Advertising Sunnies

Someone told me once that there's a company solely dedicated to putting advertisements on car airbags. Yes, you read it right, car airbags.  That's kind of a niche market, don't you think?

Seriously, folks. Is the moment after an accident a time when you're likely to think about shopping?In that moment, will you be saying to yourself  "Hmm, I've just been in a serious crash, but for some strange reason, I have a craving for a Big Mac. Oh, hang on, I know why - those giant golden arches, that are now embedded in my forehead.

Personally, I find the whole thing a bit hard to swallow.  I mean, what products would feature on airbags? Insurance, head ache tablets, tow truck services, new cars, maybe just a better optician than the one you've been using.

If I've learnt one thing about advertising, from my ex, it's that the more far-fetched something is, the more likely it is that someone's thinking about doing it, if they could.  I think ad gurus would tattoo the inside of our eyelids with logos, so that every time we blink, we'd receive a subliminal message.

Assuming the airbag ads are legit, what's next?  Are we going to see promos on the inside of coffins, so the deceased don't miss out on sale pitches? 'Dead tired? Try a Red Bull'.

I know that, for some people, ads are just gaps in a show that allow you to put the kettle on or duck to the loo, but I've always been fascinated by the power of the persuaders.  One of the main motivators they use to sell us crap we don't need, is fear.  And before you say "Well, we live in a free market, Katie, and if you don't like it, why don't you and your latte sipping friends, get a boat back to Russia, or wherever you came from."  All I'm asking is do we really need to make people feel bad in order to sell them stuff?

There are ads for health insurance, car insurance, house insurance, dog-house insurance and don't forget the insurance against getting a paper cut from filling in the insurance forms. Turn on the TV for half an hour and you'll quickly be convinced someone is going to steal your car, burn down your house and go for a joy ride on your dog.  It's no wonder we watch so many crime shows. We just want to see someone worse off than we are.

But the ads that really make my blood boil are the ones  - usually for cleaning products - that constantly drum home the message  "If you don't buy this, you're a bad parent".

I'm the first to admit that there are plenty of ways someone can be a bad parent (hey, let's not open the whole kids-on-a-leash can of worms again) but buying the wrong type of Toilet Duck doesn't rank high on my list.

I really can't imagine someone saying "My old man was a real bastard. He drank too much, had affairs, and clipped us around the ears regularly, but at least he bought the lemon-scented Spray N Wipe".

There's one particular fear based ad that really gives me a case of the ....... well, the very thing the product is used to clean up.  I think you'll know the ad.  Aussies will, at least.  It's the one where a woman has friends over to visit, but suddenly realises she hasn't cleaned the toilet.

The clear implication seems to be that if she hasn't used a certain cleaning product, her friends will see her dirty bathroom, judge her, reject her friendship and possibly make her walk through the main street of town, with a big "I'm dirty" sign hanging around her neck.

While everyone likes a clean toilet, isn't this a tad extreme?  I mean, if my friends are going to dump me because my bathroom isn't clean enough to dazzle them, then good - it's better I find out how fair-weather they are before they find out the really disturbing stuff about me. (Steady!!!!!!)

While we're being honest, I have to confess that I've never understood the supposed compliment, "She has a toilet so clean, you could eat off it".

*********************************************************************************************************

When I told my friends recently that I was going to Los Angeles, they said "Well, at least the weather will be nice".  But the first thing I realised when I landed, they don't actually have weather in LA.  You can't call it 'weather' when it's the same temperature every single day.

There are casinos with more varied weather patterns than the City of Angels.  The only clouds I saw while I was there came from people puffing medicinal marijuana.  

'Medicinal marijuana'!!!!! Don't you just love that.  Imagine stoners asking for a prescription.  When the doctors ask what their symptoms are - "Ummmm I don't seem to be enjoying play station half as much as I used to, and there are not many colours in the world".

On my first morning in La La Land, the sun was shining, so I started looking for where I'd left my sunglasses. Suddenly I realised exactly where I'd left them - Australia.  It was time to go shopping.

