Smile, you are not in Paris

I avoided a lot of the summer last year by jumping on a plane to Paris. Very tres chic of me however it was the coldest I think I have ever been. Now that the Melbourne air is hot and breathless I'm wanting to recall that cold fresh slap in the face of minus 4 degrees that you get from a European sidewalk where the freshly washed streets are frozen with ice and you try not to land on your backside. As I write this I feel the pain from a screaming front tooth that's badly in need of a root canal as my self administered drugs are beginning to wear off. For the cost of a plane ticket to you know where my tooth will be fixed and so will my passport be in the bottom drawer for another year. Toothless in Paris was never a title for a great movie so I will be opting for the dentist chair on Monday morning. Well and truly over the fear of the dentist having had so many things go wrong with my teeth I now no longer reach over the back of the chair for his throat and scream for Novocaine. In fact I believe my teeth have been most generous and paid for his marriage, put his kids through school, come through with some great family holidays and in fact if you look closely, the back of the dentist chair has a gold plaque reading 'this chair was brought to you by ....' and there sits my name. It's a pity there are no frequent flyer points for dentist visits because I could be warming myself in front of a nice handbag counter at Galleries Lafayette right now. Cest La Vie

Money can't buy sleep

What were you doing at 5am this morning? Sleeping? Me too. Apparently we've missed out. We should have joined 4,999 other people to queue up outside a shopping centre for a $100 gift voucher to launch their new luxury brands wing. Yeah one hundred bucks is nothing to be sneezed at but pre dawn pushing and shoving is no way to start the day. For that price you'll get a Hugo Boss sock or a Gucci ...well nothing actually. So now I guess I can call myself a supermodel if I won't get out of bed for a hundred bucks, well maybe not quite so super at that price. Shopping is one of the great benefits of living in a free country, it's what wars were fought for weren't they? The battle of Burberry in the trench coats is a somber reminder of what freedoms we take for granted today. So yes, go forth and battle the crowds to bring back your glorious if somewhat small piece of victory if you must. Just don't expect me to answer the bugle call.

To have and to hold... and PARTY HARD

I don't know about you but brides scare me. If ever I've seen an event turn an ordinary woman into a screaming control freak, it's one where someone has succumbed to the bridal virus. It's like watching a volcano erupt, you can see the hot molten lava spewing towards you but you are fixated and you just can't seem to run away. So when I see the latest fashion news about weddings I'm keen to absorb it all like it's a feakshow circus act. "Come see the bearded lady swallow swords and turn into a python" or better still, see crazy women make irrational decisions and throw money like there is no tomorrow. According to today's online Age "Everyone wants to look like an A-lister" and it's all about being raunchy and not looking like a bride. According to this bridal expert "She just wants to rock a sexy look."

So what then, she's walking down the aisle in her underwear and fishnet stockings with a Crown Lager in her hand and singing, sorry miming something by Britney Spears. Why be a bride if not to look like one? Unfortunately we've looked to Hollywood for our matrimonial inspirations and we all know what a huge success rate they have with marriage. No longer the doves to be released out of boxes, instead let's release political prisoners and instead of a church aisle it's a red carpet complete with hired paps. So what happens when the gala premier is over and Brad Pitt turned out to be Big Pratt and there's no money left after spending it all on the after party formerly known as the honeymoon? At least you can wear the underwear again.

Me Time

Is it me or do others loathe going to the hairdressers? A trip to the hairdressers for me is as exciting as going to the dog groomers. I know that there are people out there who look forward to the 'me' time but for me this is wasted time when I could be doing something more important. I have usually flicked through all of the trash mags within a matter of minutes of being seated because god knows there is nothing to read in them other than made up bold captions relating to deranged celebrities and photos of them looking like they have just been found wandering alone in a desert for months surviving on nothing but beetles and grasshoppers. When finally the time arrives to wash the plutonium off my head I'm asked to bend my head backwards (just like the toothbrush with the flip top head) while someone with fingers like edward scissorhands massages my scalp to the point where I think my skull will cave in and her fingers will poke a hole into my brain. Sitting back again in front of a mirror looking like someone's cat that fell in the pool, I'm playing The Einstein Factor with my special subject being my hair part. I lose 20 points for not knowing how much "this much" means and she cuts away regardless while I remember not to cross my legs in case she cuts my hair on a slope and I look like an 80's new romantic. Nearly 3 hours later I am released and somewhat poorer only to have to face it again in 8 weeks time. I guess it's just not me.

