George and I were in the car, the other day, listening to the radio (whilst at the same time maintaining 100% concentration on the road – well, George might have been). We were tuned in to, local station, RTR FM at 92.1 on the radio dial (although I don’t think they have dials anymore... it’s all new-fangled digital stuff nowadays). It being a Saturday afternoon, the usual excellent music programming had been replaced with a ‘young persons’ show, tackling ‘yoof’ issues. On this particular occasion we were being treated to a discussion on STI’s or STD’s – whichever you prefer (although I suspect your preference would be to have neither). The young person presenter (of indeterminate sex) was chatting to a (female) expert about prevention, testing, and (where possible) treatment of STI/Ds. Which brings me, eventually, to my point (yeah, there is actually a point to all this). The expert was giving us lots of facts and figures and good advice on all aspects of the subject, but she was doing it in an Aussie accent... which included the inflection at the end of a sentence? Like she’s asking a question? Now the inflection is common practice in oz speak (like starting a sentence with ‘Ah mate, ... ’) but some people use it a lot more than others. In this case our expert was suffering from a very severe case of the inflection infection (although I don’t think it’s an STI/D). This meant that despite the fact that she clearly knew her facts the inflection made it sound that she was unsure of what she was saying. It was very disconcerting, I’m sorry but if someone is talking to me (giving expert advice or otherwise) I need them to at least sound certain of what they are saying, and not... ‘It’s a very straight forward operational procedure Mr Davies with absolutely nothing to worry about?’, or ‘of course I’d like to go on a date with you Harry?’, or ‘Phil Collins is the ninth best drummer of the last 25 years*?’ The inflection has definitely reached our household, the kids have the full blown disease and, despite having the inoculation jab, Wendy occasionally shows the symptoms. I have, to my knowledge, slipped up only a few times but it is becoming a more common occurrence. I have also started to say data with an ‘r’ in it (darta) mainly because if I don’t no-one knows what I’m talking about. Australian people tend to struggle a bit with my accent anyway - although, at work, a couple of the Aussie clients I speak to on the phone have started to talk to me in a very passable Yorkshire accent. I have also learnt that if you want someone to win then you are barracking for them, not rooting for them – because over here rooting means something quite different and more or less takes us right back to the beginning of the blog (and no it hasn’t got anything to do with driving).
Backtracking slightly, I was forced out of a record shop by Phil Collins yesterday. I had just begun my usual Saturday morning pursuit (no, not that one – the other one), perusing the ‘Alternative’ CD section in JB Hi-fi when I realised that my ears were being assaulted by the sounds of Mr Collins torturing songs that had, in a previous incarnation, been sixties Motown classics. Despite the fact that the songs were being marginally improved by constant announcements over the tannoy for ‘a member of hardware/software/ firmware to go to the computer counter please’ I only got two thirds of the way through ‘Jimmy Mac’ before having to escape the premises (it was either that or inserting USB sticks into my ears). Whilst making my exit I noticed that the offending album appeared to be riding very high in the charts over here. Oi, Collins... No!
Spookily, as I sit compiling this work of fiction, I can hear the sounds of someone (who is at least two streets away from us**) practicing the drums... they actually sound quite good but that’s probably because they are at least two streets away from us.
The kids have broken up from school this week having completed term 3. They brought home the results of the Naplan tests that they sat back in term 2 (I was unable to ascertain whether this delay was due to a very slow marking system, or that the results had been sitting in the kids’ school drawer for a term-and-half). They both did very well, with their marks being above the school and National averages in all subjects. Harriet’s best subject was reading but she also did very well in writing, and grammar! and. Punctuation. George did well across the board but his spelling was exscelant and his (creative) writing score was almost off the scale. He can’t remember what subject they were given to write about but he does know that his story centred upon a hitman who was disposing of Russian spies. In an earlier project they were asked to write a story about a hamster (it had a cute name like ‘fluffy’ or ‘hammy’, or ‘brian’). George’s story was about a drug-trafficking cartel who were smuggling their stash across national borders inside hamsters (including fluffy). I’m guessing that it won’t be too long before we get a visit from some Government department or other... social services, special branch, meals on wheels? Do you think we should be worried? He has also developed a habit of being able to name all of the weapons used in film or TV programmes that we watch (there are always weapons involved no matter what we are watching... even Songs of Praise). Not only that, he can also produce reference books with pictures of the weapons involved. Whilst part of me wants to admonish him for knowing too much about guns and weaponry, I have to admit that I also get a warm glow of paternal pride from his love of backing up his facts with reference material (definitely a Davies gene).
