No sex please, we're camping

It's been a long weekend here in South Oz, and we three decided to make it even longer by taking the Friday off as well. Officially we're given the Monday off to celebrate the queen's birthday, but seeing as she's about as relevant as Neighbours is to the Rhodes Scholarship, we're just grateful to have one last public holiday until October.

Love Chunks, bless his sweet, strong-willed little soul, had his heart fixed on camping in the Flinders Ranges. He had mentioned it to me a few times over the past couple of months, which resulted in me stammering and backing away, saying stuff like "Oh, I haven't checked my diary yet," or "I'll have to check with my boss that I can get that time off, you know what she's like..."

She's very generous, bugger it. The camping trip was on. LC made doubly and triply sure by taking Sapphire with him to his own personal mecca: Ray's Outdoors. Normally he and I have a rule about how and when we choose to splash our hard-earned cash around - ie by talking about it together first. When it comes to Ray's Outdoors, however it seems that all rules are null and void. The two of them drove home in a groaning station wagon chock-a-block full of night lights, gas cylinders, propane bottles, a two burner stove, trestle table, toasting forks and a three-roomed tent designed to house eight people.

It was all for my comfort, you see. The tent would be big enough for Sapphire to have her own play space, us to have ours, and a central bit to keep our gear dry or to sit in if the weather turned bad. And look! The stove is wind proof; the toasting forks will prevent you from scorching your mitts and the night light has a handy recharger..... His blue eyes were sparkling with joy as he showed me his purchases - how could I spoil it all and screech: YOU BOUGHT WHAT WITH OUR HOUSE RENOVATION MONEY? WHY COULDN'T WE JUST GO TO THE NOVOTEL IN QUEENSLAND?

And so we left our warm, solid, comfortable home in the wee hours of Friday morning and drove to Mambray Creek. Not the most scenic of drives: we were treated to the very worst of Adelaide's suburbs, the delights of one-hotel-hole Dublin, the roadhouses of Port Wakefield, the tyre Loch Ness Monster at Salt Lake and the Garden Gnome Museum just outside of Port Pirie (sorry Sapphire, we'll go and visit there next time). All of this served a useful purpose, because Mambray Creek is a lovely spot that is made even more gorgeous after such an eye-straining drive like that.

Love Chunks managed to set the tent up without any swear words. I was enormously proud of him because it took ages and had more bendy bits in it than Paris Hilton with her ankles behind her ears. Then the real work began:

• Pumping up the mattresses - thankfully taken care of by a tiny yellow plastic blower thingy (from Ray's, of course) attached to the car's cigarette lighter
• Bedding
• Setting up the pantry (3 boxes), sink (2 buckets), kitchen (card table with 20 litre bottle of rain water and gas stove on it)
• Getting water for the dishes and hand-washing ablutions
• Putting up the tarp for the kitchen
• Finding firewood and starting up the fire; and
• Worst of all - trying out the long drop toilets.

Long drop toilets are, in theory, a wonderful idea. Huge long holes dug into the ground in order to save water, any unnecessary bush-squats or fluttering scraps of loo paper from littering the pristine camping grounds. The downside is the smell. Days, weeks, months, years of intermingled faecal matter produces a malodorous cocktail strong enough to smack you across the face as soon as you catch sight the tiny little tin shed. Lifting up the seat is another level of pain altogether. If the outpouring of grateful blowflies won't kill you, the sheer stench will.

A quick splash of freezing cold water on the hands was it for hygiene before wiping them on my already-grubby trakkie daks on the way back to camp. Love Chunks had done his utmost to counteract the required visits to the 'Palace of Pong' - he brought along wine and chocolate.

In hindsight I can see that the warmth of the fire, the pleasure of the chocolate and the bottle of red wine helped me combat the freezing cold that night. You see, my sleeping bag lied to me. It claimed that it could keep me warm in temperatures of up to -5C. Bulls**t! LC was snoring beside me, and Sapphire was murmuring in her dreams two layers of canvas away, and I was clenched in an agonised foetal position, vainly hoping that my staying motionless would somehow stop the shivering.

But again, LC was ahead of me. As I got up to do a retarded dance in the tent in order to get dressed before getting frostbite, he was making coffee. This glorious beverage was awaiting me by the fire just as Sapphire and I got back from the Palace of Pong, both white-faced and unnaturally silent.

And so it continued for the next three days - LC anticipating what potential event might cause me to whinge, and being sure to provide a panacea for it before my negativity could make itself heard. Two things though, we were in agreement about: how bloody COLD it was and how much we both longed for a hot shower.

The cold we fought by wearing all of our clothes to bed and draping our coats over our sleeping bags. I even got the rubber-lined car blanket out and placed it underneath us, trying to stop the cold ground from continually kneeing me in the kidneys (after all, I most definitely did NOT want to visit the P of P at midnight).

The shower issue was unavoidable until we returned home. Each day my hair was stickier and greasier, my eyes more filled with crackly eye-boogers and the rings around my neck were unflatteringly emphasised with dirt clumps. Sapphire looked completely unaffected - even after a long, sweaty hike - but LC and I looked like 100-year Worzel Gummidges. It also seemed that the usual dragon breath produced by most human beings first thing upon waking is exceeded by Camp Breath that lasts all day. If the P of P or unwashed BO doesn't get you, the Back-to-Nature Breath will.

Romance under canvas? You'd have to be blind, desperate and have no nose whatsoever. What charms LC did possess were hidden under stubble, three layers of clothing and a sleeping bag hood done up so tightly he looked like a matroska doll. Let's not just pick on him: I was either wearing a sky blue beanie and resembling a disgruntled potato, or let him see my hair in all it's campfire glory - sticky, wild and stringy. My nose was in constant moist drip mode and my poo-catcher grey tracksuit pants were enough to store wood in. Love may be blind, but it takes a hike on camping holidays.

Was it enjoyable? Sort of. Was it worth all of the long drive, the set up, the packing up, the driving back home, the unpacking, tidying up, washing? Dunno. Did Love Chunks and Sapphire enjoy it? Yes, they absolutely loved it. This last sentence was the most important piece of information I had to keep in mind in order to squelch any "I want a hot shower, a warm bed and a clean toilet NOW" whinges from emerging.

Pretty (silly) Pictures to kick-start my long weekend



We'll start with a (supposed) male for once. Lenny 'Not Actually From Planet Earth' Kravitz. He's about 45 years old and yet still dresses like a pantomime angel on acid. How he snares the women (Lisa Bonet, Nicole Kidman) is beyond my simple comprehension. If that on the left came sashaying up to me I'd be snorting champagne up my nose.

I pity his kids: imagine taking that along to your parent-teacher night.

Of course it's all going to blow up into his face - they'll grow up to be accountants, WMD inspectors and managers of girl bands.






Yes, this one of Mads is a few months old (at the Oscars after-party) but it gives a clear picture of a woman undergoing the same denial that Lenny K is.