Stumbling upon a shop called Hollywood Eyes, I was greeted by a guy wearing so much fake tan, I didn't know if he was going to try to sell me sunnies, or give me a tour of his friend, Willie's, chocolate factory.

Without waiting for me to speak, he squealed, "I think these ones would look smashing on you, darling" and handed me a pair of glasses even Elton John would consider a little over the top.

But I thought seeing I was there, I might as well humour him and try them on.  And I confess, he was right. They did look OK.

Well, at least until I checkout out the price tag!

Eleven hundred dollars, plus tax.  And that's not even taking into account the exchange rate.

Call me tight, but as a general rule I don't think you should pay more for your sunglasses than your computer.
This was way too much, especially for something I was going to leave in a cafe or sit on and break.

Seeing the look of indecision on my face, and sensing he was losing a sale worth at least six sessions on the sunbed, Slick Larry decided to play his trump card.  "You know Angelina Jolie came in last week and bought the exact same pair."

Sold!!!

Up, up and away .....

Move over Qantas, Virgin and Jetstar it seems the battle for the Australian airways is about to be joined by a new carrier specialising in parties, pizza nights, karaoke and dance offs. Or in other words, pretty much your average flight with Lady Gaga. 

But while many travellers have been excited by this news, I'm not so sure. Don't get me wrong, with the amount of planes I catch that have been delayed I think the airlines could learn a thing or two from the pizza delivery industry. For starters, if it's more than 30 minutes late, it should be free.

But despite this, I'm not really sure I like the idea of a plane that doubles as a "Nightclub of the Sky". I know the life-jackets have glowing lights and a whistle on them, but I didn't think that was in case a rave breaks out. And I really don't want to get to stand at the door with a steward who says ... "Nah, not in those shoes darl."

But I think the thing that would freak me out more than anything about a dance party airline would have to the Captain's announcement: "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. I'm flying, and I hope you are too. If you want to see me taxi down the runway let me hear you say Ho! Today we'll be cruising at a height of 30,000 feet, unless of course you've taken one of those lovely purple pills (complimentary in first class, although you will have to pay for them in economy) in which case you'll be cruising at a height of 50,000 feet. Sorry about the delay to our take-off today. I was slightly distracted by a man on ground waving yellow paddles at me. I'm not quite sure what he was trying to tell me, but man he was going off.

Earlier as we taxied along the white take-off line, air traffic control informed me that today's flight time is estimated to be approximately thirteen hours. Since then I've taxied along a white line of my own, and I reckon I can get us there in about thirty minutes. If you care to look out the window right now you'll notice the people on the ground are so small they appear like ants. Oh my god, they are ants, in fact I'm covered in ants, get them off me! (Whew, I probably should lay off those purple pills). At this time could I also remind you to please switch off your mobile phones as we have Shane Warne, and  David Beckham all sitting up in first class and it may lead to them interfering with their equipment.

It is now time for our in-flight safety demonstration. If you need any assistance at all during the flight, please push the little button on your arm-rest, and a small glowing man will appear above your head. For those of you who have taken the purple pills, this should amuse you for hours. 

Please note that your emergency exits are located here, and here. And if you get lucky in the toilets during the flight, your ankles will be located here and here. (Remember what we say, if the 747's a rockin' don't come a knockin') Speaking of the toilets, please note restrooms on this plane have not been fitted with smoke detectors, but they have been fitted with smoke machines to give them that authentic night-club feel. If cabin lights go out, a series of lights will lead you directly to the emergency exit. If these lights go out please follow the swirling disco lights which will lead you around, and around and around. 

In a moment we will show you a short movie entitled "Deep Vein Thrombosis" which is not a sequel to "Debbie Does Dallas". After this our in-flight entertainment will consist mostly of Bazza and Dazza getting drunk and singing a karaoke version of "I still call Australia home" which let's face it will still be a lot more entertaining than any of the crap Ben Affleck movies we used to show you. In case of unexpected turbulance, a bong will fall from the roof. This won't help, but it should at least chill you out. Please breathe deeply yourself before passing it on to any backpackers next to you. In the unlikely case a crash landing is needed, please consult the card in the seat pocket in front of you for the emergency brace position. It also shows the Macerena, YMCA, Bus-stop, Time-Warp, Lambada and Mambo No 5, 6 and 7 for the dance contest later. 

