know that my sentences can turn into paragraphs, so there will no lack of content, but I'm also aiming for "interesting".

How?
Wait and see.
What?
I said: wait and see.
Why?
Will you just shut up already?
Where?
Over there, behind those sheds. Count to a hundred and we'll come and get you. But no peeking!

Get over to Single Sentence September and add a comment. In one sentence, of course.