Hating with Honesty

I was watching a funny-as-a-piece-of-cold-toast comedy called 'Meet the Robinsons' the other night, willing it to get better because it has the Office's lovable Tim character in it. What really turned me off was the Tim character's hugely stereotyped brother and sister - fussy high achievers who belong only in 3rd grade comedies and not in the real world.

The sister dropped her boyfriend because he didn't find 'Fawlty Towers' funny. YAY!!! Neither do I - I hate it! I find Basil about as amusing as an amoeba and consider his beating up of Manuel, stupid theatrics and escalating situations to crisis point to be unpleasantly stressful viewing. The fact that they only made about 6 episodes that keep screening over and over in an effort to indoctrinate non-believers in the 'supremacy' of British comedy makes me hate it more.

Now that that admission is off my chest, here are a few more:


Jennifer Jason Leigh, Nic Cage, Chevy Chase -
I've lumped these three 'actors' in together because I have never, ever seen a movie with any of them in it that they have
a) done a good job in;
b) I've enjoyed watching, or
c) has become a modern or cult classic.

JJL looks permanently unhinged, Nic Cage has about as much charisma as a cowpat and Chevy Chase has a stupid, "I think I'm really funny and sexy" look on his face that I just want to slap right off. I'm not sure what Miss UnHinged is up to these days and Chevy Chase was last seen doing an advertisement for car insurance here in Australia***, and Nic Cage just seems to be playing dress ups and marrying foetuses....

Casablanca and Citizen Kane
No-one is prepared to admit that nearly every single bloody 'Greatest Movies Of all Time' lists have these two godawful time-wasters in them because people are too scared to admit how crapulously awful they are, and slot them in because they think they have to. It's like we're all scared to admit that we might prefer watching 'Clueless' or 'Ferris Bueller's Day Off' over and over, so we all put down the obvious ones so that no-one takes us aside, strips us naked and parades us on the internet as 'Cinematically Challenged.'

Casawanka hasn't improved with age but merely shows that Ingrid Bergmann displayed about as much acting talent as a bench seat, and Humphrey Bogart is about as believably attractive as my Dad's old golf bag.

As for Orson - I *ate* the Zerox machine - Welles, his epic suck-fest is just one huge love letter to himself. Boring from start to finish. Now let's all be honest in our movie votes from now on, so that we'll see the movies on it that we watch the most - or at least every time they're on TV and we're at home - Star Wars, Gladiator, Life of Brian, When Harry Met Sally.....Birdy Num Num!


Catcher in the Rye
Again, this pointless piece of printed pap gets trotted out on all 'literary classics' lists, yet is about an unlikeable, unrealistic and stupid waste of space and his 'travels'. About as inspiring as David Hasselhoff's temperance treaties and yet no-one wants to admit that they don't know what the hell it's all about. Why not admit that we all read Hailey's 'Roots' from cover to cover, as we did Henry Charriere's 'Papillon', Leon Uris's 'The Exodus', and hell - anything by Nick Hornby, Bill Bryson and Douglas Adams?


Whole Prawns
Why do so many normally-sensible people go nuts when they approach a buffet table groaning with plate loads of whole cooked prawns? How can rather bland tasting sea meat be worth such adulation and why-oh-why would anyone wish to end up smelling like a dead shark's arse when they're splattered with juices, prawn poo-pipes and beady black eyes from dismembering the poor little shrimps?

Peeled, yes, I can go a few of those, but unpeeled, no. They are simply not worth the effort.
Give me an egg and bacon sandwich any day, and don't forget the lindt balls, cheese platter, champagne and top quality coffee....

David 'Kochie' Koch from the Sunrise Show


His swarmy, self-satisfied smug mug annoys the living crap out of me and I fly into a ranting rage every time I see him on television. So much so that Love Chunks pats me patronisingly on the knee and says, "We know, dear, we know" and backs out of the room slowly with the remote control shoved up his jumper.

David Koch likes to portray himself as the 'normal, everyday Aussie bloke' yet has written best-selling books on how to invest money, make a buck or million and wouldn't know what a real Aussie battler was if it came shoved a broken VB bottle up his $300 Country Road bum.

The two trapped Tassie miners were 'lucky' enough to have him barge into their ambulance after being stuck underground for two weeks - wouldn't that be great? A faceful of Kack-tastic Kochie before you've had a chance to eat, drink, shower or receive any medical treatment? Perhaps we should get the 'Chaser' guys to do that to Kochie when he's having his first aneurysm....

Angela Bishop
Angela used to be a regular visitor on Working Dog's 'The Panel' on channel ten, endlessly name dropping the celebrities she was paid to interview 'exclusively'. Clearly she believed in her own importance and value and remained oblivious to my shouts of 'Shut UP you mental pgymy!' every time she appeared.

It seemed pretty obvious that 'The Panel' merely endured her presence, knowing full well those 'exclusives' were her allotted two minutes of the star's time during an 18 hour Australian junket and, being a channel ten show, they were contracturally obliged to feature her. No doubt too it was the same for their interminable Big Brother segment which eventually caused me to avoid their show altogether.

Now Angela has about as much insight and talent as, well, pretty much everyone else on the planet, really. Perhaps Mum (Bronwyn, she of the Cement BeeHive and anti-pensioner fame) might have helped things along a bit, but we can all feel certain that no casting couch acrobatics were involved.

Peter Helliar
If this guy wasn't already partnered and a father, I'd set him up with Angela so they could while away their days preening each other whilst gazing over each other's shoulders at their own reflections in the mirror.

This guy seems to be one of Rove's entourage but has neither the skill, charm or comic timing of Rove or any other stand up comedian with a microbe of talent. He seems to think that broad caricatures and YELLING out his punch line makes him an 'everyman' and therefore funny, and looks as though he's about to burst out laughing at his own hilarity. Some words of advice to you, Petey boy: you are about as funny as a dead kitten and possess the wit of a deaf mute. Quit the comedy and go and find yourself a nice job selling photocopiers.

Mick Molloy

Another Australian 'funny man' that I've never ever found even remotely amusing. For some reason 'Working Dog' (The Late Show, The Panel) are friendly with him and he seems to get praise - and work - from basking in their reflected glory.

His much-celebrated job as radio cost with Tony Martin was 100% due to Tony Martin. Tony is quick, clever and inventive whereas Mick seems to think that being an overweight slob with a broad accent qualifies as champagne comedy.

