Category: Uncategorized

Susan was away again today, so no mentoring for me, which was fine.

I was telling Stuart today about our tennis. He asked if they played tennis north of the arctic circle. I said I had no idea. Strange question. Why? He said that if you were playing in the arctic wastelands and served two faults in a row, would that be a double on Tundra. He thinks he’s hilarious. Was quite funny, though, I suppose.

Tonight, after dinner, Agnes and I had a long chat, instead of watching TV. She’s really interesting, much more so than Ian, or Stuart, although that isn’t saying much. She knows a lot about art and literature, and I think if her parents hadn’t both died at an inopportune time, she may now have been living a good life. It really knocked the stuffing out of her, as she had also recently broken up with her boyfriend and so there was no one to comfort her in her grief. She sort of gave up and finished up becoming a street person. Despite all that, she seems to be one of those contented people who don’t feel they have something to prove. She’s very easy company.

Also, she’s a whiz at WORD and Excel. I wonder if Stuart has a place for her at work.

Must remember to put some cash aside to pay the lawnmower man in the morning. I owe him for last time, and he seems to prefer cash.

I can’t believe it. When I got up and went outside this morning, Megan was poisoning all the wildflowers growing along the side of my driveway. When I approached her about it (she’d almost finished by the time I’d seen her), she said she thought it’d be OK, as we had spoken about it yesterday. Yes, we did speak about it yesterday, and I said I liked it as it was. So, now I have a whole lot of dead vegetation to get rid of, and no pretty flowers to look at when I drive up my driveway. Meanwhile, her front garden looks like a tip. I assume she’s going to do something about that soon as, apparently, she likes to keep the front of our houses looking neat.

This afternoon, inspired by the Wimbledon final, Donna and I went down to the local council tennis courts for a hit. It didn’t look too hard on TV. When we arrived at the courts one of them was being used, but we managed to snag the other one just before these four enthusiasts got out of their car, racquets in hand. They went off mumbling something about how every time tennis is on TV all these no hopers turn up at the courts, and that the regulars should be given some sort of priority. No hopers? I hope they weren’t referring to us.

Anyway, after about 10 minutes it was pretty clear that they probably were, especially as Donna kept whacking the ball over on to the other court and giggling and stopping for a chat after every point. The blokes on the other court were polite at first, but they soon got sick of us running into the middle of their rallies to retrieve our ball (we only had one, it was brown).

Donna and I are going to play every Sunday. We felt so virtuous afterwards, especially after a couple of glasses of wine in the pub.

Megan from the house in front asked me today if I could get rid of all the wildflowers growing along the edge of my driveway, as she thought we should keep the front of our places looking neat. I told her I quite liked the look of the flowers, but she didn’t seem convinced. The whole time we were talking her little white excuse for a dog was yapping its head off at my ankles, but it didn’t seem to bother her.

Agnes and I watched some Wimbledon women’s matches tonight, and it was entertaining, no matter what Stuart says, although Agnes spent most of the evening painting cards, a new hobby she does most nights. She’s quite good, actually.

Anyway, getting back to Wimbledon, at the end of the match the interviewer told the winner that she’d run almost four kilometres for the match, and could she believe it. Well, I think nearly everyone in the audience could run nearly four kilometres in an hour and a half. I think they should keep those statistics to themselves. It doesn’t sound impressive, and I have no idea why the commentator thought it was.

Donna rang me today from her car, while I was trying to concentrate on some cash flow projections, to tell me she’s quitting her arts degree as she won’t have to pay anything if she quits now. Hopefully, that will mean there won’t be any more of her pretentious emails. Instead, she’s going to do a six-week course on astrology and healing crystals. She says she can be far more useful to others that way and, also, she thinks it will mean her employment prospects will be better. Sadly, I think she may be right. She also says she’s thinking of having electrocution lessons to improve the way she speaks. Well, good luck with that, Donna.

It’s such a pretentious word, isn’t it, pretentious?

Today, stupidly, I started talking to Stuart about this week’s Wimbledon matches, and I brought up the subject of equal pay for the men and women and said it was about time. He went mad and said that women claim to want to be paid on merit, except in the cases where the merit can be measured. He said if we were truly non-sexist, we wouldn’t have men’s and women’s Wimbledon, but we would just have Wimbledon and let the best person win. He said that if they did that none of the women would make it through the qualifying matches

Alternatively, maybe the wheelchair and junior competitions could get the same prize money as the Men’s competition. He says all this patting of women on the head and pretending they’re as good as men is condescending and that he’d hate to be treated that way.

It also bothers Stuart when the media claim that some woman player is one of the greatest tennis players of all time, when she’s just one of the greatest woman players of all time, as obviously she plays in a lower-level competition. What about the hundreds of men better than her who don’t get a mention? Blatant sexism is his comment. However, it should be noted, Stuart is easily bothered.

Anyway, didn’t have an answer for him. Didn’t really care. Didn’t mean to shake your cage, Stuart. I was only making conversation.

Ian came over with a whole lot of sashes and a pair of handcuffs tonight, saying he was going to tie me to the bed and molest me. OK, I’m up for that. Got me all tied up, molested me a little, finished his own business, and then announced he had to go. The trouble was, at that stage he realised he hadn’t brought the key for the handcuffs. He started to panic (soon after me), and said he really had to go, or his wife would be wondering where he was. So, he yelled down to Agnes to come and help me, firstly covering me up with a sheet. He’s thoughtful like that.

Agnes arrived in quick time and sawed through the chain with much difficulty using a bow saw from the garage. Then, I drove to the local hospital’s Emergency Department to get them to cut the handcuffs off my wrists. I couldn’t go to work like that tomorrow. For some reason the triage nurse didn’t classify my plight as an emergency, so I had to sit there in public view for about three hours, doing my best to hide my wrists. Finally, a smirking doctor cut them off for me. It took him about two minutes. Surely, they could have done that two hours earlier.

A new couple (well, new to me, anyway — Megan and Rob) moved into the house on the other half of the strata title block in front of and below mine on the weekend. The signs aren’t good. They keep parking in my driveway, even though they have a perfectly good one of their own, and act like they’re doing me a favour if I ask them to move their car so I can get mine out. Also, they like to finish their beer first. I think they may be part of the new ‘O’ generation — the Oblivious generation.

Susan is on leave this week, so no mentoring for me. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Am I changing? If so, am I getting better or worse?

And why does WORD keep changing things I write, making helpful suggestions? Has ANYONE EVER left those numbers in a document that WORD inserts uninvited immediately after a date you’ve typed? I reckon everyone in the world deletes them straight away. How is that helpful?

This morning, I decided to chuck out my old electric blanket and get a new one. Faffed around under my bed for a while, disgusting, looking for the electric board thing, only to discover that it had become unplugged. So, that’s why my bedside lamp wasn’t working either. All that water in the microwave and over the kitchen floor for nothing.

Then, before lunch, I had the unexpected and rare pleasure of a phone call from Wayne, ostensibly to see how I was, but really to ask me if I meant all those things I’d said to him in the car on the way home. No, I didn’t, and especially that bit about how I wished I hadn’t served him with a restraining order after I left him.

New rule: (corollary to previous new rule.) Always get a taxi home from a colonoscopy. At least I won’t get a phone call from the taxi driver the next day asking me if I really liked him as much as I said I did.

Woke up starving this morning. I think I ate three days’ food in four hours. It’s absolutely freezing, so I thought I’d treat myself, what with my recent trauma (having to see Wayne) and everything, and go back to bed with my electric blanket.

Just my luck, the blanket conked out on me. Agnes kindly said I could have hers, but it doesn’t fit and I couldn’t be bothered, so I tried a trick someone told me about and put a hot water bottle filled with cold water into the microwave. However, 5 minutes must have been too long, because it burst and boiling water went everywhere. Agnes took pity on me and told me to go to bed while she cleaned up the mess. After I’d gone to bed, she brought me another water bottle, filled up from the hot tap. Think I’ll revert to that system myself from now on.

I slept for a few hours and then got up and weighed myself. Wouldn’t you know it? I’m two kilograms heavier than what I was on Wednesday! Maybe it’s all that water they told me to drink. By the way, I don’t get this latest fashion of having to drink litres of water each day. It seems to me that you’re training your body to be really good at not conserving water. Did the aborigines used to do it when they lived in the desert? Listen to your body and drink when you’re thirsty, I say.

Anyway, it’s probably not a good idea to have colonoscopies to lose weight. There probably should be a medical reason as well.

Had a delicious drink of water this morning, followed by a RAT test (negative).

Then, a text arrived from Ian, giving me several reasons why he couldn’t pick me up from my major medical procedure today, and how sorry he was. Reluctantly, I contacted Wayne, and he said he’d be delighted to have my company just after I’d had a colonoscopy. Yes, well, I’d like to give him a colonoscopy, and without the drugs, but I didn’t say that. I doubt if you could fit anything up there anyway. You’d need a tiny colonoscope, maybe one about the circumference of a matchstick.

Taxi arrived on time, found the hospital, found the ward, found the receptionist who appeared to love her job, put on the gown that seems to be designed to give the staff a good laugh, and waited in my little bed for my turn, trying not to let the other patients notice I was studying them. I think they were doing the same thing. The worst part was that after you’d walked by everybody to the toilet and done your thing, you had to buzz the nurse so she could come and admire your offering. Spooky, in view of Donna’s saying this month. Apparently, mine passed muster so, thankfully, I escaped a pre-colonoscopy enema. I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies. When the nurse approached the old bloke in the bed on the other side of the curtain to mine, I heard him say, ‘friend or enema?’ Very funny.

My turn came, they wheeled me into the theatre, breezy cheerios all round, and then someone I hadn’t been introduced to put this needle in the back of my hand and for about three seconds that made the whole thing worthwhile. I wonder where you buy that stuff.

Woke up some time later, three polyps lighter, and with vague memories of something up my bum travelling in the wrong direction. Then, an angel brought me some sandwiches and a cup of coffee, and I lay there as content as I’ve ever been in my life.

New rule: have colonoscopies as often as possible.

Then it soured again, as Wayne appeared at my bedside with a huge grin on his face, no flowers, ready to drive me home, which was good of him, I suppose, the bastard.

Scratched out this diary entry, then I expect I’ill sleep until morning. Funny, but I’m not even hungry — another good reason to have regular colonoscopies.

Today, I was allowed jelly (not red), iced lollies (not red), black (not red) coffee and water. I decided to go cold turkey and have only water. I think that’s what turkeys drink when they’re cold. I may make it a lifestyle. It wasn’t so bad, actually.

Tonight, I had to take this little tablet when I got home. Nothing happened for a while and then, well, it was bad, actually. I had to send Agnes downstairs for the evening, as the embarrassment level was too high. Every time I sat down, I had to get up again and go to the toilet, and don’t be fooled into thinking you can fart safely. Who knew we all carried so much of that stuff around inside us. And that applies to even the most attractive people (like me). It really doesn’t do to think about it. I may stop using the lift at work. Anyway, eventually I was weeing out of the wrong orifice.

The urgent visits seem to have stopped now, so I’m off to bed. I’m getting a taxi into the hospital in the morning, but Ian is going to bring me home, which will be welcome.

Donna’s thought for the month arrived this morning. It was, Everybody looks at their shit in the bowl before they flush. How simpatico with her recent studies into the finer points of English literature.

Liz rang today with her current agenda, that being that the trouble with the state of the environment is that there are too many people in the world. Maybe she’s right. We could of course fix all the problems with the environment within 15 minutes if we really wanted to. All you have to do is to get everyone in the world to hold their breath for that long. Presto. No more environmental problems (apart from the earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanic explosions, hurricanes, cyclones, wind and water erosion, bush fires, meteorite strikes and ice ages, but at least they’d all be natural — let’s call them organic). I don’t think the government agrees though, or they wouldn’t keep offering baby bonuses.

Liz was also bitterly complaining that one of those new traffic cameras caught her looking at texts on her iPhone while she was stopped at some traffic lights and she’s been fined. I told her, well, she shouldn’t do it as it’s dangerous. She replied that of course it’s not if you’re stopped, but from now on she’s going to check her phone while she’s driving, away from cameras at traffic lights. That way she won’t get caught. I hope that idea doesn’t catch on. I don’t think that’s what the road safety mob are trying to encourage, but maybe they are.

Tomorrow, I have to start preparing for Friday’s colonoscopy. How exquisite. At least I might lose some weight.

Had a long chat with Christopher today, which warms my heart and makes me sad at the same time. I think he and Olivia are fine, just not in a big hurry for the wedding. Christopher was really complimentary about Olivia and spent most of the call telling me how great she is. He told me she says she lives by two sayings: Live and let live and live within your means. I think he may be in good hands.

Well, all hell broke loose at work today. The bloke running the car wash business phoned and delivered a tirade of abuse at Mel, and has threatened to get his lawyers on to Stuart. Apparently, over the weekend Stuart went to Plan B and had a fence erected around the bloke’s car wash business. He locked out the bloke, his workers and his customers. Imagine the bloke’s surprise when he arrived to open up this morning.

When Stuart came in and was told about the phone call, he shrugged his shoulders and went to his office. I think he was smiling.

By the end of the day, we did hear from the bloke’s lawyers. They had transferred all rent owing and what would be owed up to settlement into our account. Stuart graciously had the fence removed and didn’t charge the bloke for the trouble. Stuart said the bloke phoned Stuart after it was all settled to ask why did Stuart always have to bring a gun to a knife fight. Stuart just replied that people shouldn’t start knife fights in the first place.

I’m thinking that Stuart’s solution was in line with Susan’s advice to me. He knew what the bloke really wanted, and that was not to lose money by not being able to operate. Stuart would have the fence removed if the bloke paid what he owed. Not sure if I would have had the guts to do that, but I’m beginning to think that maybe I would.

Also, I’ve noticed that Plan B always seems to be a more effective plan than Plan A. Maybe we should rename the plans.

Decided to walk down to the beach today and then carry on along the shore for a bit. It was cloudy, but the weather bureau said there was only a 20% chance of rain, so, no umbrella, no hat, no coat. Of course, as soon as I got as far from home as I’d planned to go, the heavens opened and I returned sopping wet, not to mention freezing.

When I got in Agnes said didn’t I know they said it might rain. Yes, well it might rain any day. Why don’t they say every day there’s a 50% chance of rain today, as it may rain and it may not. By the way, 20% rain has the same level of wetness as 100% rain.

Anyway, Agnes calmed me down with an Irish coffee and some chocolate.

New rule: don’t listen to the weather bureau. Stick my head out the window and decide for myself.

Another early morning awakening today. This time it was by my mobile, with Donna on the other end. She’d rung to say that a friend told her that Wayne has a girlfriend, and that she’s so dumb she thinks that coaching is something to do with catching buses. Sounds like a match made in heaven. Apparently, the friend said they complement each other like Lennon and McCartney. I’m thinking more like Kermit and Miss Piggy. Anyway, I told Donna how pleased I was for Wayne and for Miss Wayne, and tried to go back to sleep, but of course I couldn’t.

I was woken up this morning by my neighbour at the back revving his motorbike for about 15 minutes, before racing off down the street. What is it about motorbikes that they have to be revved for 15 minutes before they can be moved? We don’t do that with cars. Well, maybe the dickhead behind does. OK, mate, we all know you ride a motorbike and of course we’re all very impressed.

Stuart came to see me today, wanting some information about where we were at with a property we’re selling. It doesn’t settle for a few weeks yet, and in the meantime the buyer is renting it from us to operate a car wash business. The only problem is, he’s been doing that for a couple of months now, and hasn’t paid any rent. Stuart knows him, says he’s wealthy, and is an arrogant prick. Like I say, Stuart knows him. Probably his best friend.

I’m waiting to see what Stuart will do. We can’t get the rent money he owes us at settlement, as that’s a separate arrangement, but Stuart doesn’t like to lose. I can’t help thinking about what I’d do if I were in Stuart’s shoes. What was it that Susan was saying about negotiation?

Ian couldn’t make it tonight. Funny, but I’m getting less and less disappointed when that happens. Anyway, I thought it was a good opportunity to take Agnes out for a meal, you know, to a restaurant. She was really excited about it and scrubbed herself up meticulously. When we arrived at the restaurant, which was only half full, we were told we would have to wait about 15 minutes until a table became available. But, what about that table over there? No, that’s a table for four. OK, what about one of those ones next to the window. They look great. No, that area is closed. What, you have your best tables unable to be used? Waitress getting more and more annoyed at my reasonable questions and suggestions. How about that one? No, that’s booked for 7.30 pm. But we’ll be gone by then. Yes, but then we would have to clear and clean it, wouldn’t we? She said the staff were busy already. Well, maybe they could, you know, walk a bit faster. Anyway, I decided not to get personal, kept my cool, thought about Susan, thanked her as we walked out and found another restaurant a block or so away that actually seemed to be pleased to have customers. I have to say, I’m getting a bit tired of hearing all those anecdotal stories on the news lately about how businesses are struggling.

We finished up having a great evening chatting. Agnes was quite tipsy by the end of the night, and spent some time exchanging looks with a couple of attractive fellow customers sitting nearby.

I was so embarrassed today. While I was driving to work, I found that my vision had deteriorated rapidly overnight. That can’t be good, have I got a tumour pressing on my optic nerve? Probably. So, I headed for an emergency appointment with my optometrist.

The optometrist squeezed me in between booked patients, and made me stick my head on that little curved shelf and look at her ear. You need really good ears to be an optometrist. I wonder if the attractiveness and hygiene level of your ears form part of the course assessment. After a bit of trying to trick me, can I see this, can I see that, what’s clearer, this or that, I don’t know, do it again, she identified my problem, so I swapped my contact lenses into the correct eyes, paid my bill, and skulked out.

As I arrived at work late, I told Stuart I’d been for a routine check-up at the optometrist’s. To embellish my story, I told him that I once considered taking an optometry course at Uni. He looked at me and said, ‘What, with those ears?’

Susan wasn’t at work today, so no mentoring session for me, which is OK, as I don’t think my head can take any more at present.

Spent most of the evening watching TV by myself, as Agnes has taken a liking to my laptop. She spent the evening with it at the kitchen table. She plays with it every chance she can get. I hope she’s not surfing for porn. Can the police find out?

Today, after I’d returned from an extra-curricular visit to the shops to restock the cat stuff, Christopher face-timed me. It was great to see and hear him of course, but when I asked him about the wedding, he was somewhat evasive, and said something along the lines of, ‘of course, that won’t be for a couple of years’.

Hmm. Maybe my grandkids will have an Aussie accent after all.

Agnes and I were sitting watching TV tonight when Ductile returned. Well, I was watching TV, Agnes was fiddling with my laptop. What is it with that cat? I had to cook some sausages to feed her.

And, she still prefers Agnes to me.

Found an envelope in my letterbox tonight. It contained $1000. I assume Gary is now south of me rather than north. I hope he’s OK.

Donna and I went into town for a night out tonight. Well, I have $1000 in cash I’ve to get rid of. I couldn’t find a street park, so I had to park in one of those scary spiral multi-storey car parks. When we were leaving, a bit worse for wear, but under the limit I’m sure, I put the ticket, once I’d found it, it was on the floor, in the machine to pay. It won’t accept it. Turns out we were in the wrong car park. OK, so we’re next door. They all look the same.

Paid for my ticket in the correct carpark, finally found my car after trying a few levels, drove to the exit and put my ticket in the next machine. That machine then asked me to put my ticket in it. But I’ve just put my ticket in it. Stretched across and buzzed the buzzer. No one answers for ages. Finally, the voice of a gentleman whose first language obviously wasn’t English (he’d be good doing announcements at train stations) came from the speaker. When I worked out what the voice was saying, I realised it was telling me to go to the boom gate at the exit and buzz again, and he’d let me out. OK, I’ll do that. Arrived at the boom gate and buzzed. No answer. Buzzed again. No answer. Cars beginning to line up behind me. Buzzed again. Some halfwit toots. Finally, a different voice asks me what my registration number is. How would I know? Who knows what their rego number is? Donna got out of the car and had a look. Unfortunately, by the time she got back in the car she’d forgotten the number. I got out of the car, more toots, memorised my rego number (at least for as long as I needed to), told it to the man in the machine, and finally escaped from the car park. I love modern technology.

We had a Teams meeting with some of the agents today. It’s quite strange. You can’t even tell if the others are wearing pants. Anyway, we have this setup for people to remote into our boardroom, if we let them. It includes a camera mounted on the wall, which magically swivels and focuses on whoever around the table is speaking. What a great use of modern technology.

Unfortunately, today the upstairs mob was renovating. It wasn’t terribly noisy, you probably wouldn’t have noticed it usually, but every time a noise came from upstairs, the camera shot its gaze to the ceiling, so that our remote agents didn’t know what was going on. Eventually, we had to turn the vision off at our end and carry on regardless. It was a bit of a relief, actually.

