My son asked me today – “What eats Frogs?”
I told him – Cats, Birds, Crocodiles and French Men.
He came back a little while later and asked me “Are French Men like Crocodiles?”
I was going to talk about them eating women from the feet up but I thought that would just be getting too, too risky.
I told him no, they’re like French Bread.
Long, skinny and white, with a crusty exterior – normally covered in cheese.
But you’ll only notice that if you try to eat them back.
LOL – no, I didn’t.
But I would have if I didn’t think he’d come back and ask me - “What is French Bread?”
And right now, I’d like to apologise to any and all French Men I slept with in the long-distant past.
PS – the capital letters are a small tribute to my paper’s contributors.
School pages and bowls reports both start this coming week – woohoo for Upper Cases of the Upwardly Mobile and Incredibly Ungrammatical.
For instance, we all know that frog is not a proper noun – although I wonder if it is when you’re being rude to those same long-gone French Men?
Mmmmh?
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Feng Shui - Breaking the Code
Comedian Robin Williams once said that Mai Tai is Polynesian for ‘DumbFuck’.
He also said that Cocaine was the Peruvian Indians’ “little gift to the white man for what we did to them” – “you take our land - we give you monkey for your back,” he joked.
I’m pretty sure that Feng Shui is another cultural joke on Western society.
I imagine there’s a few old Chinamen who love getting handsomely paid by gay designers for what is basically a doctrine of “clean your fucking house lazybones”.
For instance:
Clean out any debris or boxes under your bed to allow the healthy Chi to circulate around your bed – the centre of your love and love-making. What that means is…Your bedroom smells funky! You’re only making a home for mice and dust-bunnies under your love-nest so clear out last year’s tax returns, your ex-boyfriend’s size 11 sneakers and your old doona you grot! If you let a little breeze in under there maybe it won't smell like old cheese in there anymore!
Create a clear and unshadowed path to your front door to allow good news to blow into your home, and bad energies to flow out the back. Which means…Make sure you’ve got a good view of the front path so that when your hubby’s on the way through the front door, the hot young TollPriority guy is on the way out the back.
Clear clutter. Deal with and then discard paperwork and old bills piling up on your shelves, tables and in drawers. Let’s face it, that means…If they haven’t already come knocking on your door to take your TV or your kneecaps then you can dice it. Face it, you can always tell them you lost it all in a fire or a freak Feng Shui wind that swept your tax-return right out from under your bed.
Well the kids and I Feng Shuied off quite a few things when we made the next great move back to my Home Town to continue the great community newspaper saga.
We’re living in a two-bedroom unit and, while the ‘contractor-cream’* walls are slightly grubby and there’s absolutely no yard for the kids – we’re all pretty chuffed with living in an uncluttered space.
The kids don’t miss a floor strewn with toys they don’t even notice anymore.
I’m enjoying only having to wash four cups and four bowls and four spoons.
And I’ve finally got a place to put all those blue vases, tablecloths, picture-frames and throwrugs that we keep buying but don’t actually go with our ‘golds and russets’ Home & Garden (one day) décor.
It’s like having a beachhouse – except that despite the fact that there’s lots of sand, not much water, and the only fish are Pool Sharks.
People keep saying to me “isn’t that a bit small for all of you?”
But I’ve always lived in huge houses (while working huge jobs) and I’ve never had time or expertise to look after them properly. The Farm and all the jobs I could see that needed doing there were weighing me down.
I’m good at working though.
I can work hard, make lots of money, pay a renovator for The Farm and still have time to wash my four forks.
So, I’ve Feng Shuied my whole lifestyle?
Works for me – why doesn’t the Cleo Feng Shui expert give you some real advice.
Dump the overwhelming renovation workload on your already over-worked husband and run away to a different job in a different town that has reliable child-care and a reliable rent-control program.
Enjoy the benefits of only having to clean up a limited collection of matchbox cars and barbies every night before bed (because the rest of them are tangled up with the Fuzzy Felts in the playroom back home).
Allow yourself to feel all Earth Mother Goddess-ly by finding the time to read three books a night to your babies because you don’t have to feed dogs, chooks, pay bills, spend quality time with your husband/partner/lover/circle appropriate term here or stare uselessly at the looming pile of jobs you should really be doing instead of watching Sex in the City in your PJs and eating Tim Tams.
