Last weekend my brother and I built (OK, assembled) a ‘Billy’ bookcase. An Ikea stalwart, the ‘Billy’ bookcase graces many a home of people I know. Simple, practical and filled with things that we love.
It was great to see some of my books which haven’t emerged from their packing boxes since we moved here three years ago.
Hmmm, quite the collection of post-Stalinist Russian fiction (translated). Why? Why? I’d forgotten I possess such things.
… and may not for too much longer. I feel that a book cull might be in order. But the mental effort that would require means it won’t be for a while yet!

Three is the number of mice which will no longer make merry in my kitchen. (Hooray!)

Three is also the number of correct picks I made in the footy tipping on the weekend. (I can feel that trophy slipping from my grasp.)

It must be the change of season.

We caught our first winter mouse this morning.

Rats.

(Or mice, actually.)

I’m sure there are many more architecturally accurate ways to describe our problem.
But this pithy attempt does seem to sum it up succinctly – and poetically.
(OK, maybe that’s an overstatement. It rhymes.)

Rumble.*
Crumble.**
Grumble.***

* That’s the tram.
** That’s the plaster.
*** That’s the disgruntled home owners/rate payers/public transport users.

My housemate has discovered a new flavour in instant porridge – and just the thing for those chilly early mornings.

It’s hazelnut – with just a hint of golden syrup.

Mmmmmmmmm.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

I love it.

And so does our dog.

(Stares.
Give me some of that human food.
Stares.
I really like it.
Stares.
Give me some.
Stares.
Pleeeeeeeaaase.
Wag. Wag. Wag.)

It’s an emergency!
Whatever – I’m having my lunch.

While eating at one of Collins Street West’s finer dining establishments yesterday, we heard the alert siren go off over the PA system. (The one they always use for the tests.)
Hmmm, a test. The alarm seemed barely to register with the throng. Staff kept serving. Hungry office workers kept consuming. No one missed a beat.
Then the alarm changed to the evacuation siren. Some heads raised. But it, too, was largely ignored.
Then a loud message accompanied the evacuation siren: “Please evacuate the building”. A slow trickle heads towards the door. Clearly taking the advice to calmly exit the building. Meanwhile more hungry office workers continue to crowd in through the doors. Including a bloke on crunches with a leg covered in plaster.
Three large and noisy fire trucks pull up at the front of the building.
OK. Maybe this is the real thing.
A crowd starts to assemble out the front of the building as people eventually decide to exit. Firemen stomp around in big hats and yellow trousers.
Without the sound of an explosion, the crackle of flames or the smell of smoke the masses seemed very hard to convince that they should abandon their lunches for a safer place outside the building.
It might have been a different story if the sirens had gone off in an office building. (Ooooh, a legit excuse to skive off work!)
But to interrupt one’s lunch time for an emergency. That’s beyond the pale!

For some months now, via a friend in Canberra, I’ve been following the fortunes of a gold rimmed ‘Murchison Bowling Club’ glass which has graced the shelves of ‘Revolve’ – a junk shop attached to Canberra tip.
Much speculation has ensued regarding the path of said glass from Murchison (a small town in central Victoria near where my parents live) to the shelf of a Canberra junk shop.
To be, quite clearly, junk and yet to remain intact for this journey is impressive. The glass is made of stern stuff.
But now it’s gone.
I thought it would remain a fixture forever on the shelf – surely no one would buy it?
Has it returned to its original home? Or continued its journey north to warmer climes?
Investigations continue.

Population: You.

It’s one of the best lines from ‘The Simpsons’. And truly – the only one I can remember.

It’s brought to mind today as I sit here to write about my relationship with my … personal trainer.

Adam has been slack lately. He’s just not turning up for the 6.30 am starts. He does not ring to let us know he won’t be coming. He has his phone turned off when we try to ring him. He offers only half-arsed excuses when we do see him. He’s not trying any more.

Well, two can play that game mister.

A colleague picked up a business card for a local personal trainer on the weekend for me, suggesting that I casually let it fall from my pocket when I take my jacket off before we start the next session.

I, too, can sleep through an alarm and leave him stranded, lonely and cold, in Footscray Park at 6.30 am in the morning. (Indeed – I have done so, even if by accident!)

If we’re going to break up – it’s going to be as hard for him as it is for me!

Foxes, it would appear, have many, varied and contradictory characteristics.

I have heard the following expressions recently:

‘Cunning like a fox’;
‘Itchy like a fox’;
‘Foxy like a fox’ and
‘Dumb like a fox’.

The week before last I even saw a fox down at Footscray Park although, given the rapidity of its departure from the scene, I’d say it’s defining characteristic was ‘speedy like a fox’.

Hmmmm.

What else is like a fox?

Him: “It’s just one of those things. The man has foibles.”

Me: “He has fur balls?” (mind you, it was a crackly telephone line).

Him: “Yes. Don’t act so surprised. Human foibles. Everyone has them.”

Me: (unsure) “Fur balls?”

Him: “Trust me on this one.”

Me: (v unsure) “Okaaaaaay.”

…

Me: “Oh, foibles.” (I think one of mine is that I’m going deaf.)