I was late in from work tonight. Agnes had tidied up, made dinner, and was sitting on the couch in front of the fire watching TV. It was all so cosy. We had a pleasant dinner together, she washed the dishes, and then we chatted for a while. She’s quite interesting really. She began an arts degree but dropped out after both her mother and her father passed away within six months of each other, leaving her depressed, broke and with nowhere to live. She had the wind taken right out of her, but I think she may be on the way up again.

The only problem is I’m no longer allowed to spray spiders or cockroaches in my own home. Instead, we have to catch them in an ice-cream container, usually while screaming, then fling them out the back door. I think Agnes may have been a Buddhist in a previous life. (Or maybe a very good cockroach.)

Unfortunately, I had to shoo her downstairs before Ian arrived, which was a pity.

When I got in from work tonight Agnes was sitting at the kitchen table. She’d fished out my sewing machine from the linen cupboard and was altering (taking in) the old clothes I’d given her and adding a few extras here and there. She now looks better in them than what I ever did. It’s quite annoying.

Ductile has been unsighted for ages. I don’t think she’s coming back this time. Reluctantly, I’ve thrown out all her cat food, water and food bowls and worming tablets. It made me sad.

Susan was all about negotiation today.

Her lesson was that negotiation is all about optimising outcomes for yourself and for others. It’s not about winning or ripping people off. It also isn’t about being rude to people. OK, good to know. She said when I sensed that an opportunity for practising my negotiating skills was in the wind, the first thing for me to do was to make sure of my facts as best I could. Apparently, facts often solve problems. I’m to do my homework, as I may find I change my own mind after I find out all the facts. I’m to give acknowledgement if I become convinced by the facts or by the other’s arguments that I’m (wholly or partly) in the wrong.

Next, if I haven’t changed my mind, I’m to try to think about what the other person really wants. Often it isn’t directly what we’re bargaining about. Often, they want to save face, to feel like they’re doing a good job, to look good in front of their boss, to demonstrate their power, to have a paper bag stuffed with $100 notes put on their desk. I’m to think about how I can give them what they really want, without being obvious, and also get what I really want. Nevertheless, I’m to be in good faith and to strive for a win-win situation whenever possible.

Then, I’m always to use the model: If you do this, then I will do that. Don’t give away my bargaining chips up front. I may not get them back. I’m never to say: I will give you this. Now, what are you going to give me? Rather, I’m to say, I will give you this if you give me that. That way, neither of us need commit to anything until we’re satisfied we’ll achieve an agreement that’s mutually acceptable.

I’m to pick my battles, as some aren’t worth fighting, either because I can’t win, they’re too trivial, or I’ll lose more than I gain (such as my future credibility). It would be surprising if I got everything I wanted, so I’m not to be disappointed if I don’t. But I’m to be careful not to use this as an excuse for not fighting any battles at all. Once again, that is where that elusive good judgement comes in.

Finally, when I’ve sold the car, I’m to stop trying to sell it. Don’t point out the added features — the other person may not have noticed them and may not want them.

Well, a lot to think about there.

Christopher face-timed me today. It was great to see and hear him. He looked really well, but he dropped a bit of a bombshell. He told me he and Olivia are going to get engaged. I asked him what he meant by ‘are going to’? Have they decided to get married one day or not? If they have, they’re engaged now. Anyway, he seemed so happy I couldn’t help being happy for him of course, but when I hung up it left me feeling sad. I’ve only met Olivia once, when I visited England about eighteen months ago to catch up with Christopher. She seems nice (not nice enough for my son, though, of course), but she’s lived in London all her life and all her family are there. Thoughts of grandchildren speaking with a funny accent who I will hardly ever see (except for when they’re banishing me from the dunes). Not to mention my son, who I was secretly hoping may come home in the next year or two. That seems out of the question now.

Also, I got the distinct impression he’d already told Wayne — before me! Shit!

I spent the rest of the day lazing on the couch, drinking coffee, eating chocolate, watching the pouring rain outside the window and feeling sorry for myself. When Agnes asked me what was wrong, I burst into tears.

A quick breakfast with Gary this morning (two eggs), then bon voyage. He’s calling in on his way back down south to give me my $1000 back but isn’t staying. I wonder how much profit he makes after expenses.

I spent a lot of my time today with Agnes, sorting out my wardrobe. I figured, as she was officially a homeless person, I might as well give the clothes I no longer wear straight to her and cut out the middle man. Also, it saves me a trip to the Salvos.

Then I had to go to Bunnings to buy a clothes rack, as she had nowhere to hang them in her room.

On my way home from Bunnings, I called in on Grandpa. When I arrived, a carer was helping him have a shower and a shave. I think he may have had a stiffy (Grandpa, not the carer, thank God). Grandpa said he wanted to be well-groomed in case someone visited him. I said that’s great Grandpa, because I’m visiting you, but I don’t think that counted. Then he wanted to shower the carer, but the carer politely declined and left us. While I was talking to Grandpa, Walter put his head in the doorway and swore at us in Polish (Grandpa insisted that it was Polish swearing, anyway). Grandpa said he often does that. Also, Walter keeps ringing his bell to check that it’s working, causing the carers to come to his room to see what he wants. Grandpa says that if they allow the shower to go on his head, he screams at them. How much do these people get paid?

Grandpa also told me about the 90-year-old George King (not King George), who Grandpa reckons is nuts because he has fourteen clocks in his room and who is constantly stressing about having them all tell the same time, no matter what that may be. I suggested he stop them all at ten to two and leave it at that. Grandpa is going to pass on that suggestion. Apparently, whenever Jack, who has a false leg, hobbles to the shops, he buys George another clock. I don’t think it’s out of kindness, but rather to wind him up by giving him another clock to wind up.

The sad thing is, I feel that Grandpa is living a more interesting life than what I am.

And another thing. I really need to get a printer on my desk, rather than have to use the shared one in the common area. Today, I was silly enough to print my medical record for filing at home. As I pressed the ‘print’ thingy, my phone rang and, because of the resultant conversation, I forgot that I’d pressed the ‘print’ thingy. Then, about a half an hour later, Stuart dropped my printout on my desk, a pleasant smile on his face. ‘I think this is yours’, he said.

The top page was my most recent history, the one with ‘query gonorrhoea’ plastered all over it (twice).

Another reason to look for another job.

Then, when I got home from work tonight Gary was already there, waiting for me. I’d left a key out for him, and he was sitting out the back, smoking something sweet-smelling and sipping a beer. He was really pleased to see me. Soon after, Agnes joined us. She thought he was a scream. Had quite a fun evening with the three of us talking about all sorts of out-of-left-field things. On the one hand Gary is quite dumb, but on the other hand he can be quite profound. He loves watching the footy. He was commenting on how footballers never had mental health or personal issues when he was younger. They just trained and turned up on Saturdays and played football. Now clubs are always wrapping their arms around players, and he doesn’t get that. He also said he was watching The Bold and the Beautiful today while he was waiting for us. Said he’d never seen so many bold women. Also, he said the weather prediction was for some rain in the morning and again in the afternoon. He said why don’t they just say it’s going to rain all day. Isn’t it going to rain at lunchtime?

Later, Gary was telling Agnes a bit about his trip, how he grows his crop in a hollow on a nearby oblivious neighbour’s property, and how he and Trevor have to carry water on their backs and go and water it each day in the summer. He said it’s hard work. Also, something about his spare tyre when he drives to Broome, but I really didn’t want to know. Happy to have you here for the night, Gary, but please go away again tomorrow.

I gave him $1000 before I went to bed. He asked Agnes and me how many eggs we’d like for breakfast in the morning, as he was getting them out of the fridge and putting them next to the stove ready. How would I know? Ask me tomorrow.

Gary rang today to say he was making his annual trip to Broome, and could he stay at my place tomorrow night. Also, could he borrow $1000 for petrol. I think he knows my daily limit on ATM withdrawals. Well, I was happy to lend him the money, as I always get it back eventually, but I’m not all that keen on him staying at my place anymore. Anyway, I said OK this time. He can sleep on the couch and use the sleeping bag I was going to use when I went camping. (It’s still brand new. I might let him keep it.) He’s going to pay me back on his way home in a week or so, after he’s completed his business transactions in Broome.

Then, this afternoon Stuart had a great laugh at my expense. I told him I didn’t trust the backup facility on our network, so wanted his OK to order an outdoor drive. Of course I meant an external drive. Easy mistake. I, and the rest of the office, didn’t hear the end of that for the rest of the day. Was I going to use it in my house or in the garden? Did it need to be waterproof? Was I going to run a long cable to it? Ha, ha.

Anyway, he said he wasn’t paying for one.

Warned Agnes about Gary tonight. She seems quite excited to meet him.

Ian and I were right in the middle of it tonight or, to be more precise, approaching the most interesting part of it, which is more near the end, when his mobile rang. I was hoping he would ignore it — a hope that was quickly dashed. It was his wife, asking him to pick up some milk on the way home from ‘work’, as they were all out. After what appeared to be a pleasant conversation on both sides, Ian hung up, and for some inexplicable reason thought we could continue from where we left off.

Why can’t she get her own damned milk during the day?

And why don’t I get a proper boyfriend?

Had a call from cousin Liz today. She was complaining about a 30-storey apartment block that’s being built near her shopping centre. She thinks it’s disgraceful, and that the limit should be six stories (why not seven?). When I pointed out that if that were the case, they would need five times as much land to house the same number of people, and where did she propose that should be, maybe in the parkland behind her home, she was mortified. No, of course not, the high-principled NIMBY. She didn’t have any other solution though. But make that building only house one fifth as many people to suit her aesthetic values.

To bolster her sense of outrage she decided she was upset on behalf of some of the nearby homes, as they were losing their view of the city. Anyway, she was adamant that views are important, so I said, yes, they are, so she should be grateful that by building those apartments the developers are creating many more homes with views than there are homes losing their views. Once again, no answer for that. Did not compute. I sensed she wasn’t thrilled on behalf of all the people who were gaining a view though.

I’m really getting sick of her phone calls. She’s always playing the ‘downtrodden woman’ card or her ‘I didn’t understand, I forgot, I’m so silly’ card, and she always gets her way. I’ve decided that despite (or maybe because of) her misguided, over-the-top enthusiasm, she is sad, impotent, illogical, mean-spirited and pathetic, and I don’t want to be like her.

Had a short session with Susan today. She knows I don’t like it if I’ve made a mistake and that I worry people will judge me for it. Her message was that people judge you on average, not by every little thing you do, so don’t fret about those little mistakes or embarrassments, such as farting in meetings. (It was only once, Susan.) She said the only people who don’t make mistakes are people who don’t do anything.

Got Agnes an appointment with my dentist today. Fortunately, his practice is walking distance from home. Agnes had bad her tooth filled and the rest of them cleaned, and I received another $250 bill. Oh well.

Went to wash the last couple of days’ dishes in the dishwasher today, only for it to inexplicably leak water all over the floor. It’s never done that before. Agnes grabbed the quilt off my bed and dropped it onto the rapidly expanding puddle before it reached the carpet. I had to get a plumber out, who cleverly turned off the little red tap under the bench that feeds the dishwasher, and charged me $200. Well, I suppose it is Sunday. He told me my seals have dried out, which I have been suspecting for some time.

Then, this afternoon I saw Agnes looking not too happy. I thought she might think I was upset she’d drenched my quilt, but that had nothing to do with it — she was in pain with a toothache. I gave her some Panadol and told her I’d get her in to see my dentist tomorrow.

The ants haven’t returned.

Went to the shops today and, for something different, I resolved not to say Thank You to the salesperson until after he or she had said it to me. I’m fed up with shop assistants never saying Thank You when you buy something (i.e. supporting the shop they work in, thereby keeping them in a job). What you usually get is there you go, no worries, or not a problem. Well, I never thought it would be a problem, asking you to do your job.

The trouble was, I kept accidently saying Thank You first by mistake, and then hearing them say Not a problem, and so getting annoyed with myself. It was frustrating. In the end I gave up and thanked everyone I handed my credit card to. I blame my mother.

When I arrived home Agnes was sitting on the couch reading a magazine. She looked so content and self-contained. She doesn’t seem to need goals or others’ approval. To get her thoughts I asked her didn’t she think life was just meaningless, so what’s the use of living. She said maybe it is meaningless but that doesn’t mean it can’t be enjoyable. She added that even though it’s messy at times, it’s still good. That was as far as we got with that conversation. Maybe that’s as far as that conversation needs to get.

Donna rang today on speakerphone while she was driving home from Uni. She’s panicking, as she hasn’t read any of the books she’s supposed to have studied, and she thinks she might fail her upcoming exams. Well, yes, Donna, you might fail if you haven’t done any work, no matter how saccharine your emails are. Donna has great ideas sitting on the launch pad in her head. The problem is they never reach escape velocity.

When I arrived home tonight, I found Agnes sprinkling talcum powder along the window sill next to the sink. I asked her what she was doing and she said discouraging the ants from getting in. I said why doesn’t she just spray them. She said she didn’t want to hurt them, but that they don’t like the feel of talcum powder on their little feet. OK.

Had a heart to heart with Stuart today. It’s always bothered me that we close the office for two weeks over Christmas, when there isn’t much to do, meaning I only get two weeks leave a year to use for travelling or whatever. I decided to embrace some of Susan’s advice today and broach the subject with him, coolly and calmly. I think he sensed I was getting fed up and maybe thinking about looking for another job, so he offered that I could have my four weeks annual leave during the year, and not count the time I had off over Christmas while the office was shut, as long as I didn’t fall behind in my work (which, by the way, includes a lot of personal banking and accounting for him, and which I usually do in my own time).

I was pretty pleased with myself. I thanked him and said that this could be a turning point for me in my job, but he said I was mistaking a turning point for a point of inflexion. Once again, I have no idea what he was talking about, but I didn’t like the way he said it.

Anyway, I quickly followed up with a brief email thanking him, so he doesn’t forget. I think I’ve had a victory.

Had to clean out the pantry again tonight. Ants.

Ian didn’t make it tonight, and I haven’t seen Ductile for a few days. I miss Ductile.

More ants.

There was an unpleasant surprise waiting for me in my in-box today. An appointment has been made for me to have my first colonoscopy. I’d forgotten that my doctor put me on the waiting list last year. I’d been to see her because I was getting this unbearably itchy ring at night, so I made an appointment for some ointment. An ointment appointment. She said that an itchy ring (not her words) can sometimes be caused by polyps and anyway, at my age, a colonoscopy wasn’t a bad idea. Could have fooled me. I thought it’d be a bad idea at any age.

She asked me how much alcohol I drank, so I told her the amount, which is substantial, but all she said was, ‘Is that all?’ Then she gave me some ring cream, and that fixed the itch, so I’d forgotten all about the booking.

But wheels had been set in motion. I’m booked for 1 July. Should I still go? The cream is working fine. I’m sure it won’t be as much fun as it sounds.

Today’s saying from Donna has arrived. It is Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and he’ll eat forever. What about teaching a woman to fish? What if he lives in the Sahara? Also, couldn’t a woman teach other women to fish sometimes, rather than relying on a man? Maybe it’s time I started teaching Agnes to fish, instead of feeding her fish every night. As long as I don’t have to put a worm on a hook. This one is an oldie, but it may be a goodie.

Agnes noticed that I was up extra early today. It didn’t help. I still bumped into Breadstick in the lift. I think he’d arrived early to avoid me. He obviously wasn’t happy with what happened on Friday night. He spluttered something about how he was really drunk and definitely not in any condition to agree to have sex. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I was on top. I really hope I can’t be charged with rape, because I did keep filling his glass from the punch bowl. Probably not. I don’t think women can be charged with rape. We aren’t that liberated yet.

OK, New rule: no sex with anyone who works in the building that I work in.

Last night Donna told anecdotes about how someone or other ‘decided they’d like to act one day, and next night they found themselves sitting next to a director at dinner’, and that proves that there’s an intelligent power looking over us and aiding us. I could as easily tell stories about people who decided they wanted to write, and the next night at dinner there wasn’t a single publisher present at the table, isn’t that amazing, there mustn’t be a god. People like Donna always make a point of listing a few coincidences in the world, and label people who point out that coincidences are just that, coincidences, as sceptics. They don’t get what a coincidence it would be if there were no coincidences in the world. They are the sceptics.

I think I’ll go out with Agnes in future.

My pantry is still filling up with ants whenever I’m not looking. I keep finding the latest place where they get in and spraying it, but they just find a new place to get in. I’m spending half my life emptying and refilling my pantry.

Woke with a headache this morning and to the sound of my phone ringing, not that that’s what it does. It was Donna. In a moment of weakness, I told her about last night, and she really laid into Breadstick. It wasn’t his fault, it was both of us, and she doesn’t know a thing about him.

Donna always finds fault with people, especially men. I think it’s her hobby. I wish I didn’t tell her stuff.

When I got up, Agnes could see I looked crap, so she made me drink a Berocca for breakfast, after which I went for a walk along the beachfront, Agnes’ previous home, to clear my head. At one point I had to go to the loo. True to form, some vandals had broken the lock on the door of the cubicle, so I had to go with one leg stretched as far forward as I could, to keep the door pushed shut. I understand that vandals want to make their mark in the world, but couldn’t they make it by doing something useful?

Then, when I went to wash my hands, I couldn’t sing Happy Birthday twice, as recommended, because the water automatically turns off immediately after the first Happy, which I was not.

I don’t know why, but Donna and I are going out tonight.

This evening after work we had our annual building party, at which all the tenants of the building get together and have a few drinks and a few nibbles. Except for Ronald. He’s a teetotaler and likes to look down his nose at the rest of us at parties. He won’t even have port wine jelly. Anyway, late May is a good time of year to have it, as not much else is going on. All the girls were dressed in their finery, causing Stuart to say he was worried that he had a VJL. When I asked him what that was, he said a Visible Jocks Line. I told him I thought that’s the least of his fashion worries.

Breadstick was there, and we had quite a long chat over a few drinks. By the end of the party, I was quite tipsy, and I could see that Breadstick was pickled.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I think we had sex in the back of my car afterwards. I’m not really sure what happened, and I can’t ask him, but I know I have a stiff neck. Now I’m going to have to start getting to work at a different time. I can’t get in any later, as Stuart won’t be pleased, so it looks like it’s going to have to be earlier.

And I still don’t know his name. At least I know he isn’t gay.

I’m not a morning person so coffee is my go-to. This morning, as the kettle came to the boil, I took out my new jar of coffee granules and unscrewed the lid in anticipation of that delicious coffee aroma. But, no fragrance, instead this awful wax paper cover. I peeled that off, although not in a neat one pull and it’s off kind of way. No, it was tougher than the skin on the base on my heel, so I picked at the edge to start the removal. Finally, success.

Now milk. A fresh new bottle, great, but that screw top isn’t as screwy as you may naively expect. They make the little plastic ring strong enough to be Barbie’s necklace and an antique of the future. I finally got the top off, only to reveal another lid. What bright spark came up with this one? Pull here is the arrow’s instruction. As I pulled, I lost my grip and milk spilled everywhere except into my cup. My world today began messily.

Later, talking with Stuart at work, I vented my frustration, and said that milk carton must have been invented by a man. He said it probably was, as men have invented nearly everything, so I said, like what, and he rattled off sewerage, plumbing, houses, the harnessing of electricity, the smallpox vaccine, radio, television, penicillin, motor cars, planes, computers and, last but not least, the AFL, so I said, yes, but what else, and he said, well, atom bombs.

This morning’s meeting was cancelled, as no one else had prepared for it. Apparently, no one had had the time. Made me look like the only one with time to spare.

I had so much on at work today, and no one else seemed to be busy. Kylie was off on one of her two-hour lunch breaks, and I was constantly being interrupted with phone calls for other people. I worked until about 7 pm to get the cash flows ready for tomorrow’s meeting, not that anyone noticed, as everyone else was out the door by 5 pm or, in Stuart’s case, 4 pm.

I was still feeling hard done by when I got home, to find that Agnes had cooked dinner, had set the table beautifully, including candles, and had found a classical music CD I didn’t know I had and was playing that in the background. She said it was Spring, the first of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons violin concertos, and one of her favourites. OK.

She was waiting for me so we could eat together. How nice.

Had another session with Susan today. It was a short one. She said today she wanted to impress one thing on me — that it’s better to apologise later than to ask permission first. It takes a bit of courage, sticking your neck out, but I can see that maybe that’s what successful people do. I can see her point, of course. If you ask and get told, ‘no’, that’s pretty much the end of it, whereas if you act without asking, you may actually achieve something new and worthwhile. Or fall flat on your face. Hence the requirement for courage.

Susan says that that the thing about needing courage decreases if you’re persistent, not because you acquire courage, but because you come to believe that what you are doing is actually in your interest, the sky doesn’t fall in, people don’t like you any less, and so the courage you thought was required isn’t. You find yourself doing what you are expecting will lead to a good result, so why would that need courage? I suppose it’s more accurate to say you need courage to do something like that the first few times.