The Friday Garment Special

The last day of the working week and nothing to wear. As I point my divining rod into my wardrobe there is not a drop of summer workwear to speak of. Stuffing back in the coats of wool and dead animals as they leap out of the open door, I start to reach into the dark depths of wardrobe backwaters. Sectioned off at the rear of the cupboard is no mans land resume of retrenched ball gowns and fancy dress outfits (at least that's how I will explain it for now). This would be where one finds such things as old bridesmaids dresses of violet taffeta with mutton sleeves that are as attractive as they sound, the short leather black mini skirt that did well for the 80's and still bears the marks of beer and bands from the venue that has long gone and of course those never worn but often tried on white pants that were so transparent your old faded undies might as well be worn on the outside. As time ticks on the sense of urgency begins to take its toll. Furiously there is pulling out of the cupboard, off from the hanger, thrown on the bed and reaching in for another. It's getting desperate when you are sizing up the dry cleaning bag with the zip up front and wondering if your head will fit in the hole. It's navy? Where was that bloody Maria Von Trapp woman to pull down the curtains and make me some clothes when I needed her? Ah well, at least it's the end of the week and with a bit of luck no one will ask why my dress says 'same day service'.

From The Big Screen to the Big House

Two CCTV vans will patrol CBD trouble spots we are told in today's media. Two? Gosh! How on earth will we escape them? How will we know when they are approaching? Will they be in disguise? Will I hear "Action" at the intersection? So many questions and so few reasons not to poke fun. So other than providing some seriously brilliant funniest home videos, I dare say that camera footage from trouble spots will be just that, camera footage from trouble spots. It will be replayed on our nightly news over and over again, the police will sell it to the highest bidder and not very much will change at all. So for the contribution of $150,000 from the latest patrons of the arts formerly known as taxpayers, we can expect an epic tale of weekend city street scenes shot in 360 degree panoramic vision starring an unlikely cast of Melbourne's finest. Lights, camera, knives, broken beer bottles, action.

I'm a size 10 and enjoy late night margin calls

As I pick up my newspaper today a small flyer from a bank slides out all bright and cheerful. I pick it up and am drawn in by its bold design. "We're bringing back over 600 bank managers" it reads. Brilliant. I wonder where they been keeping them. I open up my flyer to learn about 7 of the 600 each with name, a few interesting comments about themselves and their individual mobile telephone numbers. I learn that one is a huge cricket fan and is "following up" and another is a fun-runner and does whatever it takes. I'm not sure if I should ask these people for a loan or out on a date. They all tell us where they can be found and that they are my local Bank Manager even if they all are located in the CBD. My favourite would be Erika Perkins, she says "I'm a dog with a bone". I believe the term is 'like a dog with a bone' unless of course Erika is a German Shepherd then by all means enjoy your bone. She says she is helping you into your first place. First place? When you are born? Is this woman wrenching babies from their mothers to take them into the living room? And then there is Delia Taylor who is a mum of two and is keeping an open door. Some people keep gold fish but a door is perfectly fine if that's what you enjoy. All in all it would be difficult to sum yourself up for a bank flyer in no more than two bullet points. I can think of two right now, but I don't think the bank would print those.