Fifty is looking her squarely in the eye but she's done her best to avoid it by excessive workouts, bundles of botox, stretched lips ala the Joker and horrific 70s hair. Note to self: if you were old enough to wear your hair like that the first time, you're too old to wear it that way again. Ie -you should know better.

The ropey, sinewed arms don't really portray fitness and youth as much as age and decay - cartoon witches have been drawn with softer limbs than hers!

The face, well...... any tighter and her mouth would meet up at the back of her head. The lines may not be visible, but the face that greets us is as taut as a cheap party balloon about to explode. Step farther away....



I know that Eva Sschlong-goria is one of the execrable 'Desperate Housewives' but when does she do any work? Every time I read online, a newspaper, a magazine there she is, attending the launch of a telephone/nightclub/movie/face cream/loin cloth/opening of a pickle jar.

I wonder if she even knows where she lives anymore? And this outfit..!! Somebody forgot to shut the curtains before they left the beachhouse!











To paraphrase Edmund from Blackadder II, young Paris is likely to be buried in a "Y-shaped coffin" as a result of her, ah, 'talents', but this picture reveals that she also needs several tubes of spakfilla before she takes her hip and pelvic bones out for a premiere.

Even her orange spray-on tan looks more realistic than the grey waxen foundation she's slapped on. The blush looks as though it's been applied with the heel of her hand and anyone can grab a black felt-pen and colour around their eyes.




Raunchy little munchkin Prince was recently named PETA's 'Sexiest Male Vegetarian of the Year'.

I think the word 'sexiest' must have been applied in the loosest possible way because he's about as attractive as platter of cat turds. The puny jumpsuits, spangled cuban heels, Liberace-style adornments....eeughh. Maybe he's got a flat head so that the PETA judges can rest their beers on it.


As will Lenny K, Mariah has completely lost touch with reality.

She's not a small gal, so squeezing herself into a lemon/pear outfit takes a bit of courage, as does taking a jack russell terrier for a walk in high heels. No doubt one of her flackeys is just out of shot to take the lead and scoop up the poop. Maybe even the dog's too, if it's arse hasn't already been hermetically sealed.

I never would have believed it....

...if it hadn't actually happened to me - that's how letters to mens' magazines start, don't they? However if that's the sort of encounter you're hoping this entry will describe you'll be most disappointed. Instead, I'm going to tackle the 666 chestnut - a set of numbers that's generated more excitement, column inches and feverish nail biting since the Y2K countdown.

Today started off like any other day. I farewelled Sapphire at school, drove to work, unlocked the office and generally got on with things. By 11am, I was feeling peckish and not prepared to wait until the more acceptable hour of midday in order to eat lunch and run a few errands.

It was then that the 666 syndrome started to kick in. Maybe it took that long because Satan adheres to Greenwich meantime, or maybe it's because he likes a decent sleep-in. Anyhow, I strolled out of the Post Office into the cold winter sunshine and straight into an Aussie CSI scene. No deaths (sorry, Satan), but the bank next door had just been robbed. I felt pretty foolish: there I was, not 10 metres away, wasting my energy on deciding whether to buy the 'Australian Wildflowers' or 'Soccer in Australia' stamp sets whilst Ned Kelly and his mate Mudguts were terrorising the State Bank staff!

Luckily, no police officer apprehended me as an accessory. As I crossed the road to the shopping centre, the TV crews had also arrived. At the chemist, the staff were looking red-faced and angry. "What's wrong, are your life savings with the State Bank of Magill?" I asked, in a pathetic attempt to cheer them up.
"No, the stupid, effing computer is down. No-one in IT is answering the phone (oooh, there's a surprise), we can't type out prescriptions or look up prices and instead we have to write everything down." She looked close to tears which made me regret my thoughtless attempt at humour even more. "Er, well, it is the sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year, you know," I said, smiling weakly and shrugging my shoulders.
"I know that," she snapped, looking past me. "NEXT! Can I help you?"

Feeling like a chastened child, I made my way back to the university. There was a tinny, rolling sound as I was about to walk across Brougham Street. What sounded like an old-fashioned rubbish bin lid rolling around was actually a hubcap, rolling in perfect arcs right down the middle of the street. My head swivelled in every direction: was there a car smash that I hadn't heard? Some kids goofing off? Film students recording the emptiness of the suburban ideal? Nope, just me and a hubcap that continued on its merry way down the sloping street. Very weird.

My stomach was growling by this time - ah, that would be the famine part of the general 666-End-Of-The-World scenario, were my thoughts as I inhaled my smoked salmon roll. Whilst doing this at my desk, an ant ran across my keyboard space bar. Truly. This diverted my focus away from food long enough to discover that there was a bunch (crowd? herd? flock?) of ants having some sort of get-together in my finance tray. My efforts at brushing them off caused a old, long-forgotten morning cup of coffee to spill all over the desk and drip mockingly into the recycle bin.

Having the gents' loos right next door finally had a positive side: loads of water and absorbent toilet paper for cleaning up spills. I rushed in and ----"Oops! Omigod, I'm soooo sorry!" and backed out again, blushing. Who knew that fellas still used those ancient steel trough things?

It's nearing 2pm, and here I type, sitting at a sticky desk surrounding by gleefully feasting ants. I'm about to walk over to the other side of the campus to see how the builders are going on the floor we'll be moving into, sometime in Julember. If I don't trip over, have something accidentally stuck to my arse or get splattered by a bird turd, I'll be pleasantly surprised......

Sunday strolling, Antiques and Coffee....

..are they recipes for boredom?

Well, two, five or ten years I would have thought so. The idea of spending an entire Sunday crawling along a rinky-dinky old country town High Street, popping into every single antique store just to browse would have sounded worse than forcibly shagging Keith Richards with the lights on. And yet today, that is exactly what we - my husband, Love Chunks; Sapphire, our seven year old; and my parents, Jo' and Flo' did with genuine enjoyment (not Keith; but go to Strathalbyn for the day).

It still remains a mystery to me: neither LC or I are 'into' antiquey stuff of any kind. Our house is instead full of sensible, sturdy furniture that is not likely to be eagerly sought by Sapphire as an inheritance item, nor of good enough quality to last longer than the end of her primary school years. Any sign of china cups, figurines, witty coat stands or soup tureens and my first thought is: Dust. Why on earth would you want to have a house full of useless trinkets that you than have to dust? Even worse - why would you want to buy those granny glass cabinets to display them in? Five minutes in our home and Sapphire would have accidentally tripped into it or the dog would have smeared the glass by giving it her usual exploratory lick.

Yet today, it was really interesting - nay, fascinating - to peer at butt-ugly bevilled green glass butter holders from the 1930s - my Grandma was still using the stuff when I used to holiday with her in the late 1970s. Crystal fruit bowls and ornate drinks trolleys also reminded me of her - all the milk jugs on display lacked were the crocheted covers that were customarily weighted down with tiny orange beads. For some reason the people of those times lived in fear that mozzies and blowies would dive bomb their drinks.