Susan finished our brief chat by emphasising that in acting according to your own decisions, it’s important to show good judgement. When I asked her how to do that, she replied that she couldn’t really help me there. She said good judgement is like grace. You either have it or you don’t. Successful people nearly always have good judgement, at least in the area in which they’re successful. OK, good to know, but of limited use to me.

I made a mistake and watched the news tonight. Agnes likes the news.

They were talking about possibilities in future elections, and we were being encouraged to vote for the best person. How can I do that? There are only politicians running, most of them failed businesspeople, rednecks, elitists or happy clappers. How can I vote for the best person when he or she is busy doing something useful?

Another news item was decrying how Google was using my information to tailor the information it was delivering to me, and that I should be worried about this. Apparently, I might get shown ads for things I’m interested in.

Tonight, as I was having dinner with Agnes (she likes spaghetti bolognaise, although prefers marinara), after I’d made her have a shower and put on some old clothes of mine, she comes up OK with a scrub, Ductile wandered in as though everything was normal and as though she hadn’t been a missing cat for over a week. She calmly curled up in front of the fire and went to sleep.

Later, while Agnes and I were on the couch together watching Sex and the City 2, Ductile climbed onto Agnes’ lap, made herself comfortable, and went back to sleep. When I went to pat her, she hissed at me. Then, when Agnes went downstairs to her bedroom, Ductile followed her. It seems Ductile prefers Agnes to me. Great. Another rejection.

Had a quick chat with Breadstick in the lift this morning. He’s gorgeous. I cleverly found out he isn’t attached so, bonus, I wouldn’t have to hide under the table if I went out with him. It had to be a quick chat, as he gets off on level four. After he got out of the lift, I went up to five, put the lift into reverse, and went down to my office on three.

Tonight, I went downstairs to check on Agnes, to see if she was OK. She’d swept the courtyard outside her door and weeded the garden. The courtyard has never looked so good. She asked me if she could borrow my vacuum cleaner. It seems her room isn’t up to her usual cleanliness standards. At least she didn’t request a leaf blower.

New rule: I told Agnes in future I’d call her when I’m having dinner. She can come up to eat and then go downstairs again. OK, I’ll also get some breakfast supplies in for her to prepare her own breakfast downstairs. I think I’ll also buy a small TV for her, so she isn’t bored.

I was having dinner in front of the telly tonight when I heard a noise and remembered that Agnes was downstairs. I then wondered if she was hungry. Should I invite her up to share my meal? I was going to throw half of it away anyway. Then I thought, but she’s survived this long OK, she isn’t exactly skinny, and she does have a warm bed to sleep in, courtesy of yours truly. What to do?

I’m starting to resent the homeless. They’re making me feel guilty.

The ants are back. Cleaned them up, finished my dinner and went to bed.

I was printing out my emails today, reading them, and then throwing them in the bin, when Ronald spotted me. He superciliously asked me wasn’t I concerned about what I was doing to the environment. I was tempted to say wasn’t he concerned about what he was doing to the office environment by coming to work each day. I don’t get this. Paper is captured carbon, isn’t it? — carbon that’s not in the atmosphere as carbon dioxide, keeping our lovely planet nice and warm. Isn’t it good that we continuously grow trees and chop them down? I know the paper may eventually decay and release carbon again, but if that happens the environment won’t be worse off than if we hadn’t captured the carbon in the first place, and at least it puts the problem off for a long time, hopefully until the approach of the next ice age.

Had a rare evening with Ian tonight. He took me out (of the house) to a restaurant for my birthday, which was only three months ago. Anyway, we were sitting at a table, playing footsies, having a lovely time when, all of a sudden, he pushed me under the table. He’d spotted someone he knew. It was really uncomfortable, not to mention inelegant and embarrassing. Also, I hit my head. I think I’m getting too old for this rubbish. I wonder what Susan is like with personal problems.

At least it took my mind off Agnes for a while. I wonder if she’s still at my place.

As I was walking along the beachfront this evening, I spotted Agnes (who names a little baby Agnes?) setting up for the night. It was freezing, and I was acutely aware that I have that big spare room downstairs that’s warm, dry and contains a toilet cubicle and a double bed.

As I was agonising about what to do, feeling guilty, it started to rain, so I made a snap decision and approached her and asked her if she’d like to sleep at my place for a few nights, as I had a spare room.

Surprisingly, to me, she didn’t jump at the chance, but after a bit of persuasion on my part we loaded all her stuff into my car and I took her home and installed her. The room is downstairs off my garage and has a separate entrance, so I told her she could come and go as she liked for the rest of the week, but not to invite anyone else in, not to disturb the neighbours, not to drink, not to smoke inside and not to come upstairs. From the look on her face, I could sort of see why she preferred to be homeless.

Then I came back upstairs, locked the door to the stairwell, and now I’m wondering if that was a good thing to do or not.

The girls were still off with man flu today, but Hung is back. I was surprised he was back so soon, so I asked him, ‘Are you well, Hung?’ and he replied he’d been told he was average for an Asian, but small for a donkey. What was he talking about?

Today, Susan spoke to me about managing my workload, which I admit I need help with. She said she could see I was in the habit of taking other people’s monkeys onto my back during the day, because I didn’t want to offend, and that I must stop using the phrase, OK, leave it with me, and similar.

She said I should learn to delegate, as I’m not being responsible if I’m doing a job that someone on half my pay (read Kylie) could do, especially when they don’t have enough to do. I mustn’t let the tail wag the dog. Apparently, it isn’t rude to ask someone else to do his or her job. Also, how else are they going to think what they do is important?

And, I shouldn’t think working long hours without expecting recompense (money, time in lieu, etc.) will be appreciated by anyone. She knows that sometimes I have to do this, but it should only be because I want to achieve a certain outcome by a certain time, not because I’m hoping to be favourably noticed. Apparently, being an effective and assertive employee is what gets me appreciated.

OK, I have some steel in my spine again. Thanks Susan.

Hardly got any sleep last night, as the house next door to sw’s house had a loud party, which seemed to reach a crescendo at about 3 am. I can’t stand it when I hear other people having a great time and I’m not there. Strangely, sw’s seven dogs don’t make a noise if someone is making a noise louder than what they can.

I wonder if she’s going to mention it to me.

An old lady who lives (lived) over the road from me (next to the obsessive leaf blower (he’s obsessive, not the leaves)), Flo, died yesterday, probably from noise pollution. One of her sons came to tell me today, in case I wanted to go to the funeral. I think they’re trying to boost numbers. While he was here, he told me he was thinking of buying his siblings’ shares of her house, so he could keep collecting her mail. Apparently, she was an MCC Life Member, and the queue for that sort of thing is, inexplicably, about 20 years long. He figured he wouldn’t tell the MCC that she’d died, so he could use her membership to get a grand final ticket each year. Great plan. What could go wrong? She was nearly 90 years old already

Kylie, Mel and Susan still off work today with the man flu, and so was our bookkeeper, Hung.

This afternoon, Liz rang to report that the council had cut down the trees that she’d planted a few years ago on the council land next to her house. Apparently, they had to dig up a pipe or something. Liz was most agitated that they hadn’t consulted her about it, and she’d rung the council to speak her mind to whoever was lucky enough to answer the phone, no doubt using her soft people skills. I asked her if she’d consulted them when she planted the trees on their land, but all I got was an uncomprehending silence, apart for the whooshing sound that was made when my question brushed the top of her head. Liz thinks everyone should consult with her about things that might affect her in any conceivable way but doesn’t see any reason to return the favour. Predictably, her heightened sense of entitlement results in her feeling hard done by all the time, and I fear she’ll go to her grave with that satisfying yet impotent feeling.

Driving to work this morning, happily minding my own business in the right-hand lane, great, no one in front of me, when I noticed this bloke practically driving up my exhaust pipe. I hadn’t noticed him at first, as I hadn’t looked in my rear vision mirror for a while. (Why would I? I was going forwards.) His face was purple and he was waving his arms frantically at me. Well, I wasn’t giving in to that sort of intimidation, so I slowed down a bit, causing his face to become an even deeper shade of purple. Finally, he raced past me in the left-hand lane. Don’t let it spoil your whole day, mate. I didn’t see him again until I pulled up beside him at the next set of traffic lights. Didn’t look across at him, though. I pretended I was refreshing my lipstick.

At work, all of Kylie, Mel and Susan were off with the flu or a cold or COVID or something. I heard them all unhappy and comparing symptoms yesterday, and they did look and sound sick. They were calling it the man flu. Stuart said that maybe we should rename it the woman flu, but I said no, as clearly that would be disrespectful to women.

Went to Loretta’s funeral today. It was a sad graveside affair, with hardly anyone there. I hadn’t seen Gary nor Trevor for a couple of years. They’ve both deteriorated greatly and looked terrible, even allowing for the solemnity of the occasion. Gary has developed a severe limp and uses a cane, and neither of them were strong nor steady enough on their feet to act as pall bearers, so I joined the other five people there to help carry the coffin from the hearse to the grave. The whole thing was very depressing.

After it was over Gary and Trevor said ‘see ya’ and jumped into their car and drove off.

I hope my funeral has a bit more impact on others than that.

When I got home, I got a call from ex-husband and father-of-my-son Wayne, who wanted a chat. Unusual. He was driving at the time. I think he was a bit bored, and feeling a bit sentimental. Before he hung up (he’d reached the McDonald’s drive-through) he told me that he’s sure he’s now over me, as he’s started having fantasies about me again. Great. What use is that to me? And please don’t.

Anyway, I made it quite clear that I don’t have fantasies about him. I think I may have been too adamant about it, as he laughed and said he didn’t believe me, so I told him my fantasies involve his best man. He’s such a pig. I didn’t bother mentioning the funeral.

I bumped into Breadstick in the lift on my way up to my office again today. We smiled and said hello again. I’m sure there’s some chemistry there.

Received another saccharine email from Donna today. It begins Hi there, sweet girl, and goes downhill from there. She asks me about another girlfriend of mine, Sheila, who Donna says is a remarkable and inspirational woman (she’s a train wreck). I must be extremely satisfied seeing her so mature and fulfilled and alive! (No, and she’s not). She said that she could see that Sheila was doing really well on Facebook. Guess what Donna. Everyone’s doing well on Facebook! Donna is still quivering and full of whimsy, but I expect she’ll get over it. It’s like she’s become two people — a self-focused, smoking, talking-machine in person and a pompous ass on paper. She tells me she loves having facials and massages and all that sort of pampering for a special treat. (I know, Donna, we go together.) On Sunday she had lunch with sweet friends up the road. She is currently having some ‘me time’.

I hope they find a cure soon.

Had another mentoring session with Susan today.

I asked her if she considered herself to be a feminist, and she said definitely not, as the modern day FFs focuss on criticising men as a whole and is predicated on expecting men to change their behaviour to accommodate women. She said it should be predicated on women changing their choices, habits, outlook, etc., so that they become equal partners with men in the fields they choose and not have the FFs cry foul if they are underrepresented in the fields they don’t choose.

She says if I want to become successful in some field, it wouldn’t hurt if I worked 50-plus hours a week 48 weeks a year in that field for 10 or 15 years, show good judgement and a strong work ethic for all that time, and put myself in a position whereby I could apply for a senior job on an equal basis with the many men who do this. And don’t cry discrimination if I don’t get the job, as nearly all the male applicants won’t get it either.

She says the FFs will know they’ve arrived when a masculism movement is created, involving men complaining that women are discriminating against them because women don’t allow or encourage them to join the institutions they’ve created by working passionately and often pro bono for several generations.

OK. Sorry I asked.

When I got home ants were everywhere. Tiny black ones. I think they were getting water from my sink. Spent half the night finding out where they were getting in, spraying the spots once I’d found them, and then flushing the marooned ones down the sink. A bit callous, but what else am I supposed to do?

Went to Mum and Dad’s today for Mothers’ Day. I took Mum a bunch of flowers and, as arranged, cooked a roast dinner for them so we could share some wine, using their boring shop-bought glasses, and have a chat while I was cooking in the kitchen.

I put the roast in the oven, and Mum kept coming into the kitchen, fiddling around, wanting to make the gravy, turning on the oven light to look at the roast, and so on.

We chatted for an hour or so, Mum and Dad giving me all the details of their recent cruise, arguing over whether they had pasta or rice on the Tuesday night, when I realised something was amiss. No cooking smells. Mum had turned the oven off, and the meat was as raw as when I had carefully placed it in it.

Dad saved the day with his Weber.

Anyway, had an acceptable night, all things considered.

Christopher probably doesn’t know it’s Mother’s Day in Australia.

Haven’t seen Ductile for a few days again. Where does she go?

Donna and I went to a posh bar in town tonight. The wine came in nice glasses, with the name of the bar tastefully engraved on them. After our second glass I decided to slip the two empty glasses into my bag, as I really liked them. The waiter looked a bit puzzled when he came to take our next order, but I guess he just thought someone else had cleaned up. We did get a few looks when we went to pay, my bag was clinking, but fortunately no one had the nerve to accuse us of glass theft. When we got outside, we walked quite briskly to the car without looking back.

I don’t think it’s really stealing, because if you buy a bottle of water, you buy the bottle and the water in it. You don’t just buy the water and have to return the bottle when it’s empty. In my view, ditto a glass of wine.

I have a great collection of wine glasses in my cabinet.

I don’t know why it is, but whenever I have my office door shut, a queue of people forms, with everyone looking at me through the glass panel, knocking on it, and making unnatural apologetic yet assertive hand movements.

I don’t often shut my door, but when I do it’s for a reason. Go away.

Gary rang me at work today. His mother, Loretta has died (three days ago). He said do I want to go to the funeral, which is next Wednesday, so I said I would. I only met her a few times. He and Trevor are driving up in the morning and going home again straight after the funeral. I asked him how he and Trevor were. He said he’s upset, but Trevor is mainly relieved. I said how come, and he said Trevor hadn’t wished his mum well or spoken to her for years, and blames her for everything that’s gone wrong in his life, as though he didn’t have any say in the matter. He says now he doesn’t have to worry anymore about her being disappointed in him. How sad. So, it’s a funeral next Wednesday.

I told Stuart today about the panel show I watched on TV last night on which a lot of women were very intelligently, I thought, analysing the reasons why there is such a housing shortage in Australia at present and what they thought should be done about it. I felt they acquitted themselves very well and I told Stuart so.

Stuart, of course, took a different tack, and said that was because women like to talk about things while men like to do things. This put me back on my heels a bit, and I told him I disagreed. He then asked me how many houses in my neighbourhood were built by women, none of course, and that maybe, instead of talking about the housing shortage, those chatting women should do an apprenticeship for three or four years, doing crap work for crap pay, and then contribute to building houses by shovelling concrete in the hot sun, laying bricks in the rain or crawling around in confined ceiling spaces for twenty or thirty years because, guess what, that’s what a lot of men do. This, Stuart considered, would empower them. He reckons that if men behaved like these women, we’d all be living in caves, enthusiastically discussing the cave shortage problem and how are we going to get more of them dug. He says he gets that women don’t want to build homes for people, as neither does he, but, hey, the Fun Fems could add that that to their list of often quoted statistics.

I was thinking he’s full of manspeak, but I couldn’t say it.

He thinks he has an answer for everything.

Had a mentoring session with Susan today. She was going on about how these days traditional media, social media, books, magazines and popular music overly sensitise us and encourage us all to think of ourselves as victims, and to wallow in that comfortable but impotent thought, rather than encourage us not to be. Her view was that most of us would be a lot better off if we looked forwards, instead of looking backwards, collecting, documenting, discussing and reliving all the ways we’ve been wronged. She said, for example, just because some pathetic sleaze bag wanted you to touch his willy years ago, why let that one event in your life define you. It’s no reason to live the rest of your life dominated by the idea that you’re a survivor, a victim. Maybe if you’ve lived through Auschwitch, Changi prison or Flanders Fields you could accurately say you were a survivor. Otherwise, apart from anything else, you’re diluting the meaning of the word survivor and trivialising the experiences of actual survivors.

Well, it seems to work for her.

After the session it occurred to me that I don’t know what to think about anything important anymore. I mean, is Pluto a planet or isn’t it?

Went down the beach this evening for a blowout. I almost tripped over a group of glum people doing yoga on the grass. They were playing electronically amplified music and had their eyes shut. They couldn’t see or hear the ocean, and they missed the sunset altogether. It must have been exquisitely spiritual for them. They might as well have been in their living rooms, instead of getting in everyone’s way on the grass.

Cold but sunny today, so I went down the beach, looking forward to a quiet time reading my book. However, one of the disadvantages of living in an affluent society is that most of the boguns are cashed up, hence the expression.

There were six jet skis racing up and down and up and down and up and down, about 50 metres offshore. I bet when they’re tired of that they go home and get their leaf blowers out. I suppose boguns have rights too, but couldn’t they exercise them more quietly?

Came home and watched TV instead. Well, that’s not exactly true. I came home and spent about two hours looking at all the programs available on Netflix, Binge, etc., couldn’t decide what to watch, got tired, so now going to bed without watching anything. At least I didn’t waste my evening watching TV.

Donna’s monthly saying arrived on schedule today. It was Money can’t buy you love.

No, but your ex-husband’s money can buy you a lot of groceries, Donna.

There was this new hunky bloke in the lift today. Tall and thin, with a sort of crusty complexion. I think he’s French. Either that, or he was putting on an outrageous accent. Besides, who else dresses like that? I said hello. He looked down at me, smiled and said bon jour. Tingles.

Tonight, Donna and I went to a café by the beach. I told her about Breadstick, and she thought I should go for it.

Anyway, we ordered pizza, garlic bread, chips and some cheesecake. The pizza comes out quickly, followed by the cheesecake. The rest arrived about half an hour later, and the garlic bread came out last and was burnt. As I didn’t want garlic bread for dessert, especially burnt garlic bread, I fought my habitual timidity and took it to the counter and complained. But I didn’t get an apology. Instead, I got an explanation of how the system works. Apparently, the pizzas are cooked in a different place than everything else. Maybe they should tell the customers that when they’re ordering, although that didn’t explain why the garlic bread was burnt and came out last. Anyway, I thought of Susan, stood my ground, and eventually the manager presented me with a $20 voucher for next time. Like I’m going back there again. Still, it was a small victory I suppose. Although I’m running out of places where I will or am allowed to go again.

At least they had let me have a tab.

Needed to have a chat with someone tonight, so in desperation I rang Donna. However, her iPhone 17 doesn’t get answered when you ring it, just like her iPhone 5, so what’s the improvement?

Today when I flushed the toilet at work it overflowed all over the floor. So embarrassing, especially considering what I’d just used it for. Wasn’t sure which of the many genders’ fault it was, but I definitely didn’t want the XY genders seeing my handiwork. I quickly called the building superintendent to come and sort it out, which he did, but not before telling me it was a big problem, but he was carrying on under turd. Ha ha. Very funny.

Had an impromptu session with Susan this morning and she ripped into me.

I told her about Stuart’s reasoning on Tuesday about Kylie’s husband’s affair and mentioned, quite casually, and that I was bored with listening to his manspeak. Well, that set her off. She told me she never wanted to hear me use that word again, unless I was intending to crawl back into my smug bubble with my other sexist friends. She said that using the word manspeak was a sure sign that either (a) I didn’t have enough intellect to follow and critique a man’s mildly complex train of reasoning or (b) I could follow his reasoning but couldn’t rebut it so, as its inevitable conclusions clashed with my established view of life, I chose to insult the speaker rather than address his arguments. She added that using the words manspeak or mansplaining is just impotent womanspeak. She said I needed to be better than that.

OK. Sorry. I thought she was on my side. These sessions are so confronting. Also, is manspeak misogynist even when it’s correct?

Then, on a curious note, Stuart announced today that from tomorrow the toilets are going to be bi-sexual. I didn’t even know that toilets had sex. I wonder if there are LGBTQ… toilets. Our toilets used to be just male and female (XY or XX). Now I can’t decide if I’d rather be a female or gender neutral. It depends on the circumstances, I suppose. Still taking my turn at getting rid of the cardboard boxes though.

It was Anzac Day holiday today, so no session with Susan, which was disappointing, as I definitely still need them. I’d like to be different from what I am, but not sure how. Maybe a session tomorrow instead.

It rained all day today, so tonight I was a bit desperate and running out of ideas, so I went to Mum and Dad’s to watch telly with them — Father of the Bride. It was quite good, actually.

There was only one problem. Even though they are loaded and it would be impossible for them to spend ten per cent of their wealth before they die no matter how hard they tried, they won’t even try. Consequently, years ago, instead of buying a new digital TV, they bought a converter thing for their old analogue TV, and this TV emits a high-pitched whistle. It was as though Roger Whittaker had come in with me from the car (he’s still there) and had squatted down behind their television.

Anyway, as they’re old and decrepit, they can’t hear it, so every now and then I jumped out of my seat and hit the side of their TV, which would shut Roger up for a while.

I think they think I’m losing it. Mum asked me again when I left if I was seeing anyone. I’m not sure if she meant a fella or a psychologist. Or maybe dead people.