We are about to serve our in flight meal service. For those of you who have taken the purple pills, I should point out the meals are meant to be minature, the drinks are meant to be minature, and the cutlery is meant to be minature. You have not, I repeat, you have not turned into a giant. 

We are now about to commence our descent, so could all tray tables be returned to their upright position. Also, for anyone who joined the Mile-High Club during the flight, could all flight attendants please be returned to their upright position. Please note your baggage will be available from a carousel on the ground floor at the completion of the flight. The rest of your baggage will be emotional, that should arrive about Tuesday. 

Once again, thank-you for flying with Nightclub Of The Skies, remember others may be cheaper and faster, but we fly the highest."

More Bits and Pieces

I turned 30 this year, which – touch wood – should mean I'm well under halfway through my life. So here’s my question – why does it feel as if the extended warranty on my body ran out a couple of years ago and since then everything has started to fall apart?

If you think it’s hard to find spare parts for a second hand European car, try sourcing them for a broken down body.

I first started noticing it when something as simple as moving came with it’s own soundtrack.  Five years ago, when I got out of bed in the morning, it was done silently.  These days it’s accompanied by a groan akin to a Hungarian weightlifter completing the clean and jerk, crossed with the type of phone call that’s charged at $4.95 per minute.

OK. I was out with my radio jock friend recently and he seemed a little too happy, so I asked him what the problem was. Seems his brother is getting married and he was asked if he’d be best man.  He loves him and all of that, and is privileged to be part of his brother’s special day, but secretly, I think he’s so pleased because he get’s a title – Best Man!!

I really don’t think he’s ever been referred to as ‘best’ of anything  To be honest, as the sort of bloke who calls ‘Hire a Hubby’ when something goes wrong at his house, he’s just pleased to be called a ‘man’.

It has to be said, though, that the title of ‘best man’ at a wedding is a little overstated.  For starters, your presence there is a certainly less important than, say, the groom, which immediately relegates you to ‘second best man’.

Of course, the priest is usually male, and if you believe in that sort of thing, he has a direct line to God, so that knocks you down the order again.  Then more often than not, there’s a father of the bride, which means you’re now not even on the podium, coming in as ‘fourth best man’.

I seriously can’t begin to imagine how it works at a gay wedding where there are two of everything.

This is how the conversation went – He said he was excited but also nervous about his duties.  He only has one brother so even if he’s the fourth best man, he still wants to make sure he does a good job.

He said he can handle the speech bit, but he’s not got any idea of the rest.  Does he book a stripper?  (For the buck’s party, of course as – he says – even he knows that it would be in bad taste at the church)

.

Needing help, we took out the iPad, looked online and after spending a few minutes on sites that seemed to skip the ceremony and concentrate on the wedding night, we found that he needed a “Dummy’s Guide To Being Best Man”.

I told him he would have to dance with the bridesmaids.  Not a problem there, he said.  As long as they know the steps to the Macarena, the Time Warp and YMCA.  He is also happy to organise the tossing of the garter.  However he’s not sure if he can find enough single men, because, let’s face it, at our age ………… so would it be wrong to invite those whose relationships are a bit rocky?

Oh, don’t worry.  It’ll be OK on the night.  After all, you’re the fourth best man!!