It’s a public holiday tomorrow (Monday) for the Queen’s birthday (not sure if we are celebrating Liz’s April or June birthday). I wonder whether we will still have the holiday in September when it’s the King’s Birthday? Anyway, it’s going to be sunny again tomorrow so there is an outside chance of us venturing into the pool for the first time since last summer. Be warned, I think my board shorts are in the huge pile of ironing that seems to have magically appeared in the laundry room so I may be forced to wear my budgie smugglers. (cue the music from jaws).
*As voted by readers of Rhythm magazine (The drummer from Slipknot was at number one)
**The reason I can hear them from that distance is because its 25 degrees today and I’ve got the doors and windows open. That, married to the fact that the CD I was listening to – Not by Collins- has finished and I can’t be bothered to stretch the full 18 inches needed to change it.
This week’s blog was brought to you by Chemical Brothers – Further (Parlaphone 2010), Emiliana Torrini – Fisherman’s Woman (Rough Trade 2004), and In the Night Garden (BBC Audiobooks Ltd 2007)
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Extreme ironing and freestyle shopping
Day three in ‘the house’ (spoken in an exaggerated Geordie accent). This morning, Harriet was called to the Dairy Room (okay it was the office but I was partaking of cheese and crackers, and a glass of milk at the time) to ask her why her bedroom resembled... insert a metaphor for something messy and cluttered here (or let’s just say, Room 101). As you may have gathered, Wendy has now left for her (nigh on) three week trip overseas and the household is now being run as an Orwellian, Totalitarian State. I would like to think that I am the leader of this new regime but I’m not 100% sure that is really the case. Actually, everything is bowling along as normal with just one or two minor alterations to the usual schedule and a bit of re-rostering of chores. The only major upheaval is that I am now on ironing duty.
Did you know that there is actually a sport called extreme ironing, where people jump off tall objects (buildings, rocks, David Prowse) and iron whilst making the descent. The thing is by jumping off something that high in order to do the ironing I would be creating a whole new load of clothes to be washed by the time I landed, especially undergarments. Besides, to me, any form of ironing is extreme – I think I must have had a traumatic experience with an iron as a young child (as I did with pickled herrings, and bread and butter pudding*) because I definitely have a phobia of ironing. Is there a name for a phobia of ironing? Anyway irons, like dogs, can smell fear – which is amazing really because all I can ever smell when I’m doing it is clothes burning. I can just about cope with ironing most clothing but some of Harriet and Wendy’s outfits have been designed to resist all attempts to de-crease them. They are like those dogs that have been bred to extreme to be just one mass of wrinkles and folds – the name of which escapes me for the minute (the name of the breed that is not of the individual dog). You may have noticed that this section has rambled on a bit (and that is different from usual, how?) but at some point I am going to have to stop procrastinating around the bush and tackle the ‘extreme’ pile of clothes that is sat quivering in the basket waiting for me to attack it with an hot iron.