Saw on the news this morning that some yobs were booing at various Anzac Day and Welcome to Country ceremonies yesterday morning. So, despite what I wrote yesterday, I think that their insensitive, uncaring, pretentious, self-indulgent grandstanding is laughable. However, I find in equally poor taste the way the media, as a result of the behaviour of a few yobs, characterises Australian society as a racist society, when the brain-dead yobs are obviously a tiny minority. Look at any event where there is a Welcome to Country or ANZAC ceremony, like a hundred thousand people at the MCG, and the overwhelming vibe of the crowd is one of support, respect and appreciation, as evidenced by the silent attention, the engaged looks on faces and the enthusiastic applause at the completion of the ceremony. It’s a pity we can’t deport these few pea brains who wear their boof-headed stupidity as a badge of honour (the yobs, I mean, but maybe a few of the headline-seeking-at-any-cost-to-others journos as well), maybe to America. They’d get on famously there, serving in Trump’s inner cabinet, preferably a cabinet that locked from the outside.

On a lighter note, Donna and I drove out to a country pub today. She has finally updated her iPhone 5. She now has an iPhone 17, and spent most of the afternoon playing with it. At least she can have her turn at ordering Ubers now.

Anyway, it was pleasant sitting outside in the sunshine, and the band was OK. I bought lunch and a round of drinks and asked to start a tab. They said they didn’t run tabs, but to pay each time with my credit card. Then, when I went to buy one more drink at the end of the day for $8, they wanted to add $1 surcharge because the transaction was less than $10. But I’ve already spent more than $70 on this card already today. And, I had wanted to start a tab. I had a big argument with the barmaid, who finished up putting the manager on to me. Needless to say, I didn’t pay the surcharge.

Also, I didn’t get my last drink.

Won’t be going back there again.

Anzac Day. I don’t get this ANZAC Day thing. Soldiers from Australia and New Zealand sail halfway across the world to Turkey to shoot at Turkish people in Turkey who have never done anything to them in their own countries and, understandably, the Turks shoot back. We lose the battle, suffer terrible casualties, as I’m sure the Turks in Turkey did, and now we celebrate the event with a holiday. How random.

Still got a lump in my throat, though, when the bugler played the Last Post at the dawn service.

Liz rang me at work today, while on her five-mile drive in her Land Cruiser to the paper-recycling centre. She gets this enormous daily newspaper delivered every day and then drives five miles to this recycle centre each week to recycle the paper. Surely recycling has its costs? What happens to all that ink? How much fuel does she burn? How do they turn the old paper into new paper? Do they use electricity? Do they use water? Do they use people?

She was giving herself quite a boost for her caring and responsible attitude. She asked me if I recycled my newspapers, and I told her no, I thought it was even more environmentally friendly not to buy them in the first place. She didn’t get that, I think because I don’t go to any trouble. She said I’m cynical. No. I’m not cynical, insulting Liz. I just have a finely tuned bullshit detector.

I suspect this recycling culture is counter-productive to our environment, as it makes people think they can buy as much crap inside as much packaging as they want, as long as they can cram what’s left over into the bin with the yellow lid and — problem solved. No — problem started. Stop buying so much crap in the first place. Let that be the message. And Liz, stop your organic compost heap from pumping all of that methane into the atmosphere. And, stop acting so greenie smug, as I suspect you are one of the more active inflictors of environmental damage on my planet, which is, of course, the best planet. (A bit of planetism there. Apologies if you are offended.) Also, can I put my vegetable scraps in the green bin if my vegetables weren’t “organically” grown? Will this dilute the organicity of any vegetables grown using my proffered compost? Will someone object? Will it make me a bad person?

It was a bit wet and chilly tonight, so I lit my pretend real fire when I got in from work, the first time this year. Ductile showed up, curled up on the carpet in front of the fire and went to sleep, as though she hasn’t been missing for days. Where does she go, and what is she thinking? And how did she know I lit the fire?

I wonder if she visits Agnes.

I was really looking forward to seeing Ian tonight, as last week’s session was a bit of a fizzer.

Unfortunately, we got into another argument, as I made the mistake of recapping some of what happened last week, and told him it was OK, as I know he can’t help it, as it’s common knowledge that men are bad communicators. He arced up at that and wanted to know where I got that from, so I told him because it’s true, and that he doesn’t ever listen to me. So, then he repeated word for word everything I’d said, and asked me how he could do that if he didn’t listen, and just because he didn’t agree with me didn’t mean that he wasn’t listening to me. I said, yes, but he’s only listening to the words, not to what I’m saying, and he said, well, that’s what words are for, and why do women have to tell each other the same thing three times in three different ways before they understand or believe what the other is saying, when men get it the first time, and it’s really boring hearing the same thing over and over, and then being told that you aren’t listening.

He said that I’m always looking for the hidden meaning in what he says as, apparently, I’m chronically devious, while he uses words to mean what the dictionary says they mean, and that’s why women think men are bad communicators and why men think women use far too many words to say one thing. He said if he says he feels fine, that’s what he means, while if I say I feel fine he really should wait until I’ve also said I’m happy and there isn’t a problem and I feel really well before he knows that I feel fine.

He’s starting to sound like Stuart.

I don’t know how we get into these arguments because, really, who cares?

Another wasted night. I think we may be on the way out.

I was talking to Kylie this morning and she told me that one of her girlfriends’ husbands had been having an affair, and that Kylie’s girlfriend has recently found out and of course is upset. I said I thought that was terrible and was saying to Kylie I wonder why so many men have affairs like that. Unfortunately, Big Ears Stuart heard us and had to butt in of course. His argument was that the same number of women are involved in illicit affairs as are men, as for every man having an affair with a woman, there is a woman having an affair with a man. But because it is ungallant for men to mention this, the myth continues. He said it’s a mathematical equality.

This didn’t seem right to Kylie and me, but we couldn’t explain why. We felt it must be some sort of male mathematical trick. In my opinion, Stuart is a mathematical inequality. He’s so inconvenient. I said to him that he always thinks he’s right, and he replied that he doesn’t deliberately say things that he thinks are wrong, and do I?

Kylie told me later, after Suart had gone, that actually the same friend had had an affair some time ago, but it was only because she was feeling unappreciated by her husband, which we both agreed was fair enough.

Had a mentoring session with Susan today. I told her how I wished I’d spoken up in the meeting the other day and can’t work out why I didn’t. I can chatter to my friends for hours with the best of them, or at least until I get a phone call from next door. I know it isn’t because I don’t have a penis, as Susan explained that to me last time.

Susan reaffirmed that I have to speak up in meetings when I have something to say, and not shirk public speaking. She said the more I do it, the easier it will get, until after not too long it will become quite natural.

She said I’m not fully contributing or doing my job (or getting noticed) if I don’t speak up, and imagine if no one spoke up. Why shouldn’t it be me?

Good point.

She said it’s nothing to do with being female, it’s to do with not speaking up if I think I have something to say.

OK, that’s what I’m doing from now on.

Ductile has slipped her collar again. She’s not getting another one.

Well, it didn’t do it.

Also, arty farty Donna has acquired some new annoying habits. She now makes continuous hand movements unrelated to what she is talking about the whole time she’s talking, as if that adds some mysterious meaning to her conversation, and she keeps inexplicably pausing at random points halfway through her sentences, apparently to emphasise some non-existent point. She said (hands waving, two pauses and a knowing stare) that she’s really starting to believe in herself. I was thinking it’d be better if she stopped believing in herself and started working, but I didn’t mention it. I’ll be glad when she’s back to normal.

As part of her course, she had a lecture this week about being aware of all the myths and half-truths we all get fed by the media, social media and even universities. She raved enthusiastically about it. I asked her how could she be sure the lecturer wasn’t feeding her myths and half-truths, but she didn’t know.

Anyway, tonight I had a few friends from my old netball team over for drinks and a laugh. We catch up a couple of times a year — no Donna. She never played netball, although she should have, with those legs. We were having a great night, plenty of chatter and laughter, when, you wouldn’t believe it, at about ten o’clock SW from next door rings me up and asks me if we can keep the noise down. Everyone sort of drifted off after that.

I expect SW was bothered she couldn’t hear her seven dogs barking over our laughter.

Needed a bit of cheering up tonight, a bit desperate, so I rang Donna to see if she wanted to come out for a drink and maybe toast Malleable. I’m putting on my short black skirt, black stockings and a sheer blouse. That ought to do it.

I felt I’d regressed at work today. I attended a budget meeting and Ronald was going on about something where he was obviously wrong, something in my area of competence, and I sat there and didn’t say anything. I’m disappointed in myself. Change isn’t easy. Sometimes I feel like giving up and staying the same. But I know that’s not what’s best for me. I know, hope, that tomorrow I’ll be motivated again. Another mentoring session required, I think.

Then, this evening, when I arrived home, I found Malleable’s ashes waiting for me on the doorstep, with a condolence card and some seeds embedded in a clay block, left there by the pet cremation people. I planted the clay block in the garden near the clothesline, where I will see the flowers when they bloom, and put a plaque that I bought the other day next to it.

The plaque reads, Tread softly. A treasured pet lies here.

Then I had a little cry.

Feeling a bit fragile today.

Had a walk along the beachfront tonight, and there was the homeless lady again. It’s starting to get cold in the evenings, and I’m starting to feel even more guilty, as now I feel I know her.

Her name is Agnes.

Ian and I watched a movie on TV tonight. Unfortunately, he had the remote, and every time I talked, he paused the movie until I’d finished talking and then rewound the movie a bit and continued watching from there. It was really annoying. It made the whole experience stop-start. Ian said he liked it, as he actually got to hear all of the dialogue the writers had written, without missing arbitrary bits.

I told him obviously he couldn’t multi-task, so he said I was the one who couldn’t multi-task, even though I was proud that I could, as I never get what a movie is about, because while I’m multi-tasking, I can’t hear what the actors are saying. He reckoned as a result of my multi-tasking I got twice as much done in only about four times the amount of time. He said I wasn’t even that good at single-tasking, and maybe I should concentrate on that. I said, well hey, that’s just me, and that he didn’t have to be so insulting about it, to which he replied hey, that’s just me, which I didn’t think was a satisfactory response.

We had quite a heated discussion, and we finished up not having sex. Not even angry sex, or sex while we were doing something else.

Up bright and early this morning to spring Ductile out of prison. She was looking a bit sheepish in her cage. The vet said it would be a good idea for her to have a collar with her name and my phone number on it, and I said yes, it would, and then she charged me $100 for keeping her overnight. I hope they put a mint on her pillow.

Called in at the local pet shop on the way home and bought a collar and had a tag attached, with Ductile’s name and my phone number on it. I put it on her, much to her disgust, and set her free. Hopefully that will stop others being so helpful in future.

Arrived at work late of course and the first person I bumped into was Susan. She said that when she had suggested I model myself on successful men, she hadn’t meant including the farting part. That was all the mentoring I got from her this week. Good advice, though.

Ductile was waiting for me on the front step when I arrived home tonight, minus her collar. I should have called her Houdini. Back to the pet shop to get another one, for another $60, but an elastic one this time without a clasp. Let’s see her get out of that.

There was a budget meeting today. There were a few contentious issues to discuss, and a few weeks ago I might have ducked this meeting, but the new me decided to turn up.

We were all seated waiting for Stuart to arrive, twiddling our thumbs. After he arrived and sat down it occurred to me that he’s always the last seated. I don’t think it is out of politeness (or impoliteness), though, it’s just that he doesn’t want anyone to see the bald spot on top of his head. Then he complained that everyone was whispering. The silly old bugger is going deaf.

About halfway through a fairly heated meeting, in which I made sure I was having my say when I thought it was appropriate instead of sitting there hoping no-one would look at me or ask me anything, I shifted in my chair a little. Unfortunately, this resulted in a small but audible fart sneaking out. The smell wasn’t terrible, but it was there. People did look at me. Stuart of course had to ask me if I had anything else to add.

I think I’m going to have to take two weeks off until everyone forgets the incident. At least it wasn’t a sneeze, as that’s even more frowned on than farting in these COVID-aware days. I don’t think today’s meeting is going to improve my chances of promotion, though.
Then, when I got home, I had a phone call from the local vet. Apparently Ductile has been staying at someone else’s house for a few days, so the people in the house took her to the vet, who read her microchip to see if they could find the owner. The vet said if not, the people who brought her in would keep her. The vet is closed now, so I’ll have to retrieve her in the morning.

I haven’t seen Ductile for a few days, and she hasn’t touched her food or de-bowelled a rat on my carpet lately. I wonder if she’s gone looking for Malleable. I hope she’s OK.

It was a beautiful autumn day today. Mooched around the house for most of the day and then went for a walk on the beach about an hour before sunset. Afterwards, I was sitting quietly on the sand, admiring the wonders of nature, watching the sun go down, minding my own business, and having a quiet beer, when some bloke comes up to me to inform me it’s against the law to drink alcohol on the beach. OK. What would Susan do? So I thought, don’t avoid this confrontation, meet it head on, so I calmly told the intruder I know it is, but I’m not doing anyone any harm and, anyway, what about that cigarette he just put out and the butt he flicked onto the sand? He had no answer for that and walked off mumbling, leaving me feeling quite smug and not at all bothered. Good one.

Mel asked me today if she can work from home owing to the current petrol shortages. She’s our receptionist! Didn’t have too much trouble saying no to that one, no matter how much she disliked it. Surely, she respects me for that decision. What was she thinking?

Made it to work today and had to spend the whole day pretending I didn’t have a stiff back, which is quite difficult. Thank God (any one of them will do) for Neurofen. Hope I don’t become autistic.

Got an email from Donna, describing her whimsical (there’s that word again) life. This literature course is really going to her head.

Couldn’t move to get out of bed this morning. I think I strained my back putting those boxes out yesterday. I had to have the day off and stay in bed, but I was too embarrassed to say why, so I took a day of annual leave at short notice instead of a sickie. I texted Ian to say I wouldn’t be much fun tonight because of my back, and he texted back to say he wouldn’t come over, so I’d have a chance to rest. So thoughtful.

Could have done with a back massage.

When I arrived at work this morning, both Norman and Kylie told me they’d heard about my footy tipping treason and were so inspired that they also declined to be in it. What an influencer I’m becoming. (What are influencers influenced by, anyway? Years of intense rigorous critical academic study of their chosen subject, I expect.)

Had a session with Susan this morning, as we missed the one yesterday. I’m starting to quite admire her.

I asked her who mentored her and she said no one. She said she decided one day to stop her senseless complaining and to start acting like successful people she knew, and has never looked back.

Her big message today was about embracing confrontation unemotionally and with courage. She says she can see that I’m in the habit of confusing being respected with being liked. It’s fine to be both, of course, but if I have to make a choice, I mustn’t sacrifice being respected for attempting to be liked. I’m not to think people will like me more if I don’t stand up for myself, firmly, persistently and politely. They won’t like me more but they will respect me less, was her message.

So, I’m not to be intimidated by confrontation, but to welcome it when it comes, as a chance to practise. Susan says I’m not to get upset, emotional, personal or angry, as I’m then giving away my power. So, when I get that knot in my stomach when faced with an upcoming confrontation, I’m to ignore it, as it’s of no use to me. I’m to welcome the difficult people and situations I come across at work, and to thank those impossible people for giving me a chance to refine my skills. So, big shout-outs to Stuart and Ronald.

She says I’m not doing my job properly if I give in to external intimidation, or self-inflicted shyness or fear of being disliked. OK. OK.

I’m also to stop avoiding meetings I suspect are going to be heated, but, instead, in every potentially confrontational situation, I’m to practise being analytical rather than getting upset or intimidated. I’m to speak up if I have something to say, and accept that people may or may not agree with me.

She reminded me that not every encounter is life or death. You win some, you lose some. It’s about forming the habit, which gets easier surprisingly quickly.

Well, that’s a relief.

Anyway, I’m sick of jumping at shadows. I’m going to give it a go.

However, inspired by Susan’s pep talk, the next time I crossed paths with Stuart I calmly told him that in future I wanted to be treated the same as the men. He said great, in that case it was my turn to flatten and cart our empty cardboard boxes down to the skip. I told him I didn’t mean it in that sense, and also it would be difficult in a short skirt and high heels. He told me he didn’t tell me to wear a short skirt and high heels. I said, I know, society did. He said maybe I should listen to myself more instead of this society person. He said he’d never met this society person, but if he did and he or she told him to wear a short skirt and high heels to work he’d tell him or her to go stick his or her head in a bucket. On the other hand, he said what he and Patricia do in the privacy of their home on a Saturday night was no-one else’s business.

It’s all so confusing.

Just as I’d settled in to watch telly this afternoon, Liz rang. She wanted to brag about how she had a clock fixed last week at her local men’s shed for free. When I asked her if she gave them a donation to say thank you, she said what for? She seemed pretty pleased with herself. I can’t help thinking she’s a bit of a user. She’s always going on about how the government should be providing more aid to developing countries, but when she goes to Bali she bargains with the Balinese to get whatever she wants as cheaply as possible. I’ve noticed lately that her much-self-advertised theoretical ethics bear little relation to her practical ethics.

The lunatic next door, the other side to SW, woke me up at 7.30 this morning, revving a motorboat up for some reason. It seemed to go on for hours. What is it with people? You aren’t supposed to be running a motorboat repair business in the suburbs. Especially on Easter Sunday. It was so loud I couldn’t hear the leaf blower over the road. I’m going to ring the council to get them to do something about it.

No Easter eggs for Catherine this year.

Saturday 4 April

Today, I decided to buy ferry tickets to Rotto as a gift for Susan, to thank her for taking an interest in me. I rang the ferry office to see when they close. 5 pm. Great. I pottered about for a bit before heading off and arrived at the ferry office at 4.45 to buy my tickets. Plenty of time. Sorry, we can’t serve you as we cash up at 4.30. Then why do you tell people that you are open until 5 pm? You may as well close your window at 4.30. They patiently explained to me that they are open until 5 pm, as I could plainly see, but they don’t serve customers after 4.30 pm.

Of course, they couldn’t care less that they missed out on a $150 sale. They were only interested in getting out of the door at 5 pm on the dot. I wonder why the tourist industry here is in trouble. We don’t need more ads encouraging people to visit us so they can walk on a dream (that’ll get them here), what we need is to be more helpful and friendly to the ones that do visit us, so they’ll tell their mates when they return home.

It looks like Susan will be getting a different thank-you gift from me. So, she isn’t going to be walking on her dreams, not even her nightmares, on Rotto. She’ll have to walk on them somewhere else.

Friday 3 April

I thought I’d pay Grandpa a visit today as he’s been unwell and also to wish him Happy Easter. It would give me a chance to explain to him about typos and auto-correct. I should visit him more often. Grandpa says I’m the only visitor he has. Must tell Mum.

I arrived at the home at the end of lunchtime. The place was a traffic jam, what with all the walking frames attempting to exit the dining hall at the same time. First, I bumped into Irene and Hazel. Irene won’t leave Hazel alone and shuffles after her everywhere. Irene tells everyone she’s worried she’s going to be on her own.

I found Grandpa in his room. He must’ve pulled ahead of the peloton. He had one leg in his trousers, the other trouser leg hanging down, and his slippers on the wrong feet. I have no idea what he was trying to achieve. How on earth does he manage to send texts? Anyway, I sorted him out and asked him how he was. For some reason, that started a tirade about Arthur, who only eats mashed pumpkin, must have the milk put into his tea first, must have exactly the right fork, and, in his room, has to have everything folded properly and his shoes pointed in the same direction (presumably towards Mecca). Grandpa’s diagnosis was that he’s in the rats. After he’d got all that off his chest, I presented him with a couple of pairs of warm socks and a chocolate Easter Bunny and we had a bit of a chat. He seemed fine.

Came home and fell asleep on the couch.

Ronald really peed me off at work today. Last week he told me not to put my calculations as an attachment to my emails, but to put them in the body of the email. OK, I can do that. Easy. Today he told me to put the calculations in an attachment, and insisted that’s what he told me last week, and why don’t I listen. It was petty of Ronald, his mean-spirited power play, but I reacted by getting upset instead of taking the higher ground. I think Susan saw my reaction, which made things worse. Why was I so bothered?

More mentoring required from Susan, I think. I don’t want to keep being like this, having my emotions controlled by trivia (read Ronald).

Also, I may invest in a tape recorder.

Anyway, later Stuart told me he’d put me in the footy tipping competition (the footy started two weeks ago), and that I owed him $40. I was about to get it from my purse when I thought, no, I always go in this mindless footy competition, even though I never want to be in it. Apart from having no interest in the footy, it stresses me every week having to get my tips in on time. Wednesday night games, Thursday night games, what’s with that? So, taking a leaf out of Susan’s book, I said to Stuart thanks, but I don’t want to be in it this year. He was momentarily speechless with shock, but then tried the old ‘I thought you were a team player’ routine on me. I calmly told him that I am a team player. It’s only that I don’t want to be in the footy tipping competition this year. After a bit of huffing and puffing he wandered off. I know it sounds pathetic, but boy did that little victory wipe away the memory of the upset caused by Ronald.

