A couple of years ago the only two pizzeria / pasta / cafe joints in our sleepy seaside villiage had a heathly rivalry going, both run by friendly, attentive staff. One was more pricey and aimed a bit up market, so sometimes you’d chose them, and on cheaper, slacker occasions you’d choose the other. Both were consistently good in terms of the food and service, and we counted ourselves among a small crowd of loyal local customers.

One warm night at the end of last summer we went to the cheaper one, to find a load of new staff, and new management. We also found the worst service I have seen in quite some time, the highlight being a fairly public argument between the husband and wife owners, who looked like their former careers somehow revolved around outlaw motorcycle gangs. Three months later we returned to discover that they were still arguing behind the cash register, and that the service, if possible, had actually deteriorated. On that occasion, I got up and left after 2 hours. Needless to say, I have not been back.

On a recent balmy evening, the first in many months, we opted for the more up market joint to be safe. We found owner Leanne and Eddie the chef gone… only to be replaced by surley strangers. After 45 minutes of staff innatention, and no drinks ( not even a bottle of water at the table ) Miss R finally managed to flag a wait person - but only by getting up and blocking the exit. One hour later, I noticed a couple adjacent to us raiding an empty table for menus (seems that’s the way you get them now), and when we arrived they were already halfway through a bottle of Rawson’s Retreat. Miss R finally caught the dead eyes of the 17 y.o. emo waitress and asked “are you really busy tonight?”, to which she replied “uhhh… not really”. I looked around and noticed almost two thirds of the tables were empty. I grunted to Miss R, “They have ten minutes. Their time starts now”.

Needless to say, they failed the test… and we got up and walked out. As I seethed past the chef he was expressionless…. we were obviously not the first.

Ten minutes later we were in the pub across the street, a pint of Heinekin each in our hands, and our food on the table. It was cheap, and it tasted great. We watched the paunchy beer gutted men, cups in hand, wandering into the Pokie room in their Mr. Comfort slacks. Miss R smiled at a little girl munching on a bowl of fries at the table next to us. We shared a joke or two with the bar guy collecting glasses. We ate far too much desert, and coudn’t finish it, and it cost us four bucks each.

We peered out the window, over the road to the up market joint that was almost empty by that stage, and laughed out loud.

And that was time wastin’ Tuesday.

How was yours?

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“She looks nice, don’t you think honey?”

Such a seemingly inconsequential remark, but the thin covering of idle, non-challenging conversation is akin the palm leaves hiding a sharpened bamboo spike filled hole in the ground.

A mantrap.

Guys never ask this question of partners or spouses, and I am often given pause to wonder why. Is it about reassurance? Is it about keeping him on his toes? Is it a genuine desire to discover his hidden desires and lusts for other women, or a genuine interest in what he finds attractive?

One thing is certain… there simply is no correct answer.

I have learnt over many years, certain “types” that will meet with approval, and others that will most certainly meet with a reaction ranging from moderate scorn, to outright disgust.

Let us consider for a moment, Paris Hilton.

I would wager that the vast percentage of women would absolutely fume at the mere mention of her by their beloved, in any non-derogatory context . “I like Paris in that outfit” he might say in a moment of semi-drunken, lowered guard. He will pay for expressing this opinion with the pain of 1000 dentist drills, sans local anaesthesia.

I have learnt to gauge if the “type” is unnaceptable, and adjust my response accordingly. You see, to just automatically dismiss all comparisons out of hand is utterly unconvincing. “No, she’s a dog sweetheart” just won’t wash… and even the slightest delay in establishing this fact, and relaying it in a manner even remotely convincing, will arouse suspiscion. It is complex, but there are some basic rules the modern metrosensual man in a stable relationship can apply.

Generally speaking, assume the following:

Supermodels: shallow self absorbed bitches (bad), Motorsport Promo Girls: failed skanky model sluts (bad), Strippers: sluts, Swimsuit models: sluts (bad), Current affairs presenters: drunken sluts (bad), that really hot French news presenter: coke snorting, tit flashing slut (bad), anyone blonde from Home and Away or Neigbours wearing a bikini: vaccuous, vapid fame whore… and slut (bad), surfing magazine calendar model: slut (bad), Jennifer Hawkins: arse flashing slut (bad… apparently).

So, now that we have established the no-go zone, we can start to build up a picture of the “sort” that might meet with some level of approval.

