Thirty One Celebrations

My birthday.

It started well. Fresh faced and sober....



but it led to this.....


this...



this....




this.....


and finally to this?


Surely they will never allow me to sit the 'grown up exam' at this rate?

Sneaky Celebrations

Natalie on Friday, 24th August. Too much blood in her alcohol stream to do a jot of work!

So as this Friday 24th August approaches I just wanted everyone to know that I am in fact not wanting everyone to know that it's my 31st birthday.

I like keeping a low profile for these things don't you know.

However, if, perchance you find out that it is indeed my 31st birthday on this coming Friday the 24th August, I will (reluctantly) allow you to leave notes of adoration and birthday wishes here!

....but sshh. I don't want the whole world to know!

The Flaming Turd

The scene: It's nine thirty on a Saturday night. Dave and I are watching telly and consuming copious amounts of vino. The doorbell rings.

As we open the door we are faced with a paper bag burning with vigour. The thing to do would be to stamp on it and put the flames out.

We're too pissed to care and so watch it, fascinated, as the flames die down.

The flaming turd trick completely wasted on us.

I like to think that the little buggers were watching and were suitably disappointed!

The Slow Drag

me this week....

I'm not freakishly tall by any means. I think 5'8" is ok for a woman. I mean, of course I still get a little self conscious when I'm out in heels (taking me to well over 6') and all of my friends appear thousands of feet below the cloud line! I do seem to stoop a bit more but that's only because I can't possibly hear the conversation from my lofty position. I remain grateful that I can claw my way to the front of the crowd at a gig and be able to mosh in the front few lines without missing any of the hot band action.

This week though, I have had to re-assess my situation and have wished for the first time that I was just a little smaller....maybe 8 inches or so!

Swing dancing is to blame.

I had attended another class with a genius named Shane (my inappropriate crush for the winter, resplendent with tattoos and wearing trousers befitting any grandfather! Swoon.... but I digress) and we were to learn the slow drag. This is a swing dance for those times when the music slows and you're trying to woo the lady of your dreams. The man approaches, takes your hand and then thrusts his body into yours achieving contact from the chesticles to the hips. From there he swings you round and you endeavour to look a little like Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing but with the man less shining torso a la Patrick Swayze-the delish and more flannelette shirt a la Doug-the idiot.

Here within, the problem lies.

What happens when a perfectly skilled Asian of less than average stature tries to swing you into one of these slow swing moves?

The old joke of the Doctor examining a woman's breasts, comes to mind.

"Madam, before I examine your breasts I shall have to numb the area...

....numb numb numb numb, num... yum..."

Snakes. Why'd It Have To Be Snakes?

My hero, the perfect man, is back!

Indy, how I have missed you...


...I hope he rips his shirt in this one too!

A Horrid Realisation

The thought had been creeping up on me for a while. However, as always, I talked over the little voice in my head with something far more entertaining... the thought of beer!

Now, though, I cannot ignore the small whimperings any longer.

I. Am. FAT.

Fat, I tell you.

As porky as an overfed pig.

It ain't pretty. The saddlesacks have sagged nearly to my knees and my undulating bum resembles cottage cheese so much that I fear arrest each time I step into a supermarket.

Once again, it is time to take action against my unruly wobbly bits.

My bike which had lain so forlornly for months with a busted inner tube was fixed by my indolent self. With a quick dust of the handlebars and water bottle located from somewhere deep within the caverns of the kitchen cupboard I swung my leg over the seat and hopped on.

Someone has obviously been at my saddle though. I don't remember it being so pointy and so damned uncomfortable last time.

I pushed on, encouraged by the memories of when I would cycle to work before we lived in our present house. As I peddled faster I thought of all the gorgeous places I would cycle past by the river.

Places like this....



and this....




This ride was different. I was not expecting to be scared shitless at the imposing derelict power station.




It looks so eerie that you could be forgiven for thinking that nothing good could ever happen there. Like a building dementor



You also wouldn't have thought to cycle down stretches of road with massive pylons where creepy looking men drive ever so slowly past you and then park up fifty metres away. (I pegged it so fast past him that he wouldn't have stood a chance!)




Or part way round the coastal path, you wouldn't expect to cycle past a cattle station where in days gone by the cattle ships would offload their animals onto the beach.



Or to realise the reason CY O'Connor Beach is named as such is because this was the place that the infamous engineer decided to blow his brains out while out riding his horse.

Or that there is a statue erected and partially submerged in honour of his brilliance?!



But as I cycled into Fremantle I realised that it would be worth the eerieness and general decay of the surroundings as I would be fit once more. This body that belongs, so obviously to someone else and not to me will be banished for once and all.



Plus the view when you get there is a bit nice!

Only In Australia... Part 357.

Builders....

.....

Builders working to hospital guidelines.....

.....

We didn't stand a chance!


Our unit has been undergoing renovations which were to have taken "....*draws air through teeth*.... about twelve weeks, gov."

FIVE months later, said unit was presented to managers with the equivalent flourish of jazz hands and a welsh coal-miners choir of "da-daaahhh"

The manager walked around complementing the guys on their handiwork until she came to the isolation room specifically designed for sick/immuno-compromised/infectious patients (delete as appropriate).

The door was too small...

Hmm...

The door was too small to fit a bed through!

?

Thus rendering it useless to patients unless during an emergency resuscitation on them (in the extreme event of them arresting) we could call upon them in between chest compressions and injections of adrenaline, to get out of bed and walk through the door way and climb into a bed outwith the 'special room' that would be able to be wheeled to the ICU!

Needless to say, the move back into our unit has been delayed again for another couple of weeks whilst some seventeen year old bashes a bigger hole in the wall!