Donna’s monthly saying arrived this morning. It was, Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Well, I’ve heard that one before, but I’m really not in the mood. What about if I have to make a decision that will please one person but not another? What if someone doesn’t like having done to them what I like having done to me? I can think of a few examples of that, and not all of them sexual. Nevertheless, what about anal sex? Apparently, some people enjoy it. Not helpful.

Then, when I got into work there was a note on my desk from Norman asking me to ring a Mr Lyon, along with the phone number. Of course, like an idiot I rang the number and asked if Mr Lyon was available. And of course, it was the zoo. I don’t think it was their first call like that today.

I rang Norman and called him a Nelly. Norman laughed, so I told him that it was bad timing, because Malleable had died yesterday and I wasn’t in the mood for not funny jokes. He said he wasn’t that gullible. His name wasn’t Joseph. When he finally believed me, after midday, that’s the rule, he felt terrible, and so he should. He fussed over me for the rest of the afternoon.

It was sad getting home tonight and not have Malleable run to greet me. I’m going to miss him so much. I rang Mum tonight to tell her about Malleable. She was appropriately sympathetic, and then told me that Grandpa wasn’t well. He’d been unwell for a few days, but she thought he was on the mend now. I hope he isn’t going to be taking Malleable for walks soon.

I texted Grandpa to say I hoped he wasn’t still feeling sick. Grandpa replied only his own. I thought he must be really losing it, until I realised I’d made a typo and the auto-correct had turned the ‘s’ in ‘sick’ to a ‘d’.

So sad today, everyone.

The last few days’ niggles are put into perspective now.

When I went out onto the back veranda this morning, I found that Malleable had died during the night. He was lying peacefully on his couch, cold and still. I cried and cried. He was 14 years old and had hardly had a day’s illness in his life. He simply didn’t wake up this morning. I never realised what a good friend he was to me until now.

What do you do when your dog dies? I Googled around, and finally arranged for some pet cremation people to come and get him. While I waited for them to arrive, I rang into work sick. I was heartbroken saying goodbye to him as they gently placed him in the back of the van and left me to pat him once more, before closing the doors. Texted Ian to tell him, but didn’t get a reply.

Nothing else to write tonight.

So, I had my first mentoring session with Susan today. Not sure I liked it much. It had the effect of taking away most of my comforts.

Her big message today was not to get sucked in by all the messages in sitcoms, on social media, on the TV news and in the opinion pieces in the weekend newspapers with their selective statistics demonstrating that I’m being discriminated against, as that gives me the perfect excuse for not achieving. Her opinion is that these do-gooders are doing a lot of harm by turning gullible people (I hope she wasn’t referring to me) into victims.

According to Susan, unfair things happen to men as well (I’d never thought about that, don’t like to really), but, as men aren’t brought up in a culture that swamps them with messages that they’re hard done by, they tend to forget it and get on with things, rather than letting the unfair event disable them and committing the injustice to memory for recollection some years hence as yet another anecdote about ways men are discriminated against.

According to Susan, all of these messages are counter-productive to my advancement and happiness in the workplace and elsewhere. She claims men couldn’t disable women half as effectively as what some women are doing to the rest of us, even if they wanted to, and why would they anyway? She told me that for the next week I was to take note of the countless ways that our culture harms me by providing me with plausible excuses to fail.

I’m not too sure about this. It seems to make me responsible for what happens to me. What an uneasy feeling I was left with at the end of the session.

On the other hand, I did like the idea that the rest of my life could be largely determined by my own actions rather than by what gender I happened to be saddled with at the millisecond of conception. I really think that a lot more time should be allowed for such an important decision, and that the about-to-be-conceived individual (their unassigned soul?) should get some say in it. Just because someone is a fast swimmer doesn’t mean he or she has other desirable qualities. I will refrain from giving the obvious examples.

I was awoken by the sound of SW’s seven dogs yapping at the crack of dawn again this morning.

Later in the day, I spied her in her garden over the fence. I called to her, intending to give her a piece of my mind and telling her I was going to alert the council as to how many dogs she has, when she got in before me and started to tell me how much she misses her dead husband, and how the dogs are all she has now. So, I suppose now I won’t be contacting the council. I still think she’s a stupid woman though.

Or, is she? It’s amazing how many people are happy for me to pity them so they can take advantage of my kindly nature. It seems to work.

Received a weird email from Donna today. I think this arts degree course is going to her head.

Her email reports that she feels like she is hovering, quivering and dithering. She sounds like an out-of-control helicopter. She calls me Sweet Cathy Girl and says how happy she is that last time she saw me I seemed so mature and fulfilled and alive! Apparently, most of her other female friends (didn’t know she had any) went from living at home or in college to being married when still in their 20s, and they never experienced the joy, whimsy (yes, whimsy) and satisfaction of independent living and the importance of being able to BE ALONE (her capitals) without being lonely. Apparently, I have flourished while living and traveling alone and she is SO proud of me. Her other friends simply hover and quiver and search out a man ASAP for their sense of security. She finds that so sad.

What the hell is she talking about? I’ve never seen so many insincere adjectives. She must have purchased her first ever thesaurus. She’s become condescending, insincere, ill-judged, pretentious, hypocritical and self-indulgent after less than a month of starting this course. She used to be just straightforwardly insulting. Also, she still seems to be perfectly at ease living off her hard-working ex-husband.

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

Ian rang me at work today (unusual) to tell me I have nothing to worry about. Apparently, his penile rash was caused by the baby oil his wife had been rubbing on him. He really thought I’d be pleased by this news. And, I still have the word gonorrhea on my chart. Twice. I’ve got to get out of this.

Perry rang today to clarify a few things about his payout. He was more civilized towards me this time. Apparently, after earning a fortune by not doing much here for the past six months, he was pleased to tell me that he’s somehow managed to arrange his finances so that he’s now getting unemployment benefits. He said he intends to stay that way for a while. He said it’s great to have a safety net.

Now, I’m all for providing safety nets for people who need them. The trouble is that the Winkles of this world think that safety nets are the same things as hammocks.

Gary rang me at work today, but I couldn’t understand anything he was saying. I still don’t know why he called.

Then, Ian rang. I could understand everything he was saying and I know why he called. He rang to say he couldn’t come over tonight, as it’s his wife’s birthday. What, did he just find out? The good news was that his rash is clearing up. Shame.

Susan popped in to see me this morning, so I took the opportunity of asking her how she had succeeded so spectacularly in the face of the well-known culture of discrimination against women at work.

Well, she looked at me for a few seconds, I think wondering if I was a lost cause or not, and then said, quite forcefully, that I should get it into my head that I wasn’t discriminated against, by men or women, because I don’t have a penis, but rather because of my behaviour. Gave me quite a shock.

She continued to say that I could change things quickly, but only if I was willing to give up my convenient down-trodden-woman excuses for not doing difficult things. She said that if I started behaving differently, I would soon be viewed differently, and that she was proof of that.

I think she could see I was uncomfortable with this idea. It was quite foreign to me, and I was imagining what Liz would think of it. But Susan must have seen some hope in me, as she offered to mentor me if I wanted her to, and maybe give me weekly sessions for a while.

I said I didn’t want to end up like Stuart, but she said I didn’t have to model myself on the worst-behaved, most macho, A-type-personality in the workplace, but rather on the most analytical, least intimidateable, calmest, most knowledgeable and fair-minded person at work who shows courage and good judgement, who isn’t afraid of confrontation, and who has worked hard over a long period of time. The alternative was that I could spend the rest of my life not getting where I wanted, wherever that might be, but comforting myself by joining smug whinge sessions with my girlfriends or on social media.

When she put it like that, I thought why not give it a go. I wouldn’t mind being a bit more in control of my life. I’m fed up with being all habits and hormones. We’re having a session next Monday.

Yikes!

This must be the only city in Australia where the right-hand lane goes slower than the left-hand lane. (Also, the taxis go slower than the other traffic, which is unnatural.) You see cars queuing up for kilometres in the outside lane. At the front of the line there’s usually an old bloke wearing a hat or a young short-haired blonde, or sometimes an Asian, but not always the same one (I think), out for a Sunday drive. Move over, pea brain. This morning, I managed to pass, using the inside lane, the bottled-blonde holding up the traffic and, feeling community-minded, moved across in front of her and drove a little slower than what she wanted to go. She became quite animated and eventually moved into the left-hand lane to pass me, at which time I sped off. I do like to begin my day by enjoying a small victory and by performing a community service at the same time.

Sunday 22 March

Awoke early today, to the roar of the leaf blower over the road and the sound of the dogs next door barking at the leaf blower. My neighbours are driving me nuts. I’m definitely going to ring the council tomorrow.

Checked out my Facebook page today and remembered why I don’t look at it anymore. I get almost as much hate mail as a talented aboriginal footballer. That’s it. I’m locking my profile. Also, how do you get out of LinkedIn? There seem to be a lot of dead people on it.

Didn’t do much for the rest of the day, just straightened my tea towels and then felt like I’d wasted it.

I spotted the homeless lady at the beach again this evening. It was getting cool, so I asked her if she needed another blanket, as I had an old one in the boot of my car. She said yes, so I gave it to her and twenty dollars. She thanked me and toddled off to who knows where.

In light of Ian’s rash, I went to the doctor again today. She didn’t think anything was wrong but decided on a couple more blood tests anyway. Then she gave me a lecture on the advisability of using a condom when having sex with a total stranger. I couldn’t help sensing a judgmental tone. Are doctors supposed to be judgmental? My medical record is really becoming something to be proud of. I hope it’s never published.

Went out with Donna tonight. She was in her usual form. Wondering again why I bother. Don’t want to stay home alone, I suppose.

Deleted Bryan from my list of contacts.

Susan chaired a property meeting this morning, her first. I couldn’t help being impressed by her level of confidence. Where does she get it from?

Then after work tonight, as I was half way into pulling into a car spot at the shops, I realised someone had left their shopping trolley in that spot. What is the matter with people? I had cars lining up behind me, the one immediately behind was really close and tooting. I became so flustered, even though it wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t help wondering what Susan would have done.

Eventually everyone had to back up, after which I backed out and found a spot that didn’t have a trolley in it. Why do I keep thinking things are my fault when they’re (often, sometimes) not?

Donna rang me at work today. After I finally got her off the phone, about 15 minutes later, I still don’t know why she rang, I had a whinge to Norman about her, saying how she always says the same thing to you several times in slightly different ways, and goes on and on about a point she is making, giving several examples, and how she uses at least three times the number of words than is necessary when she is telling you something and how it’s hard to get a word in when she’s speaking, even though she is only imparting a small amount of information. When I’d finished, Norman just looked at me and said, ‘So, she’s not succinct?’ so I said ‘No’.

Ian came over tonight, and then told me he had some sort of rash on his penis. I’ll kill that Bryan. Although, maybe I’m not completely blameless. So, no sex tonight. Instead, to fill in the time, Ian wanted me to help him learn some Spanish phrases, for his upcoming trip with his family. I suggested he learn to say ‘How much would I have to pay you to kill my wife?’ but he vetoed that one. Unfortunately, I think he likes her.

Stuart thinks he’s funny. Today he came into the office with some socks (I think, hope, they were socks) tucked down the front of the short shorts he was wearing, which I found quite confronting. When I looked at his crotch and laughed, he pretended he was offended. He said how would I feel if he laughed at me and my uplift bra like that. Then Ronald had to join in and said he was offended on behalf of all men (because he’s a man, apparently). OK, I get it.

Although, on another level, I don’t. But, as someone once said, who sins most, the tempter or the tempted? In our culture it seems to depend on the respective genders of the looker and the lookee.

And, getting offended on behalf of other people, even if we haven’t checked with them whether or not they want us to speak for them (because obviously we know how they think and are more capable of expressing ourselves than what they are, we arrogant cretins) does seem to be the current zeitgeist.

This morning I decided I haven’t been getting the attention I require at work lately, so today I resorted to my uplift bra and a lowish top, although still suitable for work, I felt. Anyway, by the end of the day I was getting bored with the resulting attention and comments I was receiving. Can’t men just have a quick look so that you both know that’s what they’re doing and then look away as though they weren’t? That’s all I was aiming for. They never act the way you want them to.

Also, Stuart was extra agreeable with me today. He kept asking me questions about my job and if I was happy in it. He couldn’t of course mention anything about Natalie reading my card again, which she must have. That would be too much of a coincidence. So, stew, Stu.

Went for a walk along the beachfront this morning, before the SHG came in. It really was a beautiful morning. As I was walking, I caught the eye of that dishevelled homeless lady, so I smiled and waved and said hello. She beamed back at me. I’m having trouble getting her out of my head.

Then, this afternoon I get another call from Cousin Liz. She was going on about how there was this bloke at the shops yesterday, and she was saying how assured and confident he was and how affluent he appeared, as though that was a bad thing. For some reason, he really got up her nose. I’m starting to think she’s jealous of men who are like the way she says she’d like women to be. I wish she wouldn’t ring me so often. I’d never admit it to her, as, like most of us, I don’t want to ruffle the sisterhood’s feathers, but I think a lot of her prejudices represent the opposite of reality. Maybe it’s time I got the courage to come out of the safety of my cocoon and say what I think. Probably not worth it, though.

Donna and I went to the beach this morning to have a look at the public art they put there for a couple of weeks each year. Art? Surely there should be some skill required in the execution of an idea before the result idea can be classified as art. Four rubbish bins back-to-back with four others. Really? I know I didn’t seem to have that idea, but maybe I did and straight away realised it was a crap idea and didn’t take it any further.

Interestingly, there was a piece that was made up of signs, criticising the fact that there are so many signs telling us what not to do. The artist seemed quite passionate about it, and fair enough too. The only thing was that next to his artwork criticising all those signs that tell us what not to do was a sign telling us not to climb on his artwork. Irony or special pleading?

Susan came into my office today and asked me to explain a few things to her. She was quite charming. I walked her through a couple of my spreadsheets. She seemed appreciative.

Sort of hoped Bryan would ring tonight but no.

I had a bunch of flowers delivered to myself today, with ‘Dear Catherine. Congratulations on your new appointment. Love from Donna’ written on the card. I’m going to leave it inside my front gate for a couple of days to see what happens.

The men at work keep readjusting themselves. They don’t even know they’re doing it. What is the matter with them? And why do I notice?

Also, I’ve been noticing at work lately that whenever any of us make a mistake Stuart is on to us, but when he does, he just says, ‘Mea Culpa’, and we’re all then supposed to forget that he made an error and move on. I think I might start saying ‘Mea Culpa’.

Phoned an agent at work today using my mobile. Mid-conversation the call cut out so I rang back, to find the number was engaged. Obviously, they were trying to ring me at the same time. I think we need some clear etiquette on who rings back when a call is cancelled, to avoid both parties ringing, not getting through, and then both parties waiting for the other person to ring. I suggest the person who rang in the first place be the re-ringer. Or should it be the other one?

It’s like when you just miss a call from someone or get a text, you ring back straight away, and they don’t answer. Where do they go?

The good news is that the UTI (read thrush) has cleared up, so I had a visit from Ian again tonight. The sex was pretty good, although he didn’t tick all the boxes, on account of the recent UTI, I expect. Anyway, sadly, it was still nice to see him.

It was HF’s second day today, but already she’s called a team meeting. I didn’t know we had a team. She wanted each of us to come up with two KPIs for our area. I know my main KPI is that I’m still alive when I wake up. I’m thinking of putting a chart on the fridge (next to the one I don’t use to record my exercise sessions) to record if I wake up each day. There are probably advantages and disadvantages to being dead, but I suppose the disadvantages outweigh the advantages.

Anyway, we all left the meeting mumbling to each other and scratching our heads. Who does she think she is, anyway?

Perry’s replacement started at work today. Her name is Susan. Susan the High Flyer, apparently. She’s stacked, long-limbed and was wearing trousers. There goes my secret glass ceiling theory. She’s on about three times my salary, hardly has any qualifications, and has arranged to start late, finish early and have six weeks’ holiday a year, so she can look after her kids. It’s so galling, more so as I’m the one who has to organise her salary to be paid each month. I must get some kids so I can have six weeks’ holiday each year.

Stuart says he appointed her on the basis of her track record in the industry. Apparently, she’s made some awesome deals over the past few years. I can only guess how she’s done that. Meow.

I find it disturbing when women succeed this well. It makes the rest of us look bad. It makes it look as though she was chosen on merit and that we mere mortals aren’t performing up to her lofty standards. The rest of us under the glass ceiling, including the men, are jacked off.

Cousin Liz rang this morning, mainly to push her various agenda items onto me. She was ranting about the evils of high-rise developments and the big banks, both of which I know her superannuation fund invests in on her behalf, as she likes to brag about what a great return her super gives her. Then she started going on about how terrible it is that Bunnings is pushing all the small local hardware stores out of business. I said I thought she shopped at Bunnings all the time and she said, well, yes, she does, but only because they’re cheaper and carry a good range.

She genuinely thinks she’s the most ethical person going around. She had a final rant about how lots of Italians are spoiling her suburb by moving into it, before wishing me a cheery goodbye.

Thanks for asking how I was, hypocritical racist cousin.

Ian dropped in for a short while with a birthday present for me. It was quite special, as he was able to squeeze it in between dropping one of his kids at footy and picking him up again. Plus, he had to buy the present in that time. And of course I’ve always wanted a coffee machine. Ian isn’t keen on instant. Well, not coffee, anyway.

Spent the evening rearranging my wardrobe followed by watching Seinfeld DVDs. They really are funny.

Wonder what Bryan is doing. Probably no more Brussel sprouts coming to me from that direction.

Guess what. Loser Bryan rang me at last. I think he was trying to make himself feel better after last Saturday night. I didn’t mention my query gonorrhea. He can find that out for himself. He kept on going on about how he wasn’t promiscuous, and if I understood him correctly his reasoning for that was that he doesn’t often have sex with women he doesn’t have sex with often. He said he was faithful to all of his girlfriends, and then the drongo asked me what I was doing tomorrow night. Yeah, like it’s Friday already and I don’t have something arranged for Saturday night. So of course I told him I was busy, even though I don’t have anything arranged for Saturday night. He said, on reflection, that was probably for the best because he thinks I’m probably a Ford Falcon sort of girl, whereas he prefers Holdens. I have no idea what he was talking about, but I won’t be seeking clarification.

Well, I should be happy today, as the antibiotics seem to be doing the trick. But, I’m not.

About mid-morning Stuart called us all in for a meeting. He announced that he’d head-hunted someone to replace Perry, and that they’d be starting on Monday. You can imagine how peed off I was. I thought I would at least come under some consideration, seeing as how I’ve de facto been doing Perry’s job for the last six months. Stuart didn’t even pretend to interview me.

I can see what the feminists are on about sometimes, with their glass ceilings.

Left work early today. I’m going to look for another job. Stuart is really giving me the gripes.

I had to let Ian know that sex was off the table tonight. He said that was OK, we could use the washing machine. Ha ha. Then I told him I had thrush. I don’t think he even knows what that is, as he asked me if it was in a cage, but when he found out it meant that he might have to spend that part of his evening strummin’ on the ol’ banjo, he said it was probably better for both of us if he didn’t come over. Apparently, my allure is so great he was worried he may not be able to control himself and ravish me anyway. Thanks a lot. We could have watched a movie together.

Still, I mustn’t get too elevated on my moral high horse, I suppose.

Turns out it’s probably just as well I didn’t go out with Ian last night, as it looks like I have some sort of UTI now. It itches like mad. Thanks, Bryan, hope you’re itching too. Didn’t see that in your profile. I had to call in sick and make an urgent appointment with my doctor, who had me pee in a bottle and give some blood for testing, before prescribing something for me to be going on with. I now have ‘query gonorrhea’ in my medical notes. Great. Every girl’s dream.

New rule: don’t have unprotected sex with someone I’ve just met — I can’t believe I didn’t already have that rule. Saturday night is going straight into the fucket bucket.

Of course, I was hoping that I didn’t bump into anyone I knew in the doctor’s waiting room, but everything there was handled confidentially and professionally. Not so at the pharmacy, however, where the staff seem to take delight in loudly calling out your name when your script for antibiotics is ready.

When I arrived back at work I bumped into Stuart, who said he hoped I enjoyed my birthday on the weekend. I said thanks, but how did he know it was my birthday. He hesitated, then had to tell me that Natalie had accidently read the card attached to the flowers that Christopher had sent me. Accidently! It was inside my locked front gate. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a motion sensor camera mounted outside my house to track my comings and goings.

This evening, Christopher finally face-timed me for my birthday of two or possibly three days ago. I was a bit emotional talking with him, what with it being my birthday and everything. I’m a little out of practice with birthdays and this year’s was a real downer. Anyway, we had a chat for about half an hour. It was so great to talk to him. I didn’t mention my query gonorrhea, though. Your kids don’t need to know everything about your day.