Part of friend's column in the paper recently (which needed to be repeated) –   He's talking about Australia Making the World Cup:-

"It is sometimes said, and said quite insistently, that football is actually better than sex. At first glance. this seems a strange and highly debatable statement.  The two activities are so utterly different.  One involves sensuality, passion, emotion, commitment, selflessness, the speechless admiration of sheer heart-stopping beauty, rushes of breathtaking, ecstatic excitement, followed by shattering toe-curling, orgasmic pleasure.  
                                                           

The other is sex.  Certain women  who are not football fans - I am reliably informed that there are one or two such creatures left in this world - sometimes fail to understand the subtleties of this connection.  They simply do not relate emotionally to the blissful anticipation of the game, the sacred ritual of preparation, the joyful build-up to the main event, the veritable foreplay that is the brisk booing and tribal barracking of the opposing team and it's supporters, the plateau phase of the contest itself, as it thrusts first this way, then that, the feverish mounting excitement building up to ..... YES HE SCORES!!!"                                                      

I was listening to the radio recently, and they were interviewing Steve Waugh and it really made me laugh.  They were actually talking about ‘sledging’ on the field.  They said to him “So, Steve, if you were batting in a game of backyard cricket and your mum was bowling, and you got a little nick through to the keeper, and nobody heard it …. Would you walk?”    There was a bit of silence and then Steve said “You never walk, fellas.  Makes up for that time she gave me LBW last Christmas when it was clearly going down legside”.  Apparently one of the world cricketers accused the Aussies of being the best sledgers in the world   Although, I guess, I can understand why sledging by the Aussies puts batsmen off, after all when most cricketers tell you they groped your wife in a spa filled with jelly, you know it’s just mental warfare, but if Shane Warne says it, you might want to call home to check.

Bits and Pieces 4

I have a confession to make. From the time I first sat down at my computer to write this to when I actually typed these words, I’ve checked my e-mail three times. Now admittedly, part of this problem is because I’m a natural procrastinator. In fact, if I were a superhero I think I’d be Procrastinator Girl. "What’s that? Someone’s in trouble? OK, I’ll be there as soon as I make myself a cup of tea, read the papers, sharpen pencils, have another cuppa, feed the dog, organize my CDs into alphabetical order, check my e-mail, type my name into Google and finally, have one more cup of tea. But mostly, I’m just addicted to turning on the computer and seeing "You have a new message".

The funny thing is, in my head, I’m not really sure what the appeal of e-mail is. After all, we have had a much superior invention around for decades. It’s called "the phone".

If e-mail had been around for 50 years, and we had just come up with the phone, then everyone would be like "Hey Katel, you’ve got to come and check out this new invention – it’s amazing. It’s just like e-mail, but you can actually talk to the person." Having said that, nowadays it seems that they’re inventing more and more phones you can type messages on, so what the hell do I know? I’m pretty sure if you give the latest mobile to 1000 monkeys they’d eventually SMS you the complete works of Shakespeare.

There are a couple of things that bother me with the World Wide Web. And not only that it’s abbreviation, www, has more syllables than just saying ‘world wide web’ (yes, I know, I should get out more). My first problem is the prevalence of adult content. Now I’m not Prudey McPrude, but it’s made it virtually impossible to look up anything without being redirected to a porn site. A while agor day my friend Keith was trying to build a shelf for the kitchen, to hold some cups, so he innocently (?) typed the keywords "wood", "screws" and "jugs" into Google. Suddenly he was directed to sites that were less hardware and more hardcore.

Another thing that annoys me is spam. I really don’t need any penis enlarging pills or generic impotence treating drugs. Don’t you just love the e-mails with subject headers like "A message from a friend you haven’t heard from in a while". Then you open it up and discover it’s not from a friend you haven’t heard from in a while, because if you had a friend who could do that, they would be hearing from you all the time.

Which reminds me, I should check my in-box.

I heard that a school in England has changed Baa Baa Black Sheep to Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep!!!! OK, the first question that needs to be asked is "What the hell are rainbow sheep? Are they the ones that Zhara Rhodes used to make her colourful outfits? This comes hot on the heels of a school in Aberdeen who changed it to Baa Baa Happy Sheep. I asked the guys here and apparently a happy sheep is one that has just found out that it’s owner is a vegetarian, or has just moved away from New Zealand.

Do you believe this???? Hey I’m all for teaching kids tolerance and acceptance, but this seems like political correctness gone mad. (Sorry, I’m probably not allowed to say ‘mad’ anymore because George Bush might take offence.) My brother was just looking over my shoulder and he said that there’s an upside – the New Zealand rugby team will be nowhere near as terrifying when they’re the All Rainbows!