For starters, anyone a bit dumpy looking in politics is probably a safe bet - but again, it’s unlikely you’ll be taken seriously when you bite your lip, raise one eyebrow and gesture toward the telly at NZ Prime Minister Helen Clarke. On the other hand, it was OK for about 6 months in 1998 to say you had a “bit of a thing” for Senator Natasha Stott Despoja, and the smoldering Kate Lundy. This also applies more recently to Member for Adelaide, Kate Ellis. Similarly elite performers or “edgy” artists are acceptable - operatic diva Ali McGregor for example, Tori Amos, or the lovely and talented Claire Bowditch. Intellectuals and sciency types rate well too - Dr Clare Wright or Dr Maryanne Demasi ( PhD’s AND sexay = good ) will almost definitely meet with approval, but be careful: Kari Byron from MythBusters might not ( not a real scientist and appeared in FHM (bad) ). The dads are also pretty safe with Charli Delaney from Hi-5, or Justine Clark from Play School ( both like kids, and never got their tits out for FHM (good) ).

Finally, we can apply this knowledge to real life situations when asked that awful question, and hopefully, emerge with testicles still firmly attached.

By recognising certain characteristics and commenting appropriately, we dan deflect attention from the obvious fact we have been caught perving.

With training, men can learn to spot the thin covering of palm leaves in the jungle, and carefully tip-toe around the mantrap…

Tags: TOS, general by admin
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So, phase one of my mission to trade from an initial $27 investment in computer junk up to a brand new digital SLR ( I’d love a Cannon 40D but will prbably have to settle for a 400D ) is in full swing.

If the response from the first listing is anything to go by, I am up and running! Yeaaaaaaaaaaaah!!



I will report back after this auction finishes, and let you know how I went. In the meantime, have a think about what I can roll my funds over into next. Any ideas? Let me know!

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Well, at the risk of offering too much information, my TWT was spent in close proximity to the toilet - lest my exploding colon leave me in an awkward and rather inconvinient position in some public place. Who knows where or how I picked up Bali Belly without ever leaving the country, but for what it’s worth, I assure you it’s much easier to tolerate in the comfort of one’s own home as opposed to sitting in a Bemo half way between Denpasar and Ulawatu. It certainly was good for wasting time.

You will be pleased to know I spent some time hatching a plan inspired by Kyle MacDonald of One Red Paperclip fame. It centers around a load of liquidated computer parts I bought last week for $29, and my goal to buy and sell my way to a new digital SLR. But more on that later… for now, that was time wastin’ Tuesday.

How was yours?

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I don’t know what I expected… you get an impression from a voice, and it’s not always right. I have to confess a pang of guilt when I met her face to face for the first time, she was so down to earth and, well, lovely. I, on the other hand, must have at times sounded off-hand or busy - that’s when I actually bothered to take the call and not leave it to voicemail.

And I wondered… was she confident, sure of herself, happy with how she thought people saw her? I studied her again as she spoke, her great smile, green almond shaped eyes, honey blonde hair, and a 5′10″ frame designers the world over seek to hang their creations off. Perfect.

And she said, looking slightly awkward for the first time, “… because I haven’t got a lot up here” and she patted her bust.

And right there I thought of the botox injected, the nip and tucked, the saline breasted, the ones who had given in to this notion of perfection - or the hype that made them wonder exactly what it meant.

I felt her doubt herself, and apologise to me for falling to measure up somehow, and I wondered how often she did it. And I wondered how often, while someone might have looked at her with envy, how brittle she really was.

I wanted to tell her not to change a thing. Ever.

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Me: I owe the tax office how much?

Accountant: ummm… it’s around (censored)

Me: (censored)

Tags: Time wastin' Tuesday, general by admin
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when did Mr Bankrupt morph into Mrs Bankrupt, and why? does anyone who eats Hungry Jacks use a rubbish bin? ever? can you be sucessful without screwing anyone over… or does that come with the territory? does Britney ever wear nickers? should I vote for the party that I believe will serve the common good best… or the one I believe will make my lot in life easier? should I just give up and drive in the right-hand lane like everyone else does? if Nicobate works so well, why are they still in business? why is Sudoko always on page 2 of the newspaper? is it really that important? should I accept the invitation to my agency’s Christmas Cocktail Party, and risk being disappointed? who’s that girl? what is that beautiful house? where does that highway go to? am I right… am I wrong? my god… what have I done?

