When I was a kid and nothing bad had happened in my life, everything was measured by fun milestones: before I learned to ride a two-wheeler or after, before I got my first pair of white red-stone roller-skates or after, before I first solved the Rubik’s cube or after, and then after Trixie Belden came into my life, major events slotted between the various thirty-six volumes.

This week on the Socials, Jamie Oliver posted a pic of his wife’s screen-saver.  It was a whole lotta Harrys from 1D.  He mentioned that his own screen-saver is a picture of vegetables.  So I thought it would be funny to send him a pic of a “rude veg” that is in my Insta feed.  So I started scrolling back through, looking for the pic, and then I stopped.

The pic of the turgid turnip that I was looking for was from before.

From when Hayls was still alive.

Hayley was the one who got me into Instagram.  She got me following Jamie and David Loftus and Essena O’Neill.  She was one of my few followers in the early days, and she was one of the few I followed.  She told me to start instagramming stuff. Told me it would be fun.  Told me to practice taking pics for when we would be ready to do a blog together.  When she was done with the cancer.

So as I scanned through my old posts, I could clearly define when she died.

I could go back and have a look at pics that she had commented on, pics we had discussed, pics that she teased me about.  The pics from before.

And then it was after.

All of the pics from after that prove that the world still does on, that life continues to happen somehow.  And that just doesn’t seem right.  There should be no more pics.  Things should just stop, shouldn’t they?

I know I’m supposed to write you a blog right now, but I’m way too stressed.

I have yelling at the contestants on MKR to do (I really do despise them all I think- even the nice ones- I know they “really don’t want to go home yet” I know they’ve “worked so hard” and that they “really want to make cooking their life”.  I don’t need them to tell me fifty-seven times per show.)

I have to make dinner for the next two nights.

I have to clean the bathrooms- they really just can’t wait another day.

And I really should drink the last bit of that wine so that it’s not sitting there in the fridge door every time I open it, taunting me and trying to make me drink it during “the week” (Sundays are not in “the week” you know).

Excuse me…

Okay, I’m back- I just had to stop the cat from completely shredding the carpet- she’s locked in our bedroom- and has been for THE LAST TWO WEEKS- ostensibly to keep her quiet, since the eye-scratch-incident.  She’s going quietly mad in there, and so are we.  She climbs the venetions, pisses on any clothes we leave on the floor, and miaaooowwws every morning from 2.30-4am.  Tomorrow I get to take her to the cat ophthalmologist (yes, there is in fact such a thing) for a two hundred dollar consultation in BRISBANE (two hours each way).  I have a new car.  The chances of her not defecating or urinating on the way are as slim as Carrie Bickmore’s arms.  So yeah, bring that joy.

So this is what you get in lieu of a blog.

Now shhh, Elementary is about to start, and I can’t be distracted from my Johnny Lee.  (He may require my help.  And if not I’ll just stare at him, mouth slightly agape.  I’ll try not to drool.)

Wish me luck (with the cat, not the drooling)

What’s your Sunday night routine?  

How much do you love Elementary?

…From The Ashers xx

Epilogue:  As I was typing, the cat was going BATSHIT in the bedroom, trying to get out. The bastard has just pulled up the carpet. We couldn’t get into the bloody room ‘cos she carpet-barricaded us OUT.  Oh, sweet baby cheeses, save me now, and don’t let me wrap that cat in the wrecked carpet and chuck her in the pool.  Or don’t judge me.  Either works.

Hot Damn

I bit into the hot jam donut and thirty-four years dissolved off my skin.

The first bite was just right, a slight crunch of the fried outer and then teeth hit the fluffy of inside. A fine dusting covered my lips and I tried and tried not to lick the tiny crystals, tried and failed like every other time.  I stepped forward in the line, one step closer to that sugary smell.  I read the sign one more time: 20cents each, or 6 for $1.  So two dollars meant twelve donuts.  I pretended to decide if I would have six or twelve, teasing myself with the idea of being able to resist, and saving a dollar for later.  A later that added up to; one packet of Cheese Things, one White Knight, five Redskins, one pack of Fags and about six Cobbers or Freckles or Milk Bottles.  But I already knew I’d choose the donuts, which I may or may not later vomit up on the Spew Ball.  I stepped forward again and held and held and held my breath until I got to the window on tippytoes, so that my first gasp was of pure happysweet.

I got ready for the next bite, prepared, for you never know just when that scalding glob of fluoro pink will fly out of the donut and onto your delicate tongue, searing it for three days.  The process is: bite, pant with mouth open, and swallow, allowing the deliciousness slide down, forging a molten path along your oesophagus.  I handed over my two dollars, clutching the straining paper bag to my royal blue parka.  It was already becoming translucent with grease, and I had to be careful not to shake it too much- I could hear the waterfall of sugar falling from the donuts with each step.  I found a spot on the cold ground away from the annoying seagulls that were my brothers, and inhaled, like a sommelier.  The first bite was always the best and the trickiest.  Too big, and the scorching jam would shoot out and burn my fingers: IwontdropitIwontdropit, too small, and all I’d get was the dough.