It’s not going to stop there though is it? Soon we’ll have to ban Noddy’s pal Big Ears because it might offend Prince Chuck and we’ll have to change the words "There was a crooked man" because it might piss off members of the Australian Government. Then all we have to do is change ‘Three Blind Mice’ to ‘Three Visually Impaired Mice’ and we’ll all live happily ever after!
OK if you think about it, I’m pretty sure most people could identify the point in their lives where they stopped being eligible to be prime minister. In fact, if you really looked back, I bet you could pinpoint the exact moment when you took something or did something – or someone – that would be later used against you if you ever sought higher office. "You know, Giggsy, it’s lovely to be here in this spa with you and all your Manchester United team mates, but you know, if these pictures get out, I can never be Prime Minister."

What I'm talking about is we had a staff party in a hangar at London airport. I wasn’t going to go, but I decided "hey, what the heck, let's see how the other half live".  OK if I’m honest I certainly tried to make up for the raise I didn’t get by drinking the equivalent amount in free champagne – I may have even drunk my way into the next tax bracket! Qantas decided to have a party because it would be a good opportunity for staff to get together, learn from and inspire each other – OK, ok  and screw, bitch about and steal from each other!

Good night was had by all..  

Bits and Pieces 3

One of the most embarrassing things in life is when you become the thing you used to hate. That’s why it absolutely pains me to admit that I’ve been driving a 4WD.

Yes folks, I am now one of those road-hogging, petrol-guzzling, environment-destroying, talk-on-the-mobile-while-driving, complete and utter tossers who drives a 4WD in the city.

For some reason I can’t remember, my friend and I have swapped cars for a while, so I didn’t really decide that I needed an off-road vehicle and went out and purchased one.

I’ve been driving this baby for a few weeks now and the closest I’ve come to going off road is when I buggered up a reverse park and ended up on the nature strip.

Let’s be honest, the only bush-bashing I ever do involves the ex US President, and the closest I have ever got to driving through creeks or bursting through sand-dunes is when I’ve occasionally forgotten to slow down for a speed hump.

Did you know you can even buy spray-on dirt now so that you can give your 4WD that off-road look, even if you’ve never been anywhere near the back country? 

Let’s be honest, I live in the city; what do I need a 4WD for? So I can get to the next set of traffic lights faster? Most mornings I don’t even get my speedo above 50. I don't need a V6 or a V8. I could probably run my car on a couple of cans of VB.

Sure there is the possibility that at some stage I might go off road in it but, using that logic, I might as well drive a tank in the off chance that as some stage I might have to go to war. It would also be kind of like my remaining single on the off chance that I might at some stage meet Alan Rickman or Gary Oldman.

Hey, have you noticed that all the car adverts have great shots of creeks, desert donuts and parking spots perilously close to the edge of a cliff. This is despite the fact that the nearest most people who drive a 4WD will ever get to a cliff is if that’s the name of the pensioner they hit at the crossing when they are driving while talking on their mobile phone.

And with petrol prices rising so fast, soon it’s going to be cheaper to put champagne in your tank, and save the unleaded to drink on special occasions. I filled up the other day and my car doubled in value.

If petrol prices go any higher, I think I’ll finally get to take my car off road because I am going to have to use it to invade Iraq myself to get some cheap oil.

I love getting to travel overseas for work, but the toughest thing about going to the US in particular is going through customs. Although the travel is long enough that you can have a few drinks on the way. (In my defence it's not because I think binge drinking is clever, it's just the only way I can get through the latest Russell Crowe movie.)

No, the reason I think it's tought is all the paperwork. I hate filling in forms, it makes me feel totally dyslexic. (Which by the way seems a really hard word for dyslexics to spell.)

One question on the custom's forms which is a bit  difficult- "Have you ever been arrested for a crime involving moral turpitude?" Well, um, seeing I have no idea what the moral turpitude is, I'm not sure I can tell you. 　