The Man missed out on the local job he’d wanted so he’s sticking with the Stage 2-local job back near The Farm.
Does that mean we Feng Shuied him off as well?
Does that count as “cleansing oneself of conflicting influences”.
I mean, we won’t be fighting over “who changed the loo roll last” for a little while, so maybe…
* contractor cream – anyone living in a mining town where most homes are rented out by corporate investors or contract companies will understand this reference. Paint it cream, keep it simply but sturdily-furnished, and buy the paint in bulk so you can repaint it when the tenants move out.
He also said that Cocaine was the Peruvian Indians’ “little gift to the white man for what we did to them” – “you take our land - we give you monkey for your back,” he joked.
I’m pretty sure that Feng Shui is another cultural joke on Western society.
I imagine there’s a few old Chinamen who love getting handsomely paid by gay designers for what is basically a doctrine of “clean your fucking house lazybones”.
For instance:
Clean out any debris or boxes under your bed to allow the healthy Chi to circulate around your bed – the centre of your love and love-making. What that means is…Your bedroom smells funky! You’re only making a home for mice and dust-bunnies under your love-nest so clear out last year’s tax returns, your ex-boyfriend’s size 11 sneakers and your old doona you grot! If you let a little breeze in under there maybe it won't smell like old cheese in there anymore!
Create a clear and unshadowed path to your front door to allow good news to blow into your home, and bad energies to flow out the back. Which means…Make sure you’ve got a good view of the front path so that when your hubby’s on the way through the front door, the hot young TollPriority guy is on the way out the back.
Clear clutter. Deal with and then discard paperwork and old bills piling up on your shelves, tables and in drawers. Let’s face it, that means…If they haven’t already come knocking on your door to take your TV or your kneecaps then you can dice it. Face it, you can always tell them you lost it all in a fire or a freak Feng Shui wind that swept your tax-return right out from under your bed.
Well the kids and I Feng Shuied off quite a few things when we made the next great move back to my Home Town to continue the great community newspaper saga.
We’re living in a two-bedroom unit and, while the ‘contractor-cream’* walls are slightly grubby and there’s absolutely no yard for the kids – we’re all pretty chuffed with living in an uncluttered space.
The kids don’t miss a floor strewn with toys they don’t even notice anymore.
I’m enjoying only having to wash four cups and four bowls and four spoons.
And I’ve finally got a place to put all those blue vases, tablecloths, picture-frames and throwrugs that we keep buying but don’t actually go with our ‘golds and russets’ Home & Garden (one day) décor.
It’s like having a beachhouse – except that despite the fact that there’s lots of sand, not much water, and the only fish are Pool Sharks.
People keep saying to me “isn’t that a bit small for all of you?”
But I’ve always lived in huge houses (while working huge jobs) and I’ve never had time or expertise to look after them properly. The Farm and all the jobs I could see that needed doing there were weighing me down.
I’m good at working though.
I can work hard, make lots of money, pay a renovator for The Farm and still have time to wash my four forks.
So, I’ve Feng Shuied my whole lifestyle?
Works for me – why doesn’t the Cleo Feng Shui expert give you some real advice.
Dump the overwhelming renovation workload on your already over-worked husband and run away to a different job in a different town that has reliable child-care and a reliable rent-control program.
Enjoy the benefits of only having to clean up a limited collection of matchbox cars and barbies every night before bed (because the rest of them are tangled up with the Fuzzy Felts in the playroom back home).
Allow yourself to feel all Earth Mother Goddess-ly by finding the time to read three books a night to your babies because you don’t have to feed dogs, chooks, pay bills, spend quality time with your husband/partner/lover/circle appropriate term here or stare uselessly at the looming pile of jobs you should really be doing instead of watching Sex in the City in your PJs and eating Tim Tams.
The Man missed out on the local job he’d wanted so he’s sticking with the Stage 2-local job back near The Farm.
Does that mean we Feng Shuied him off as well?
Does that count as “cleansing oneself of conflicting influences”.
I mean, we won’t be fighting over “who changed the loo roll last” for a little while, so maybe…
* contractor cream – anyone living in a mining town where most homes are rented out by corporate investors or contract companies will understand this reference. Paint it cream, keep it simply but sturdily-furnished, and buy the paint in bulk so you can repaint it when the tenants move out.
Twang!
On my way to my new and former Home Town today I drove through a spider’s web.