Well, that does it. Ian texted me this afternoon at work to say he was sorry, but he has to postpone my birthday dinner, as his wife had organised something that he’d forgotten about. We’ll probably have it in four years. I don’t think.

I actually felt a bit off when I got up, anyway, so I decided to do a RAT test and a pregnancy test to be on the safe side. Unfortunately, I multi-tasked, and now I’m not sure what the results mean.

Donna’s monthly saying arrived on cue today. It is One mind has the power of one, two minds have the power of three. But, what if the three are morons, like at work? Or even two out of the three?

Feeling very flat. My birthday is 29 February, so three years out of four I don’t know if my birthday is today or if everyone missed it yesterday. What are the chances? One in four times 365.25, I suppose. It has always been a good excuse for everyone to ignore it, as three times out of four, I’m told that 28 February isn’t my birthday yet, and when the next day comes my birthday was last month.

Anyway, I guess this means I’m actually only 11 years old, as that’s about as many times as I’ve had Happy Birthday sung to me. Which is why I want Happy Birthday sung at my funeral, as every time it’s sung at someone’s birthday party after that it will remind everyone of my funeral, and how they should have been nicer to me.

After last night, I’m thinking it’s possible I’ll die of AIDS soon anyway. I know you should never make important decisions if you are tired, drunk or horny and, inexplicably, by the end of last night I was all of them. I know life is a gamble, but it seems to me the odds are too heavily stacked in favour of the house.

Ian rang this morning, most unusual for a Sunday. He wanted to know what I was doing last night, so I told him I was washing my hair. Well, I did before I went out. He said can he take me out for my birthday tomorrow night. He seemed a bit down too, so I told him he sounded a bit lost, to which he replied yes, he did feel a bit lost, but he’d rather be lost with me than found without me. Occasionally he jags saying the right thing. Anyway, we’re going out for dinner tomorrow night for my birthday. Yay!

Even Mum and Dad are confused about the date of my birthday, although they took a punt and rang me today to wish me happy birthday, and also to invite me for a birthday dinner tomorrow night, but I told them I had other plans. When Mum sounded a bit disappointed, I said I could come tonight, but she said they’d already promised to go to a karaoke night with some friends.

Then, when I went out the front to water some plants there was a welcome surprise waiting for me immediately inside my front gate — a bunch of flowers from Christopher, with a card reading Happy Birthday Mum. I Love You.  Thank you. Life saver.

Home now from my date with Bryan and his sideburns, nose hair and five o’clock shadow. Also, one extremely long curly hair on his cheek. Don’t think I’ll be doing that again in a hurry. Apart from his lack of effort, he was rather judgmental as I was already seated at a table when he arrived, he was twenty minutes late, but he, after a perfunctory hello, decided he wasn’t happy with my choice of table, as it was too close to a table that had six women at it. He said he can’t stand constant raucous talking and loud performance laughter. Also, when I was on only my second glass of wine he told me I shouldn’t drink so much. OK, great start.

I asked him what he does for a job, and he said he’s a research assistant, and so spends his work week pushing back the front ears of science, the nong. He called everyone he was talking about Wotsisname. Also, somehow all of his shouts were cheaper than mine. When I asked him if he’d had a long-term partner, he said he hadn’t, so I said maybe he was frightened of commitment, so he said he didn’t think so, as he doesn’t want Brussel sprouts either, but he’s not frightened of them. What was he talking about?

Anyway, I still had sex with him in the back of his car afterwards. I was a bit worried at first, as when I told him I needed a safe word to get him to stop if he was taking things a bit far, he suggested ‘Himalayas in the Caribbean’, including the correct accent on every syllable.

Turns out there was no need for the safe word, all quite regulation, but now I’m feeling a bit nothing. Why do I do it? Seemed like a good idea at the time, I suppose. Maybe I do drink too much. Still, no harm done, and I did enjoy seeing how excited he became because of me. It was kind of sweet, as even though he seemed to expect it, it also seemed that he couldn’t believe it was happening. I wonder if he’ll ring me.

Started looking at a dating site on the Internet at work today for a suitable match-up for me. I’m not happy that Ian cancelled at short notice on Wednesday. By text. Without offering a good reason. I’m not going to be at his beck and call. Well, certainly not at his beck. Also, I can’t take another night with Donna at the moment.

Unfortunately, Stuart came in as I was examining the possibilities and I think he twigged what I was doing, even though I quickly alt-tabbed to a spreadsheet. After a glance at my computer screen, he said something about how he’s really good in bed, and when I said ‘Oh, really?’ he said yes, he gets a solid eight hours sleep every night.

Anyway, meeting some bloke called Bryan (with a “y”) in the local pub tomorrow night. He looks and sounds great on the website. Can’t wait.

I was running late for work again this morning, mainly because I left home late. However, it didn’t help that I was stuck behind this car on the West Coast Highway doing the speed limit, which is 50 km/hour, 40 km/hour in some parts, which is ridiculous at peak hour. Or at night.

Stuart saw me arrive, of course. He came into my office to complain about a newspaper article that claimed that men with a certain qualification get further in industry than women on average. He said it would be more enlightening to compare their qualification plus their full-time years worked in an industry. He reckons that when you get your degree or whatever, all you’ve done is graduated from kindergarten, and then the real learning starts. I don’t know any more. Or care, really. He’s worn me down.

Donna made the car call again today, while I was struggling to balance a budget. Why is it so important they balance? We never stick to them.

Donna rang to inform me that she’s enrolled in an arts degree, majoring in classical literature. She went on about it for ages. She’s sounding posher already. I was pleased for her. For one thing it will do her good to think about things for a while other than what’s wrong with men and why can’t she get one.

A bit later my schoolteacher cousin Liz rang. Liz has met Donna a few times, and thinks she is wonderful as well as marvellous, because of how she manages to support herself, despite having only her ex-husband’s family payments and living in their ex-family home rent free. Fortunately for Donna, the ex worked hard to get a higher degree before he met her and now works about 60 hours a week in some high-flying job. Anyway, when I mentioned about Donna’s arts degree, Liz’s predictable reaction was ‘go girl’. You know, I think we will know we have arrived in equality land when we can do something that men take in their stride without some woman somewhere saying, ‘go girl’. I can imagine the reaction I’d get from Stuart if I said ‘go boy’ to him if he enrolled in a quilting class.

Still can’t balance that budget. To top it off, Ian texted me to say he can’t make it tonight. He has a family commitment. Great.

Gritted my teeth and called in on Mum and Dad tonight. When I got there, Dad was out getting fish and chips. It takes him a while, as Mum insists that the fish from one shop is best, but a shop in an adjoining suburb makes better chips. And Dad humours her! So, usually they have hot chips with lukewarm fish, or vice versa.

Anyway, had a boring night, listening to lots of stories about friends of their friends. And, sometimes, it was about those people’s friends. Apparently, some of them have been overseas recently. Also, Mum and Dad feel that the speeds indicated on road signs are far too high.

I suppose I should be grateful that Mum and Dad are happy in their bubble. They’re devoted to each other, and I guess it doesn’t matter what you’re interested in, as long as you’re interested in something.

But, there’s no reason to inflict it on your daughter. Wish I was interested in something.

Also, why do I feel lonely when I get home from Mum and Dad’s?

I was late to work today, which I hate. Stuart is always in early, so he knows when I’m late, but he also goes home early, so he never knows about all the nights I work late, unless I tell him, and then I have the feeling he doesn’t believe me. I try to send an email about something or other immediately before I leave work, but of course I could be doing that from home while sipping on a glass of wine and watching Frasier. Anyway, this morning, as I was about to back out my driveway, with plenty of time up my sleeve, I noticed it had been barricaded off, as men (I’m not being sexist, they were all men, well, they all looked like men.) were resurfacing my road. A heads-up would have been useful. Went and spoke with the traffic control bloke, and he said I’d have to wait about an hour before I could get out. I said it would have been good to have been warned the day before, as I could have parked around the corner. He said, yes, everybody’s been saying that.

When I finally got to work, I rang Gary’s local police station and explained his situation. They were aware of the issue, and said they were doing all they could, but not to hold my breath.

Rang Gary to pass this on and asked him how he was going. He said he was OK. He has his disability pension (and I suspect an additional agricultural source of income) and owns his van, which he proudly tells me contains a television, a microwave and a deep fryer. He said it’s pretty cool. He has a few friends in the caravan park, and in the evening they have a couple of beers and a smoke together. The couple who own the park seem to look after him. They let him stay cheap and read any letters to him that come for him, as he can’t read. He sounded cheerful enough and had forgotten all about the Sandi issue. I wished him well and hung up.

Went down the beach this morning. There weren’t many cars in the car park. The SHG was in. Parked my car and was opening the door to get out when this bloke parks right next to me, causing me to have to squeeze out, legs akimbo, rather than exiting in my usual graceful manner. What is it with that? It must be some sort of human flocking instinct. Whatever it is, it’s annoying. By the time I returned there were five cars jammed up against each other in the middle of an otherwise empty car park. I think I’ll see where I can make them all park next time.

After I got home, I received a phone call from Gary, my feral half-brother. I shouldn’t call him that. He’s a nice man, actually, very gentle. He just lives in a universe that runs parallel with ours, occasionally touching it when he needs something. He’s lost his licence for life twice but he doesn’t mind. It doesn’t mean he now doesn’t know how to drive, and so he does. No problem.

He’s hard to understand when he speaks as, apart from being drug and alcohol and whatever addled, he also had a stroke about ten years ago, and his speech is slurred. At the time of his stroke, he’d been recently charged with possession of a considerable amount of marijuana, but because of the stroke he was deemed unfit to plead, and so the charges were dropped. He was really pleased.

Anyway, Gary had rung me for some advice, but I don’t think I was much help. He’s been trying to get a divorce from his wife Sandi, but she’s shot through with their two kids, Brie and Jemima, and no one knows where she is. I think Gary also has a wife in the Philippines, hence the desire for a divorce.

Gary lives in a caravan park, as Sandi kicked him out of their home a couple of years ago. What happened was that about 17 years ago Trevor, Gary’s brother, had a baby, James, with a lady named Sue, who happens to be Sandi’s mother. So, James is Gary’s brother-in-law as well as his nephew. I think it might make Sandi her own grandmother. Anyway, after Trevor, Sue shacked up with some loser called Ivan, and Sandi found out that Ivan was sexually assaulting young James, so she confronted Ivan, who beat her up, but she came home with James. Kudos Sandi. A restraining order was taken out against Ivan, so that he wasn’t to come near Sandi or Sue or James. However, not long after, Sue moved back in with Ivan. After he had sexually assaulted her son and beat her daughter up!

Anyway, unfortunately, a sixteen-year-old mate of James’ also moved in to Sandi’s with James (are you following all this?), and fat, middle-aged Sandi started having an affair with him, and kicked Gary out of his own home. I told you they live in a different universe from us.

Bottom line is Gary is trying to locate Sandi and his kids and asked me if I can help. I can make a few phone calls, I suppose, but not sure what else I can do. I’ve got problems of my own, although admittedly not as convoluted as this.

I felt I was in danger of breaking what I thought was one of my simpler New Year resolutions today, so I went and bought a new vacuum cleaner from Kmart, for one tenth of the price of the one I bought at the vacuum cleaner shop. And guess what. It’s brilliant. Sounds like a jumbo jet, has big openings (always a good thing), picks everything up, doesn’t get stuck on corners, and doesn’t decide to empty everything it picks up from one room onto the floor of the next room. I think it’s time the media exposed this great vacuum cleaner scam. Put me in a good mood for the rest of the day. I love solving problems. Although I now have a new problem. What am I going to do with my old top of the range vacuum cleaner? It cost too much to throw out and it’s so awkward to store.

Anyway, tonight, to celebrate my vacuum cleaner success, I went out with Donna, down the local. I was hoping for some admiration. But it’s impossible with Donna. It’s like she interviews people all night but never listens to the answers, as, while they’re answering one question, you can see her brain is madly searching for the next question. She insists you learn by asking questions. No Donna. You learn by listening to the answers and, even then, only if the other person knows what they’re talking about. She talks faster than I can listen. When is it my turn to talk?

Came home empty-handed of course. At least I have clean floorboards.

Stuart came to my office to have a rest on my desk again today, and so he could have a whinge about Patricia. I don’t know why he tells me. I couldn’t care less about their disagreements. Stuart was going on about how her latest craze is Feng Shui. He says Patricia has told him he has to clear his Chi and remove obstacles in his path. He says he’s tried that, but she won’t leave. She also wants him to brighten up his entry, but he told her he wasn’t having anal bleaching for anyone.

Stuart has no filter whatsoever. He reckons he has, but if he has it has very big holes in it.

Almost had an accident driving in to work today. Driving along, minding my own business, listening to Roger Whittaker, when, bang, the car in front of me ever so slowly bumped into the one in front of it. I screeched to a halt.

When I got out for a squiz at the damage, not much, I saw that the front car had been poked in a bumper sticker that read ‘Care Factor Zero.’ Isn’t it funny how people have bumper stickers that insult themselves.

Anyway, the bloke in the front car got out and was going mad. Clearly, he did care about something, which I was pleased to see. His care factor wasn’t really zero. It was definitely a large positive integer. I assume the sticker refers to his care factor for other people. Anyway, it was difficult to feel sorry for him, even though the accident wasn’t his fault.

I was so tired at work today. The stupid woman next door (aka SW) has seven dogs. They’re those ridiculous little white ones with small dog syndrome that yap non-stop at the wind. It’s like living next door to seven Ronalds. They started at about three o’clock this morning and kept on until I got up and yelled at them over the fence. Then I heard SW come out saying, ‘Come on, Princess, there’s a good girl. In you come.’

If she could hear me yelling, how come she couldn’t hear her stupid dogs barking and come out and shut them up? Of course, I couldn’t go back to sleep after that but lay there thinking about how you’re only supposed to have two dogs at the most and why doesn’t she trade her seven small dogs in for two proper big ones. Finally dozed off ten minutes before the alarm went off.

I’m definitely going to contact the council and complain.

Still haven’t heard from Ian.

Stuart came into my office today, plonked himself down on my desk, lucky it’s solid, and asked me what I thought of all the music they play on the radio these days. I’m quite pleased my boss likes to run ideas by me, but sometimes I wish he’d ask me something about work. Anyway, I said I liked some of it and some I didn’t like. He said he was listening to the radio on the way in and has concluded that men must write their songs when they’re on cocaine. I said what about the women, and he said he thought they must write their songs when they’re on their period. Walked into that one.

Anyway, I didn’t know how to reply to that, and he was still sitting on my desk, so I told him that, as a woman, I was offended by that remark. Seemed like the appropriate thing to say. Of course, Stuart replied that, as a man, and see how stupid that sounds, he thought that was an imbecilic way to begin a sentence. He said how patronising of me that I should think all women would want me to speak on their behalf. He said it was possible that there was a woman out there who thought differently to me, even though we were both women. He said he was going to start getting offended on behalf of all overweight, florid, balding, rich men, because he was one. Didn’t have an answer for that. Stuart is an annoying boss. Also, he forgot ‘jowly’.

Another phone call from Donna from her car again today. Max is upsetting her, as he’s still spending his evenings lounging on his front veranda, drinking wine and laughing with some well-made girl or other. I know, Donna, you’ve told me before. Get over it. I told her he was probably trying to make her jealous, but I don’t think she bought it, and she’s probably right. I think Max may really be having a good time. Donna is obsessed by the situation. I wish she’d obsess about the same things the rest of us do, like the great times our friends are having on Facebook.

Speaking of Facebook, I keep getting these Friend suggestions. They’re nearly always of some young woman displaying endless selfies of herself with other young women, all posing provocatively or pulling ridiculous faces. Don’t they have any male friends? Don’t they have anything more substantial to give to the world or think about other than how they look? They all seem so self-absorbed, superficial and useless. I think Cindy Lauper might be right. Is this the result of Stuart’s Fun Fems’ activities? Anyway, I decline the invitations.

Had a bit of a headache today, so I stayed in bed. Then around sunset I took a walk along the beachfront. Spotted that homeless lady again, so I followed her to see where she went. I expect she didn’t do anything special for Valentine’s Day either. I suppose I could have bigger problems. Anyway, she shambled about a bit until it was dark, and then set herself up in one of the shelters on the park. I think she sleeps on the table. At least it’s a warm night tonight, but it can’t be much fun in the winter. She actually doesn’t look as old as I’d thought, maybe mid-forties.

The last thing I saw before I skulked off was her getting a mobile phone from her trolley and texting. I wonder how she charges it. And, who is she texting?

It’s everywhere. Couples strolling on the beach, holding hands, love songs on the radio, picnics in the park, couples gazing moronically at each other over their meal. It’s a beautiful night and it’s sickening. There isn’t even a SHG. I think I’ll have a glass of red and watch the State of Origin footy on TV or, I must be desperate, the Winter Olympics, to take my mind off everything. Unblocked Ian, but no text from him, or anyone else.

Ian rang me from his car this morning after he’d dropped one of his kids off at school cricket. Now he’s doing it. I now feel extra special.

He said one of the little kids at cricket only had central vision, nothing peripheral, but still seemed to be able to join in OK. I said that must be terrible to be able to see only what was directly in front of you, and he said it probably wasn’t that bad, as you would still be able to see cleavage. He thought in fact you could probably get away with looking at it for longer without getting sprung. I told him that I thought that was so wrong on so many levels, and that it was certainly politically incorrect. Then he started going on about something can only be correct or incorrect, and it was an oxymoron to use an adjective with the word correct. He said maybe it was a little bit correct. I said I disagreed, and he said that was because I was slightly unique in that way.

To try to change the subject I said it looked like being a beautiful day, and that the wind wasn’t blowing for once, and he said that is all the wind does — if it isn’t blowing, there isn’t any. He said what I meant to say was that the air wasn’t blowing, so I said it could blow up his bum for all I cared, and if you go through life with a stick up your bum like he does, all that means is that at the end of your life you’ll find you’ve had a stick up your bum the whole time. So, he said in that case how could the wind blow up his bum, because the stick would stop it, so I told him not to ring me again and hit the little red phone on my mobile really hard. Then I blocked his number.

He’s so anal, always going on about how little electricity he uses. When he dies, they should engrave his tombstone with his average daily kilowatt consumption. That will be his life’s big achievement. I’m sure he’d be happy with that. I know no man is an island, but he’s got to at least be an isthmus.

Bad timing, though, I just realised. Tomorrow’s Valentines Day.

After Ian left last night, I had a peculiar dream about snakes. I think I might be watching too much TV, as I’m starting to have ads during my dreams. Sometimes I wake up for a few seconds to fast forward over them.

I was in a good mood today, despite the whistling on the way in. Then Kylie changed all that by telling me that the men reckoned they could tell when I’d had sex the night before. Stuart said something about sexual healing, which was annoying, the more so because, well, it was sort of true, except it’s more like a sexual prophylactic. I guess Marvin Gaye couldn’t find a word that had the same number of syllables as prophylactic and that rhymed with it.

Anyway, Stuart was puffing and sweating from walking up the stairs. I asked him if he was OK, and he said yes, he’s as fit as a Mallee bull. I said it must be one of those Mallee bulls you see leaning against a fence post having a cigarette.

Had an argument with the glass repair bloke this morning. He took my car for a test drive, and then reckoned the whistling was coming from my air conditioning. What, since he put new glass in my window? How would that work? We had a drive together and I finally convinced him, after turning off the fan and putting the air on recirculate, that the noise was coming from the window. Anyway, he finally agreed to replace the glass at cost (gee, thanks), which he did. He then disappeared quick smart, and I went to work. It only happens now when I go faster, but IT’S STILL WHISTLING! I’m going to have to sell this car.

To top things off, Ronald (always Ronald — never Ron), Mister Compliance Manager, who now seems to think he’s my boss, but he’s not, Norman is, has decided to micro-manage me. Unfortunately, he has zero people skills. So, when I arrived at work today there was an email from him waiting for me, underlining a couple of insignificant errors I’d made in a cash-flow spreadsheet (a couple of misspellings of headings), cc’d to Stuart and Norman, my real bosses. Not only were they underlined, but also bolded and in red, and he’d somehow managed to insert a graphic that put circles around things. Sorry teacher, I’ll try to get all of my homework correct next time. I’ve only been doing this job for ten years, and we haven’t gone broke yet. If you’re going to go over everything I do in detail, why don’t you do the job yourself in future? How to give someone ownership of their job and enhance their morale. On the other hand, why did it upset me so much?

At least I got to see Ian again tonight. We had a good evening together, after I’d got the whistling and Ronald stories off my chest. He’s a bit of a child, but he does calm me down.

After he left, I felt satisfied, tired and sad.

The whistling is driving me mad. Anything over forty kilometres an hour and it sounds like I have Roger Whittaker in the car, whistling one of his lesser known but more boring tunes. I’ll have to ring the glass repair bloke again.