As with household ornaments, jewellery does not feature largely in my self-decoration. Sometimes I wish I had the natural style of my friend Bec, who has the knack of wearing really innovative pieces to school drop off/work at kindergarten/the shops and look effortlessly fabulous. Being a pale, doughy type with the face of an undercooked scone with two currants pressed in for eyes I just can't 'get away' with doing anything remotely creative in terms of jewellery. Dangly earrings on my lobes merely give people the impression of a human tambourine and potentially groovy beads or brooches look as though I've had a fun morning in the dress up box. (And make up doesn't help - even LC has commented that lipstick makes me resemble a baby who's applied it during their infant swim class).

Despite my total lack of style-charisma, I love looking at the art-deco marquasite (sp?) chokers, creamy pearls, ethnic beads and bling-style rings from long-dead fingers. Elegant rabbit fur stoles hung on old dressmaker's mannequins in front of beeswax-scented wooden wardrobes was enough for me to say..."Hey, anybody ready to join me for some lunch?"

Even my father (more at home in the wood-turning shed or the golf green) and Love Chunks (in the kitchen, a tent or the green) seemed to be just as interested in browsing. Sapphire of course fell in love with every luridly painted porcelain bird, fairy, gnome or dogs wearing kilts and smoking pipes. At $75 upwards, she mercifully didn't hassle us to buy her anything - she was content with her $1 packet of Wicked Fizz Tongue Poppin' Candies from the sweet shop.

Lunch featured the traditional Sunday strollers' fare: cappuccinos, toasted sandwiches and pasties. That's pretty much all the average, self-respecting South Australian needs for lunch really - caffeine, pastry, fat and cheese. This leaden weight was enough to allay any feelings of anxiety, horror or depression I might have felt when I discovered that not a few of the antiquities on sale were of my era. Skippy melamine cups; early 1970s Matchbox cars, rope quoits and original Coca-Cola and Fanta yo-yos. I left the record shelf alone - no doubt I've already converted most of them to CD - and now iPod - already.

Two hours later, we had 'done' the other side of the High Street and were ready for afternoon tea. Menu: cappuccinos, Farmers Union Feel Good Iced Coffee, carrot cake, scones with jam and cream, berry cheesecake. We chatted animatedly for an hour or so, until the staff packing up the cafe around us gave us the hint to leave. As we did so, it seems as though we all started to slump - this old fogey window shopping for free activity with my folks was rather tiring - it was a mighty struggle to keep my eyes open on the drive home. In fact it's 8:30pm now - might as well turn off the heater and go to bed........

Why do they call it The Birds And The Bees?

My best buddy Jill's daughter Lana, and my daughter, Sapphire, have both recently found out about how babies are made.

They are both seven years old which is still a fairly young age in order to find out some rather confronting information. Like Lana, Sapphire had been asking more and more questions. Specific questions. Stuff like, "Yeah yeah I know that the Mum and Dad make it together but how? How does an egg from Mum and something from Dad get together and grow inside Mum's tummy?" It seemed disrespectful for us to continue to fob her off with vague comments like, "Oh, the body knows what to do," or the worst one: "It's too complicated, I'll tell you a bit more when you're older."

Instead, my beloved, brave and decent husband Love Chunks, decided to tell her. It was during the last school holidays when he had taken a week off to take care of her, and I was at work, with no leave-up-my-sleeve. LC just rang me and said, "Well, our little one knows all about sex now."
I was stunned. "She does? What did you tell her?"
"What do you mean What did you tell her - I told her the truth!"
"All of it?" Hell, it seemed like a hefty load of reality to dump her with. "So, how did she react? Was she upset? Did she understand it?" Inside, I fervently hoped that she wouldn't understand it; that LC had baffled her with a version scientific enough to sound mundane....
"Yeah, she understood it all right. She burst out laughing for about half an hour."

On further reflection, uncontrollable giggling seems like a much more innocent and nicer reaction than the one I had, many moons ago.

It was 1978, and one evening my parents took me to school for what I thought was going to be a play or a concert. It was, sort of, except that there were no children on stage or singing but a lot of frightening overheads on the wall and I got to take home a program called 'Where Did I Come From?'

At nine and half years old, the sex act was completely out of my realms of comprehension. Sure, the kissing and hugging in the nude bit (they had cartoon drawings of it...!) I could sort of understand, but why Mum would ever want Dad to put his...in there..... It was about a month before I could look my parents directly in the eyes again, my disgust was that great. I consoled myself with the thought that at least they'd only done 'it' three times in order to have my two brothers and me.

A year later, Kurt Lawton told me at school that your parents don't just do it once for each kid, they do it heaps of times. Whenever they wanted to - which was, apparently, a lot of the time because it was good fun. My nose wrinkled in horror, but I stayed listening with mortified curiosity.
"How do you know, Kurt?" said Philippa, the bravest one of the assembled group.
"Because my brother told me, idiot, and he's twelve."
"Ooohhh," we all went, nodding wisely and accepting that as strong evidence.

Sadly for me I also had an older brother, but that's a different story. No, what was even more tragic was that I got to witness Kurt's truths for myself. It was the first and only time in my then ten-year-old life that I knocked and the entered a room without being invited in. Not that my parents noticed: the blankets mercifully hid any fleshy bits, but there was no doubt that they were enjoying some Sunday morning shenanigans....

In a rare moment of tact and maturity, I quietly shut the door and backed out all the way up the hall, through the loungeroom and into the living room. It was also the first time I had a cup of coffee - I certainly felt as though I needed one. I also thought that, somehow, Mum wouldn't care one way or the other if I had some of her un-iced cupcakes for breakfast that morning and the likelihood of us attending church that Sunday looked pretty doubtful as well.

These things always bring me back to Sapphire. What of her new knowledge of the adult world? At seven it is clear that whilst she has mentally coped with the - ahem - technicalities of sex, she has no concept of the emotion or pleasure involved. Like me, she thinks that LC and I have only done it the once - for her - and that's not an illusion I'm about to break any time soon. Ever. Now I can see why some parents put locks on their bedroom doors - not to keep unruly kids in, but to keep the kids out.

I want it NOW

Freddie Mercury might have had the dress sense of, well, Freddie Mercury, but he still had a wee bit of knowledge about the childish mind. “I want it all, I want it all, I want it all….and I want it NOW.”

Bless him for being able to articulate the words over a set of teeth so bucked he could rest sweeties on them, and also because he has so expertly summed up the complete lack of pre-consideration a child does before asking their parent something.

This morning was a classic example for me. Sapphire turned seven last week, yet is still at the stage of wanting things now. The concept of waiting or thinking about how to appropriately set a time for something is still completely foreign to her. Hence, at 7am this morning, I was bent over, putting on a clean pair of knickers. Completely starkers (except for the knickers, which had only reached my knees) when there was a tap and an immediate walk in.
“Muuum?” Sapphire asked, in her ‘I-want-something-from-you-Mum’ voice.
Me, still wrestling with the undies in my embarrassment: “What is it Sapphire?”
“Can we do the embroidery stuff now? You said we could….”
“It’s 7am and I am NAKED. NOT NOW!”
Sapphire scuttled out, but not before showing me a dramatic expression of hurt and betrayal on her pale little face.