Bravely, I popped the rest of the donut into my mouth and savoured the burning sensation, the touch-memory warming up old synapses that recalled the frigid wind coming off Albert Park Lake, making the metal rungs and handles of the play equipment so cold they burnt my fingers like the hot jam.  We called it Special Park for it was magical… Towering, curling slides, strange swings with almost evil leering kite-faces that went ‘swing-swong’ as well as ’round and ’round, orange and green balls that spun around and around whilst we chanted “FasterFaster” to our Dad on the outside, whose big arms never seems to stop or tire, ’til we came tumbling out, drunk on donuts and the spinning and the taste of hot, almost-vomit in the back of our throats.  Parents sitting in the idling warm of the car, listening to Fleetwood Mac or maybe Bob Marley, and imagining stealing a moment for themselves away from wide and innocent eyes, whilst outside we ran and ran from fort, to swing to see-saw and back, beanies pulled down tight but ears still numbing to deafness as we ran, almost weeing our pants with joy and daring when they honked the horn to go home and we scattered like Autumn leaves over the park so they couldn’t drag us home.

Special Park.  Special Days.

Did you ever go to Special Park?  It’s gone now of course, there’s a race-track and restaurants and the gentry enjoy the space that children once ruled.  The dirty-white of the donut van, ne’er to be seen.

Did your family have their own Special Park?

…From The Ashers (And the McShane-Rolfes) xx

Isn’t it a magical thing when you meet someone new, and you just click?  Slide on into a groove.  Sometimes it can be like you’ve always known them.  And you can even be from completely different backgrounds and continents.

What is that?

I’d love to know.

Is it common interests, similar sense of humour, shared tastes?

I don’t know about you, but I know that it doesn’t seem to happen that often, but when it does, it’s profound.  I find there’s a weird settling in period, where you think you’ve found something special, a little seed that will grow into a friendship, if you give it the basics, but you don’t know if the other person has the same sense.  So you shimmy around each other a little, testing out the ground, seeing if this new little sprout will take hold, or if the elements will sweep it all away.

I know I can be a bit strange to other humans at times, but it takes everything within me to stop myself from coming over like a Kindy Kid: Do you wanna play with me, and be my friend?  Wanna be in my gang?

It would be much simpler if that was socially acceptable, don’t you think?

Perhaps I’ll try it.

What about you, how do you make new friends?

What makes you click with someone?

…From The Ashers xxx

Today I had children with coughs and weather that was foul due to some piss-weak cyclone, so after taking the cat to the vet (as we do DAILY at this stage), this is what we did:

And that is all.

We all loved our books, but I loved mine the most I think.  Mine was The Rosie Project, and if you haven’t already read it, then I reckon you should grab yourself a copy.  Especially if you are skating along in life just this side of a diagnosis*, you might find Don an interesting antihero to nod your head along with.

The cover is a bit shit, but don’t be fooled. You know the saying…

It was a perfect read for a rainy day, and I read it all in a day, which I love to do.  It refines the story and gets you right into their head, I reckon.  Especially when the main voice is a bit of a weirdo.

So if it’s raining over Easter in your part of the world, or even if it isn’t, grab yourself a copy.  It’s a good read.  It might make you see the world (or at least some of the people in it) a bit differently.  And I think that’s a good thing for a book to do.

Weather like this for example:  Cyclone Ita… You can go now.

Oh, and Liam was reading the next book in the Anthony Horowitz series about Alex Ryder, which he is totally in love with, and Coco was getting into yet another Go Girl.  We all highly recommend our choices.  Thanks Written Dimension at Noosa Heads for your advice.. Nothing better for book nerds like us going into a shop where people actually care about what you buy.

* I say ‘you’ and I actually mean ‘you’ this time.  Not me.  I’m fine.

****No, this is not a sponsored post (sigh) just another great local business in my part of the world****

What are you reading? I need a new book for the break. 

…From The Ashers xx

Sometimes I wish I could just turn back time.  Not in a Tina Turner kind of way, although that would be lovely for the fellas, but just go back to then.

Today I went past a place that I’d been in happier times.

That’s the thing when people leave, and you don’t.  The suburbs are plump with remembrance.  Sometimes they are so fecund they might burst forth, spilling juice and over-ripe thoughts all over you.  And sometimes they just lie there, rotting on the ground because nobody wants to pick them up.

Today I saw someone I know from happier times.

And there was a chasm stretching out between us that we didn’t know how to ford.  Or perhaps we didn’t even want to.  Because it would probably hurt a bit if we tried.  So we smiled pasted smiles and spoke of Smiggle and school holidays and “how about this rain?”

Buddy Holly had it right: “The weather man says clear today, He doesn’t know, You’ve gone away, And it’s raining, Raining in my heart.”

Sometimes music just knows.

What song describes your day?

…From The Ashers xx