It was stretched across the road, from 110 sign to corresponding 110 sign and I actually felt it hold and twang against the car at windshield level for an instant as I drove through.
Imagine how surprised that spider would be if that web had held.
Oh look, a whole station wagon for dinner!
And complete with a screamy soft centre! Yummy!
It was stretched across the road, from 110 sign to corresponding 110 sign and I actually felt it hold and twang against the car at windshield level for an instant as I drove through.
Imagine how surprised that spider would be if that web had held.
Oh look, a whole station wagon for dinner!
And complete with a screamy soft centre! Yummy!
Sunday, January 16, 2005
A Blank Spot in a Brown Landscape
This week I talked to an old friend who, like us, had been building a dream life in another town.
After more than a decade and a half of working in the Outback, she and her partner had moved to the beautiful west coast of the Eyre Peninsula (downbythesea.blogspot.com).
She left in September, he finished up in December, and the bushfires hit in January.
They lost it all.
Every new paint scheme, every just-planted vegie, every cup and brick and momento of their whole damn life together.
They hadn't even unpacked the boxes and it was all gone - just a "blank spot in a brown landscape"
She talked to me about the bravery and the generosity of the people around her.
I was struck by her own bravery.
But she told me "it's just stuff, I've got my family - we can replace everything else".
So - because I can't really help her or all the other people affected by this close-to-home disaster and all the other ones in distant corners of the world I hear about every day - I'm going to keep my trap shut about having to turn my life upside down again and I'm just going to enjoy my family and my Home Town of beautiful, generous, giving people and the little bit of heaven that we, luckily, can still enjoy and build on back in the Flinders Ranges.
I heard yesterday that so many Australians have donated goods and food that the towns that have been struck by the fires can't even accept anymore stuff.
In our little town of 4500 people, there's so much stuff been donated that it's filled a house, a car, three trailers, a shed and a truck.
While taking photos for my newspaper I saw a box of maybe a $1000 worth of Action Man figures that a little boy had collected together and labelled "I hope some little boy can play with these - from Zach". I watched another girl, a teenager quietly strap a handfull of her own GameBoy games to a donated GameBoy and silently slip it into the pile.
They're going to have to auction it all off locally and send cash just to get it to the people in time to help because the aid agencies are so swamped.
They're talking about taking a bus down in one of the off-shifts and ferrying local guys down there on their days off to help rebuild the towns and farms and faciliteis.
SongBird - if we can't send anything to really help, I hope you at least know that we're sending our love.
Hey, and while you can't replace what you had, at least when you look out around you, you know that in a few months it will all be green and beautiful again.
That's the great thing - good things always come back around in life.
After more than a decade and a half of working in the Outback, she and her partner had moved to the beautiful west coast of the Eyre Peninsula (downbythesea.blogspot.com).
She left in September, he finished up in December, and the bushfires hit in January.
They lost it all.
Every new paint scheme, every just-planted vegie, every cup and brick and momento of their whole damn life together.
They hadn't even unpacked the boxes and it was all gone - just a "blank spot in a brown landscape"
She talked to me about the bravery and the generosity of the people around her.
I was struck by her own bravery.
But she told me "it's just stuff, I've got my family - we can replace everything else".
So - because I can't really help her or all the other people affected by this close-to-home disaster and all the other ones in distant corners of the world I hear about every day - I'm going to keep my trap shut about having to turn my life upside down again and I'm just going to enjoy my family and my Home Town of beautiful, generous, giving people and the little bit of heaven that we, luckily, can still enjoy and build on back in the Flinders Ranges.
I heard yesterday that so many Australians have donated goods and food that the towns that have been struck by the fires can't even accept anymore stuff.
In our little town of 4500 people, there's so much stuff been donated that it's filled a house, a car, three trailers, a shed and a truck.
While taking photos for my newspaper I saw a box of maybe a $1000 worth of Action Man figures that a little boy had collected together and labelled "I hope some little boy can play with these - from Zach". I watched another girl, a teenager quietly strap a handfull of her own GameBoy games to a donated GameBoy and silently slip it into the pile.
They're going to have to auction it all off locally and send cash just to get it to the people in time to help because the aid agencies are so swamped.
They're talking about taking a bus down in one of the off-shifts and ferrying local guys down there on their days off to help rebuild the towns and farms and faciliteis.
SongBird - if we can't send anything to really help, I hope you at least know that we're sending our love.