Oh well, at least my loose wetsuit of a body didn’t put her off her quest, and my bent-over profile seems to be the one that garners the most requests. As I was unloading the dishwasher about twenty minutes later, it happened again: “Muuum?”
Me, sighing (I’m a rotten Mum but I just couldn’t help it). “Yes, Sapphire?”
“Could we unwrap the embroidery set and just check to see if all the materials---“
“SAPPHIRE. We are going to eat our breakfast, drink our milk, clean our teeth and pack your bag for school and mine for work. We don’t have time now. You’ve got to think about how much time you and I have got before you start asking about---“
“Ok, Ok,” she muttered, slinking away. I could recognise the ‘how many times have I told you, so sit down and listen to my lecture’ tone in my voice and hated it.

After school and after work, there was a tap on the toilet door. “Muuum?”
There was a pause for a few seconds whilst I contemplated the wisdom of answering: maybe she’d think it was Love Chunks and go away? Nah, no such luck. “Muuum!”
“Yeees?”
“Can we do it now? Please? You said later two times already today and now is later.”
“All right, but can I at least do my drops and plops in privacy please?” She’d already gone, skipping out into the lounge room, to get the hellish little set ready and I felt pretty foolish yelling irritatedly at a wooden door.

You see there are two issues here. The most obvious one is that my child considers me the hub of all key activities and yet invisible when it comes to my own ablutions; and, secondly, I can’t sew for nuts. How the hell was I going to help her put on an embroidery hoop and sew up the butterfly pattern shown on the front of the packet? It was time to play one of the oldest and most handy parental tricks – the ‘Your Old Enough Now to Do it Yourself’ manoeuvre.

“Sapphire, have you read through the instructions?”
“No, because you----“
“Hang on, hang on. You’re a great reader. I think you’re old enough to read through the instructions and try it yourself.”
Surprisingly, this last comment was processed and accepted. “Ok.”
Ten minutes later and the room was filled with her happy singing. “How’s it going, Saph?”
“Great. I did what the instructions said, but didn’t like it, so now I’m making up my own pattern.” I forced a bright smile of appreciation on my face: if a cancerous lower intestine is the pattern she’s looking for, then good for her.

At 6am on the Sunday morning, there was a gentle tap on my cheek. “Mum?” she whispered.
Brushing aside my uncharitable thoughts that having a child was like a hangover every morning minus any fun the night before, I raised my head off the pillow and replied, “Mmmm?”
“Mum, I’ve just been sick in my bed. It’s dripping on the floor and Jesse the Cowgirl is covered in it.”
Oh geez. “How do you feel now, do you want me to get you a bowl, or---?”
“No I feel good again Mum.”
“Want to get in here with me and Dad?”
She somehow used my hip bone as a springboard to wedge herself in between us in two seconds flat. “Now, try and go back to sleep. It’s still night time.”
All was silent and restful for about 30 seconds before there was a tapping on my back. “Muum?”
“WHAT?” I whispered furiously, flipping around to face her.
“Well, what about, my, you know, my sick?”
“It can stay where it is until it’s time to get up. GO TO SLEEP.” What my voice lacked in volume I made up for with an angry glare from red, sticky eyes.

Miraculously, I could hear her regular breathing within a couple of minutes. Instead of taking the opportunity to go back to sleep, I couldn’t help but turn over to look at her. It seems that it is only when our kids are asleep that we get the chance to really study them; to look at their soft, young, trusting little faces and feel dazzled all over again at their beauty. How lucky we were to have such a gorgeous, wonderful little ….zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…….

Tap tap, tap tap on my forehead. “Muuuum, it’s light outside now. When are we going to make those pink cupcakes you said we could make?”

PICK YOUR NOSE - for your healths' sake....

My local sunday newspaper reported that, according to a lung specialist in Innsbruck, Austria, nose-pickers are healthy, happier and most likely to be better in tune with their bodies than non-nose-pickers. And eaters. Dr Friedrich Bischinger believes that society should encourage children to nose-pick-and-eat. "It's a great way of strengthening the body's immune system. Medically it makes great sense and it's a perfectly natural thing to do."

Well, if it prevents cancer, heart attacks and AIDS, I'm all for it. I think...... On a different tack, just one google effort revealed that dear Phlegmy Friedrich opined all this daring information two years ago via Wikipedia and Ananova. So much for 'News as it happens, as it affects South Australians' then: Freddy must have assembled a mini canoe glued with his own boogers and floated it across the seas to the Sunday Mail if it is to be swallowed (ahem) as being latest news.

I have previously admitted to blowing my nose in the shower as one of my regular, bad habits. It clears everything out, saves on tissues and makes my groggy sleep-laden head feel about a kilogram lighter. That's right, I'm not ashamed of this daily springclean of the sinuses. However, I do not eat it.

In my reception year, I remember seeing the object of my (somewhat misguided) affection, Matthew, sitting directly in front of me in the school Activity Room. We were at an assembly, held inside because of the rain, and Matthew was mostly focussed on the inner recesses of his nasal cavity as opposed anything our deputy principal Mr Miller had to say.

Sadly, I found his actions fascinating - I was only five-and-a-half, after all. Then, after surveying the glistening green globule on his index finger, he put it into his mouth. There were conflicting feelings of revulsion and fascination swirling within me as I saw the look of preoccupied enjoyment on his face. Perhaps I should have a go as well, I thought. And so I did. It didn't take me long to find something worth picking out, and I sucked it from my finger.

Bleccccch, it was salty, tiny and horrible. Even now, goosebumps are springing up on my arms and my scalp as I write this.... Any early stages of a crush for Matthew disappeared quicker than mum's chocolate crackles at a birthday party. How on earth could he do that?

Nearly thirty three years later, I still haven't worked out the answer to that particular question, and if I saw Matthew again (his parents still know my parents), it would take me at least 4 glasses of sparkling shiraz before I'd dare bring it up.