Perhaps he, Peter Hellier and even Dave Hughes should club together to open up an Aussie Home Loans franchise where they could serve the bogans they purport to represent in their performances. At least that way they'll be off the air and out of my hair.

*** If 'stars' come down to Australia to do paid advertisements, they are sooooo very close to having the clause 'Will Work for Food' permanently tattooed on their foreheads and in their contracts. See also Tom Selleck, Tara Reid, Pamela Anderson, Matt LeBlanc.

Not that there's anything wrong with that


We haven't heard much from Jerry Seinfeld since finishing his show and doing his bit to repopulate the earth, so it was a pleasant surprise to see him do the publicity rounds for his new movie.

His new flick presumably for children and not anything to do with remaining 'the master of his domain' and the outfit is rather forgiving for any middle-aged paunch he may have developed, thus negating the need to keep changing his jeans labels to '32 inch' (old 'Seinfeld' fans will understand)

Shitney's 'Road to Recovery' seems to be rather non-traditional one of never going home, forgetting she has two children and donning outfits consisting of her little sister's strawberry shortcake braces and nanna's sarong.

And while we accept that Britney is the master of clothing understatement, Christina Aguilera is the reigning queen when it comes to 'barely there' make up.

Nothing says 'Low Maintenance Female' like white, over-moussed hair, orange skin, transvestite eye shadow and plum puffer-fish lips.

Like meatloaf through a straw, so are the days of Kate and Pete's lives....

Personifying a couple of healthy, meat-eating, oxygenated and bright-eyed youngsters, they've even taken their dieting regime a step further by sharing one tiny cup of espresso between them.

Not only that, but Pete looks as though he's about to barf his share of the coffee back up, and I'll keep my fingers crossed that Kate can keep hers down - Pete appears to be about as fresh as the inside of a camel's mouth.

We all know that Semi and Butcher are happily hitched, but whilst she's maintained a fairly glamorous dress sense, he's been heading down the Nick Nolte Date Rape Police Picture path that makes me wonder just what the attraction is.

Here's hoping his odour doesn't match the look he's going for, or Semi's in for a night of dutch ovens, parmesan cheese breath and mouldy manure armpits.



This picture has done the rounds already but it shocks me to see 'our Cate' impersonating an albino stick insect on crack.

If those collarbones protrude any further, she'll have a plague of grasshoppers using them as a skate park, or be swatting away elderly ladies who keep pulling at her dress thinking its going to summon in Jeeves with a tray of tea and scones.

EAT Cate, EAT - whatever role you're starving for, make sure the next one is about the life story of the Two Fat Ladies - "Full Fat, Full Throttle, Full Aneurysm"


Lyndsey LieDown is the only person on earth who can make an innocuous black and white striped t-shirt into a piece of clothing sluttier than a sequinned nipple sticker.

Why she even bothers to cover up her map of Tassie escapes me, unless there's nothing but a 'Will Work for White Powder' tattoo etched where Hobart would normally be located.

And if one Lyndsay Ho-down wasn't enough, let me present you with Rehab Rejection Lyndsey! My guess is she's applied her lipstick with her left hand seeing as the right one was busy holding the 1 litre bottle of vodka. The task was made even more difficult by lying on the bar with her head upside down nearly touching the floor and Trevor the keg guy putting on her eye shadow using the blue billard stick cubes.

Nice one, Lynds - Christina Aguilera is apparently very envious.

Thanks to E!Online, The Superficial and Go Fug Yourself for the above happy snaps

The ecstasy of outrage

The girls/ladies/comrades/sisters at my work are all extremely intelligent, hard-working, gorgeous and broad-minded. Every day I learn something from them and admire their research goals, social consciences and their senses of humour.

However, there's one thing they enjoy doing that is so predictable and provides me with no end of free amusement. They love to read articles in The Australian or opinions and quotes attributed to fellow bozos John Howard/Peter Costello/Tony Abbott/Joe Hockey/Alexander Downer - hell, even Nicole Cornes - and puff themselves up with righteous indignation..




You know, that MillyMoo ought to take a good, hard look at herself...
Yes, she should pull her socks up and remember her manners....


Every morning, as we all arrive, get our coffees and ease ourselves into our working day, my esteemed colleagues start up their ecstasy of outrage conversations. The names have been changed to protect the innocent, but it tends to go something like this:

Dulcie: Oooh, did you see what that Peter Hendy bloke from the Chamber of Commerce wrote about the latest WorkChoices debacle? He's the spitting image of Peter Reith----

Joyce: ----as if one wasn't ugly and awful enough------

Esme: That's nothing. What about that stupid Pecker head Corrigan and his arse-end article on why the 'Bastard Boys' got it all wrong? All it proves is that they were right - he is a total pecker head! Greg Combet got a good run though.... He's not a bad piece of intellectual erotica is he? I'd gladly take off his glasses and -----

Eunice: Steady on Esme, it's only 9.15am and you haven't even finished your skinny capp yet!
Mmm, well I'm still reeling at the sheer cheek of Johnny Boy Howard telling Alan Jones that he's a forward thinker---

Mavis: ----maybe forward from 1954 to 1955, heh heh heh-----

Dulcie, entering the office: Nicole Cornes has kept her blonde head down for a bit, hasn't she?

Joyce: Most likely being indoctrinated by Rudd's little roustabouts. You know, learning how to spell 'parliament', picking out Kevin Rudd from a line-up and memorising their policy on uranium and that.

Esme: I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than the frontal lobotomy that Nicole needs to function properly-----

Eunice: Don't you worry, I've already nominated you for taking tickets at the next union fundraiser, so keep a hold of those brain cells, you hear?

Mavis: What about me? I'll even shave my legs for the event if I'm allowed to get up on stage and maintain the rage...."

I sit there and have a good chuckle at their friendly and familiar rants. All I need to do to get their ire going is to continue to yell out stuff like "Andrew Bolt", or "Jeanette Howard's in the Bulletin as Mother of the Year" or "The cute guy from the Chaser is dating Angela Bishop". If only I could harness their good humoured verbal vitriol as a green energy source.

Bless them - their average age is thirty six!

The Weapons of Mass De-Fluff-tion




















Have you ever wondered just where all the fluff that we produce actually ends up?

On Saturday I spent at least half an hour of my precious time bent over like a rice-planter with osteoporosis vainly trying to brush in dozens of dog hairs, dust bunnies, greyish lint, Love Chunks' whiskers, balls of cotton from our new flannelette sheets - and god knows what other sources of fluff - into a dustpan.