Tags: general by admin
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My appy-polly-logies bloggy bretheren and sisteren (well OK I admit it… mostly sisteren LOL), last week was one of those “stuck in the mud” sorta weeks and I spent next to no time in blogspace.

I can’t really pin it down to any one thing - just an assortment of several small niggels. For starters, we sold nothing, and paid two pretty big accounts ( ouch ), and a referral customer who seemed all excited suddenly went all cold. MYOB shat me in new and novel ways, thwarting my efforts to complete several overdue BAS’s. The weather was dreary and cold, and the drive into Tinytown last week was just shocking - the worstest, most stupidest, rudest and dangerous driving I have witnessed since… well… the last lot of stupid, rude dangerous driving. Plus a 6:45am traffic jam for christsake. You could fire a cannon down there at that time on any other day. Work was just a constant series of interruptions with nothing concrete actually achieved, and my disatisfaction was compounded by the resurfacing of some stuff I would prefer to keep buried. Most of the time I can put it out of my mind, but I struggled last week.

But things turned around nicely for the weekend - a surf at the “local” with a couple of buddies I haven’t seen out there in a year, a trickle of sales, one new customer, and a bottle of southern vales cab sav.

And it’s still two days until TWT… with no tinytown in between. Now, if the sun would just come out, I’d be set. Hope y’all enjoy your weekend.

Tags: general by admin
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The 10 things on your desk meme.

1. Tax Invoice from a supplier
2. whiteboard marker
3. unopened BAS letter from the Tax Office
4. 1 Duracell AA Battery, expired
5. 1 CD, marked “website - images and text” in texta
6. Credit Card imprinter
7. 1 MYOB Test Drive Pack, with $10 cashback
8. 1 camera puffer brush
9. 1 empty glass
10.  A Simple Minds compilation CD, home made

What’s on your desk?
( and that was TWT! )

Tags: Time wastin' Tuesday, general by admin
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I hadn’t noticed him initially, but as I looked up he passed me walking the other way, and nodded in that polite way you might to a stranger. Something struck me as not quite right in that moment. A few paces on, I heard a quiet voice over my shoulder.

“Excuse me?”

It occurred to me that perhaps he’d called out once already, but it was so quietly spoken I hadn’t heard. I stopped and turned.

“Excuse me… I…”

As he spoke he turned and looked up the street, then turned back toward me.

“Can you please help me?”

Immediately I walked back to him and asked if he was OK. He was very apologetic and said that, yes, he was indeed alright. Then he paused again, as if considering his words.

“I…. I…. can you help me find my house?”

It suddenly dawned on me that what struck me as odd was his attire - he didn’t look as if he’d dressed to go out for an evening stroll. He wore a faded pair of track pants, and slip on slippers with white socks; and a light brown robe one might wear in hospital - like a present some dear aunt might have dropped off on the first visit in what became a lengthy stay.

Now standing close, I studied him. He might have been in his late sixties, clean shaven, the last remnants of brown hair amongst most grey combed straight. He was slightly taller than me, and as he spoke I looked at his hands. He had long, straight fingers - like a draftsman or perhaps a musician - I was pretty sure he had never done heavy work. His steel grey eyes were downcast, and reflected his embarasment at the situation. A distant air of dignity, or perhaps responsibility, still lingered in his pale voice.

I asked where he was going, and he said he had just gone for a walk. Applying Occam’s razor, I figured he was perhaps in the care of someone who lived nearby - and that he probably hadn’t been walking all that long. I smiled and tried to put him at ease, and reassure him that yes, of course I would help him.

We set of down the street, and I began fishing for any information I could find. I told him my name, and he stopped and slightly bowed his head and held out his right hand. “My name is Geoff” he offered, and a hint of a smile lit up one side of his face for a moment as we shook hands. I decided to go for the obvious and ask what number his house was. He didn’t know. So I asked him what street he lived on. He bit his lip for a second and thought about it.

“I… it’s…. it’s a birds name… yes… something like…” and he looked up and around for a street sign. I looked across the street to the corner, toward the two signs marking the junction. I read one of them.

“Magpie?” I offered. He shook his head.

“… Shrike?” I suggested.

“No… not Shrike” he replied.

Recalling that all the streets in the immediate vicinity took their names from birds, I began to have visions of walking every one of them with him, me reeling off names and him replying in the negative - with the still night air closing in and darkness not too far away. I needed more information… or to get lucky… and neither looked promising.

