*sighs*

... Well, not a surprise really, given how toxic NSW Labour had become.
But still. Fuck. At least we kept Verity. I'm off to hibernate for the next 10 years or so.

Happy International Women's Day ...

... We've come a long way, some of us.
But there's still such a long way to go.

(it's a jacaranda seed pod, empty)

I've not gone on (much) ...

... about the flooding in Queensland, Northern NSW and now, poor old Victoria.
The papers, tv, radio, twitter, everything really, is going on about it, I don't need to add my 2c worth.
I established that those I know and care about were safe and sound, and after that just tucked it away, aware but no real focus.
It's happened, it's far away and so there's nothing, bar donating money to the Red Cross, I can do about it. Add to that what's going on in the rest of the world, like Brazil for instance, gives me a little perspective, to worry myself into a froth would be pointless. So I'm not going to.
Having said that, go look at these amazing photographs, awesome, as in they fill you with awe.

I know someone ...

... who's entire family have been suffering Whooping Cough, despite the fact that they've all been vaccinated.
How is this possible? Well, it's possible because fuckstumps with their hippy middle class, alternative woowoo shit heads up their arses don't vaccinate their children. Yep, one of her kids got it at school because some soppy prat didn't want to "put a disease in a perfectly healthy body". FFS!
Apparently you can't ban kids from kindy/school etc, if they aren't vaccinated. Yep, idiots are allowed to (a) keep a disease going and (b) give it to your kids.
So now this woman, her four sons and husband have had to live through a ghastly, and should-be-preventable illness for 12 months and months, miserable, because some prat thought they knew better than most of the medical establishment. Or, because it's too traumatic to watch little Tarquin get a needle!
I don't know about you but I'm seriously grateful my mum took me along and had me jabbed for ... polio, measles, whooping cough, and fuck knows what else! Because I don't ever want to have one of those, not even a bit!
And then I read this. Fuck people make me angry.

PS - I vaccinate the cats!

MORE than 40 per cent of Australians cannot ...

... name their electricity company, don't know what their mortgage interest rate is and don't know if their mobile phone plan is good value, a new study shows.

AGL.
Hahahahahaha!
It's freaking excellent!

Clearly they did not interview me.

Carry on.

They found him guilty in the end ...

... so I guess I can tell you all about it.
And since I've only words for this story, I'll illustrate the tale with pictures of our pending tomato harvest. Yes, tomato harvest, the one I worried we wouldn't have for lack of bees. Turns out that just because you can't see them, doesn't mean they aren't there!*And so - Hu Yang (aka Mr Frank HuYang) got himself involved with the importation of 250kg (201 when it's pure of course) of cocaine from China. Well, as we learned, originally from South America. So we'll say, via China. The North as it happened, from where Frank migrated to Australia 'lo some 20 years ago. The shipping container left China in a packing container and arrived in Sydney on 1 March 2008, all neatly packed into 251 Chinese tea packets of about 1kg each. Some packets were red, some were green, I cannot remember if this was significant. Meanwhile or earlier, whatever - it had come to the attention of AUSTRAC that rather a lot of cash was being remitted back to China in rather large lumps of $200,ooo a go. All up almost $18 million. So they notified the police who, in their turn, began to watch Frank. They also intercepted his telephone calls. A few months of intercepted calls later (we listened to almost ALL of them and them had them read to us in English, during the trial. This is one of the reasons it took so long), the police and customs became aware of the impending arrival of the shipping container (the one packed with drugs, keep up). They also became aware of plans for a cash drop off, Frank handing over a large laundry bag to another gentleman down at the Chinatown end of Castlereagh St one day. When the police pulled this other chap over and took a peek, they found $1.57 million in cash. That young man ended up spending seven months in jail as he could not satisfactorily explain where he got the money from! The legitimate story for the shipping container was that it was full of "industrial art items" aka cheap n nasty machine-made crap. Customs and the police arranged a "controlled delivery" of the container with the drugs. That is, they unpacked it carefully, took the snorty stuff, replaced it with an "inert substance" and packed it all away again. And so, the 2 girls Frank had arranged to do the picking up for him (though he claimed not, that he was a dupe) unpacked the container (with the help of some removal men) picked up the boxes (10 of them) of drugs and took them to their flat, or the flat of one of them, the princessy one I recall.
But, and here's the kicker, the police were WATCHING ALL THE TIME! Yes, and taking many, many photographs as well. One of those girls is now serving 18 years in jail, the other, 15 years. Silly girls. And so it all came to a messy end. Frank was picked up a day or two after his (new, much younger) wife had their son and, we believe, has been in remand ever since.Turns out there was an earlier trial that didn't end up with a result (hung jury we speculated). And so it was the second trial I sat on, for 70 hearing days, in an uncomfortable chair, spending time with a man I actively disliked and another who was several sandwiches short of an adequate picnic, only to be kicked off on the last day via a rather dodgy ballot!
Sentencing next year I think. Frank should pack several toothbrushes.