Just before I do that, however, I should also explain the freestyle shopping part of this blog’s title. Wendy’s preferred method of food shopping is to work out exactly what meals we are having for the week and then to buy the ingredients required in the exact quantities needed... without deviating from the list. I am more of a store cupboard person myself and tend towards a much more freestyle approach to the weekly shop. I’m not saying this is the correct method of doing it, indeed it does leave you open to the odd mistake... I never could find a recipe that truly brought out the talents of the tamarillos (formerly known as the tree tomato) that I bought that time. My method is to buy something and then work out a meal around it. For example I will buy gammon steaks, remembering that there is a tin of pineapple rings in the pantry, with the notion of making gammon Hawaii (exotic or what?). It is only when I come to prepare the meal, and have difficulty locating the tin of pineapple that I remember that during a (drunken) game of Trivial Pursuit some of the wedges had gone astray and in a flash of genius, replacements had been fashioned out of pineapple chunks and food colouring. Instead of changing the menu, after this set-back, I simply find a replacement ingredient... perhaps a tin of fruit cocktail (every store cupboard has one) would work. That subtle blend of syrupy liquid, pear (by far the main ingredient), peach, grape (usually just the one) and two halves of a miniscule cherry would fully bring out the flavour of the gammon. On the subject of cherries, I think it is commonly accepted that the ones in Haribo ‘tangfastic’ are indeed sweets of the highest order. I do need to correct an error from the last blog (what do you mean, that would be all of it?) - When I said the other Haribo variety was kiddie mix, I meant of course ‘Starmix’. I can only put this error down to the huge sugar high I was on at the time due to the consumption of several packets of the aforementioned product. Of course the highlights of Starmix would have to be the fried eggs and the love hearts – everybody knows that.
I’m rambling again, aren’t I?
And now... that ironing.
Actually, before I do that, I just want to have a quick word with Stacey, if I may. The rest of you can just chat amongst yourselves for a while (Quietly!). And no she isn’t getting preferential treatment it’s just that she’s the only one to put her hand and answer questions in class. So don’t go calling her a girly swot and teacher’s pet. I should point out that she never hands in her homework assignments on time... or ever for that matter.
Stace, I do actually have the XX CD and I believe (as Gertrude Stein says**) it’s a good album but not a great album. It’s certainly a well crafted work and I reckon it will get better with a few more listens but it’s not yet up there with the likes of ‘For your Pleasure, Rumours, Seamonsters, The Seldom Seen Kid, or Christmas with the Chipmunks (the re-mastered version... obviously). I missed them play live (the XX, not the Chipmunks) at this year’s Laneways festival because they clashed with (the mighty) Echo and the Bunnymen.
Right, back to the class. Barrett, don’t think I didn’t see what you were doing with that protractor, and Hazel, come away from the door dear.
Okay, ironing.
It looks very sunny outside (20 odd degrees), it seems wrong to keep the kids cooped up on a day like this, maybe we should go down to the beach for a couple of hours. Then I’ll do the ironing later.
* I should point out that these were two different incidents and they were not served up together as one meal.
** A spot prize to anyone who can tell me where I ‘borrowed’ that from
Did you know that there is actually a sport called extreme ironing, where people jump off tall objects (buildings, rocks, David Prowse) and iron whilst making the descent. The thing is by jumping off something that high in order to do the ironing I would be creating a whole new load of clothes to be washed by the time I landed, especially undergarments. Besides, to me, any form of ironing is extreme – I think I must have had a traumatic experience with an iron as a young child (as I did with pickled herrings, and bread and butter pudding*) because I definitely have a phobia of ironing. Is there a name for a phobia of ironing? Anyway irons, like dogs, can smell fear – which is amazing really because all I can ever smell when I’m doing it is clothes burning. I can just about cope with ironing most clothing but some of Harriet and Wendy’s outfits have been designed to resist all attempts to de-crease them. They are like those dogs that have been bred to extreme to be just one mass of wrinkles and folds – the name of which escapes me for the minute (the name of the breed that is not of the individual dog). You may have noticed that this section has rambled on a bit (and that is different from usual, how?) but at some point I am going to have to stop procrastinating around the bush and tackle the ‘extreme’ pile of clothes that is sat quivering in the basket waiting for me to attack it with an hot iron.