We carried on wandering for about 15 minutes as I tried to extract anything resembling detail from him. At times he’d stop, as if he was recalling something, or perhaps recognised a landmark - but then he’d shuffle off again, me being led by his broken memory and lost sense of direction. This happened maybe half a dozen times, until we reached a red roofed house with a steep, downward sloping driveway.

“Oh!” he exclaimed.

“This is it!”

I felt a wave of relief, and we began to head down the driveway. Half way down he stopped, and held both hands up and shook his head.

“There should be a verandah” he frowned, now looking quite frustrated. He turned and looked up at me.

“I’m so very sorry”.

I led Geoff back up to the street, and contemplating the rest of my life shuffling about looking for a house with a red roof, decided to try another angle. We started walking again, and I asked him what he did for a job. “Teacher” he replied, “I used to teach English”. I asked if he was married and he said that yes he was, but his wife had died. “She was too young” he said.

“Did you have any children?” I asked him.

“Oh yes. Two Daughters. Jennifer is the oldest, I live with her, and Chrissy lives in Perth.” He seemed certain about these facts.

“So Jennifer… is she married?” I asked

“Oh… yes… Mark… Mark is her husbands name.” he replied, as if slowly building a structure of information in his mind.

“Do you know what Mark’s second name is?” I asked.

Geoff paused. He frowned and drifted off in thought. I began fumbling for my phone, and wondered how long I could skirt around the issue of calling the Police to come and pick him up. Suddenly he spoke.

“Campbell. Mark Campbell. Yes, that’s her husband’s name.” And he seemed pleased to recall it. I asked how long they had lived in the house and he told me a long time. I hoped this meant they would be in the most recent phonebook, and that they had a listed number and not a silent one. I flipped open my phone and called my sister.

“Wassup” she asked.

“‘got a phone book there?”

“Ummm…. hang on…. yeah… why?”

“Can you look up an M.Campbell in Oak Hill?”

I heard the sound of rustling paper.

“OK… looking” she said.

“Ta. Will explain later” I offered.

“‘M’ was it?” she asked.

“Yeah… in Oak Hill”.

“Yyyyyes… there’s an Campbell here… M & J it says”.

“That’s gotta be it. What’s the address?” I asked, my spirits lifting.

“22 Nightingale Crescent”. She said. Bingo.

“Thanks sis… will call you back later. Gotta go.”

I stuffed my phone into my pocket and smiled at Geoff.

“22 Nightingale Crescent?” I asked, and his face lit up.

“Yes! Nightingale! That’s it! Oh yes, of course!”

I was pretty sure I knew where it was from riding my bike past it, and within 5 minutes we’d located the street. We hit it at the start, and ten houses up we came to one with a red roof and a verandah. Geoff’s pace increased as we got close and I knew he recognised it.

“Here it is! This is my daughter’s house. Jennifer lives here with Mark.”

We stopped at the end of the driveway and Geoff put one hand on my shoulder and shook my hand with the other.

“Thankyou so much. I’m so sorry to have been so much trouble. I feel so terrible about this. I’ve learnt my lesson though. Yes… mustn’t go out wandering”.

I smiled and told him it was no problem, and that it was nice to meet him - and that he should go inside and let Jennifer know what had happened. He agreed, and shuffled off toward the front door. For a moment he just stood there… and I felt a brief moment of dread… before he pulled out a key and opened the front door, and stepped inside. The first street lights had come on, and smoke from wood fires hung low in the cold, still air trapped in the valley. I headed straight home.

A couple of weeks later I was riding my bike back from the newsagent, paper tucked under my arm. I took a shortcut and swung up Lark St., and as I passed Nightingale I turned down. As I got closer I could see a large 4WD in the driveway of No. 22, and a thirty something woman was unloading groceries. She turned and handed a bag to a man in a robe and slippers standing next to her… who seemed distracted.

“Dad… take these please” she asked.

But Geoff’s eyes were aimed up toward the street, and as I rode slowly by I waved from the elbow up clamping the paper to my chest with my elbow. He looked at me, but he didn’t flinch. His eyes followed me, but saw nothing familiar. They saw nobody they recognised. The woman turned and looked toward me for a second, two shopping bags in each hand, before turning back to Geoff.

“Dad?”


*The names and places in this story are entirely fictional

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