Hey, and while you can't replace what you had, at least when you look out around you, you know that in a few months it will all be green and beautiful again.
That's the great thing - good things always come back around in life.
A Rose by Any Other Name Would Still be a Bloody Rose
I talked to The Kids today who are visiting their Nanna.
Nanna has become mother to all the orphaned native birds around her home town (as well as mother to me of course) and is currently hand-raising a nest of cockatiels.
My Kids were given the supreme privilege of naming their own birds.
(I suspect it’s a ruse to off-load a few of the little feathered fiends our way but it’s not going to happen I can tell you.)
Being quite literal and observant little munchkins, they proudly told me their respective beaky pals’ names.
‘Big Fluffy Head’ and ‘Spot’.
I’d still be rolling around on the floor laughing except I suddenly had a flashback to my own childhood of mismatched pets:
Fluffy the persion-cross cat.
Woolly the poodle-cross dog.
And Nippy the just-plain-cross budgerigar.
The Man named his pets exciting, sleek (or just plain rude) names like Rebel and Snatch.
I think I’m going to have to take full responsibility for the ‘can’t-see-the-imaginative-name-for-the-bloody-obvious’ gene that they’ve all inherited.
Nanna has become mother to all the orphaned native birds around her home town (as well as mother to me of course) and is currently hand-raising a nest of cockatiels.
My Kids were given the supreme privilege of naming their own birds.
(I suspect it’s a ruse to off-load a few of the little feathered fiends our way but it’s not going to happen I can tell you.)
Being quite literal and observant little munchkins, they proudly told me their respective beaky pals’ names.
‘Big Fluffy Head’ and ‘Spot’.
I’d still be rolling around on the floor laughing except I suddenly had a flashback to my own childhood of mismatched pets:
Fluffy the persion-cross cat.
Woolly the poodle-cross dog.
And Nippy the just-plain-cross budgerigar.
The Man named his pets exciting, sleek (or just plain rude) names like Rebel and Snatch.
I think I’m going to have to take full responsibility for the ‘can’t-see-the-imaginative-name-for-the-bloody-obvious’ gene that they’ve all inherited.
May You Live in Interesting Times
They say that in Asia, ‘may you live in interesting times’ is a curse.
Let’s digress for just a minute.
Who are ‘they’?
Am I ‘they’?
Seems that I’m the only one doing any bloody talking around here at the moment.
And, let’s face it, no one gets any chance to break into the conversation unless I choke on a pretzel.
And is it like newspapers and libel?
In newspapers, if you publish untrue information, you are equally responsible for repeating the untruth as if you had made it up yourself.
So, by quoting ‘them’…do I become ‘them’?
Ok, start again…
I’ve recently come slap up against the curse ‘may you live in interesting times’.
(I nearly said “discovered the curse…” and then I thought about the whole European colonial myth of discovery of continents which had obviously been inhabited for millennia and ‘lost tribes’ which actually knew their way around the place quite well and…see, ‘they’ really don’t get a word in edgewise around me’.
So…may you live in interesting times!
I always have, you know.
I’ve got an interesting job, got an interesting outlook on life, got some interesting friends.
(Anyone uninteresting quickly becomes uninterested in being my friend for some reason – might be all that talking over the top of…well…’them’. So that’s whose making up all these bloody sayings.)
But it can be a curse.
I’m not highly cursed mind you – sort of an intermediate level II curse I’m thinking.
Probably because I’m not highly interesting – again, just intermediate interesting, and maybe mostly because I hear and repeat a lot of what ‘they’ are saying.
When it comes to interesting curses, I’m definitely not up there with the tomb of King Tut or the Hope Diamond, but my curse is occasionally personally distracting nonetheless.
Like now.
I’m sitting back in my Home Town, back at my old job (and my old working hours – hence the midnight time-frame) after, apparently, being irreplaceable.
You’d think that would be a compliment.
But ‘irreplaceable’ in real terms means ‘you’re never going anywhere else ever, ever again’.
Or ‘no other bugger would work this hard for this pay so we’re stuck with you’.
I tried, you know I really tried.
We bought property.
We planted corn (which is doing very nicely, thankyou, even if it is mostly a camping area for earwigs with a convenient corn-husk shadecover).
I have chooks – which will have to go now.
And a dog – which will have to stay, of course.