I've never seen Ice T on Law and Order: SVU say "Yo, this bro is goin' down for moral turpitude. I'm gonna bust a cap in his ass!"

It's at this point that the questions really become ridiculous. "Are you seeking entry to engage in criminal or immoral activities?" Isn't it great that with all the extra security we have at airports we are still relying on the honour system.

As if the master criminal mind is going to be filling in this form and write: "Well yes I was, I was going to steal some money and kill some people, and maybe even fit in some moral turpitude if someone can tell me what the hell it is. I know I shouldn't be admitting this, but my Mum told me to never tell a lie."

"By the way, if you are interested I have attached a detailed copy of all my plans, included a list of my accomplices, and also some evidence I found about who really killed JFK. Plus, while we are at it, when I was in Grade 6 I borrowed a copy of The Magic Faraway Tree from the library and never returned it." Friggin' forms!!

OK, I’ve finally worked out why the world is so screwed up. All the politicians running it are brain-dead, corrupt morons who wouldn’t know their policies from their private parts, and all the people who really know how it should be run are too busy driving cabs. Well, that’s according to the taxi driver I had on my way home from the airport the other day. I had a cab driver who had no idea where he was going. Now I’m not saying they should know exactly where everything is (even God loses Guam occasionally), but I’m pretty sure that the most direct route to Chelsea in Melbourne is not via the Sydney Opera House. Here’s an idea, cabbie, how about you ask that bloke you’ve been on the phone to all trip if he knows the most direct way.

By the way, don’t you love it when they ask you "can you direct me". Well, actually, no. I’m not your navigator. This is not The Amazing Race. Would it make it easier if I drove also?

Anyway, I’ve gone off on a tangent again – sorry. We were talking about tourism in Australia. We worked out why our tourism is in a bit of slump – people have seen that damn Qantas ad and think that everywhere they go, there’ll be a bunch of annoying brats singing "I Still Call Australia Home". Apparently tourism Aust has been given $360 million to bring in the tourists. I think we should spend it on beer and sausages and have the world’s biggest barbeque. Maurie the cabbie thought we should just keep the money, forget the ads, and just pretend we have weapons of mass destruction. It worked for Saddam Hussein. Some people call him a madman, but he got results. He had 100,000 US tourists (soldiers) there within a week. "Yeah, sure we have bombs. They’re hidden in the arse of the big Merino and in the Dog's tuckerbag at Gundagai". (Spelling's bad, I'm sure.)

The truth is, most Americans still think we spend the work day wrestling crocodiles and saving our babies from dingoes, only to go home, throw a shrimp on the Barbie, and drink a bucket of Fosters. (If truth be known, any Aussie worth his salt would rather drink water than Fosters). Even when ordering a coffee, they expect us all to sound like Steve Irvine (the crocodile hunter). "Crikey! I’m here at Starbucks, the home of the most dangerous coffee in the entire world, with a caramel macchiato. What a little beauty! Now it’s hot, so danger! Let’s see what happens if I sneak over and poke it with a biscotti."

But while we may criticise the Yanks for stereotyping us, we have to shoulder some of the blame ourselves. Every time there is a visiting dignitary in town, we’re always the first to roll out the clichés. Like the last time George W. Bush visited Oz, we gave him a Dryzabone coat. Yep, that typical Aussie bit of clothing that we all wear. I wear mine when I’m riding my kangaroo to work. I believe the time before, we gave him an Akubra hat, stockman’s boots and a stock whip. He looked like a stripper from Manpower.

Now if you think about it, I’m pretty sure most people could identify the point in their lives where they stopped being eligible to be prime minister. In fact, if you really looked back, I bet you could pinpoint the exact moment when you took something or did something – or someone – that would be later used against you if you ever sought higher office. "You know, Becks, it’s lovely to be here in this spa with you and all your Manchester United team mates, but you know, if these pictures get out, I can never be Prime Minister."