Then, arriving at work, I was about to pull into my parking spot, without whistling, as I was going slow, when this blockhead coming towards me against the arrows made me pull over and brake sharply. I almost sideswiped a parked car. He looked straight ahead and kept going, as though everything was normal. What does he think the arrows are for? Obviously, no one is going to tell him what to do. He’s an individualist, and he advertises it by not cooperating with others. I wonder what side of the road he drives on.

Glass repair man is coming in the morning.

Got into work late today, as this bloke came to fix my car window. He assured me it would be OK now and left pretty quickly after I paid him (he preferred cash). Now, something new to torment me — the new window whistled whenever I picked up speed on my way to work.

When I did get to work, Stuart called me into his office. I thought he was going to tell me off for being late, which I thought was a bit rough, considering all the extra hours I do for him, unpaid. But when I got in, he shut the door and asked me what the hell was I doing recommending an 8% return on that property on Thursday, and was I trying to send him broke? I stammered something or other, went back to my office, and changed the recommendation back to my original suggestion of 6%, which Stuart also thought would be about right.

Jesus, another one of Donna’s monthly sayings that should be ignored.

Car still whistling on the way home.

It was hot today, so I went to the beach this afternoon. Of course, as I arrived the SHG came in, so I found myself a sheltered windbreak in the dunes. Within five minutes I had this irritating lifeguard come and tell me I can’t sit in the dunes. It’s against the rules. I said what’s the difference, I’m not doing any harm, and he said I was wearing the dunes away, and what if everyone did that, the dunes would soon blow away.

I have to say, I have never understood this ‘what if everyone did that?’ argument. What if everyone in my city drove down my street every day. We would have gridlock, and I wouldn’t be able to get out of my house. So, let’s not let anyone drive down my street because, what if everyone did that? Ponce. What if everyone minded his or her own business? That might work.

Anyway, couldn’t be bothered arguing, didn’t want to be put in the stocks or transported to England, and the SHG was increasing, so I packed up and went to visit Grandpa for a bit of sanity. When I arrived, I spied him from a distance, hunched next to his bed in his pyjama pants and a long coat, his medals pinned to his chest. He was pleased to see me. He said he was sick of sitting there, who could blame him, so I took him for a walk using his walking frame (for him, not me). Unfortunately, as we got going his pyjama pants fell down, revealing his incontinence pads. This made Mabel chortle loudly, causing Mary, who has assumed the role of Grandpa’s girlfriend (without Grandpa’s consent), to begin loudly abusing Mabel. The nurses had to come to sort it out. Grandpa said Mary is always abusing any of the other female inmates who talk to him and it gets on his nerves. He said that one of the inmates has a sign over his bed at the moment that says, ‘nil by mouth’. He said he’s asked for one that says, ‘nil by ear’.

Anyway, I had a fascinating chat with Grandpa, without sitting at his feet, and found out that Jesse is always packing her bags and then walking up the corridor towards the front door saying ‘budabudabuda’, thinking she is leaving, that Buddy is always getting in the way in the kitchen, red hair sticking out, trousers up to his armpits and braces on, while Fred, who only has one eye while the other eye looks the wrong way, annoys Grandpa by having coughing fits every meal-time before asking for his cigarettes. I give anyone who reads this permission to kill me if anyone ever puts me in one of those places. We’re all in palliative care from birth. I just want mine to be at home.

Said goodbye to Grandpa, came home, turned up the air conditioner and watched Four Weddings again. What a great movie.

Shopped at IGA this morning. Easter eggs are on sale already. Really? Anyway, I get to the checkout (avoided April’s), only one woman in front of me, so great. Then, as her groceries are almost finished being rung through, this look of enlightenment appears on her face, and a light seems to glow above her head. She tells the checkout chick (young roosters are also chicks) she’s forgotten something, then high-tails it back into the depths of the store, while we all stand around cooling our heels, trying not to look at each other. She comes back five minutes later carrying a bag of bananas and a frozen pizza, smiling at everyone in the queue, saying thanks for waiting. As if we had a choice. Sometimes, I get why Americans like to carry guns. Am I the only one who finds these things annoying? I suspect I am.

Stuart met with Perry today. Stuart asked me if I wanted to come, but I said I was busy at that time. I could see it might get ugly, didn’t want to be a part of that, and anyway, I had already given Stuart the figures.

Apparently, Perry ranted and raved, but Stuart wouldn’t have a bar of it. Not sure if Stuart is an alpha male, but he’s definitely at least a beta-plus. Loves a fight. Anyway, Stuart came to see me afterwards, bushy eyebrows still bristling. He was pleased with me, as all the figures and advice I’d given him were correct. Perry didn’t have a leg to stand on. So, now I suppose I’m glad I wasn’t kind to Perry.

Being in a good mood after work, I gave Donna a ring and we decided to go out for a drink. When I arrived to pick her up, Max waved to me from his front veranda, where he was lounging with his latest leggy. Surprisingly, she looked old enough to be his sister. I wasn’t sure whether I should wave back or not, so I sort of moved my hand backwards and forwards, but didn’t raise my arm.

The evening with Donna was a washout. If she’s not criticising something or other about me — top is too low, hair is too long, too much war paint, too friendly with men, too much eye contact — then she’s going on about crystals or astrology or something. I’m really getting fed up with her. She insists on ordering only organic food (I thought all living things were organic — they can’t be inorganic, can they, and they have to be one or the other) and then she goes outside for a smoke while they’re preparing it. I hope the tobacco is organically grown, so that her lung cancer will be the organic type. She does actually grow a lot of her own vegetables, which she calls organic, because she grows them. I asked her if she had ever had the soil in her garden tested, in case a previous owner used lots of snail pellets, dumped his car sump oil in it or chucked out a mercury thermometer. But, no. No testing. Just blind faith that what you grow in your own polluted garden is better for you than what you buy at IGA.

I’m going to give Donna a miss for a while. She needs to practise sometimes thinking things without saying them. I usually come home after an outing with her feeling worse than I did before I went out. She’s so full of strong opinions about things she isn’t exactly an expert on. She doesn’t believe in evolution, but she does believe in astrology. Her clinching argument is that evolution can’t be true because mules can’t have baby mules. I have to get some intelligent friends. One, at least. Yes, Donna. And the world is only 7000 years old. And flat. And man didn’t land on the moon. Anyway, I told her that I’m a Pisces and Pisces don’t believe in astrology. She seemed to accept that, although I think she’s going to check.

We had a finance meeting today. I recommended that we set the return on the property we were discussing at 6%, which I’d calculated to be a good conservative estimate, but Kevin, one of our new guys, he’s quite young, sleepy cornflower eyes, had estimated 8%, and was pushing for that. I was going to argue my case, but I could see Kevin had stuck his neck out trying to impress Norman, so I thought, no, better to be kind than right, and so I let him have a win. I was still feeling bad about not letting Perry have his way the other day. Kevin was really pleased. Maybe Donna’s saying this month is a winner. I definitely felt better afterwards.

It’s nearly midnight, and I’ve finally finished working. I had to cancel Ian, which he didn’t like. Mainly, I think, because he didn’t know what he was going to tell his wife about why he was home so early.

Most of the work I did should’ve been done by Kylie but, when she’s not doing Stuart’s underwater hockey work (which means he thinks she’s marvelous) she spends most of the rest of her work time making long personal phone calls, having long lunches or shopping. Then she goes home on the dot each of the three days she works. Today, she asked me, all bright-eyed, if I could mind the phone for ten minutes while she went out to pick up the mail. She didn’t come back for about two hours. She’d met a friend she hadn’t seen for ages and went and had a coffee with her. Meanwhile, I’m answering a constantly ringing telephone, taking messages and transferring calls to everyone in the office, when I had a lot of work to get on with — which Kylie was supposed to be helping me with.

I should say something to her, but I don’t want her to be annoyed with me. What’s the matter with me?

Perry rang today and abused me for not filling in his termination form correctly (in his opinion). I put his lump sum down as a payout rather than as a redundancy, which was correct. But it means he will have to pay a higher rate of tax on it. He was so abusive, and it really upset me. I didn’t want to argue with him, so I referred it to our solicitors. I’m sure I’m right, but now I wonder if I should’ve been kind, and just changed the reason to keep him happy.

Vacuumed tonight to try to take my mind off Perry. Unfortunately, all that did was make me angry, which I suppose was better than being upset. I bought this vacuum cleaner last year from an actual vacuum cleaner shop for about $600, and all it does is create a gentle breeze while it picks up a little of what is intended, followed by the whirly thing on the end dumping it in the next room. All I seem to be doing is moving dust from one room to another. And heaven forbid I should try and pick up a leaf. Even the spiders aren’t scared of it. The man in the vacuum cleaner shop went to great lengths to explain all of its features. The only thing he forgot to tell me was that it doesn’t work. Yes, I’m sorry to say that my vacuum cleaner sucks (if only).

Drove to work today with no glass in my side window. And then I made sure I locked the car when I left it in the car park. Why?

I wouldn’t mind getting a new car, actually, but, where can you find one now that doesn’t lock itself when you don’t want it to, where the radio doesn’t beep every 20 seconds if the engine isn’t running and you have used up 1% of the battery, where you don’t have to press a screen to say you agree to something you never read before you can fiddle with the sound system, and where you can open the driver’s door with the engine off and with the key in the ignition without the car hysterically beeping at you? All the new models are so highly strung. Also, I need a CD player.

Donna’s monthly saying arrived by email this morning. It was It’s better to be kind than right.

Not sure about this one, but I suppose I’ll give it a go. Last month’s saying didn’t work out too well. That reminds me, I still haven’t bought those socks for Grandpa.

Anyway, not to be put off by the officious surf club types, I went to the beach again today. I decided to park a little further along from where I usually do, so as not to be the subject of continuous helpful instructions issued in a grating accent. Had a pleasant time sunbaking, reading, swimming and watching the scenery. Although I have to say, the men, apart from the surf club ones, dress far too conservatively for my liking. You see all these women parading around with their sideways boobs hanging out and a piece of spider web up their bum, give me a break, while all these hunky guys are wearing boardies and T-shirts. What’s that all about? I have to admit, though, boardies are classier than, say, jock straps or mankinis, the male equivalents of what the girls are wearing, would be. Come on girls. How about a bit less arse and a bit more class. You’re not doing yourselves any favours, and you’re giving the rest of us a bad name.

Anyway, after I’d had enough, I walked to my car, only to find the front window smashed and my purse missing from the front seat, where Ian is always telling me not to put it. So, spent the rest of my day cancelling all my cards, applying for a new licence and searching for money in the house. Very frustrating.

Next time I park at the beach the only thing I’m leaving on my front seat is a snarling Alsatian. And where are the surf club types when you need them?

Sitting on the beach today, huddled up against a sand dune trying to keep out of the SHG, when this condescending surf lifesaver who sounded like he’d recently got off the boat (or possibly the plane) from the Old Country (our country has only had human inhabitants and a continuous culture for more than 60,000 years, but we call England the Old Country) came up to me and told me I had to move, as there are snakes in the dunes. I told him I know, I’ve been coming here for thirty years, but I haven’t heard of anyone being bitten by a snake yet. I said if he was worried about everybody, his time would be better spent getting everyone out of the ocean, because there are sharks in it. He was insistent that I move, and I was as insistent that I wouldn’t. Anyway, I won.

I reckon the importance of these surf club types is greatly exaggerated. I must swim between the flags, keep out of the way of the IRB activities that nearly run you over, watch out for their idiotic wooden boats that they keep narrowly missing you with, and with which they’ve never rescued anyone. Jesus, it’s my beach too. Then they pack up and go home at five o’clock, two or three hours before sunset, and no one drowns in their absence. Or gets bitten by a snake. So, what were they doing all day, apart from parading around with their Speedos pulled up their cracks? At least we can have some peace in the evening.

I recall a past Premier advising us to swim between their flags to avoid sharks, as they keep eating people. Now, our beach is about four kilometres long, and the flags are about 30 metres apart. Seriously, if we follow his advice, it’s going to get awfully crowded. And, what about surfers and scuba divers? Also, what to do after 5 pm? You really should have to pass some sort of IQ test before you’re allowed to run for parliament.

Donna rang me at work today, wanting a long chat while she was driving and while I was trying to work. Apparently, Max has started to bring girlfriends home, young ones. She wonders where he gets them all from. Maybe Woolies? He sits on his front veranda with them, laughing and drinking. It’s pissing Donna off. She wanted me to go to her place tonight and sit out the front with her and laugh and drink. I asked her what we were going to laugh at, and she couldn’t think of anything. Anyway, I didn’t go, mainly because it was stupid.

I told Donna to find someone younger, but she said she doesn’t go for younger men, as they usually aren’t sporting the streamlined edition. She said she doesn’t fancy the idea of the old philately with them. Who knows what might be marinating under there. She can be quite crude sometimes. On the other hand, I’ve never thought about that myself. She may have a point.

Had a walk along the beachfront this evening. It was a beautiful night, the SHG was only at about half strength, and I felt good. Then, I noticed the green plastic bags. Since I was last at the beach, plastic bags have appeared around new plants in the dunes, hundreds of green ones held up with sticks, for about a hundred metres along the dunes in both directions. Talk about visual pollution. They look awful, and they’ll be there for years. Just leave the dunes to fend for themselves. They’ve managed for the past 10,000 years. Do-gooders and their egos.

Then, on the way back to my car, I passed that homeless lady. She’d finished her ablutions and was pushing her trolley to who knows where. She caught my eye, so I nodded at her and smiled. Are you supposed to do that with homeless people? Anyway, she sort of acknowledged me, then quickly looked away and carried on. I’m beginning to resent her. It’s making me feel guilty, even though I haven’t done anything. Hmm, maybe that’s the problem.

Stuart arrived at work today wearing a baseball cap. It wasn’t until mid-morning that we realised he was completely bald. Apparently, Stuart gives himself a number four all over his head weekly so that he doesn’t have to pay a barber to cut his hair. But last night, unbeknown to him, Patricia borrowed his electric shaver, attached the number one comb to shave her legs (and possibly her moustache) and didn’t replace the number four after she’d finished. Stuart had shaved half his hair off before he’d realised, so had to continue to the bitter end. I would love to have been a fly on the wall.  It’s the only time I’ve ever seen him look sheepish. He stayed in his office all day. Anyway, he looks better bald. Suits his personality.

Ian came over for a few hours tonight. It was nice to see him, and we had an OK night. I actually felt a tinge of tenderness for him tonight. He went home at about 9 pm, leaving me writing this.

Feel a bit flat.

Stuart asked me today what I did on the long weekend, and I told him not much, and that I was starting to get worried I wasn’t meeting any new people. He pretended he thought I meant babies, the irritating man. So, I asked him didn’t he want to meet new people or learn new things sometimes and he said no, he has his people and that he already knows too much and is trying to forget things. Lucky him.

Not much else to report today.

Australia Day

Australia Day today. I can’t stand it. It’s the worst holiday ever. I’d rather be at work, calculating Perry’s payout. The beach is full of boguns with their tatts, their beer, their associated bellies, and their swearing. You should see the rubbish left behind when they go home. It’s worse than Woodstock. They all make a big deal of coming to the beach on Australia Day, even though it’s not hot today, because that’s what Australians do. Thank God you never see them for the rest of the year. But, on Australia Day, here they are, tearing up and down the coast road, yelling at everyone, Australian flags flying. Give me a break.

The most annoying thing is that they all seem to be having so much fun. And I haven’t even mentioned the hordes of 14-year-olds whizzing by and almost running you over with their motorised scooters and bikes.

And the bloke on the radio adds insult to injury by asking if you’re proud to be Australian. What, like that lot? Anyway, how can I be proud of something I wasn’t responsible for? I’m not proud to be Australian. It had nothing to do with me, apart from my not actively emigrating. Am I supposed to be proud of that? I am, however, pleased to be living most of my life in Australia, for lots of obvious reasons, like gum trees and kangaroos and stuff.

There was one funny moment today, though, that made it all worthwhile. One of the bonehead’s cars jumped up onto one of the low wooden fence posts as he was doing a wheelie. In other words, as he was thinking he was impressing everybody. Anyway, the car got stuck up there, its front wheels spinning in the air. All the other boneheads on the front veranda of the pub spent about twenty minutes singing ‘Dickhead, Dickhead’ while the driver tried to extricate his car. Unfortunately, he was too dopey to know he should be embarrassed.

That’s the trouble with dumb people. They’re too dumb to realise how dumb they are. I have to keep reminding myself that half of Australians are below average. Australia Day seems to be the day that half choose to celebrate.

Donna rang this morning, troubled. It was difficult to understand her on account of all the crying. Hers, not mine. Max broke up with her last night. She can’t believe it. I don’t know why — I can. She doesn’t bring much to the table, and she’s so, I don’t know, emotionally disorganised. She needs to get a life of her own first and then think about having a relationship. Well, listen to me. I had to listen to her for about an hour, though. She said that a couple of weeks ago Max told her that he wanted to wear her ring, which she was really excited about, but now she thinks maybe she totally misunderstood what he meant.

Luckily, a neighbour knocked on my door, so I had a chance to hang up.

The neighbour wasn’t happy. He said Malleable had taken one of his shoes from his veranda. While he was talking to me Malleable was sitting on my outside couch, munching on the shoe, so it was difficult to deny it. You’d be surprised how many people leave their shoes outside their front door. Malleable isn’t surprised though. I’m going to have to do something about keeping him in. Whenever I come home at night he’s always escaped again, and I have to spend ages looking for him. I had a cyclone fence put up last year and he dug under it, so I put mesh along the fence with rocks on top. Now he climbs the fence like he’s in the SES. He’s amazing. I am meeting quite a few of my neighbours lately , but not in a good way.

Mum and Dad came for lunch today.

Dad isn’t my biological father. Mum married him when I was six years old. I call Dad Dad because to all intents and purposes he is my dad.

Mum and my biological father, Phil, split up when I was about one year old, and I have no memory of Phil ever taking me anywhere or buying me anything, even when I was a cute little girl. Not a birthday card or Christmas card. Luckily, I turned out great, but it does always make me wonder about people you read about who bemoan that their lives have been badly affected by being abandoned by a parent, even when they’ve nevertheless had an upbringing no better or worse than most of us. How we react to things must be programmed into our genes. To me it’s no big deal. I could make it one if I wanted to, but my thought is, when you’re standing on a bridge, it’s preferable to just let the water flow under it than to try to dam it, then have it inevitably rush over and sweep you away.

When I was about six Phil moved down south and remarried, a wild woman called Loretta. They had two kids, Trevor and Gary. Phil died a few of years ago, and since then Gary contacts me whenever he’s in a jam. I don’t hear from Trevor. They’re both badly drug and alcohol affected, quite feral, Trevor is the worst, but they get by. I asked Gary once if he misses Dad, and he said yes, especially when he needs money, which is where I sometimes come in.

Anyway, as I was saying, before I got side-tracked, Mum and Dad came for lunch today. They were only forty minutes late, which was good form for them. And parents have a way of winding you up, don’t they? I had made a roast with all the trimmings, but Dad insisted on splattering tomato sauce all over his meal. When he couldn’t find the sauce immediately, he accused me of not having any, rather than doing the obvious thing and asking me where it was, which was in the fridge. He does things like that. It’s so annoying.

Dad, who is starting to look rather gaunt, can’t smell anything anymore, not even tomato sauce, which isn’t a good sign dementia-wise. I told him not being able to smell things (we can still smell him OK) is called anosmia. Mum said she thought that would have been something to do with dyslexics who can’t sleep at night. Quite funny, really.

Still, they always seem perfectly happy with each other, which proves that miracles can still happen.

Stuart called me into his office today and, as far as I can work out, it was to have someone to rant to about feminism. I think Patricia, who has never worked a day in her life but thinks she’s achieved marvels because she married an ever-so-slightly on the spectrum (on several intersecting spectra, actually) but, nevertheless, shrewd and hardworking, man, has been giving him a hard time again. He can’t stand it. He was going on about how feminism is like communism because it is at odds with human nature. I suppose he means his human nature, if you can count him as human. He claims that’s why there are so many wealthy communists and misogynist feminists. He says he isn’t anti-women, but anti-anti-men. He was going on about the Fundamentalist Feminists who seem to dominate the social and traditional media (the Fun Fems, he calls them) and who, according to him, are a minority radical branch, a third gender, not normal women, that consider all men to be infidels. He thinks it’s ironic that it’s called feminism because, from what he can see, none of them are what he would call feminine.

Not the point, Stuart.

Ronald Two Shoes was ranting and raving today about how we aren’t following his procedures properly. What a chocolate soldier. The thing is, he doesn’t follow them himself, but he’s so aggressive towards us normal-sized people. I suppose he can’t help being short, so I should have some sympathy for him, but he seems to be so enraged all the time.

He’s the only one in the office who wears a tie, and he had it tied unfashionably short again today. If he thinks a larger gap between the bottom of his tie and his belt makes him look taller, it’s not working. He can’t be much over five feet.