What I do know is that, mostly, the pick-and-eat debacle showed me at a very young and impressionable stage in my life that if something seems different but also disgusting, avoid it. 'Disgusting' is normally a pretty strong indicator that it's best to stay away. Key examples of this have included:

• ** Eating a bowlful of melted copha, icing sugar and cocoa (aka the liquid ingredients of chocolate crackles) - Mum left it out and went outside, distracted by something Dad was making in the shed. The first few mouthfuls tasted like heaven, the other 27 were disgusting. As were my bed sheets, blankets, pillow, hair and face later on that night.....
• ** Trying Philippa's Dad's roll-your-own smokes during a sleepover when I was 13 - It was OK when Philippa tolerated me 'bum sucking' the first ten whilst we squinted at a section of the Rocky Horror Picture Show on the driveway screen visible from her bedroom window. Much later, 'Sweet Transvestite' wasn't how I was feeling when the room began to spin and there was only the hood of my sleeping bag to unload in....
• ** Riding the 'whizzy' in the playground for a full half-hour before setting off on a 450km drive with my family - I was not alone in this episode of stupidity. My two brothers were with me as well. All three of us continued to sit there, grunting out smart stuff like, "I feel a bit woozy now," but not having the sense to get off. We hadn't even driven 10 kilometres through Coff's Harbor's banana farms before the sick cartons at the back of the landcruiser were full.
• ** A bottle of $4 St Agnes brandy (on special) seemed the ideal drink to consume at an 18th birthday party - I was hilarious, beautiful and a fantastic dancer for the bits of the party I remember. Then I was covered in bits - my bits. Bits of pizza, chips, dips, crackers.... In my hair, my boyfriend's car, my brand new jumper. To this day brandy ranks right up there with offal, broad beans and pumpkin as foods only to be force-fed in hell.
• ** Sitting in the front of a mini-cab in London - it all seemed so thrilling at the time. On my way to an interview, I regaled the rather unattractive, shifty-looking driver with what I considered to be very exciting news that might cheer him up. I was just off the plane, hardly knew anyone, had no idea where this place in Hampstead was..... He couldn't seem to find the address for some reason, and pulled into a side street. As he reached over to grab at me, I had my brothers to thank, for I had already undone my seatbelt. He received an almighty HENPECK to the nose and as he yelled in fury and pain, I got the hell out of the car, only to find that 'my' street was just around the corner. I dusted myself down, took a deep breath, walked in and got the job.

There you go, just a few things that seemed sort of digusting at first but kinda exciting as well. As all the old wives' have said for donkeys' years (how long are donkeys years anyway?), go with your first impressions.

Other things that initially seem exciting but I also know to be disgusting are: people who think they become more hip or interesting if they're drunk or stoned; thrice-married, well-monied celebrity columnists telling us how to run our homes and relationships; dealing with home renovating tradesmen who possess a much lower quality work and time keeping mechanisms than the average human being; taking ten minutes to make one cup of coffee and then having to clean the %$#@ machine afterwards; Eaveless, cheaply constructed McMansions - destined to be Bogan Boxes in five years' time; and any contestant from any version of any season of Big Brother.

So, don't pick your nose and eat it. I'm betting that this Dr Friedrich Bischinger was a tubby guy with a lazy eye who also ate sunday school paste. He may have a stronger immune system, but I bet his little black book isn't exactly bursting at the seams.

Hard Rubbish Hunting

Our great mates the Gregory Five (2 adults, 3 kids) have just bought a renovator's delight: quite literally the 'worst house in the best street'.

Over the weekend, they had been given pre-entry rights by the family of the dead Aunt who used to live there. "Hey Dad, what room did she die in?" asked 9 year old Patrick, with genuine interest. The deceased's family were more than happy to let the Gregory Five swarm in, clean up and remove any of the furniture not already taken by the Aunt's various nephews, nieces and great-versions.

Love Chunks, Sapphire and I offered to help. LC would help Kent move out the furniture and knick-knacks left behind and Jill and I would get to work wiping out cupboards, scrubbing loos and kitchen benches in preparation for some of their stuff to be stored. Sapphire, at age seven (yesterday!) had the best job: just play with the Gregory Three: either outside, in their empty in-ground pool or inside the transportable rumpus room.

A couple of hours into the afternoon saw most of the house clean enough to unpack Gregory Five gear, and the worst of the furniture out onto the footpath. As luck would have it, their posh local council was having their twice-yearly 'Hard Rubbish Collection' this week. Residents were able to fling out anything that wasn't a) poisonous, b) a danger to the environment (macrame excepted), c) green matter (put them in the bin you pay for, idiot) or d) car tyres.

Love Chunks and Jill looked at a copper and tar indoor pot stand, both commenting, "That's about the ugliest bloody thing in this house, and that's saying something!" Indeed it was. The house may have had some beautiful art deco brick features, glass, interior doors and fabulous ceiling roses but for some reason, Auntie decided to give her entire home a facelift. Sadly, it was one from the 1970s. This was the particular decade that gave us the Bay City Rollers, cork platforms, burnt orange and mission brown laminates, Womens' Weekly Recipe Cards and the Sonny and Cher show. Suffice to say it also gave us Number 7: The Home That Taste Forgot.

The main bedroom was painted a thick layer of lilac which went well with the brown berber-striped curtains, home-made white built ins and gold-flecked lino. The second bedroom was, in LC's words, "wall-papered in a golfer's trousers". If I hadn't seen it for myself, I would not have believed it - some fat guy died so that this room could resemble his putrid plus fours.

Mercifully, the bathroom was too compact to stuff up too badly style-wise, but she had given it a red-hot go. White 'equipment' (bath/shower,toilet and handbasin) were all acceptable, but the technicolour floral wallpaper we could all have done without, as with also the busy mosaic blue floor tiles, not unlike my local swimming pool changeroom. Hell, she'd even added a wallpaper border at the bottom of the mirror - why?

Undertaking the cleaning of the kitchen gave me far too much opportunity to see this cack-inducing room up close and personal. Despite having three doors off the room (to the dining room via two sexy saloon doors, the laundry/back door and front hallway), it felt about as open and bright as a troll's cave. She'd gone for the look of 1978 and had obviously gone the whole hog, food preparation area-wise. Pine cupboards were everywhere so that the troll's cave resembled the inside of a caravan and were decorated with matchbox-sized, sun-yellow tiles for handles. These were almost poo-brown with nearly 30 years of accumulated grease, food and grot and make me queasy whilst scrubbing ineffectually at them. The rangehood was - of course - a fetching beaten copper job, overlooking an electric stove with fawn-coloured hot-plate covers. Let me digress here - what on earth do metal hot plate covers do? Protect an unsuspecting idiot from the heat - No - they'd conduct the heat, so you'd still get burned but at least have a fetching leaf print design on your palm instead of a hotplate spiral! Do they prevent dust - what? Since when has a dusty stove top ever been a problem for anyone other than Nicole Richie??

These silly-but-entertaining thoughts were interrupted by someone calling, "Excuse me? Anybody there?" at the front door. An obese version of Where's Wally was standing there, trousers held up with baling twine. "Is this pot stand out here supposed to be in the hard rubbish?"

"Yep," I told him. "Help yourself."

Wally beamed. "WOW! Thanks! I can't believe my luck!" I couldn't believe his taste. Wouldn't you know it - the thing we hated most was the first to go. Admittedly to a total oddball, but there you go. Seeing as I'd made the unconscious mistake of still standing there, daydreaming, Where's Wally decided to make his move. Hitching up his trousers, he whispered into my ear, "You know, if it was this week I was moving into my Housing Trust unit, all of this" ---- he spread his arms wide --- "would go right in!" He looked at me with a 'Hey hey, nudge nudge wink wink' look on his face.