Well ..... a couple of us were banned from going to the soccer to watch the local boys playing because we have this silly way of heckling them. Soooooo, we got into the ground yesterday and stole the net at both goals.  Match was called off and I think they're still looking foir the nets. That will teach them. Banning us!!! HA!!!!

Weekend

I had dinner with a good friend on Saturday night. He's a radio jock!! I'm not going to mention his name because if I do and he hears about it, it won't be pretty.

I must tell you he and his on-air partner did a phone interview with the lovely Nicole Kidman a couple of years ago, and he jokingly asked her to comment on the rumours about her love-life.  She  laughed and said the problem was that every time she was seen with a man, the media assumed they were having hot, steamy sex. 

So my friend said "Well next time you’re in the country, why don’t you have a drink with me? It would be awesome for my reputation." That was probably the day she learnt a lesson – it’s all well and good to have fun, but don’t do it on tape – because she replied "OK, I’ll be in Oz at Christmas, let’s go for a drink then!" My friend said that they must have played that audio about 1000 times a week, to the point where even the guy who programs MASH thought they were repeating it a bit too much. 

Anyway, Christmas came and the promised drink never eventuated, so in the New Year, when my friend spotted a picture of Nicole in the newspaper visiting sick children at a Melbourne hospital, he thought he’d have some fun. 

On air the next day, he pounded the desk and said into the microphone "How dare you, Nicole Kidman. How dare you be seen with sick children when you’re meant to be having a drink with me". 

He said the phone lines lit up like a Christmas tree,  and his off-sider handed him the phone and told him it was Nicole Kidman on the line,  ‘Yeah, sure’. 

It was indeed Nicole who apparently was such a good sport. In the end, they agreed to meet at the local Return Servicemen’s Club and to his absolute surprise she actually went. Without any publicists or bodyguards. As he says, just one down-to-earth, smart, friendly and surprisingly funny Aussie chick having a few 1970-price beers. He said that he had to pay for all drinks, because, well … obviously they didn’t have change for a billion dollar bill at the local. HE SAYS that she told him that he was cute!!!!!!!!!!! 

Ha! I said "Dude, be realistic. I’ve known you for years, I like you a lot, but even I would have to get very drunk to find you cute!"

I’m in charge of the laundry at our house. I like it, it gives me a sense of accomplishment. I understand the concept of sorting the colours and setting the dials. These are choices I can understand. I still haven’t figured out the remote controls on the TV or the DVD recorder, and as for Foxtel – forget it, but washing machines and dryers I can handle with some sort of skill. I love it when you take the clothes out of the dryer and there’s lots of static and you can hang the socks everywhere because they’ll stick there. (A neighbour caught me doing that once and gave me THAT look – you can’t always explain everything you do to everybody, you know!!)

Anyway, the washing machine died last week. I think I overloaded it with towels. I called a repair man to come in and fix it, knowing too well that if you call these guys you have to stay home and wait for 36 hours straight and have your bank manager standing by with a bank cheque, or else they won’t set foot on your property.  Anyway, it's now Monday and he's still a no-show.

I wanted to change my hairstyle and I was looking for a new hairdresser in the telephone book because mine has gone interstate. Christ, check out these names.  We have His and Hairs, Hair Majesty, Lunatic Fringe, Right Hair Right Now, Head Master, Curl Up and Dye, Avon Curling, The Perminator, The Best Little Hair House in Texas, Perms of Endearment, Good Head and my favourite – The Bald and the Beautiful!!!! I wonder if any of them can actuallyt cut hair. My usual hairdresser can get me in and out in 60 minutes, but when I rang to book at the new place they said "Make sure you allow three hours". Three hours?????? I don’t even want to do anything I enjoy for three hours. I’m sorry but I think you should be able to get your hair done in less time than it took Frodo and Sam to ditch the ring. I’ve seen cricket test matches that have gone on for less time than that. If I’m going to be there for three hours, I don’t just want a cup of coffee, I want a meal and a movie.