If I'd bothered to think clearly I would have realised that dragging out the vaccuum cleaner and sucking out the fluff once and for all was easier than continually chasing dusty fluffy puffs around and around the house.

The humble dustpan-and-broom (or brush, really) must be vaguely related to the Van-Der Graaf generator that we all had to put our hands on in year nine science and have our hair rise up higher than Hugh Hefner on his horizontal folkdancin' meds. Why, I hear you breathlessly ask yourselves - I'll tell you why - there's obviously some kind of unspoken static electricity that propels dust bunnies away from the broom or dustpan. This natural action thereby condemns the sweeper (in this case, me) to many wasted minutes of bending over to sweep, swearing in frustration as the fluff floats off somewhere else, shuffling over to said fluff whilst still remaining stooped, seeing it again f*** off out of reach, swear again and eventually stand up, red-faced, angry and clutching lower back.

So, not only is the stuff inexplicably everywhere but it's impossible to catch and destroy once and for all. And how come we end up with a handful of greyish blue fluff after each cycle in the spin dryer yet our clothes still look the same? How much fluff is left before our clothes one day simply give up the ghost and fall right off? I mean - hey, it seems to happen a lot in soft porn movies and maybe they're bravely documenting the outcomes of using the dryer too much.....

More importantly, how often does our hair 'down south' regenerate? It must be pretty bloody often if our puke-inducing pale pink bathroom floor is anything to go by (no, it wasn't chosen by us and will hopefully be removed soon). Strangely, when my answer to the sales woman's question of 'What floor tiles are you looking for?' was "Something that is pubic hair, belly button lint and towel fluff camouflaging", I didn't get quite the selection I was hoping for. Instead, we were rather gruffly handed a few brochures and pushed towards the automatic exit doors.

Is there something this un-identified flying fluff could be used for, in the name of public good? Could it be converted to a constantly available energy source, or as a cheap filling for raincoats and the dinghies we'll need when the polar caps finally melt? An instant supply of undergarments readily available to mentally starved 'AActresses' and heiresses at mobile phone launches?

All very valid queries, just crying out for good, scientific answers and implementation....

They're leaving me
Hi there regular readers. It's Dogadoo here, filling in for MillyMoo who is on a detox bender and can no longer sit still enough on the computer chair before her farts raise her butt off the seat like a hovercraft and it starts spinning her around and around like the poor kid in the Exorcist.

At the moment I'm the only person at home who can bear to be in the same room as her. At the first sign of one of her aromatic farts, Sapphire and Love Chunks run to the other end of the house. As for me, I don't think she's ever smelt better. It sure beats that dreadful Chloe perfume and Rexona roll on she coats herself in every morning, let alone that sinister peppermint foam she fills up her mouth with twice a day. My toiletry needs are far simpler - give me a dead seagull to roll in and a ant-infested piece of roadkill to snuffle and I'm a happy little beast.

The first photo shows me in my favourite spot, the beanbag. Actually it's my second favourite: my all time favourite is lying anywhere on my back with a willing human scratching my tummy. Once MillyMoo entered a chatroom posing as me. She said that I was 21 (which is three in human years), had brown eyes, auburn hair, was an outdoor girl who was very affectionate, sporty and loved to make friends. She had to close down her account soon after because as soon as she wrote, "My favourite position is lying on my back in every room of the house". I'm not sure of the reason why, but overheard Love Chunks saying something to her like 'Thanks to you the server's in meltdown mode and who is that weirdo standing outside in the street wearing nothing but a dirty parka and a video camera.'

It's been too easy to digress: today is all about ME. Me and my daily suffering. You see once I overheard MillyMoo on the phone to a friend saying, "Oh dogs are soooo much easier than kids. At least you can leave them outside in the garden all day with a bowl of water and some crunchies."

This was very disappointing to hear, to say the least. Can't she see that by 8.00am I'm already fearing the inevitable departure of my Alpha family by 8.30am, leaving me all alone in the garden with only my old bones and flat tennis balls for company?

No matter how hard I try to work my adorable 'Please don't leave me' face (check me out below - I have built-in black eye liner that MillyMoo would die for), MM's heart is harder than a male Cocker Spaniel after a second in the breeding kennel.
She just pats me on the head and burbles, "See ya later Furry Face," and laughs at her cruel nickname as she shuts the gate in my face. Yes, she laughs. Laughs at my heartbreak, my misery and my sadness.

I'd like to give her something to really laugh about but then I remember that she's also the one who feeds me and takes me for runs around the school oval. Once she even dressed me in a leotard but I'm working on forgiving her for that one.....














By 8:30am, Love Chunks has long since left for work, and MillyMoo and Sapphire are leaving for school together. I make a mad dash to the other side gate and put in a gargantuan effort to silently plead with them to take pity on my impending loneliness and stay with me. Or to take me with them.

MillyMoo has taken me to Sapphire's school a few times for 'Show and Tell.' This is always great fun for me because all the kids are sitting down on the carpet in a circle and so their faces are really easy for me to lick. One time Ben had brought in his two pet rabbits and I nearly chewed through their cane travel basket so that Ms Evelyn had to stand up on a chair with the bunnies on her head. The worst time was when MillyMoo spray painted my back green so that I'd match Sapphire's hair when she left for Sportsday. I hated it when they were laughing at me - it was like Christmas time when I had to wear a poxy little Santa hat or last year when I had a red bone with flashing lights put on my collar.

I've also been to work with MillyMoo a couple of times, but she seems to get really mad when I do a whizzer on the floor inside but don't do one outside when she takes me for a walk around the grounds. What does she expect - drizzling on demand? I got lots of attention and pats on those visits though and one nice lady - Jo I think her name was - also smelled a bit of dog and she played with me for so long her black velvet coat looked orange when she left. Ah, fun times.


Here's the final photo of me trying to shove my whole head through the gate. I tend to throw in a couple of whines to make the entire scene more pitiful but they leave me anyway.

Then I am all alone, the house all to myself, no-one to play with, nothing to do, no-one caring one iota about me. I'm about to let out a howl when ----

What's that - Ooooh, it's a magpie - gotta chase it!

Whoah, there's a few more rotten plums over here - do I eat them or roll in them - decisions decisions---

Hey hey HEY - get out of here you stupid lizard. Don't you dare hiss at me-----oh. That hurt. Let me just say that I'm letting you live and be free out of the goodness of my Good-O heart, scaly brain----

Whoo Hoo - yes MJ, I can hear you through the fence too! Did you owner leave you too? Why don't we----

Oi! Oi you, postman! Get your filthy fingers out of my letterbox you minibike riding mongrel---

Bonus - some old lamb bone from last winter...I'll just drag it over to the door mat and-----

----Well whaddaya know - at least three cats have crapped in this flower bed since last night...

ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz


Yay they're home already! WHOO HOO! I love youse all !!!!!!!

Bella Bottom Burp

Yep, that's me: a walking, talking Butt Blasting Machine.

Some of you will know that farting and me are like tomatoes and basil; jam and cream; Lennon and McCartney; Paris and sluttony. No matter how hard I've tried, the odd 'parp' can escape during such events as karate training, running or even bending over in a hurry.

These, however, are mere hiccups compared to what's been produced right now and the picture included here of Dogadoo's buddies greeting each other would be a more attractive fragrance to inhale than anything I've emitted this past week.

The reason? One word = Detox. In deference to the old saying of 'treat your body like a temple', mine had been abused so badly that it whatever temple I possessed was gradually being built over as an inflatable castle at an amusement park. On holidays with Love Chunks, daughter Sapphire and my Mum last week I gutzed myself full of chocolate, wine, cheese, chips, steak, lollies, icecream, more chocolate, pastries and cake trying desperately to pretend that my stomach rolls were not big enough to store books in and that my clothes had mysteriously shrunk.

It was time for a detox, I decided, but this time I wasn't going to buy a stupid kit from the chemists, I was going to do it all myself. Since Saturday (six days and counting), I have virtually eliminated every single fun food from my life. No coffee, no milk or dairy, no meat, no wheat, no sugar (except honey), no lollies, no wine (or alcohol of any kind) and no chocolate.

Love Chunks is very kindly going along for the detox ride - at least in partaking of the evening meal. He is still enjoying his morning cappuccino from Mr Gaggia the coffee machine and his treasured glass or two of red at night. Oh and the post-dinner snack frenzy of chocolate or chips when the sensible little vegan meal has been digested and his stomach is crying out for something decent to eat.

Surprisingly, I have been coping with it all rather well. Chocolate does enter my thoughts every now and then (on approximately the same level as sex does for teenage males) but I have not taken a single bite. It takes a lot of internal positive talk to get excited about having a cup of liquorice tea, or convincing yourself that 4 dried figs are just as good as a faceful of smashed Easter Egg chocolate. Cheese and pasta would be nice but can be resisted but I am sorely missing having a good cup of coffee in the morning, more for the taste than for any improvement in my mood. Despite these sacrifices, I am finding that it's relatively easy to maintain the will to refuse any crap food right now.

This good behaviour of mine isn't being reflected by my stomach, or lower down..... If I thought I was a farty femme before, well now I'm at asphyxiation level. By bed time, my gut is so swollen you could drum on it and I daren't let LC poke me - not even in jest - because he runs the risk of popping a human balloon and seeing the room fill with a rotten egg vapour and his wife madly flying around the air, squealing.

Fortunately for me, this week my boss, Queen B, is out of the office and I've been able to set up her articles, books and files in relative privacy. This means that I don't have to spend my days (as per normal) sitting politely at my desk and, erm , cough, ahem ~pushing the refugees back on the boat~ and walking around as though I've just sat on a fencing post.

There I was yesterday, humming inanely, working in Queen B's office, letting a few ultra ripe ones rip whenever I felt like it. What freedom it was after the first few days of repression! I was also comfortable in the knowledge that the hammering, drilling and swearing of the builders putting in a new kitchen and office area on the other side of our floor covered any explosive aural emanations that were occurring. What I hadn't accounted for was visitors.

Poor, dear, sweet Jude. She had gone to my office to ask me something and had quickly deduced from the sounds of tuneless singing and clanging about that I was in the boss's office.

No sooner had she knocked and opened the door than she was confronted - no, that's too gentle a word - had her nasal passages completely and utterly raped and pillaged in a vicious, deathly and unprovoked attack no human should ever be forced to endure. "No Jude. For the love of all things holy - DON'T STEP THROUGH THE DOOR!"

Alas, it was too late. She smelt, she felt and she staggered slowly backwards her usually-smiling, kind face in a grimace of shock and pain. Not surprisingly, she rang in to say that she was going to work from home today......

Ask and ye shall receive....

......a slap in the head for bothering me.

It's time to update those old chestnuts that tend to get automatically wheeled out whenever we're faced with an annoying problem. They serve no purpose other than to make the listener feel even more frustrated about their situation and tempted to give the utterer of the saying a quick, stinging flick on the nose.

Here's some of my own interpretations for your consideration.

Too many cooks
.....have websites, magazine columns, TV shows and tie-in cook books. Turn the camera off and get back into the kitchen where you belong and cook me a meal that I can a) afford, b) actually want to eat, and c) is not made using only the finest Valhrona chocolate, Andeluvian goat lips or some other stupid ingredient I have to hire a sherpa to find and a bank manager to cough up the money for.

A Rolling Stone gathers
.....far too much money for strutting around on stage like a geriatric piece of beef jerky when he really should shut up singing, stop shagging models young enough to be his children and retire. Quietly.

A bird in the hand is worth more than
.....a poo splattered on top of your head after tweety flaps off into the sky

Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do
....to amuse yourself on long haul economy-class flights and in doctors' waiting rooms. Preferably with nothing to hand but a 1981 Readers Digest, a Tickle-me-Elmo with both eyes missing and a cheese sandwich stuck under the coffee table.

Give a man a fish and he'll feed for a day. Give a man a
......remote control and you won't hear from him for hours.

A problem shared is a problem
..... hand-balled on to some other poor sod.

England expects that every man should do his duty
......but hopefully not in his pants.

We shall fight them on the land, we shall fight them on the beaches, we shall
.......put those pesky refugees into a 'processing internment facility' on Christmas island to rot longer than David Hicks, unfortunately.

'Tis better to have loved and lost
....than to still be a dateless virgin at 43 who believes that Michael Jackson is a well-adjusted, single bloke still looking for a mature, heterosexual life partner or that Pete Doherty just needs a nice hot bath.

All that glistens is not .....a boogie on your shoulder, is it?

I think therefore I...... will be praying fervently that John Howard doesn't get voted in again by the hordes of mental pygmies out there who actually believed that he influenced interest rate increases and George Bush could remember what his name was.

You had me at Hello..... so this time can we at least sit down and find out each other's names first?