*actually I've seen a few, drunk as LORDS, rolling around on their backs, waggling their little legs in the air. Fermented Jacaranda juice will do that to a bee. Makes for dangerous barefoot romping though.

So, I'm free at last ...

... but feeling rather flat about it.
I've been sent home, dismissed, superfluous to requirements.
Yep, turns out only 12 jurors get to make that final, fateful decision, so they had a ballot to see which 12 that would be. My number was not pulled out of the box and home I was sent.
Mr Judge was very sweet, thanked me and all that, said I shouldn't feel my time has been wasted just because I don't get to make the decision.
But fuck, seriously, 70 days, over 3 months of my life has been spent on this jury. Interminable days of nitpicking evidence. Immeasurable days of summing up and then even more spent summing up the summaries! AND I DON'T GET TO MAKE A DECISION. Hell, I don't even get to know the decision, unless it's published in the newspaper or some obscure legal site.

However, bright side and all that, we do have a lovely new front path!Laid this very morning. I'm so very glad we stood our ground and went with the full pattern, well worth the cost I say.
Apparently, the furry girls kept a couple of supervisory eyes on things while I was out.That is all.

Yes, exactly ...

from here

Footballers ...

... they've been at it again.
Honestly, I'm beginning to get more than a little tired of this shit.
Blokes, if you are not sure if she's "asking for it" or not, read this helpful 7-point handy guide on how not to rape people. It may help.
Other men, of the non-rape type, thanks and please go and slap your fellow men upside their heads.Click to enbiggen the FirstDog cartoon - from here.

Well good ...

... I'm glad the decision was finally made and I'm glad of the decision.
It was too, too soon to return to the dark days of the Liberal/National Coalition.
We will now just have to sit back and see how it all works out.

Ricotta rant ...

... if you don't care, come back later, I'll post a pretty picture of a kitten.
Ricotta is made of milk, a little lemon juice or vinegar and a touch of salt.
On Thursday, filled with a need to make a weed pie, I stopped at ghastlyColes for some ricotta. I bought this variety, because it said "traditional" on the lid and because the packet was cute.
I did not read the ingredients label, I should have. I should have because I'm in the middle of Michael Pollan's In Defence of Food.
I did when I got home, let me just say (because I've thrown the packet away and so I can't actually tell you) the ingredient list was a shit-load longer than Milk, Salt, Acid.
Let me just say I won't be buying that brand of ricotta again.

So, Jury Duty ...

... obviously I can't tell you any of the juicy details, mainly because there aren't any, but also because I'd get into terrible trouble with the jury police for talking about the trial outside the jury room and with persons other than my fellow jurors! Apparently they could take me outside and shoot me for that.
I can tell you it's a bit like a holiday. There's the 10 am start! There's the full hour lunch, 1pm on the dot EVERY DAY! There's the breaks for morning AND afternoon tea. There's the 4pm on the DOT end of the day. O, and then there's the 1pm end of the day EVERY Friday. POETS* day, every Friday - Bliss! And work pays me, my usual rate HA.
The food provided is fucking awful, really, really bad. I know I'm fussy but honestly, it's appalling. I take my own.
The Jury room is small and ugly, but we get a balcony, which will be nice when it warms up.
The trial is dull, repetitive and not at all juicy. I'm glad it's not a horrible murder, rape of something beastly to children or animals. I'm not at all sure I'd cope with that.
My fellow jurors? Some seem quite nice and some ... well let's just say I'm not planning on breaking the law anytime soon, a Jury trial by my peers is a terrifying thought**.






* O go on, you can work it out I'm sure.
** Why yes, I am a bit of a snob, for good reason I assure you.