And now the world, and all my plans, are upside-down again and I’m back in the fast-paced and distinctly-glamorous world of small-town journalism with its vicious business feuds (how dare they sell hot spuds at their café when we bought our ‘you-beaut’ hot spud oven LAST year!), its exciting sporting developments (who will be chairman of the regional football league and why is the local pub sponsoring the basketball team instead of netball team this year?) and its deep-seated community grudges (how dare they travel 32 minutes to dump their garbage in our free landfill rather than pay the $2.50 their own council charges, clogging up our services, people are so inconsiderate and we don’t pay our fees for this, I can tell you!).
Oh, and I left out all the ‘lovely afternoons that were had by all’ thanks to Moira, Verna, Greta, Lola, Beverley (insert appropriate name here) and the sponge cake she baked for Ladies Bowls on Wednesday afternoon.
You know, it’s not a ‘lovely afternoon’ at all if I have to spend it taking all the capital letters out of the golf report (nearest-to-the-pin is NOT a proper noun) and correct all the teachers’ spelling in the school report (it’s not just 16-year-olds who have a literacy level of 11).
But, strangely, I DO love it.
And what I do IS important, people stop me on the street to tell me so.
And how many people out there REALLY have a job they can say they love and people love them for?
(Hookers, by definition, maybe – all that ‘loving’ I mean. But luckily, in my job you only have to report about social diseases, not check for them intimately before you get down to business, so to speak.)
But back to my rant…
And you know, they made it easy for me to move back.
The ONLY property for rent in a town of 4500 people was being leased out by my employers.
The Man’s old job is even back on the bulletin boards – it’s like they just kept his seat warm for him.
And considering that someone was killed the first day he started at his new job, that might have been a divine warning that he was better off where he came from.
Turns out he took a $25,000 pay cut to be a little closer to The Farm and a lot closer to long-term lead poisoning.
At first we were impressed by his new employer’s policy of unlimited sick leave.
But then we questioned the need for that kind of policy.
Turns out, when your lead levels hit an ‘inappropriately-high level’ then you’re sent home until they just don’t anymore.
And the guy who got killed on his first day?
Turns out that’s the job The Man was being groomed for.
As it turned out, the position came up a little bit faster than we expected.
So, again, I’m living in interesting times.
Interesting times because I have to convince The Kids that their old friends and their old school are going to be much better than the ones they’ve just spent six months fitting into.
Interesting times because my two-bedroom unit has no backyard and I have a dog roughly the size of an ironing board with the disposition of a rubber superball and the escapist abilities of Houdini.
Interesting times because I’d only just got used to watching Sex and the City repeats four times a day on Austar from my couch in my knickers and a t-shirt and now I’m back at my 28-hours-a-day, smile-you’re-under-constant-‘gossip-nazi’-surveillance job. (To be honest, the whole Sex and the City couch-sloth thing might have been a downside, but I was too comatose to notice at the time)
Interesting because I finally triumphed over the six-legged marauders in my garden long enough to see my efforts fruit, blossom…whatever…literally, and the fucking earwigs are just going to sit down and have a great big picnic in the middle of my organic, non-hybridised tomatos and basil and corn and comfrey and snowpeas and blah, blah, blah. I’m considering ripping it all up and giving the chooks one last humongous meal out of spite.
May you live in interesting times?
I do.
And if you do…well, I’ll meet you there.
Let’s digress for just a minute.
Who are ‘they’?
Am I ‘they’?
Seems that I’m the only one doing any bloody talking around here at the moment.
And, let’s face it, no one gets any chance to break into the conversation unless I choke on a pretzel.
And is it like newspapers and libel?
In newspapers, if you publish untrue information, you are equally responsible for repeating the untruth as if you had made it up yourself.
So, by quoting ‘them’…do I become ‘them’?
Ok, start again…
I’ve recently come slap up against the curse ‘may you live in interesting times’.
(I nearly said “discovered the curse…” and then I thought about the whole European colonial myth of discovery of continents which had obviously been inhabited for millennia and ‘lost tribes’ which actually knew their way around the place quite well and…see, ‘they’ really don’t get a word in edgewise around me’.
So…may you live in interesting times!
I always have, you know.
I’ve got an interesting job, got an interesting outlook on life, got some interesting friends.
(Anyone uninteresting quickly becomes uninterested in being my friend for some reason – might be all that talking over the top of…well…’them’. So that’s whose making up all these bloody sayings.)