I am not an animal!.....I just look and act like one (Tommy Lee)

Frankly my dear, I don't give ...... a fat rat's clacker to charities who phone me up just as I'm mid-way through dishing out the evening meal, putting my child in the bath or just about to water the garden/hang out a load of washing/read the mail/have a long session in the loo.

To err is human. To forgive is... pretty bloody silly in this age of litigation and payouts.

My claws are out - SA Labor Party, hang your stupid big bone heads in shame!

Ever since Sunday when our execrable local paper, the Sunday Mail announced that one of their esteemed columnists, Nicole Cornes, had been 'shoulder tapped' by the labor party to run for the Federal seat of Boothby at the next election, South Australia has been buzzing.

Buzzing not with the sounds of approval, but shocked intakes of breath, dismay and anger that Labor could do something so insulting to their members, steadfast voters and future voters.

Nicole Cornes....*sigh*...... Pretty to look at but pretty dumb to read, see and hear. On ABC radio 891, she sounded like a teenager, trailing off each response with a pointless 'yeah' added for a full stop.

Let me take you back a few years when she emerged from being Graham Cornes (ex-coach of the Crows, now car dealer and 5AA announcer) muuuuch younger new wife and mother to a couple of kids to having her own full page to witter on about such heady things as how to keep your man happy; why it's great to be invited to Bec and Lley Lley's wedding and the huge stress of running a fairy shop in Glenelg.

Whenever we went on holiday, I'd buy the Dungday Mail to read her column and luxuriate in the blind rage it would evoke. I couldn't even get a sub-sub-sub editor to reject my submissions in writing, but Nicole gets invited to write a column that would make Paris Hilton's 'Confessions of an Heiress' look like the 'To Kill a Mockingbird' of the 21st Century.

Nicole's CV is so damn patchy that, even with all the padding added by the Sunday Fail journos it has about as much weight as Nicole Richie's eyelashes. Left school at fifteen - fair enough. Tripped about doing reception work at RAA until she landed Gra Gra, got married and up the duff. Then did her 'adult entry exam' and got into Flinders Uni law. Part time, along with, for four years, running a 'Fairy Shop' in Glenelg. (Sapphire had attended a few birthday parties there, but not once did I ever see Nic in there either behind the counter or interracting with ~shudder~ children from ~~double shudder~~ outside of the Glenelg post code area).

According to a close friend of mine, Nic's been studying longer than a Tibetan monk, so her self-proclaimed stress of studying and incurring a HECS debt must be at the rate of one subject per year. She was having her legs waxed when asked to write for the Fungal Nail, so lord knows how she made time for that with two children, part time study and running a shop. Thank god for good help...!

What really made me want to barf up my breakfast was that she admitted to voting for John Howard. How could any sane, self-respecting person with a sense of conscience, social justice and common sense do that?

Worse still - Why oh why did someone from Labor think that she would be a decent candidate? Perhaps we could forgive Nicole herself: she was asked to run and was clearly flattered and dumb enough to think that she would be OK as a contender. Her ego must have played a huge part in accepting the role because those a,mongst us who also possess egos tend to have brains that go with them, advising us that "If you don't have any previous connection to labor, are completely clueless on what your local electorate consider important and have the written and oral communication skills of a girl guide, don't do it."

Yet some mental pygmies from the Labor party thought she'd 'do'. In the classic Aussie spirit of, "Near enough is good enough." They must have quickly warmed to the stupid idea, rationalising that, "She's OK to look at and gets her hands on the crayons long enough to write a few words on yummy mummies, hair colourants and Hollywood gossip - all very crucial issues facing Australians right now."

No wonder Kevin Rudd suddenly has too many appointments to come back to Adelaide and officially endorse her - why didn't they whisk away into a hidden bunker for three months, indoctrinating her into the world of politics ("Come on Nicole, you can do it - repeat after me: The House of Representatives stands for......") before unleashing her bottle-blonded 'brand' of naivety onto the world?

So much for mates I know like Helen, who have been fighting social injustice and inequities the moment they were big enough to maintain the rage, attend rallies and become active unionists. Nic-shit hasn't even joined a union and could not think of ONE THING that was important to her electorate despite telling us how she had lived there all her life. Not one thing? Not ready access to childcare, reduced childcare fees, decent public schooling, destroying Work Choices to free lower paid workers, working on the Kyoto protocol to properly commit Australia to reducing emissions, making water tanks compulsory with decent government rebates, flexible working hours....

ARRGH! What an insult!!

The stress of meditation

Those of you who have been regular readers may find it surprising to find out that I spent the weekend at a meditation retreat. In virtual silence. On my own. With no access to chocolate.

I have been going to meditation classes for a few months now and could see the benefits of learning how to relax instead of clenching my jaw and cracking my crowns as a way of getting to sleep each night. As such, I was interested in signing up for 'level 2' despite my disappointment at not receiving a certificate or award of some kind for completing the first level. Surely our teacher John had been watching us intently, and would hand out a chocolate frog or smiley face sticker for, oh I don't know, the 'Still-est Meditator' or the 'Person Who Looks Like They're Doing It The Best'?

There was a 'Finding Life Balance' retreat advertisement on the whiteboard and he assured me that my lack of experience, high-chatter-to-intelligent-thought ratio and non-mung-bean-munching persona would cope well enough on a 2 day meditation retreat.

Friday night found Love Chunks winding his way through the Adelaide Hills, with me, Sapphire and Dogadoo in tow. The retreat was sort-of on the way to Victor Harbor, where Sapph was going to spend the first week of her school holidays with my folks and LC and Dogadoo decided to stay with them for the weekend also.

As the station wagon roared off in a cloud of dust into the darkness, I was greeted by one of the teachers, Ann, who showed me into my room. Well, I *almost* stepped into the room until I saw the huge, man-eating huntsman spider leering at me from the top of the sliding door. "Erm, unless he can be err, removed somehow, I don't think I'll be able to sleep in here." Ann tried her best to persuade the Creepy Devil Beast to willingly enter a yoghurt container, but he gave her the big finger and scuttled away behind the curtains. "Oh, he'll be OK," Ann smiled at me encouragingly.
"Oh, I'm sure he will but I won't. I noticed that Room 3 looked empty?"