"Oh, that's nice," I said weakly. Oh, is that my HUSBAND, Love Chunks, calling me?"

It wasn't long before Kent was assailed by a Father-Son duo looking most like twin Gollums on steroids. "These dining cupboards here - how much do you want for 'em?" The look of surprise on Kent's face said it all really - you mean you want to pay me money for those three butt-ugly, woodgrain veneer monstrosities with smokey glass and spray-painted gold knobs? "Oh, go for it, they're yours." Kent shot me a look: if that poor loser thinks he's won the furniture lotto, then so be it.

Jill and Dean were trudging back and forth from the shed with various collections of chairs - all in good nick, just uglier than a beer-goggled bushpig at 2:00am. I joined in, flinging several dozen home-embroidered lounge cushions, quilts, platters and coffee tables into the fray. A third ute pulled up and the soft furnishings were snatched up by Ma Clampett before the cigarette in her mouth had a chance to drop any ash. "See yers," she croaked, her gnarled old face cracking into what she thought was a smile but in actual fact reminded me of a handbag with the zip broken.

Where's Wally was back again, this time with his dog, a jack russell puppy. He made a beeline for me. Unfortunately. "I've left a note on the units, saying that they can't be taken, 'cos I'm gunna go back home and get my van." He noticed the tree growing smack-bang in the middle of the front lawn. "Are they grapefruit? Do you mind if I take one?"

"Take FIVE," offered Jill, who'd only just told me a second ago that the bloody tree would be the first living thing whipped out at this address. Any thoughts I had that he'd now favour Jill, weren't to be. He sidled closer. "Did you know that a grapefruit costs almost as much as a banana?" I didn't know that, and thought that it was very interesting but hey, I'd better head back inside to get back to work, so enjoy the fruit....

Worzel Gummidge called out, "These CHAIRS are great - you should be SELLIN' 'em, not leaving 'em out 'ere for us to get!" His beady eyes spied the three dining units. He took a few moments to read the note that either the two Gollums or Where's Wally had left on them. "HEY!" Kent wearily wandered back outside, struggling to appear faintly interested. "You live 'ere?"

"Y-e-s," Kent answered warily.

"These dining cupboards here. Who says you can leave a note to 'barleys' them? It's first in, first-in-the-trailer as far as I'm concerned."

"Oh, I don't really know----" Kent began.....

"Look mate, why don't I give you twenty bucks so that I get to take them off your nature strip right now?"

"That's a kind offer mate," Kent replied, "But I'm not really prepared to get into arguing over who gets to have them. Once they're out of my house, they're free rein as far as I'm concerned." Worzel removed his Port Power beanie to give his head a good scratching. "Hmm, so if I shove them in right now, then they're all mine, aren't they?

"Er whatever," said Kent, disappearing back into the house.

Sadly, we never did get to see the scene when Gollum x 2 and Wheres Wally turned up, full of anticipation and hopes for their latest furniture acquisition. By that time, the house was clean, locked-up and empty of all of its treasures. Including us.

Fame and Fool = two words that seem to belong together

Gwyneth, loveypuss - you need to get those roots done. There's no point continuing your macro-biotic, veganistic, chakrah-aligning, yoga-lovin' lifestyle if you hair looks about as real as Pamela Anderson's.

Or is a homage to your new son, a black stripe left there to symbolise Moses parting the red (or, in this case, ash blonde) sea?

What a surprise, Ms Mariah - you're wearing some over-tight, slutty outfit designed to remind us all that you have legs, a gut, shoulders and a chest struggling with the enormity of your mammoth-sized mammaries.

At least said milk rack is under cover for a change, although you obviously thought you were too covered up without the ginormous slash under your right hooter. Will we ever see you in an outfit that fits? Or one that doesn't make you look like a prostitute circa 1987?

Now Julia, on the other hand, has reverted back to 1887. Breasts held firmly in check, body hidden under her great grandmother's tablecloth.

And the shoes.....?!!! What on earth are they - suede canoes?? Are the twins hiding in them? Did you pay your stylist to come up with an outfit designed to 'Frighten away anyone under the age of 70 and...... podiatrists.'

You're gorgeous, Julia - is that such a crime....

Speaking of crimes, it's appalling to think that everyone on earth knows who this creature is, and yet none of us know of the 5 million others just like her suffering in Sudan.

Nicole Richie - famous for being I don't know what exactly - is to be admired for possessing the strength to lift up a handbag twice her own body weight. It is unclear what she keeps in it (certainly not food) - maybe a spare pair of sunglasses.

Oh Matthew, Matthew Matthew. *Sigh*, at least he's not naked or playing the bongos. Or maybe he should be, instead of venturing out in his 'It's enough that I got out of bed, stuff getting dressed' ensemble. Ugg boots (on a man!) and pyjama bottoms - surely the effects of last night's weed doesn't mean that he still thinks he's in his own living room?

He's got his red-heeler (Aussie cattle dog, for my overseas lurkers) with him and they love a good scamper. I was not aware that $20 ugg boots provided the sort of athletic support required for a 10km power walk....

I may be a bit biased here, because apart from suffering through 'Herbie: ReLoaded' with my godson, I have absolutely no idea why Ms Firecrotch is famous, other than for sheer comedic value.

One website was proclaiming this outfit as a fashion masterpiece, but I suspect that they may have inhaled too deeply when Matthew McConnaughey shuffled by.

If any of us mere mortals wore this, people would smile on us patronisingly and awkwardly, thinking how nice it was that a girl from the sheltered workshop was allowed to go to the beach on her own.....

This human Crunchie bar is the sorta-super-model Eva Herizogova. The poor thing was rooted to the carpet because she was too terrified to step forward and inadvertently flash us her map'o'Tassie.

One does wonder how the original design request comes in: 'I want a backless, sideless, frontless and crotchless dress please. Oh and I'd like it to be colour of a golden shower - that'll really set a tasteful entrance at Cannes.'

Ah Heather: so Richie's shagging your old mate Denise and you're about to enter the fray of the divorce courts; but it's nice to see that you're getting out of the house now and then.

But this top? Love Honey Love - you're pushing fifty, no-one wants to see your china-painted face, scrawny plucked-chicken chest or every tendon in your neck. Why don't you quickly pop back inside and put on a polo neck and a sensible blazer and we'll forget this ever happened.

Mothers Day Schmothers Day

I love a good lurk and surf through fellow blogs, and most of them, if not directly shouting out 'BUCK FUSH', they're wishing all the mothers in the world the very very best for the Sunday just gone.

Wow, what a huge effort to write those ones. Really. They're the equivalent of those annoying 'Thursday Thirteens' or 'Nine things you like starting with the letter K.' Granted there were some genuinely heartfelt accounts of missing their mothers now Not-Of-This-Earth (and I don't mean Geri Halliwell) and ones that genuinely tried to tackle the reality of being estranged from their mothers. But, on the whole, for every one of those mildly interesting ones were a hundred lazy ones.