Welcome to the 21st Century Australia

She did it.She probably shouldn't have at this time and so I worry about the likelihood of 'middle Australia' voting for a woman in the role come the election, but, oooooo how exciting!
She's a unionist, an atheist, she's not married (though has a significant other, what will he end up being called??) and she has no children.
I like her! Picky & cartoon thanks to First Dog on the Moon.

In addition to yesterday's ...

... wee post about my feminist awakening (0r something like that), go here and read how the lovely Ms Greer deals with the misogynistic fuckstump, Louis Nowra, with grace, style and good wordsmithing.
Also here, to see how Ms Razer swears up a storm of feminist rage. It's excellent if a bit NSFW.
I'm too frightened to click on the My New Pink Button linkie, the mind boggles. Would someone else please do it and report their findings back to me?
O, and this, from the delightfully enlightened Mr FirstDog.Mr FirstDog lives over here. I highly recommend a visit.

Sisters ...

... Join me in a little feisty singalong?
Right, I'm off to read a little Female Eunuch (all the while wishing I could still get away with tight, black, leather trousers, sigh).
Speaking of which/whom, I actually have been rereading Ms Greer’s Female Eunuch, in the lead up to today, International Women’s Day. She and it have been in the press quite a bit lately. A grumpy gent, Louis Nowra, had a piece published in The Monthly, dissing Ms Greer and the book. As this piece points out, it’s all fine and dandy to criticize, but he made it a personal attack. In discussing her book, and her ideas, he chose to attack her looks, her personality, and her style. That makes him a prick. Anyhoo, you know how people are often asked “what book changed your life?” Well this book, this book actually did change my life. It opened my eyes, it made me think about what was accepted as “the norm”, it made me question my place, my role, in life. I was questioning anyway, being a stroppy, bolshie girl in a Catholic High School does lead to much questioning, but The Female Eunuch clarified things for me. I suspect it was Ms Greer who first planted the seed in my mind, the seed that girls did not have to have babies, they could, but they didn’t have to. She certainly caused me to look at my father in a different way, as well as my mother, brother and sister. Well, everyone really. The book made me a very, very angry young woman for a number of years. Or perhaps I was already an angry young woman and the book just helped me articulate all that internal rage. Perhaps I’d have exploded had it not come along. This copy can’t have been my first, it’s dated 1986 (yes, that’s right NOT 1786), I was 19 then, and I do recall the angry feminist days started much earlier than that, high school days. I suspect I borrowed the first copy I read, and went out and got my own copy later. The underlining and comments are, slightly embarrassing and slightly funny. Goodness I was a serious young thing. A serious young thing who did complicated mathematical computations it would appear. I have no idea what this is for, it appears to be birth-date related. It was my bookmark.

Australia Day ...

... Google it if you must, there's loads for and against. I think this chap says it best.
Anyhoo, I'm Australian. I'm not proud to be Australian, since I've had nothing to do with the fact that I am. It's not something I've worked for or achieved, it's a quirk of birth. The luck of the draw.
I am, however, glad I'm Australian. That this big brown, green-beribboned country is my home. For all its faults, and there are many, it's far from perfect, I really wouldn't want to live, long-term, anywhere else.*






* That's not to say I wouldn't do a little dance of glee if Mr Brown announced we were off to live in London or New York for a year or two. But I'd be wanting to come home after that, of that I'm sure.

FFS ...

... one of the ever-increasing list of reasons we don't have children, is that they would probably be taken away from us, by well-meaning authorities, for all the poor-parenting choices we'd make.
We would smack, not abuse, whip, beat black and blue, but we would smack.
We would read them Where the Wild Things Are and Roald Dahl's The Fantastic Mr Fox and all the others besides.
We would take them to see the new Where the Wild Things Are movie. And a whole bunch of other nightmare-inducing stuff - Bambi, Old Yella, that Red Fern movie, The Wizard of Oz, all of them (they all gave me nightmares and made me cry)
We would feed them peanut butter, things from the yellow food group, strawberries, tuna and everything else you're not supposed to.
We would make them walk to school, or ride their bikes, or catch a bus.
We would probably make them latch-key children.
We would not "educate" them incessantly in loud middle-class voices.
We would keep the cats.
We would let them eat dirt and would not use antibacterial anything.
We would make them go to bed early, so we could have some alone, grown-up time.
We would dress them inappropriately for our own entertainment, and if they were girls would not purchase mini bras, midriff tops or anysuchstuff. Plain cotton knickers all round, possibly with a kitten or butterfly on the front.
We would call it Mucus, or Ianthe, for laughs.