Ian turned up tonight looking haggard and wearing thongs and shorts and shedding sand. I think he thinks he’s fashionably dressed if his thongs match his t-shirt. Also, he was unshaven and as red as a beetroot. He doesn’t go back to work until Monday, so I think he’d spent the day on the beach with his family. I had the pleasure of rubbing calamine lotion all over him and then watching him go to sleep for two hours. No six white horses for me tonight. Not even a Shetland pony.

I need to make some changes.

When Stuart arrived at work today, I made a point of going to his office with the payout figure for Perry’s redundancy. I thought it couldn’t hurt to remind him that I work for him. I wore one of my more alluring dresses. Stuart does have a brain stem. Not too revealing, though. Didn’t want to look unprofessional. Actually, in addition to a brain stem, Stuart also has a face like a bowl of porridge, pig ugly really. He looked particularly florid and paunchy today. Grey hairs and white lard spilling out between buttons at waist height isn’t what I call erotic. I don’t know how old he is, but he reckons he can remember when the dollars turned over slower than the gallons. His wife, Patricia, looks like one of those people they regularly interview on the current affairs programs who claim they can no longer afford food, but who look like they weigh about 120 kilograms.

I thought Stuart would want to talk about the Perry situation, but no, he started going on about his underwater hockey. He’s obsessed by it. He gets Kylie to do all the admin work for the association while she’s supposed to be helping me, which is annoying. For the last six months I’ve been doing my own work plus half of hers plus half of Perry’s.

I have to say, though, Stuart is great at his job. He seems to have a knack for picking properties to buy and sell. He’s made himself and the sales team a fortune over the last ten years. Now that Periwinkle’s gone, I’m hoping to jump on that gravy train.

Well, we’ve all known it’s been coming, but it was still a shock when it happened. Stuart finally sacked Perry (as in Winkle) today. Perry’s been slacking off for months, and is becoming increasingly uncooperative with everyone. Stuart gave me instructions for calculating Perry’s separation package and asked me to pay him out as soon as possible. He’s been on a huge salary, so he won’t do badly.

I’m going to apply for Perry’s job when it’s advertised. I’ve been doing most of it anyway, especially over the past few months when he’s lost interest, and I know Stuart likes me. It’s quite exciting.

Remember when gardening used to be a quiet, peaceful occupation? No more. The dingbat over the road had his leaf blower, the most moronic thing ever invented, just ahead of the jet ski, screaming at 6.30 this morning. He blows all the leaves that have fallen from his trees across the street over to my side. He even gets up on his roof and blows all the leaves off that. I wish God’s big leaf blower in the sky would blow him off his roof. What a great contribution he’s making to noise pollution, air pollution and the using up of irreplaceable fossil fuels, because he doesn’t like the look of leaves that aren’t on trees. Does he ever go out in the bush? He must hate it. Soon after he’s finished, God’s big leaf blower does kick in, blowing all the leaves back to where they came from. If he does insist on temporarily relocating leaves, why does he have to do it early on a Sunday morning?

There are obviously two types of people in the world — those who can’t stand a single leaf on the ground and those who quite like seeing them there. I’m all for the second type. For one thing, they don’t wake you up at 6.30 on a Sunday morning. To top it off, I know he votes Green. Get a broom, mate. The exercise will do you good and we can all sleep in until seven o’clock on Sunday mornings.

He goes on about being vehemently opposed to nuclear power as a matter of principle. Thinks solar power is the way to go. Doesn’t he know that solar power is nuclear power? It’s just that the nuclear reactor is ninety-three million miles away.

Also, the blockhead had the cheek the other day to go on at me about watering on my non-watering days. Says I’m wasting water. I happen to have it on authority that, unlike fuel molecules for leaf blowers, there are as many water molecules in the world now as there were a thousand years ago. If he’s worried about running out of water, why doesn’t he move to somewhere where it rains a lot? Maybe North Queensland or Indonesia. Also, it might help if he turned his carefully programmed automatic sprinklers off on the days that it’s raining.

I’m going to say something to him one day.

Went to the beach today. Thought there was a car park spot in the main car park, but it turned out to be the disabled spot. Why do we call them disabled? They’re only handicapped, not disabled. Maybe we should start calling the Melbourne Cup a disabled race. You know, for horses with broken legs, or that are dead. No, some of them may be handicapped, but they can still compete and maybe even win.

Anyway, sitting on the beach, minding my own business, when this umbrella comes flying along, propelled by the SHG, and hits me right in the head. Bop! It really hurt. The bloke who finally caught it laughed and thanked me for using my head to stop his umbrella from going further. There are comedians everywhere. Of course, I just smiled at him and said no harm done. For goodness’ sake, secure your umbrella properly, mate. You could take someone’s eye out.

Ronald (Mr Goody Two Shoes) drove me mad at work today. He’s our new compliance bloke, but he seems to work for the other side. He’s in the office next to mine, and he insists on putting his phone on speaker-phone, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head and yelling into it from a distance. The whole floor can hear him, but no one is game to say anything to him as, if he senses he’s being criticised, he either gets really red and angry, or else he gets really red and upset. In either case, he gets really red, and no one wants to see that.

Today, he was yelling for about an hour at a builder who is building his new home. I don’t know who was at fault, but that didn’t stop me feeling sorry for the builder.

The funny thing is, he came up to me later and started to complain about my part-time assistant Kylie, who he thought wasn’t pulling her weight. At least she was quietly working on company stuff, not loudly on her own stuff. It amazes me how little self-knowledge that man has.

Went for a walk along the beach after work tonight. It wasn’t pleasant. The SHG was in, and the sand was whipping into my eyes.

That homeless lady was at the beach park again, having a semi-naked shower. No one helps her, but no one bothers her either. Is that good or bad? I wonder where she sleeps. She has one bag of possessions that she pushes around in a trolley. You can’t help thinking there shouldn’t be anyone sleeping outside in a rich country like ours, but I’m not doing anything about it either. I guess she’s a modern-day version of one of those jolly swaggies we all romanticise about and write poems about. But it doesn’t seem quite so romantic when it’s happening here, today, and to a woman. Also, she doesn’t look too jolly, and I’ve never seen her with a jumbuck, whatever that is. And, as far as I know, no-one’s written a poem about her, either.

Ian came over tonight, even though he hasn’t returned to work yet. Not sure how he escaped from home. Didn’t ask. He works at the airport, and I can never work out what he does there, but I think it’s something to do with planes. He told me tonight he’d like me to meet him at his work one day so he could show me around and so that afterwards I could kiss him behind the hangars. I’m not sure if he was joking or not.

Anyway, we had a peachy night. Little Ian was back with a vengeance, and we seem to have settled back into our routine. He told me that to make it last longer he thinks about John Worsfold. I told him that works for me too.

Of course, he had to leave at about ten, leaving me wide-awake and writing this. I’m going to have a Baileys and watch some VEEP.

I saw Stuart today for the first time this year. Because he’s my boss he thinks he can boss me around. Actually, he can. I’m quite intimidated by him, even though he’s a cretin.

About a year after I bought this apartment, which I love, Stuart was looking around to buy a place for his daughter, Natalie, to inhabit. So, of all the hundreds of thousands of homes in this city, he bought the apartment next to mine! You could think it mightn’t be too bad, but it is, as Natalie not only has a face like a ferret but is as nosey as one as well. I feel like I’m under surveillance all the time.

Anyway, I told Stuart I was going to the shops at lunchtime to return a yellow, red and green blouse Mum and Dad gave me for Christmas, so I don’t, you know, look like a traffic light. He said he supposed that after Christmas the returns counter would have many happy returns. He thinks he’s hilarious. I told him mine was one.

First day back at work after the break today. It wasn’t too bad. Not much happening. Spent all morning chatting with people, especially Norman. Norman is sort of my boss, jammed between Stuart (the owner of the company) and me. I suppose you’d call Norman my supervisor, except that he’s too polite to be a supervisor. Anyway, we both know I don’t need supervising. I’ve been doing this job for nearly ten years.

It was good to have a drinkable cup of coffee again. Norman makes a really good cup somehow, and for some reason I can’t make one to save my life. All I have to say is, ‘Getting a coffee, Norman. Do you want me to make you one?’ and he’s up like a shot, elbowing me out of the way, boiling the kettle in case I do it first. It’s pleasing to have coffee made for me, I don’t want him to stop, but it’s also, well, insulting. I can’t work out which feeling wins.

Norman spent the break with his family at their holiday house down south. I think he was glad to be back at work. He can’t stand them. They spent most of the holiday cleaning and tidying up. Great holiday. Also, it took him away from his golf club committee responsibilities. How did they manage without him?

Took Malleable to the dog beach today. As I was opening my car’s back door for him, trying to get his lead on before he bounded away, this bloke with a tiny penis got out of his huge tank, I’m assuming about the penis, came over and went crazy about how I’d parked my car. Cool your jets, mate, who cares? My whole car was between the lines. It just wasn’t straight. We had quite a philosophical discussion about it. Socrates would have been impressed. Loser. In the end I told him I understood what he was saying, but that I was struggling to care about it.

Had an enjoyable time on the beach regardless of the argument and the SHG. There weren’t too many dog fights to break up. Then, on the way home, Malleable was riding with his head out the window, smelling the smells, as he does, when he suddenly and inexplicably disappeared from my view in the rear vision mirror. I stopped and got out and looked behind to see what had happened. I spotted him in the distance, holding a branch and dangling off the ground, legs pumping. He must have grabbed a low branch with his teeth and hung on really tightly. I’ve never seen such a surprised look on a dog’s face. I hope he isn’t going to make a habit of that.

New rule: don’t wind the windows too far down when there’s a dog in my car.

He’s asleep on the couch at the moment. I notice he jerks and whimpers occasionally.

Went to IGA to get some groceries this morning. Hung around the soft fruit section for a while, but no luck. Not a single sleazy remark.

Avoided April’s checkout on my way out. Didn’t feel like being judged today. However, while I was waiting at my non-judgemental checkout, this willowy Asian lady bought 15 packets of rice, put them in a box, balanced it on her head, and calmly walked out. Everyone stared open-mouthed. I had trouble controlling my trolley.

Then, had an exciting time this afternoon vacuuming my house. The vac did get stuck a couple of times, but I calmly unstuck it and carried on. Well done, Cath. Sometimes it was the cord that got stuck, in a way that I could never achieve if I deliberately attempted it, but I suppose I can’t blame the vacuum people for that. Anyway, I did well to maintain my equanimity, and now my floors are sparkling clean, as I also mopped for added excitement. I hope someone visits soon.

Donna rang today. She always rings while she’s driving, so she doesn’t waste her time, she says. Makes you feel special. Anyway, for a few months now she’s been having a relationship with an older bloke, Max, who happens to live over the road from her. He’s the only boyfriend she’s had since she separated from her husband, and I think her husband was the only other one.

She met Max in the soft fruit section of her local Woolies. He said something sleazy about her big melons and she laughed. It seems that she’s now feeling a bit vulnerable about the relationship, and thinks that maybe he’s going to dump her. She said when they first got together, he told her that he used to see her across the street and fantasise about her, but that now they have started to have sex he fantasises about someone else. (I wonder if it’s me.) Weird he does that, and equally weird that he told her.

Anyway, she was predictably upset. She thought her fragile state was either because her psychic powers (I can tell she’s psychic, somehow) sensed Max was going to dump her, or it was that her ectoplasm wasn’t aligned with her potassium molecules. Or was that her sodium molecules? No, that was last week. Anyway, she shouldn’t be driving in that state. I think the main problem is that she keeps nagging him that he drinks too much. In other words, more than what she does.

Went to the beach this evening to watch the sun set. I didn’t take Malleable, as I couldn’t face another argument at the moment. The sea breeze was in, so sand was whipping along the beach, which was vacant. It’s been in for about two weeks. I don’t know why we call it a sea breeze. It’s more like a sea howling gale that arrives late morning most days of summer, so there’s no one on the beach for about eight hours of daylight each day. I think we must have the worst beach weather in Australia, no matter what the thermometer and rain gauge say.

Anyway, as I was sitting in my car, I noticed this lady having a shower at the outdoor showers. It was hard to tell how old she was. She was almost naked, not a pretty sight, and she had a shopping trolley with her, probably with everything she owns in it. I think I’ve seen her there before. The passing walkers, joggers and cyclists pretty much ignored her. After she finished showering, she dried herself, put on a dress, and pushed her trolley along the beach path to who knows where. Poor thing. I wonder where she sleeps. Not too bad at this time of year, but she must be freezing in the winter. Makes you grateful for what you’ve got. Also, feeling a bit guilty. Why is that? It’s not my fault.

Then, as I was leaving, I nearly collided with some dickhead in a 4WD who needed to drive over the car park guttering rather than via the signed exit. There are only two possibilities: (1) he is too dense to find the exit or (2) he has to drive over the guttering to justify buying a tank in the first place, which of course relates back to (1). Well, guess what — my car could go over a low gutter too if I wanted it to, but I’m smart enough to find the exit. Also, I’m not a dickhead.

Well, it’s nine o’clock at night and Ian has just left. It was great to see him, and he seemed really pleased to see me. The only problem was that for some reason Little Ian wouldn’t put up his hand in class tonight, and that’s never happened before. It was a bit odd. I told him it didn’t matter, and I think he believed me. Nevertheless, it was frustrating. I wonder if he’s getting tired of my body. He’s still on holiday, so maybe that’s got something to do with it – maybe Little Ian’s still on holiday too.

I probably won’t see him again until next Wednesday night. Oh well.

Started out to IGA to buy a few bits this morning, mainly for something to do. After I went down the stairs to the garage, I realised I’d left my car keys upstairs (why don’t I just leave them downstairs when I get home?) so, back up and down the stairs. Then, forgot my shopping bag. So, up and down the stairs again. Maybe I’m getting dementia. The upside, however, is that I’m fitter than I’ve ever been.

Then, at IGA, the fourteen-year-old check-out chick, April, was sporting a badge indicating an award for efficiency. She was as slow as a wet week. Also, from the look on her face, she seemed to be rather judgemental about my purchases. And it’s not like I was buying cigarettes or full cream milk or caged-chook eggs. Anyway, must get a different cashier next time. Why am I so pathetic? Even a fourteen-year-old with a disapproving look on her face stresses me out.

Ian finally rang today and wished me Happy New Year. Gee, thanks. On the fifth of January. He had a lovely time away with his family. I am so pleased for him. He said he should be OK to come over for a couple of hours on Wednesday night, even though he isn’t back at work yet. I know it’s my own fault for continuing to see a married man, but it annoys me when I feel I’m being slotted in. I should do something about it. I’m going to.

Looking forward to Wednesday night, though. What’s the matter with me?

Took Malleable to the beach this morning, as it was so hot. It isn’t a dog beach, but Malleable is only little, so what’s the difference?

Ductile stayed home. Cats don’t like the beach, although I did see a man walking a cat on a lead at the beach a few weeks ago. Bizarre. The cat seemed quite happy and, as the man said to me, there aren’t any signs with pictures of cats on them with a red line through them.

Anyway, most people were OK about Malleable, although a few precious dears made disapproving remarks, muttered barely loud enough for me to hear and make me uncomfortable. Unfortunately, Malleable started yapping a bit and worrying this fat bloke’s ankles, so the fb kicked out at her. We had a big argument, I said it’s only a little dog, and he said, yes, but he didn’t want to get a little bit of tetanus. What a princess. So, I finished up coming home sooner than I wanted.

This morning’s argument has left me in a troubled mood. I hope someone takes their Rottweiler to the beach and sits next to that bloke and gives him more than tetanus. Although I suppose tetanus would be pretty bad.

It’s so hot. I wish I was still at the beach. When we arrived home Malleable had a long drink from the toilet and then collapsed on the couch. He won’t be licking my face again for a while.

To take my mind off things (Ian) I visited Grandpa today, Mum’s dad, at the Old Folks’ Home. I’ve really got to get a life.

That place houses so many weirdos. There’s Albert, this deaf bloke who plays the concertina endlessly; Norma, who plays the piano from 7am every day (sometimes at the same time as Albert is playing a different tune on his concertina); Doug, who walks around loudly reciting poetry while holding his toupee on his head; Ken, who is always insulting everyone; and Keith, who invites you to get into bed with him every time you visit. And they’re some of the saner ones.

Grandpa was quite irritated when I arrived. He said the physio had just been and had wanted to see how long Grandpa could stand on one leg for. Grandpa was heatedly of the opinion that that was a skill he would never require at this or any future stage of his life. Apparently, he fell over straight away.

Anyway, today I told Grandpa I was going to sit at his feet and learn from him. I really meant it. Unfortunately, all I learned was that he couldn’t remember much, that his socks needed washing and that he was angry that Bill Bristow used all the milk in the milk jug at breakfast this morning. I told Grandpa the staff are happy to refill the milk jug whenever it’s empty, but he remained quite hostile about it.

In desperation I asked Grandpa if he thought there was much point in sitting at the feet of an old person. He said he wouldn’t do it, as he hasn’t got much time for old people and that all the ones in there are dippy. That’s the only piece of wisdom I received from him today.

I don’t think this month’s saying of Donna’s is about to change my life.

Something has to.

Still nothing from Ian. I know he went away for a few days with his family, but you’d think he’d find time to send me a text while he was sitting on the toilet or something.

It’s very hot. I think I’ll drive down to the beach (it’s 800 metres away) and have a walk to try to cheer myself up.

11.00 pm

Still nothing.

1.00 pm

Hi all

Happy New Year to everyone.

Just woke up. Hungover. Feel terrible. Well, it was New Year’s Eve last night. Nevertheless, I’m logged on now, or should that be logged in?

My friend Donna and I went out last night to see the New Year in. She wore her usual short skirt and boots to set off her long shapely legs, while I wore a long dress but with a low top. Having different attributes from each other, I think we harmonised well.

Anyway, Donna, who, I reluctantly admit, is my best friend, pretty much scared all the butterflies away as usual by never shutting up with her strong opinions on everything she doesn’t know anything about. She doesn’t do that when it’s only the two of us. The trouble with Donna is, as a result of her contrasting looks and personality, she both attracts and repels butterflies.

At one stage we managed to trick a couple of blokes into sitting with us. Donna seemed to like one of them. He was on the lumpish side, but he seemed OK. She was moving her hands all over his various limbs as she talked, but then, when he put a hand on her leg, she pushed it away, loudly announcing, ‘don’t touch me, I’m a lady’. Well, you could have fooled me, Donna. Needless to say, we didn’t see any more of them for the rest of the evening.

I know Donna is my best friend, but I’d rather have spent New Year’s Eve with Ian. Of course, that was never going to happen, as he spent the evening with his wife. He says he’ll make it up to me. So, at midnight I had no one to kiss, or do anything else with, so I got drunk instead. Even then no one appears to have taken advantage of me. Poor Catherine.

Now I have arrived at my desk to document my New Year’s resolutions.

I see there’s already an email from Donna waiting for me. Donna’s a bit into herself. Her email address is hotfemail@hotmail.com. Donna hopes I got home OK. Yes, I did Donna, no thanks to you. When it came time to book our Ubers home, Donna said her iPhone was too old to support the Uber app, so could I order hers as well. Good one, Donna. Surely you can afford a new iPhone with all the money you’re saving on Ubers.

Anyway, her email ends with one of her corny sayings. I don’t know where she gets them from, but she sends me one on the first of every month. Most of them make me gag.

This month’s saying is, I have learnt that you can find wisdom by sitting at the feet of an old person.

I usually can’t stomach this tripe, but maybe I do need to change something. Am I a cynical person? I know I’m often less than happy. Maybe I should at least give it a go. I suppose the next time I visit Grandpa at the Old Folks’ Home I could sit at his feet and see if I come away any the wiser.

OK, so, my New Year’s resolutions are:

1. This year, I will embrace each of Donna’s cheesy monthly sayings for that month.
2. This year, I will make an entry on my blog every day. Good start. I have already achieved that one for today, even if I stop now.
3. This year, I will not get angry at the vacuum cleaner and kick it and swear at it when it gets stuck on corners.
4. This year, I will dump Ian and find a proper boyfriend (or, maybe, a girlfriend).
5. This year, I will keep all of my New Year’s resolutions for a change.

So, all I have to do is keep the last resolution and I’m home.

I’m parched. Think I’ll have a glass of water and go back to bed for a while. Missing Christopher. I hope he rings later. What time is it in London, anyway?

4.00pm

Just had a long chat with Christopher. I so miss him. It doesn’t help that I don’t get along with Wayne, so we never exchange information or thoughts about our son. Mid-chat, Christopher calmly announced that he got COVID over Christmas, but said he is fine now, just a bit of a sore throat and a runny nose. He’s in isolation with Olivia, who has all the symptoms, but keeps testing negative. Anyway, at least they have each other for comfort, which is a comfort to me. I told Christopher about Donna’s monthly saying, but he didn’t seem interested.

11.00 pm

Final check of my emails. Nothing from Ian. Donna rang this evening. I told her I was going to sit at Grandpa’s feet on Sunday. She said she didn’t know what I was talking about. I asked her if she had ever done anything like that and she said not that she could think of.