Just before I do that, however, I should also explain the freestyle shopping part of this blog’s title. Wendy’s preferred method of food shopping is to work out exactly what meals we are having for the week and then to buy the ingredients required in the exact quantities needed... without deviating from the list. I am more of a store cupboard person myself and tend towards a much more freestyle approach to the weekly shop. I’m not saying this is the correct method of doing it, indeed it does leave you open to the odd mistake... I never could find a recipe that truly brought out the talents of the tamarillos (formerly known as the tree tomato) that I bought that time. My method is to buy something and then work out a meal around it. For example I will buy gammon steaks, remembering that there is a tin of pineapple rings in the pantry, with the notion of making gammon Hawaii (exotic or what?). It is only when I come to prepare the meal, and have difficulty locating the tin of pineapple that I remember that during a (drunken) game of Trivial Pursuit some of the wedges had gone astray and in a flash of genius, replacements had been fashioned out of pineapple chunks and food colouring. Instead of changing the menu, after this set-back, I simply find a replacement ingredient... perhaps a tin of fruit cocktail (every store cupboard has one) would work. That subtle blend of syrupy liquid, pear (by far the main ingredient), peach, grape (usually just the one) and two halves of a miniscule cherry would fully bring out the flavour of the gammon. On the subject of cherries, I think it is commonly accepted that the ones in Haribo ‘tangfastic’ are indeed sweets of the highest order. I do need to correct an error from the last blog (what do you mean, that would be all of it?) - When I said the other Haribo variety was kiddie mix, I meant of course ‘Starmix’. I can only put this error down to the huge sugar high I was on at the time due to the consumption of several packets of the aforementioned product. Of course the highlights of Starmix would have to be the fried eggs and the love hearts – everybody knows that.
I’m rambling again, aren’t I?
And now... that ironing.
Actually, before I do that, I just want to have a quick word with Stacey, if I may. The rest of you can just chat amongst yourselves for a while (Quietly!). And no she isn’t getting preferential treatment it’s just that she’s the only one to put her hand and answer questions in class. So don’t go calling her a girly swot and teacher’s pet. I should point out that she never hands in her homework assignments on time... or ever for that matter.
Stace, I do actually have the XX CD and I believe (as Gertrude Stein says**) it’s a good album but not a great album. It’s certainly a well crafted work and I reckon it will get better with a few more listens but it’s not yet up there with the likes of ‘For your Pleasure, Rumours, Seamonsters, The Seldom Seen Kid, or Christmas with the Chipmunks (the re-mastered version... obviously). I missed them play live (the XX, not the Chipmunks) at this year’s Laneways festival because they clashed with (the mighty) Echo and the Bunnymen.
Right, back to the class. Barrett, don’t think I didn’t see what you were doing with that protractor, and Hazel, come away from the door dear.
Okay, ironing.
It looks very sunny outside (20 odd degrees), it seems wrong to keep the kids cooped up on a day like this, maybe we should go down to the beach for a couple of hours. Then I’ll do the ironing later.
* I should point out that these were two different incidents and they were not served up together as one meal.
** A spot prize to anyone who can tell me where I ‘borrowed’ that from
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Did you mean the XX?
I’ve just been on to google and typed in Paul Weller + Mercury Music Prize winner and it came back with the above reply. Surely the former Jam front man was robbed. I see that after some late, irregular betting patterns (for once not involving the Pakistan cricket team) the Modfather was a short priced favourite to take off the coveted title. He’s taking defeat very well, by leaving the country and coming over here to entertain the convicts – I shall be passing on my commiserations to him when I go and see him next month. I am hoping that it will be third time lucky and I do get to see him as my two previous attempts to watch him in concert have ended in disaster. I think the first show was cancelled due to illness or bad weather, or both but the second time I was definitely thwarted by a Fire Safety Certificate... or lack of. It wasn’t me; it was actually the venue that was missing the vital paper work. I have all of my up-to-date Fire safety documents having once successfully extinguished a fire in my boxer shorts. I should point out that it wasn’t actually a conflagration in my underwear – it was in fact a house fire, but I was only wearing boxer shorts at the time of successfully tackling the blaze. Luckily there are no photos to go with this story.
As you will have (no doubt) noticed - I have gradually got away from the vague notion that this is actually a blog about ‘the Davies family living in Australia’ and have accepted that I am, in fact, serialising my life story. I warn you now that it’s only a matter of time before we get to anecdotes such as ‘the jelly fight’ that took place at one of my birthday parties. You’re thinking that there is nothing unusual about a jelly fight at a children’s birthday party... I was 24, it took place in the street, and the police files say that the fight took place at some time after midnight. Chances are though that we won’t dwell upon the stories of the ‘bring and buy sale’ cabbage, and the de-handgranadeing of my brother’s airfix soldiers with a pair of scissors (an incident that George finds highly amusing).