But it can be a curse.
I’m not highly cursed mind you – sort of an intermediate level II curse I’m thinking.
Probably because I’m not highly interesting – again, just intermediate interesting, and maybe mostly because I hear and repeat a lot of what ‘they’ are saying.
When it comes to interesting curses, I’m definitely not up there with the tomb of King Tut or the Hope Diamond, but my curse is occasionally personally distracting nonetheless.
Like now.
I’m sitting back in my Home Town, back at my old job (and my old working hours – hence the midnight time-frame) after, apparently, being irreplaceable.
You’d think that would be a compliment.
But ‘irreplaceable’ in real terms means ‘you’re never going anywhere else ever, ever again’.
Or ‘no other bugger would work this hard for this pay so we’re stuck with you’.
I tried, you know I really tried.
We bought property.
We planted corn (which is doing very nicely, thankyou, even if it is mostly a camping area for earwigs with a convenient corn-husk shadecover).
I have chooks – which will have to go now.
And a dog – which will have to stay, of course.
And now the world, and all my plans, are upside-down again and I’m back in the fast-paced and distinctly-glamorous world of small-town journalism with its vicious business feuds (how dare they sell hot spuds at their café when we bought our ‘you-beaut’ hot spud oven LAST year!), its exciting sporting developments (who will be chairman of the regional football league and why is the local pub sponsoring the basketball team instead of netball team this year?) and its deep-seated community grudges (how dare they travel 32 minutes to dump their garbage in our free landfill rather than pay the $2.50 their own council charges, clogging up our services, people are so inconsiderate and we don’t pay our fees for this, I can tell you!).
Oh, and I left out all the ‘lovely afternoons that were had by all’ thanks to Moira, Verna, Greta, Lola, Beverley (insert appropriate name here) and the sponge cake she baked for Ladies Bowls on Wednesday afternoon.
You know, it’s not a ‘lovely afternoon’ at all if I have to spend it taking all the capital letters out of the golf report (nearest-to-the-pin is NOT a proper noun) and correct all the teachers’ spelling in the school report (it’s not just 16-year-olds who have a literacy level of 11).
But, strangely, I DO love it.
And what I do IS important, people stop me on the street to tell me so.
And how many people out there REALLY have a job they can say they love and people love them for?
(Hookers, by definition, maybe – all that ‘loving’ I mean. But luckily, in my job you only have to report about social diseases, not check for them intimately before you get down to business, so to speak.)
But back to my rant…
And you know, they made it easy for me to move back.
The ONLY property for rent in a town of 4500 people was being leased out by my employers.
The Man’s old job is even back on the bulletin boards – it’s like they just kept his seat warm for him.
And considering that someone was killed the first day he started at his new job, that might have been a divine warning that he was better off where he came from.
Turns out he took a $25,000 pay cut to be a little closer to The Farm and a lot closer to long-term lead poisoning.
At first we were impressed by his new employer’s policy of unlimited sick leave.
But then we questioned the need for that kind of policy.
Turns out, when your lead levels hit an ‘inappropriately-high level’ then you’re sent home until they just don’t anymore.
And the guy who got killed on his first day?
Turns out that’s the job The Man was being groomed for.
As it turned out, the position came up a little bit faster than we expected.
So, again, I’m living in interesting times.
Interesting times because I have to convince The Kids that their old friends and their old school are going to be much better than the ones they’ve just spent six months fitting into.
Interesting times because my two-bedroom unit has no backyard and I have a dog roughly the size of an ironing board with the disposition of a rubber superball and the escapist abilities of Houdini.
Interesting times because I’d only just got used to watching Sex and the City repeats four times a day on Austar from my couch in my knickers and a t-shirt and now I’m back at my 28-hours-a-day, smile-you’re-under-constant-‘gossip-nazi’-surveillance job. (To be honest, the whole Sex and the City couch-sloth thing might have been a downside, but I was too comatose to notice at the time)
Interesting because I finally triumphed over the six-legged marauders in my garden long enough to see my efforts fruit, blossom…whatever…literally, and the fucking earwigs are just going to sit down and have a great big picnic in the middle of my organic, non-hybridised tomatos and basil and corn and comfrey and snowpeas and blah, blah, blah. I’m considering ripping it all up and giving the chooks one last humongous meal out of spite.
May you live in interesting times?
I do.
And if you do…well, I’ll meet you there.
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