The summer model

Two glorious days of mid thirty degrees and summer feels like it has arrived. The warm air is blowing through the streets and there isn't a cloud in the sky. It's great to feel the heat from the sun but by 4pm I'm over it and ready to turn on the air con. Too lazy to go to the beach and a list too long as why it wouldn't be worth it, I settle for a repeat showing of Jaws to remind me of what summer used to be. Coming from stock that gets burned under an electric light bulb a day in the sun is something that would require major preparation to the point that by the time I was ready to go out summer would be over. Women can't just chuck on the shorts and head out.

Women are just made differently. I was considering this the other night watching an old episode of Parkinson when he asked his female guests Sharon Osborne, Joan Rivers and some young person that I probably should know but don't, if they had a choice would they wish to have been born male of female. They all replied female and quoted all the usual girly responses, shoes, babies etc. Personally, if I had been asked I would chose male. I think that when the female body came off the production line they got it wrong. If we are to believe the scriptures that male came first and then the design team created female, that's when they stuffed it up. Just like car manufacturers when they try to improve on the original model they end up sacrificing the basics. So instead of the good old reliable, can do one thing at a time, all the accessories on display, they then tried to refine it. They put in airbags and added intricate workings that quite frankly work for a while and then fall apart. The new model whilst more sleek in design and according to the brochure is capable of multi functions at the one time, looses its gloss after a while and is prone to leaking. Should have stuck with the original I say. But alas, without a complete overhaul including spray paint and alignment I will not be going to the beach this summer as the paintwork will fade in the sun and I'm not going to mention the spare wheel.

Stolen moments

Jail for an ANZ Bank employee who stole $800,000, the headlines read. I look down at my keyboard, nope. No tears there. Banks don't cry over $800,000 they just steal it right back. So no tears. But what saddens me is to learn that the reported thief spent the haul on gambling. Shame, shame on you for not spending it on something more useful. Why can't we be reading about the woman who stole for a Prada shoe fetish or exquisite Italian designer gowns, a fur coat made of the last goddamn panda in existence, I don't bloody care but not on pokies. If only the thief that stole from the masters of thieving spent her last week staying in hotels so large she needed a satnav to find the bathroom with a golden tassel to call the butler to turn the magazine page. I wouldn't mind if she even went to a plastic surgeon and spent the money on getting breasts so big she needed scaffolding just to stand up straight (I'd like to see the bank try and get those back), but to put it all into machine that goes ping ping ping is just plain wrong. She could have bought her own pinging machine with that much cash. Wrong, just plain wrong.

The Shi**ing News

As I sit at my computer and look out the window the soft sound of the late afternoon (really late) birds (as in where the bloody hell have you been late) fills my conscience. Sometimes it's nice to have just the natural sounds. No television advertisement yelling orgasmic sounds over washing powder, no doof, doof or..doof coming from a speaker anywhere. Just the gentle twitter (very late as in I am throwing all your twigs out of the tree and onto the lawn late) bird calls. I live alone which is the preferred method of living, just ask any of my past or current lovers, family members or deceased flat mates. As a solo dweller and part of an apparently growing statistical trend I often catch myself with the occasional mutter. Nothing too dramatic, just a comment or repetition of a banal observation to remind myself that I'm not dead.

I have a view of Port Phillip Bay and every now and again I spot a tanker slowly trekking across the water stacked with layers of containers. Without fail, I can't resist the temptation to say out loud ' more shit coming in'. Somehow I get a sense of enjoyment knowing that the ship of shit has been spotted. In my mind it's filled with useless articles that will fill the discount stores with brightly coloured plastic shit that nobody wants but everyone can afford. It never occurs to me that the containers might be delivering lifesaving pharmaceuticals or more importantly imported wine. I'm sure they come in by plane, and beside that would take all the fun out it. Does anyone else find themselves making the odd random comment to thin air or is it just me? Perhaps it is the very first indication of madness or just getting old and stupid. What really scares me is that sound you make when you get up from squatting down, you know the oooppphhh sound? That starts at about the age of 30 and gets louder as time goes on. For now as the sun sets I'll sit here and listen to the sound of the birds chirping loudly, and throwing suitcase loads of twigs onto the ground.