I got a really bad haircut last time I changed hairdressers. I’m sure you know the sort – it looks less like you got a professional to do it, and more like you lost a bet. Seriously, it looked like I was attacked by an epileptic Edwards Scissorhands. The main issue with my hair, if it hasn’t been cut for a while, it becomes very thick. If my hair had a personality, it would be David Beckham! Anyway, I’m a bit funny with new hairdressers. I love the guy that used to do my hair and for some reason, if I go to anyone else, it sort of feels like I’m having an affair.

That was most of the weekend covered.

Weekend Capers ...

What did I get up to on the weekend ... hmmm - let's think

Transportation seemed to be the topic of conversation yesterday. We went out and had a quick look at cars. Don't know about you guys overseas, but here, our devotion to the car borders on worship. Despite what you hear it's not really a matter of economics, it's an image issue. In Australia, you are what you drive.  Go and have a look at your car and there you are! So I thought a new vehicle (image) was in order.

The red Merc sports with leather everything really felt like me. The bank didn't really think it felt like me to them. Nor did the black BMW convertible.  One of my friends suggested I put all of my money into drugs, stay home and take all the trips I wanted - but that's not me. I don't think you can bring back groceries from those trips. I could be wrong, however!

Saturday we had a staff party in a hangar at Melbourne airport. I wasn’t going to go, but I decided "hey, what the heck, give this a go". Boring. OK if I’m honest I tried to make up for the raise I didn’t get by drinking the equivalent amount in free champagne – I may have even drunk my way into the next tax bracket! Qantas decided to have a party because it would be a good opportunity for staff to get together, learn from and inspire each other – What they realy meant was -  screw, bitch about and steal from each other!

Also on Saturday I went skydiving. I didn't tell anyone, because ... well, just because.  Although I should point out, I didn’t jump by myself. I did a tandem jump. You see, when it comes to throwing yourself out of a plane, it’s the opposite to sex. You start doing it with someone else and, when you get good enough, they let you do it by yourself. Why did I do it? Well, I think the biggest rush you can ever get in the world is AD – Almost Dying. First I had to fill out so many forms that I thought the jump should be a three way – me, my instructor and my solicitor. My favourite part was the "Skydiving Is Dangerous" bit at the bottom, in small print. Well, duh, thanks for that. To be fair, the people at Skydive Melbourne were very conscious of safety, right up to the massive "No Smoking" sign on the hangar wall. Because when you’re about to jump out of a plane, you don’t want to be exposed to something that may be hazardous to your health, like passive smoking.

My tandem master’s name was Nathan. He was a great guy, but I quickly asked him if he had plans for that night. Not that I was actually interested in his social life, I just wanted to make sure he had something worth living for. Before I knew it, we were being loaded into the plane (or as the instructors call it – The Point Of No Refund). There were about 10 of us crammed in and strapped to the floor. We were so close together at one stage that when we hit an air pocket, I think Nathan and I accidentally joined the mile high club. Anyway, the jump was absolutely incredible. If you get the chance, try it. Now, who’s for a bungee jump?

Just for something a little more serious ... I was thinking about my grandfather, Sam, yesterday. It was the anniversary of his death. He lived in a ‘charming’ cottage up at Black Spur in the Victorian High Country. (If you’ve ever seen the movie "Man from Snowy River’, it was filmed at the Spur). Anyway, he called me one day and asked me to go up the mountain to visit him. I was ‘so busy’ that I couldn’t give him a couple of bloody hours! I never saw him alive, again.

He found out, a couple of years ago, he had terminal cancer. He was a doctor so he knew about dying, but he didn’t want to make us and his friends suffer through that with him. So he kept his secret, and died.

Everybody said how brave he was to bear his suffering in silence and not tell anybody, and so on and so forth.  Bloody bollocks! Privately, I feel angry that he didn’t need me, and trust my strength, and it hurt that he didn’t say goodbye.

You would have liked Sam. Everybody did. He was obsessed with star watching and also the United Kingdom. He’s probably there now. If you see him, take him to the pub, let him show you the stars and you can tell him what a great grand daughter he had.

Oh, and tell him I’d love for him to come home for one more Christmas.