Why are chrysanthemums supposed to symbolise Mothers Day? Yes, the word 'mum' is in there, but they're the floral equivalent of fruit cake or beige slacks: everyone's supposed to have them even though they don't like them. What mum (or non-mum) has ever announced on their blog/wish list/death bed that they really, above all else, needed a bunch of chrysanthemums? They should be used to perform colonic irrigations on gerbils, not for the flower least likely to be named in a love song.

A very quick straw poll of my colleagues - okay, two of them - around a coffee shop table this morning and reminiscences of what some other mum mates of mine have told me, has revealed that breakfast in bed and chryssy-bloody-anthemums are NOT what mothers want on their own personal May Day.

Mother of two boys, Pip, surprised me with her candour. "All I wanted was a sleep in, but nooooo, they got up extra early to climb all over me in bed so that they could give me their 'presents'."
"Ah yes,", I replied, "Something useful like a plaster cast of their footprint decorated with glitter, or a set of decorated wooden pegs?"
She nodded glumly. Our mate, Helen smiled the relieved smile of the childless and the well-rested.
"As for me," I went on, "Sapphire also woke up about an hour earlier than usual on Sunday, but her homemade presents were great." Pip's face fell - was I about to insinuate that she was a cold, heartless parent? Hell no: "But it was very hard to repress my more immediate reaction: BUGGER OFF BACK TO BED UNTIL AT LEAST 9AM, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

Jill, she of the 'Hate After Eight' fame (http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.com/2005/12/hate-after-eight-my-longtime-buddy.html), tried to tackle things from a different angle. When her beloved husband of 11 years asked her what she'd like to do with him and their three children, she actually had the temerity to answer: "Does it have to involve you people?"
Sadly, in order to keep her marriage, home and lovely children's self esteem intact, she hurriedly laughed and said it was a joke. What she really wanted - she confided later - was a day to herself. Not a day out, but a day off. One where she gets to stay home and her kids and husband get to go out.

You see, having a day out isn't very peaceful or relaxing because you always have to keep your socially-acceptable mask on. If you want to sit down, it has to be upright, on a chair, in a coffee shop that costs you money to be there. You can't lie on the floor, in your baggy old trakky daks eating twisties and leaning your head against the dog. And there's no point wandering through the fancy boutiques looking at sequinned fringing-posing-as-dresses when the most formal occasion you attend these days is a parent-teacher meeting and simply flicking off the stray piece of baby booger on your shoulder is your entire grooming regime.

And breakfast? There are too many mums out there who are presented with a tray of all sorts of gelatinous eggs, burned toast, slopped-over coffee and some sour-sobs shoved in a bud vase. The idea is so much better than the real thing - poor Mum normally hasn't had a chance to empty her bladder after a (hopefully) uneventful eight hour sleep, and yet her kids are eagerly watching her, ready to burst into accusations that she hates them if she doesn't immediately gulp down the drink and inhale the now cold oyster-like eggs.

Then, once Mum finds the right spot for that bag of home made pot pourri, she enters the kitchen, wearily noting that her day of not cooking breakfast instead changes to a Day of Cleaning egg off the stove, toast sweat from the bench, flower petals off the floor and doing the dishes.

So what do our Mums really want?
A sleep in, which we've already established. Followed by brunch (hence the sleep in) - preferably out of the house so that no household member is stuck with the tidying up saga.
Presents - anything the child would like to make, but must only be presented to the mother after 9am.
Lunch - doesn't matter. Just as long as the father and the kid(s) are out of the house, and she remains within it. Trust me, most mums would be happy with some dry coco-pops and the leftover Tim-Tams.

Geez I feel crook

Migraines (http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.com/2005/09/mr-migraine.html) are one of the cruellest ways to feel absolutely sh**house for no discernible reason, and then, when they’ve finally gone their evil little way, you feel kind of ‘hungover’ for the next couple of days but without the riotous fun that normally precedes one.

I’ve had more than what I consider my fair share of migraines, but today it’s not my head, it’s my stomach that’s giving me the heebie jeebies health-wise. Apart from milking Mothers Day far too freely in order to inhale as many chocolate truffles as my heart desired, I can’t think of anything dodgy that I’ve eaten in the past day or so.

The jorgi and I went for a nice run this morning, I ate some home-made (yesterday) chocolate-chip (of course) muffins with Sapphire and followed it with an orange (to cancel out the chocolate chips). After farewelling Sapph at school, I made some very rudimentary, student-like coffees for Nik and myself during our meeting: instant coffee, made tolerable with ‘extra’ sweeteners and those totally useless triangles of long life milk. I reckon they call them ‘long life’ because it’d be several decades before you could rip the confounded tape off and not squirt it down your trousers instead of into your cup.

But I digress. A little. Lunch was a turkey, cranberry and lettuce wholemeal sandwich accompanied by a young and zesty Farmers Union Iced Coffee – my non-water, non-alcoholic tipple of choice – and since then, I’ve felt about as comfortable as a cat on a pool mattress.

The stuffiness of the tiny office I share with my boss isn’t helping things. We can’t control the temperature or when it’s turned on. Some brainiac in the works department elected to have our controls connected to a room two floors away. Obviously that occupant likes to go through autumn/winter still wearing shorts and having their loose papers fly about the room like frightened seagulls.

However these petty grievances are now in second place today, replaced by the torturous queasiness of my quietly growling stomach. All too quickly the feeling has taken me back to 1973, 73, 74 – oh for gods’ sake – right up to 1984 – and the memories of sitting in the middle of the back seat of my parents’ Volvo. I will leave all comments about being Volvo drivers out for the purposes of this article at least. What was more pertinent to me was just how vomit-inducing it was to be a passenger in the vehicle even though we didn’t have to look at the car from the outside.

Rob, Dave and I loved it when our parents told us that we were going to drive to Adelaide to visit either set of grandparents. Yay! The anticipation of seeing what weird and wonderful gizmos grandpa had brought back from Mexico, tasting Nanna’s lolly-loaded chocolate ring cake, sucking down eight cups of milky tea with Grandma or pestering Grandpa with heaps of questions in his garden shed was our idea of holiday heaven.

About an hour before the journey though, the shine would start to dull a bit. Mum would ‘hide’ a sea sickness tablet in a teaspoon of honey or ice-cream and call us inside: “Kids, it’s time for a treat before we go!” We weren’t fooled for a second of course, but seeing Dad stand next to her with his rare-but-effective ‘Don’t You Even Think About Mucking Around’ look on his face, we all screwed up our faces, closed our eyes and theatrically swallowed the muck, making all sorts of choking, suffering sounds. Mum and Dad quite rightly ignored us and briskly said, “OK, hop in the car.”