Before I descend further into naval gazing, I should give you the latest news of ‘the Davies family living in Australia.’ Since I dissed him (a term that I believe was last used in late March 1990... at about 10.39am) for being a lazy, good-for-nothing couch potato type thing in my last entry, George has: played for the school rugby (league) team in the State competition, accompanied Wendy on the 12km ‘City to Surf’ walk, and won a prize for finishing third in the sprint race at the Sports carnival. Obviously, it is my words of ‘encouragement’ that have spurred him on to these sporting achievements. With this in mind I have no qualms in telling you about his latest step into adulthood – he was turned down by a girl when he asked her to dance at the school disco. But instead of doing what I would do (i.e. keeping it quiet and picking over it for the next 10 maybe 20 years and painting at least 40 pictures on the subject), he happily discussed it with all his mates and decided that next time he would ask a girl ‘early doors’ so that if she turned him down he would still have time to ask someone else. I think it might be time for that DNA test... this is clearly not Davies behaviour.
Another sign of George’s impending maturity is the fact that he has made his first mix tape (this is a move that is much more symptomatic of the Davies gene). I say mix tape, but clearly there was no cassette recorder used in its making and quite frankly the skill levels required for making up a compilation album these days with the help of i-tunes are negligible compared to how we had to do it back when I were a lad. It is only a matter of time before George combines both of the above items i.e. making a mix tape to give to a girl – and then getting rejected. The art of making a mix tape as a token of your affection is a very tricky one. The pitfalls are endless because basically you are looking for the balance between: including music that you know/or think you know she’ll like and including music that you think she should listen to (Beyonce-PJ Harvey); including music that doesn’t make you look too much like a morose, basket case and including music that makes you look like a soppy romantic wimp (Nick Cave - Nik Hayward). Judging by the number of times I got dumped, and the lengthy list of restraining orders I have against me I’m guessing I never did get the balance quite right.
Harriet is now allowed to take her earrings out having done the necessary six week probation thingy, or whatever it is you do when you have new holes put in your ears. This also means that she is allowed to put new earrings in – I’m not sure whether this is something that you are supposed to do on the hour every hour but that is exactly what she is doing at the moment. She is currently in the kitchen rustling up some buns with some sort of apple filling (actually they might be muffins), and apparently in order to do this you have to remove your flower shaped earrings and replace them with ones that are shaped like turtles (or they could be tortoises)... derrr, everyone knows that! . You never see Jamie or Ainsley making apple based bun type, muffiny things without their reptilian earrings in. (short pause) I just got called in to the kitchen to witness a double-yolked egg, I’m not sure that I expressed the sufficient amount of excitement that I was expected of me – they did look like identical twins though.
Hattie is getting over her disappointment of not being able to do her ballet exam this year because of our trip to Sydney. She can still go up to the next level but she won’t get a certificate, although I’m sure I could cobble something together in photoshop if necessary.
Wendy is almost packed ready for her overseas trip of many flights. She’s having one or two problems meeting the weight requirements (there is a lower weight allowance in South Africa than the UK – 20kg) and also the fact that there could be a sizeable difference in the climactic conditions – especially if the weather in the UK turns a bit autumnal. It does mean that when flying back to Perth from the UK she will have an extra 3kg of baggage allowance – I think is planning on using it for chocolate.
Anyway, I’m off to study my ‘Parenting for Dummies’ manual to ensure that everything runs smoothly whilst Wendy is away... I’m guessing I’ll be reverting to bribery before the week is out.
I leave you with the stunning news that Sunday shopping and Haribo sweets (yes that includes tangfastics and kiddie mix) have arrived in WA.