Having achieved that crucial first victory, I was fully revved up for a weekend of serious meditation. About a dozen of us gathered in the hall, shyly smiling at each other, but not talking. Our rooms and the communal bathroom had signs tactfully advising us to "....respect each others' needs for a retreat by keeping conversation and noise to a minimum." Ann and Robyn also told us that we did not need to chat over our meals, but instead see them as a chance to concentrate on the food, take longer to eat it and enjoy the tastes, sights, sounds etc of the meal and of the bush surroundings. We were told too that most people attending their retreats did not wish to reveal why they were there, what job they did or anything else that you'd mostly ask someone in a social situation, so we were released from the wear and tear of empty social chit-chat.

We had a couple of meditation sessions and, by the wild-and-crazy Friday night time of 9pm, it was time for us all to head back to the retreat block to our beds. As per usual, I had a night of tossing and turning - too hot in my uber-arctic-condition sleeping bag and too cold with just the sheets. Elsewhere was complete silence as I tiptoed to the loo and back several times. My dorm mates must have thought a constipated elephant was patrolling the hall.

Despite this, I did get up at 6.45am to shower and get ready for the 7.30am stretch and meditation session on Saturday morning. The bathroom was a co-ed one - something I hadn't experienced since uni days. The sharing with blokes didn't worry me as much as having the toilets in the same room as the showers. How were we supposed to ~ ahem ~ "let it all out" when other people were trying to get clean? Also, it felt very strange to be cleaning my teeth with toothpaste and drool all over my face and smiling like a rabies-infested Al Jolson at a half-naked bloke getting into the shower to my left and hearing the drops-and-plops of a very genteel-looking lady in the 'engaged' cubicle on my right.

At 7:30 we were all at the hall, still shyly smiling at each other and only venturing as far as a whispered, 'excuse me' in the huddle to kick off our shoes at the shelves by the door. Afterwards, at breakfast we were all feeling supremely relaxed and were busy eating, drinking hot tea and trying to 'just be', when Nathan - not me, it's nice to write for once - got his bread stuck in the toaster too long and "REE REE REE REE REE REE REE REE REE REE REE REE!" went the fire alarm, jolting us all of our relaxed states. Hell, someone even said "Oh dearie me," out loud; most likely Nathan.

Eventually calm was restored and classes resumed. One of the practicals was to walk outside in a meditative state, which, for me, was to slow it r-i-iii-ght down to 1) lifting foot; 2) moving foot; 3) placing foot - said like a mantra. My eyes were supposed to be softly focused on the ground about 2m in front of me, but my failure to achieve this meant that I got to spot this gorgeous little blue wren and about six of his little brown girlfriends hopping about a bush. (why are the males and females of the bird world around the wrong way? Why is it that the blokes look all colourful and gorgeous and the poor little females are so drab - topic for a future blog maybe).

The food was fabulous. Mainly vegetarian which meant soups, lentil-based curries, rice, salads and fruit. By late afternoon, my digestive system was struggling to cope with the night before's dinner of lentil soup and that day's lunch of lentil dahl and I was seriously worried about how in the hell I'd be able to get through our 'deep relaxation visualisation' without letting rip a butt blast or two...... Bless Robyn's sweet heart - we were allowed to lie on the floor, put our legs up on chairs, cushions or blankets.... Let's just say that there's one poor grey polarfleece rug wedged underneath me like a doorjam that got the full force of my silent-but-deadly arse emanations. Hopefully it served to soak up the odours, but if not, at least the voluntary vow of silence taken by us all meant that no-one could voice any objections.

We were given time for a walk, or sleep or do what we liked (bar making any noise) before dinner. I stumbled along in my bright aqua crocs along a cornflake-crunchy, parched brown paddock of roo poos and gum tree bark to find a shady little spot away from everyone in order to try my best at 'being in the moment.' All was well for a while - I heard sheep baaaing, horses whinnying and many different bird calls. The air was warm, the sun bright and I was slowly sinking into a dreamy state. But then it happened - the distant tweets turned into raucous squawking as an enormous flock of cockatoos decided to choose my gum tree to land in. The ominous 'Pfft pfft pfft pfft' sounds of bird turds dropping all around me. Holding a particularly large chunk of bark over my head, I ran for cover - not an easy feet in crocs, believe me. If it had been rain instead of poo, I'd have had two handy little dinghys to sit in and paddle to safety.

Dinner that night featured more adventurous salads and lentil-based deliciousness and the festive noises being made by my lower intestines hinted at the interesting challenges that lay ahead.

On Sunday, I again made it to the early morning session and was immediately in a panic - yoga! Not even the Queen could do a yoga session of downward dog, warrior pose etc and not let a few 'parps' or two slip out! As I'd discovered overnight in my tiny room the night before, mine weren't likely to be quiet or discreet, let alone acceptable to folk who'd been standing outside breathing in lungfuls of country air with contented expressionns on their well-rested faces.

Luck was on my side again. The yoga session was a mostly lying down and relaxed and Meredith near me was soon promptly asleep, her snoring not unlike a slow burp. It was my opportunity to let a few pearlers go and hope that they'd be silent so as not to identify me as their creator, but instead be blamed on her supine state instead. It was indeed a blessing that Meredith's dreams were my dutch ovens and my gut was now only half the size of a basketball and slightly less dangerous to touch.

Ann was taking us through a meditation in which we were to find a warm, safe place to feel the sun on our skin, soaking into us and moving through out our bodies. That part was working, right up until she said, 'Now imagine a soft, light rain, washing down from your head, face, torso, arms and legs, washing, washing, dripping, soft and continous...."
"Hey hey heeeeeey!" My thinking mind shoved my sensing mind out of the way and accusingly blurted out, "We're suffering a severe drought here right now - we should be saving our rainwater, not wasting it." The internal scene worked better when my brain shifted the scenario to a dark room and a warm bed with no alarm clock, no migraine and no work to do.

Just before our farewell lunch on Sunday, I again stumbled down to the gum tree to visit my now-favourite mellowing out spot. Instantly, a herd of neighbouring sheep came trotting towards me, the barbed wire fence the only thing separating us. "Hello Human Thingy - we're here for our hay", they seemed to say, their long faces looking at me with expectation.
"Sorry sweeties, I don't have anything for you." They still waited, very still, which gave me a chance to count them - 43 in all, and all with their beady, sheepy little eyeballs on me. It made me simultaneously feel very awkward and also a bit sorry for them (especially seeing as there was no grass to be had on their dried out paddock and we'd been lavishly washing ourselves in rainwater during our last session), so I waved good bye to them (I know, it's stupid - who on earth waves to sheep?) and bumbled and stumbled my way up the poo-strewn hill to the dorm, farting like a volvo all the way (you take your chances when you get them, trust me).