It was there that the real suffering began. In those days (that would sound so much better if I could whissstle it through some loose dentures whilst setting aside my walking frame), the drive was a windy one through the hills. It was probably rather picturesque, but all that the Kanmantoo farmlets conjure up for me is the thought, “Where’s the sick carton?”

My brothers were similarly afflicted. It would start with the gentle lurching around each bend in the road, the warmth inside (winding down the window was too deafening to live through) and the damp wool pong of the brown fabric seats. Naturally, if Rob chucked up first, it would set the rest of us off. Dave, the youngest, seemed to win first prize most often, and sitting next to him wasn’t too much fun when out of the corner of my eye I could see the lurid yellow vomit slopping unbecomingly inside the old ice-cream carton.

Perhaps this story is appropriate being only one day after Mothers Day, because, even though she managed to keep her breakfast down and her mental faculties intact, it would have been even worse for poor old Mum. Dad wouldn’t stop the car until he had sighted the tollgate. There, by the side of the road was a narrow parking bay with a curved ‘Visitor Information’ shelter that was studded with dozens of Rotary, Lions Club and Scouts signs. Mum somehow mustered the strength to empty out three containers of sick in the weeds growing next to the phone booth. She cleverly ensured that there was a cordial bottle filled with rainwater in the car, which she’d then use to give all three receptacles a rudimentary clean.

What a lovely trip down memory lane. That barf bay is no longer thanks to the introduction of the Heysen Tunnels and the bypass of Devil’s elbow and Mum is not sitting here next to me, asking me if I’d like to lie down on the lounge with blanky and pillow to watch Humphrey B. Bear on television and try sipping some flat lemonade. Unfortunately.

Shifting Standards

As I was in the doorway-wide, stinking hellhole known optimistically as the Department Kitchen, the realisation that our hygiene standards drop several levels when we're at work suddenly struck me.

For instance, there I was, the recent proud (and grateful) owner of a sparkling new dishwasher who regularly chooses the '55C/Anti-Bac' cycle, content enough to merely swish out three days' worth of coffee residue from my cup, give it a shake dry and plonk it down on the carpet next to the kettle in the office. Charming! Think about it - would you feel comfortable with just giving your dishes at home (after being used at least 8 times over the past couple of days), a half-hearted drip dry and then put back in the cupboard? If yes, I bet your dinner guest return rate isn't too high.

Last night, after Sapphire and I went to pick up Love Chunks from his piano lesson (maybe the subject of a future blog article), we saw a woman murdering a meat pie in the bushes outside the laundromat. As is their tendency, the pie had obviously spewed its dodgy meat substitute and gravy onto her lap like an angry envelope. She had then countered this by eating it outside, leaning over a bush, dribbling brown globules all the while. The normally boring wait for LC just flew past because of my fascination with her eating style. Madame Meat Pie then bunched up the white bag that had held the pie, shoved in further into the shrubbery and wiped her meat and sauce stained hands all over her trousers. And these were the ones that she wasn't washing at the laundromat. Would she have dribbled a meat pie over her shag pile rug at home, shoved the bag into the back of the lounge cushions and wiped her hands down her trakkies? I sincerely hope not.

Work, road house and public toilets are another area that shows a staggering gulf between what one would - ahem - 'do' at home and what a lot of people seem to get a kick out of 'doing' in any convenience where there's a gap between the bottom and top of the door. You're welcome to accuse me of living a sheltered life, but I've yet to visit anyone's house and find cigarette burns on their cistern, 'Narelle is a f**king mole who roots anybody' scrawled on the wall or a river of urine flooding the floor. (One exception - my share house in the eighties after a 21st).

On the reverse side, there are situations when our expectations of cleanliness/hygiene/food are much higher than what we're willing to put up with in our homes. One classic case of this is when a cleaner is involved. I've been on both sides of this particular field of self delusion and confusion. For six months I was a live-in housekeeper for a family in London, and was repeatedly told by the lady of the house that the toilets (all four of them) and bathrooms (3) were to be cleaned every single day. Now you can't tell me that if she had to do it she'd be prepared to clean them every twenty four hours. Nah it'd be the complete opposite - the wet areas would probably only get a quick squirt of bleach when the mushrooms threatened to block out the shower drain.

For three god-awful weeks I was a nanny in Hampstead, London. Again, the mother had a few standards that she insisted on reminding me about: the children's bed sheets and pyjamas were to be washed - and ironed - every single day. The beds were to be moved every second day so that I could vaccuum underneath, and the curtains were to be done twice weekly. Their bathroom was to be scrubbed every second day and all toys were either to be wiped down with disinfectant or put through a hot wash every week. Looking back, it's a wonder I lasted as long as three weeks, especially when Mrs Haughty House had a masseur arrive twice a week to give her an all-over massage!

This unreasonable attitude towards 'the help' isn't just restricted to British billionaires. Common folk such as myself have been heard to moan, "Oh my cleaning lady's absolutely crap. She doesn't clean the oven, wash the outside windows, dust the skirting boards or wipe every doorknob...." Oh, and you do, every single week?

But wait, there's more. Haven't we all gone on holiday, more eager to see what the room in our resort's like first rather than rush outside to check out the local scenery? It is with disappointed sighs when we enter the smallish sized bathroom and find that there's no mega-whirl spa-bath, massaging dual shower jets or Chanel No5 bathroom products. We seldom try to remind ourselves that our own bathrooms are likely to have a soggy, hairy soap splatted wetly in the holder, silicone waterproof shower sealant now black with mould and more pubes than a Brazilian waxer's bin scattered all over the tiles.

And finally, the meal out. Paying cash for our victuals seems to give us the expectation that we deserve a meal of Le Grande Bouffe proportions. This can be somewhat of a challenge in a busy Italian coffee and cake bar. How many people these days will say something like, "Oh, this coffee isn't as good as La blah blah down the road...." How come in the last couple of years we've all become coffee gourmands? Most of us wouldn't know if the worker (OK, sorry, 'Barrista') spat in it before he put the froth on. I'd be prepared to assume that pretty well none of us could be bothered to roast and chop five cups of hazelnuts for the flourless orange cake that we're currently turning our noses at.

To be fair though, I'd never expect anyone to ask for something we'd eat in the privacy of our own home, such as: "Could I please have a week old, cold slize of Hawaiian pizza - hang on - can you bring out that piece of mud cake first - just nuke it for ten seconds in the microwave. What, you dropped it on the floor? Don't worry - if it aint been on the ground for three seconds or more, it aint infected, I always say. Can I eat a packet of cheese twisties while I'm waiting? Can you bring that bottle of diet coke over - no don't worry about a glass I'll swig it straight."

My point here is so small it might as well be one of Shane Warne's brain cells, but it's this: standards aren't standard. They can't be standard if they change. And if you don't think your standards vary depending on the situation, then ask yourself this: Would you be prepared to let rip a ripe old fart during a job interview? Drop your sauce-covered pastie on the floor but eat it anyway? I didn't think so.