H
As you will have (no doubt) noticed - I have gradually got away from the vague notion that this is actually a blog about ‘the Davies family living in Australia’ and have accepted that I am, in fact, serialising my life story. I warn you now that it’s only a matter of time before we get to anecdotes such as ‘the jelly fight’ that took place at one of my birthday parties. You’re thinking that there is nothing unusual about a jelly fight at a children’s birthday party... I was 24, it took place in the street, and the police files say that the fight took place at some time after midnight. Chances are though that we won’t dwell upon the stories of the ‘bring and buy sale’ cabbage, and the de-handgranadeing of my brother’s airfix soldiers with a pair of scissors (an incident that George finds highly amusing).
Before I descend further into naval gazing, I should give you the latest news of ‘the Davies family living in Australia.’ Since I dissed him (a term that I believe was last used in late March 1990... at about 10.39am) for being a lazy, good-for-nothing couch potato type thing in my last entry, George has: played for the school rugby (league) team in the State competition, accompanied Wendy on the 12km ‘City to Surf’ walk, and won a prize for finishing third in the sprint race at the Sports carnival. Obviously, it is my words of ‘encouragement’ that have spurred him on to these sporting achievements. With this in mind I have no qualms in telling you about his latest step into adulthood – he was turned down by a girl when he asked her to dance at the school disco. But instead of doing what I would do (i.e. keeping it quiet and picking over it for the next 10 maybe 20 years and painting at least 40 pictures on the subject), he happily discussed it with all his mates and decided that next time he would ask a girl ‘early doors’ so that if she turned him down he would still have time to ask someone else. I think it might be time for that DNA test... this is clearly not Davies behaviour.
Another sign of George’s impending maturity is the fact that he has made his first mix tape (this is a move that is much more symptomatic of the Davies gene). I say mix tape, but clearly there was no cassette recorder used in its making and quite frankly the skill levels required for making up a compilation album these days with the help of i-tunes are negligible compared to how we had to do it back when I were a lad. It is only a matter of time before George combines both of the above items i.e. making a mix tape to give to a girl – and then getting rejected. The art of making a mix tape as a token of your affection is a very tricky one. The pitfalls are endless because basically you are looking for the balance between: including music that you know/or think you know she’ll like and including music that you think she should listen to (Beyonce-PJ Harvey); including music that doesn’t make you look too much like a morose, basket case and including music that makes you look like a soppy romantic wimp (Nick Cave - Nik Hayward). Judging by the number of times I got dumped, and the lengthy list of restraining orders I have against me I’m guessing I never did get the balance quite right.
Harriet is now allowed to take her earrings out having done the necessary six week probation thingy, or whatever it is you do when you have new holes put in your ears. This also means that she is allowed to put new earrings in – I’m not sure whether this is something that you are supposed to do on the hour every hour but that is exactly what she is doing at the moment. She is currently in the kitchen rustling up some buns with some sort of apple filling (actually they might be muffins), and apparently in order to do this you have to remove your flower shaped earrings and replace them with ones that are shaped like turtles (or they could be tortoises)... derrr, everyone knows that! . You never see Jamie or Ainsley making apple based bun type, muffiny things without their reptilian earrings in. (short pause) I just got called in to the kitchen to witness a double-yolked egg, I’m not sure that I expressed the sufficient amount of excitement that I was expected of me – they did look like identical twins though.
Hattie is getting over her disappointment of not being able to do her ballet exam this year because of our trip to Sydney. She can still go up to the next level but she won’t get a certificate, although I’m sure I could cobble something together in photoshop if necessary.
Wendy is almost packed ready for her overseas trip of many flights. She’s having one or two problems meeting the weight requirements (there is a lower weight allowance in South Africa than the UK – 20kg) and also the fact that there could be a sizeable difference in the climactic conditions – especially if the weather in the UK turns a bit autumnal. It does mean that when flying back to Perth from the UK she will have an extra 3kg of baggage allowance – I think is planning on using it for chocolate.
Anyway, I’m off to study my ‘Parenting for Dummies’ manual to ensure that everything runs smoothly whilst Wendy is away... I’m guessing I’ll be reverting to bribery before the week is out.
I leave you with the stunning news that Sunday shopping and Haribo sweets (yes that includes tangfastics and kiddie mix) have arrived in WA.
H
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