"Now that your formal retreat with us has ended, you are now allowed to talk freely over lunch." Instead of the verbal diarrhoea I'd been expecting, I instead stayed fairly quiet, preferring to sit and listen to the others and answer their questions if they were directed at me. Little did I know that I'd spent the weekend alongside a doctor, a palliative nurse, a psychologist, three IT experts, an artist, a naturopath, a builder, a surveyor, a teacher and a school principal. It showed me how hard it was to label people when they're barefoot, wordless and all wearing trakky daks.

Love Chunks picked me up and found me serene, refreshed and so very glad to see him. Whilst it was good to go into retreat and meditation mode, it was his face and Sapphire's face that rose up in my mind every time I closed my eyes in every session. Unfortunatley for him, my chatterbox had finally woken up, and he was verbally assaulted for every second of the hour long drive home. I loved him even more when he shared his dark chocolate Lindt balls with me when we settled down onto the sofa...

Three points and I'm out















As you can see, we three were rather spoilt this Easter just gone and, ironically, none of the chocolates pictured here are mine - I didn't get any - these here are but a sample of those received by Sapphire and Love Chunks!

To be fair though, LC has noted my increased girth and my concerns that my three rather sedate runs per week weren't actually using up the energy gained by my inhaling my own arse-weight of chocolate per day. Despite this, he has been very generous with his treats and I have been too quick to say "Oooh yes please" each and every time something covered in bright foil has been waved under my nose.

But I digress - this post was meant to be about Sapphire and the three things she said to me a couple of days ago that were painfully true. She'll be turning eight in May, yet still manages to combine a huge dose of innocence with an even larger serving of honesty that hits a bullseye every time.

She was upset that neither Love Chunks or myself could take the time off work to go and see her at her school Sports day. I had dutifully attended for the past two-and-a-half years and was more than happy to give any mummy-guilt the big finger and leave it to LC to decide. You see, Sports Day is mind numbingly, stultifying boring for a parent. There seems to be a lot of hanging around but no chairs to sit on or shade to hide under; a head teacher shouting out indecipherable instructions via a loud hailer; far too much dust; over-excited children who are about as easy to rally together as a herd of cats in a string bag and it's always hot.

Unfortunately Love Chunks couldn't attend either because he'd taken a day off the previous week to take Sapphire to school and stay home looking after me during a particularly unwanted visit from Mr Migraine that left me clutching at my forehead in agony before, during and after the frequent chuck-ups into the bucket. Therefore he had 'noble carer' points that meant he too was absent of any working father guilt trips.

To compensate for our lack of attendance, I carefully painted Sapphire's toenails and fingernails green, bought a big, kermit-like t-shirt from k-mart for her to wear sprayed her hair with that sticky, powdery green stuff. She loved it. I even painted my own toenails and pointed out to her that I could look down and mentally spur her on even though I was chained to my desk. This also appeased her.

However, after dropping her off at her classroom and kissing her goodbye, she immediately told her teacher that, "My Mummy has green toenails," which, judging by Evelyn's expression, was translated as fungal-infection-turned-to-gangrene instead of cheap $2 emerald polish from the chemist's.

Early evening, my still green-haired daughter and I were dressed in our pristine white karate gi-s, ready to receive our newly-earned yellow belts. Before the official handover, we had to do our usual warm up exercises, as directed by Ian senpei. To put you in the picture, the teacher, Ian, is a gentle giant of a man who loves his karate and is kindly and patiently teaching us beginners before he joins the later class as a black belt. He is relatively shy, a brand-new father and a mild-mannered accountant by day.

We were barely two minutes into the class before my internal plumbing system finally realised it was karate. For my bowels, Karate equals Farty. Out popped a ripper - not unlike an ultra-loud QUACK by a very surprised duck. Carly and the other kids around me fell about with laughter and I mumbled, "Err yes, better out than in, it's been a long day, we all do it, it's completely natural, I'm sure even the Queen has to let one go occasionally when she's christening a ship..."

Sapphire didn't mumble back, she fog-horned, "Oh Muu-uu-u-m, why are YOU the ONLY person who farts all the time at karate?" Poor old Ian senpei was blushing profusely: it should have been me who was flushed with embarrassment but no, it happens too often these days for that. Ian blushed redder than a babboon's bum during mating season - clearly his wife hasn't yet exposed him to the joys of dutch ovens or the unplanned-for 'parps!' when bending over too quickly.

After class, we drove home and I was busy telling Sapphire about Jude at work, who had just earned her PhD. Several minutes of explanations followed about how at uni you can be called a doctor but not for medical reasons and the importance of study and research and discovering new ways of looking at things and the years of hard work and study that goes into it and I could see that Sapphire - bless her smart little heart - was understanding it all.

I summed it up with, "...and she's been asked to write a book about her studies. Her book will be different from the one I'll be doing because it will be----"
"Very interesting", Sapphire interjected.
"Oh. Well, yes, that's true I suppose......"

Three points for Sapphire, none for MillyMoo.

Mastering the Mother Tongue

During high school, I realised that, unlike primary school, learning things and being a 'Smarty Pants' required a fair bit more effort than neat writing and creative title pages. English and the arts subjects (home economics being the glaring exception) were still easy and enjoyable for me, but maths and science were awful.

What was even more awfuller (if that isn't in the dictionary yet, it should be) was French. Notwithstanding I was introduced to the language of love and rude shop keepers half way during the first year, in Scotland. I was frightened, lonely and homesick and being six months behind the class and trying to understand Merci Beacoup being spoken by Mr Urquhart in a thick Aberdonian burr was a challenge my 12 year old mind decided to reject. Miraculously I earned a 'C' grade at the end of the year but most adamantly did not select it as a year nine subject when I returned back to South Australia.

Even as an adult, this total incapacity to grasp anything outside the realms of Australian English remains embarrassingly strong. At our beginner karate class, for example, seven year old Sapphire was able to count to ten in Japanese within fifteen minutes, but for me, three months later I'm on a roll if I manage to make it to three ('sun'). When they use basic Japanese to describe the next move, I have to quickly (but subtlely) rubberneck the rest of the class and copy what they're doing.

The same goes - quadrupled, unfortunately - for Finance at my work. Just when I felt vaguely comfortable with the unwieldy online reporting and accounting system, they changed it. Utterly. In fact, so complete is the change that even our designated finance staff struggle to comprehend the meanings of some reports or where some of our key funding has come from; where it needs to go to; or whether it has even arrived.

