Last Friday night as I was standing out the front of work with two office chairs – awaiting the new owner of the said chairs – a small hatch-back, packed to the rafters, pulled up by the pavement. A young woman who was also waiting at the front of the building jumped in, after stuffing additional luggage into the back. (The car looked on the verge of going ‘pop’.) Five minutes of consultation took place inside the car. Then the passenger side window rolled down. “Hey – lady with the chairs.” (I guess that would be me.) “We’re going away for the weekend – where should we go?” I looked dubiously at the car. “How far were you thinking of driving?” “Oh, about an hour, I guess”, was the reply. “What about Daylesford?” “Fantastic idea. Thanks!” And off they drove. Wonder if they made it?

Given we live only a stone’s throw from Flemington (albeit on the wrong side of the river), Cup Day is usually spent dodging limos and taxis in our street and pointing lost and foot-sore punters in the direction of the train station. Many local Footscrayers pack up the card tables and camp chairs and set up a bbq down at Footscray Park where, just across the Maribyrnong, all the action takes place. From the park you get a good view of all the water traffic arriving and leaving (and place bets on how many enebriates will fall in the river!), a partial view of some of the marquees, full access to the race call over the very loud loudspeakers and can critique the (slightly worse for wear) fashions as attendees struggle back to their cars parked over our side of town. It’s quite sociable. But not today. Most of the afternoon the rain poured down. There was not a card table in sight during my afternoon amble around the park with the dog. We looked on through a mist of rain, then climbed Footscray Hill to look down on things from a height. Still raining we wandered home – my sympathies going to the poor cabbie who had to stop his taxi a number of times going up the hill to allow his passenger to dash out and throw up liberally. Charming.

There are many things that I have never actually owned. A yacht, a camel, a pair of roller skates, a not butt-ugly couch, for example, are a few things that spring immediately to mind.
There are also many things that, while I have never owned them, I’ve always had access to them. This would include the particular case of my (used loosely) recently defunct, clock radio. It, in fact, is owned by my friend Tony. It was borrowed by me one day in 1998 and has remained with me ever since – a faithful companion indeed.
I’d estimate, and you may correct me if I’m wrong Tony, that it’s probably about twenty years old. And it’s showing it’s age. The gleaming exterior retains its attractive wood grain finish with nary a scratch, the “electronic digital” display still gleams a hazy blue into the night, and the alarm is good and rousing. Bravo General Electric – it’s made of sturdy stuff. Like a brick.
But something is wrong with the internal mechanism – it turns the radio on at random times throughout the day and night. Even when the button is in the ‘off’ position. It’s a trifle annoying.
And I haven’t been able to set the alarm for a number of years – employing a simple – yet effective – alternative which saw a combination system (utilising the ‘radio’ aspect of ye olde clock radio together with the ‘alarm setting’ features of my travelling “talking” alarm) instituted. Bulky, granted. But it worked.
The random radio selection has done me in, however. And a new clock radio has been purchased this weekend past. It’s silver (there was no wood grain). It’s small (an all in one working unit!) And it works a treat.
Is it rude to return the superceded clock radio to its actual owner? How long does a ‘borrow’ last?

And, yea, there were a multitude.
Many umbrellas died in yesterday’s downpour, this is how I killed mine:

Scramble onto a packed train with my three bags and half closed, dripping umbrella behind me. Squashed back against the door by the crush, I can’t close the umbrella.
I spot a person who I’m trying to avoid.
Spend the rest of the trip being unobtrusive by hiding behind other people.
The train reaches the station and I try to back out the door and make a quick getaway. Juggling bags and attempting to fully open the umbrella while remaining unfettered by unwanted attention from the relevant party was too much. I tripped over my heels and sat down heavily on my umbrella, crushing it beyond any future use. Then realised that I was actually sitting in a puddle.
Kind, strong hands reach down to help me up. Then a voice booms out: “Clear a space – the lady’s fallen over!” (“You haven’t done yer ankle have ya luv?”)
Sigh. So much for remaining incognito. And I have the ignominy of a wet bottom.
Alas my lost umbrella.

When you do a White Pages internet search for ‘florist’, one of the hits is for the Molly Blooms Hotel.
“Hey, I’ll go and get the flowers”, comes a chorus of volunteers.
“I think not’, say I.

Our dog Maisie knows her own mind and has strong views on the way things should be:
“Get uuup“, she implores each morning at daybreak.
“I have to go for a walk nowwwww“, at approximately 6.30am and between 4.00 and 6.00pm each day.
” I want some of your food. Give me some. Pleeeeease“, whenever food is available, even when we know she won’t like it.
“You get lost. Go away. Stay away from me and my mothers”, to any other dog within sight as well as joggers, cyclists, men in hats and other abominations.
“It’s bedtime. Go to bed. Pleeeeease”, after about 8.30pm, nightly.
“Move over”, to both Justine and I as the three of us struggle to all fit on the couch.
Recently, she has become a music critic.
Someone over our back fence has taken to practising their (amplified) acoustic guitar and occasionally singing on pleasant weekend afternoons.
It has sparked Maisie’s displeasure.
As soon as the muisic starts, it’s bark, bark, bark-bark (read “Shut up, Shut up, SHUT. UP!) The music doesn’t often last long in the face of a prolonged and persistent bout of barking.
Then last week, she howled.
And the music stopped.

Him: “How’s life? Peachy?”

Her: “OMG. I’m eating a peach now. Life IS peachy!”

Him: “I’m s…peachless!”

Chuckles all round.

A moment of pure terror in a changing room at Highpoint. Waltzed into the purveyor of jeans and selected the usual: straight cut, slim fit, black denim, size 10. And, hey, 20% off!! Just made the tedious trip out by tram worthwhile.
Decided to try them on with a couple of ‘possible’ new shirts. Into the change-room. Off with the old pants. On with the new. All going well. Until the zip. There’s no way these pants were expanding enough to encompass my middle. That’s strange. Perhaps they just need to stretch a bit. Nope. Still won’t go round.
Arrgh. How is this possible? It’s not so long since I bought new jeans, is it? I haven’t noticed that much expansion. And I can’t commit to a new jeans. These are my jeans.
Wait. I’ll take my tights off and see if the jeans fit. They’re pretty thick tights. Good plan. Off with the tights. On with the jeans. Still no good. Struggle to remove horrible jeans. Jeans pinch tender region on way off. Bad, bad jeans.
Re-robe. Launch self back into (a now uncertain) world of jeans. No longer complacent, I study the racks in greater detail. Make no assumptions – that was the last mistake.
Size 12. Fine. Try them on. Swimming in them. Hmmm. Based on prior calculations these jeans should fit. Is the world of jeans out to defy me? There seems to be no consistency in the volume increase. Am I never to wear jeans again?
Back to the first rack. View with suspicion. What’ s going on? Re-examine the initial pair. Ah ha!! Greater scrutiny reveals a size 8 masquerading as a size 10. Grrr. The world has righted itself once again. And I have new jeans.

Any successful workplace relocation requires a high level of organisation and coordination. Today we spent twenty minutes being briefed on the correct placement of stickers on the moving boxes. A sample box and stickers were provided for those finding the verbal directions too complex/confusing. No written directions are allowed on the boxes. All communication will take place via the stickers only. Thank goodness for the stickers, otherwise this move would never happen.

Each attempt to use the hole-punch device today was prefaced by a short, sharp static-electric shock.
And an aggreived ‘Ow!’
I thought it was only shoes with ridiculously high heels which posed a health and safety issue.
I’ve got to move that hole-punch within reaching distance.