I'm a bit of an anarchist ...

... or I would be if I lived in much of the United States* (thanks to Lee over at Pink Granite for the linkie). Yes, that's right people, I dry my laundry OUTSIDE on a clothes line and everything (listen to the song!).
Our sheets, shirts, knickers and socks flap in the wind and the sun and dry without using any energy. Well, sometimes my arms get a little tired, and I've been known to snack after hanging about a whopping big load, but, seriously, not much actual electricity is expended getting the washing done at the Brown-Mouse House.
We don't actually own a dryer, this is by choice, it's only inconvenient from time to time, during a prolonged rain spell for instance. But when that happens I whip up the racks in the spare room and leave the window open.
Granted, this is no good for sheets, but we own so many sets of sheets we could go months without running out.
Our line is a folding, rotary Hills Hoist. We can fold it up, pull it out and set up our outside table in a couple of minutes.
Mr Brown & I grew up with fixed rotary Hills Hoists. We both swung from them and used them to make tents. Our parents didn't get dryers until well after we left home.
Now, I understand dryers are handy, particularly when you live somewhere where it snows 1/2 the year, but when the sun is shining, give it a go. Nothing smells better than sun-dried clothes. And there's not much better than climbing into a bed made up with crisp, smooth, sun-dried sheets. It's blissmaking.
A few tips to novices, learned from my mother, I pass them to you.
* Peg your socks by the toes, not the tops.
* Use 3 pegs across the top of towels, it makes the dry shape better.* Bright colours and dark colours, peg them inside out, the sun fades things. You can use this to your advantage though, sun bleaching yellowing whites.* When it's important to keep something's "shape", hang it on an old hanger from the line.* Don't use wooden pegs, if they get wet they grew mold & mildew and can mark your laundry.
* Beware of bat poo and early morning bird poo, bring your washing in before it gets dark.
* And finally, enjoy the bringing it in experience. Feel and sniff your sun-dried laundry. Stand outside enjoying a quick shot of vitamin D folding your laundry straight off the line, it reduces the need to iron. And, if you have nice neighbours, chat over the fence while hanging out/bringing in. If your neighbours are dicks, turn your back and sing to yourself, who cares what they think anyway!




* Or in most strata-title homes in NSW, an issue that makes me froth with rage.

No, no, no ...

... No, no, no, no!
The Hitchhiker Trilogy was a defining part of my latter high school years. The books that is. I later listened to the radio series (GOLD!) and later still the television series, (OK-ish). The movie was, of course, total and utter crap, really, really terrible.
But the books, those three magnificent books, they made me laugh when nothing else did. The years between 14 and 16 or so are pretty horrible, especially when you are a girl, particularly when you are a square peg not even trying to fit into the round hold most of your contemporaries are fitting into. There's not much to smile or laugh about.
And then my friend K handed me The Hitchhiker' Guide to the Galaxy. It was brilliantly clever, funny, and a little bit poke the establishment in the eye. I loved it. I still love it. It's one of those books you return to again and again when you need a giggle. Language from the book still pepper my life, things are still, "froody", we regularly sip jinantonix, and when referring to milk, I often add the clarification, "as squeezed, from a cow".
I rushed out and bought myself The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, and Life, The Universe and Everything, and loved them too. Light was shone onto my blighted, dark and terrible teenage life.*
So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish and Mostly Harmless followed. They never lived up to the first three, seemed a little like Mr Adams was just going through the motions, bolstering his bank account (who can blame him really?). Ok reads, but I've never bothered to re-read, if you see what I mean.
I will NOT be spending any of my pretty Australian dollars on Eoin Colfer's efforts. WILL NOT.



*or so it seemed at the time**, looking back, of course, I had it easy, so easy I actually feel slightly guilty about it sometimes.
** I was a teenage girl FFS!

Table manners ...

... I believe they are important. I'm not talking about using the correct knife, or passing the port in the correct direction, that's more snobbery than manners.
But not chewing with your mouth open, actually using a knife and fork rather than fingers, those manners are important to me.
And, now that I think about it, I can't think of a young person, by young I mean under 15, who I'd share a table with willingly, or without feeling compelled due some obligation or other. It's actually rather unpleasant, the open-mouthed chewing, the not sitting in a chair, the mangling food with hands.
I recall my mum being quite fierce about table manners, and I'm glad of it.