The confusion of others is a comfort I gladly take refuge in, but it doesn't make my job any easier. At one stage in a meeting yesterday, Queen B and Jo from Finance were chatting away with such enthusiasm about grants, shifting salaries, transferral of non-ARC grants and projected earnings I was wondering if they had suddenly morphed into Klingon and were instead talking about me instead of about finance, kind of like igpay latin. "MillyMoo be a Dumb Moron. Her brain is emptier than a student's lecture calendar during O-week"






'Finance Made Simpler'
Acrylic on masonite
MillyMoo 2007



Even English has its moments with me, and having Sapphire around to question everything from a seven year old's perspective highlights it even more. "Hey Mum why does the word sword have a 'W' in it?"
"Why does photo has 'ph' instead of 'F' at the start?"
"How come we say one sheep, two sheep, but we say one mouse, two mice?"

And what's my profound answer to those queries? Normally a shrug, a sigh and this:
"Well Sapphire, I reckon that English is sort of like the floor sweepings from the scraps of all the other languages of the world - a bit of French, a wedge of Latin, a splash of Spanish, a kick of German, a smattering of Danish and far too much drunken igpay and esperanto for my liking. Then, add in some words that some drunken or ignorant clowns have invented along the way plus a bit of bad or adventurous spelling and that equals the English language as we know it today. OK?"

She tends to give me her 'My Mum's a weirdo but she's my Mum so I won't say it out loud or she'll tell me off for being disrespectful, so I'll make a quick exit and go and ask Dad instead' kind of look and heads outside to the shed where Love Chunks is at his weights bench.

Finally, who decides what word is going to be overused at what times? I if hear the word 'bespoke' used one more time to describe fashion, house design, art or inventions I'll ram it up someone's 'bespoke and unique hand-woven muff cover made entirely by traditional Peruvian Llama wool spinners with dye made from an organic combination of yak spittle and ancient Mayan burro droppings'. Or I'll ask, "Why can't you say 'individual' or 'one of a kind' like the rest of us?

Then I'll pick up my papers, my bottle of water and my portable, hand-held graphite word processor (pencil) and huffily stomp out of the room.

The Kitchen Nazi

My darling Love Chunks will probably choke on his FUIC, but I consider myself to be rather fussy when it comes to a clean and well-organised kitchen.

I'm almost the opposite of the average person (in so many ways, but they're blogs for many other occasions) in that I am more vulture-like and hyper-critical about kitchen hygiene and etiquette at the office than I am at home.

For instance at home I'll go for a run with Dogadoo, and, like yesterday it will be a muddy affair that result in my legs being spattered and me having to grab Dogadoo and wrap her up in a towel so that she resembles a rather disgruntled and hairy packet of fish and chips. She'll then get her slow-slung tummy, chest, legs and paws wiped clean before she's allowed to come inside for her breakfast.

Meanwhile Love Chunks will be firing up his beloved Gaggia for our delicious morning coffee and see me picking up Dogadoo's bowl and start tickling her on her belly; right where she loves it. As the hawk-and-gargle frothing sounds of the steaming milk start up, I'll make myself busy by unpacking the dishwasher. LC (clearly waiting for the right time) will then turn around and in his most pompous voice ask, "So, I'll assume that you've thoroughly washed your hands before touching our nice, clean dishes?" I used to mutter and slink off in embarrassment to the bathroom, but now I just look back at him with a smiling cheeky face and reply "Nup," or "Mayyyybe." Once I did a majestic nose pick and reached over to dramatically wipe it on his sleeve but he held me back with the olive oil spray and some hot tongs....

I also like using the Three Second Rule when it applies to food or cutlery falling on the floor at home. You know the one - it's most often used by parents who are way past the "Oh dear, our precious first born infant is at risk of catching a cold from the man with a runny nose we spotted from the safety of our car..." to the more lax, "Look, boys can wear pink," "Don't check on the kids unless you hear hysterical screaming or smell blood," and "Let's play hide and seek - you count to one thousand and Mummy will go hide (in her car)..."

The three second rule is this: You are allowed to reach down and pick up the dropped item within three seconds of contact with the floor/dog's back/toddler's mouth and do not have to worry about the ramifications of shoving it back into your mouth - the rule considers that the time taken to do this manouevre is considered far too quick for any opportunistic germs to have jumped on the item and rained on your parade (or pesky pineapple piece). Better still if you give the dropped fork or knife a quick wipe on your trouser leg in the same move from floor to gob.

In addition, any crumbs left on the counter are usually carelessly flicked by me directly onto the floor or anywhere within a 5m radius of the swipe, which is normally done with a Chux superwipe that has more holes than my knitting and which is older than our daughter.

What puzzles me is that I don't apply this slack-but-survival-minded attitude to our kitchen at work. Before any poor colleague's had a chance to even think about rinsing their teaspoon under the hot tap, I'm wiping the counter directly underneath their hands with the new sponge like an overly-caffeinated charwoman, before setting to the entire benchtop, stainless steel fridge door and microwave plate with the idea of "Hey, I'm already here, so why not give the whole area a wipe down?"

Any food that slips from my fingers is immediately scooped up and flung straight into the bin and cutlery is scrubbed until my fingers crack with detergent overload. Despite my inner-self saying, "Take a good hard look at yourself - you're like a blonde Paula Duncan advertising Spray and Wipe on Speed", I keep at it. Polishing the tea bag splat marks from the flip top bin lid, arranging the wicker tray at precise right angles to the edge of the wall and - yes - even keeping a tiny little shopping list next to our communal coffee supply tray.

I have just - but only just - managed to stop myself from writing or typing signs that say stuff like, "Please wash and clean up after yourself," or, "These are CWL property - all plates and cups must be returned to the kitchen by close of business" but I do recognise that I may not be able to repress the urge for much longer.

What's tough on my colleagues is that they're decent, kind, smart and thoughtful people: not ignorant slobs with the social skills of Sir Les Patterson. I have very little doubt that they would consider me an over-zealous Hygiene Hawk in kitchen matters and they have accepted my insanity as an endearing character trait and even kindly drawn up a kitchen roster.

The roster is working well and yet, even when I'm in there for a few seconds just chucking my lunch into the fridge, I can't help pick up the damn sponge and giving the counter a wipe ''just to make sure"...... I'm sure that my boss, Queen B, wishes I would give our proformas, mailing lists and files the same OCD attention.