New Era or Just New Carpet?

Like everyone else this week I awoke to hear news of a new Prime Minister. For a moment there I felt like I had been out of the country. How quickly they can accomplish change when they want it! Whilst I'm not a fan of any politician really I am warmed about the realisation of a female leader. I'd like to feel that times have changed but I know it's just a matter of time before we get wall to wall reviews of her lifestyle choice, hair colour, favourite lipstick or flower - all the ground breaking journalism that is required to remind us that she is not a man. On an evening out last night a now very rare opportunity came up to see a band at a Fitzroy pub. The usual men in gorilla suits were on the door trying to be testing until they came to me and got a response that reminded them that mother still can be scary and that he was not too old to be slapped on the legs. The pubs I went to during the early pac-man era had gaffer tape on the floor to hold the sticky beer carpet together and at some point during the night there would be a skinhead fist fight over who exactly did come from Brighton England and not from the well to do south eastern suburb in Melbourne. In the pub of last night the punters sat quietly on the non gaffer taped floor and listened to the band swathed in the swirling sounds of reverb pedals and sparkling laser lights. The lack of cigarette smoke and movement from the audience was eerie. It was however an enjoyable gig and standing at the back of the room it was only then that I felt a sense of a new era coming in. At least until a sustained moment in the middle of a song when my reminiscing same age colleague yells out "US forces give the nod..." For him the pub will never change even if the carpet does.

Dial #1 for No Responsibility, Dial #2 for Couldn't Give A Shit

It's wrong to yell at call centre operators. It's wrong, it's not their fault and they are only doing their job. Yawn. They are just a front for the evilness of (insert telco/insurance company name here) that hide behind them with their no care policies and piss of disclosure statements. If more people scream down the phone (sorry 24 year old Customer Care operator) at these companies the more they might sit up and take notice. Why is it that your customer care operator can care until his nose bleeds but he can't ACTUALLY help you? "I'm not authorised to that ma'am but if you call back tomorrow...". Why pick up the goddamn phone if you can't actually do anything, and why get paid for it? Like yelling at the television every time an overpaid 'hero' gets away with another criminal act sprouting they made an 'error of judgement' (which to me would be making a wrong turn into a dead end street, not assaulting someone), somehow it just feels right. So the next time someone gives you the 'sorry the accountability department have gone for the day' keep them on the phone and see if you can get them to actually DO something for you. Remember, nice people are poor people...oops did I say that out loud? Sorry, error of judgement.

Game on

Is anyone excited about the world cup this year? Is it lacking some robust discussion or has our patriotism hit the dumpster faster than a used vuvuzela after the 4 nil result? Having a deficit knowledge of sport myself, I can only guess the decisions leading to the recent showing of a shiny red card to some of our better players and the resulting effects on the rest of the game. I am sure however that there are some learnings we can take from the beautiful game. Wouldn't it be good if we could have a red card in many other daily activities. At the deli counter if some women pushes in front of you a man in tight shorts appears and shoots his hand up in the air and a red card is shown. Woman sent off to the carpark. The man in front of you at the bar spills beer over your new shoes, the ref appears, man sent home in a cab. This could be useful. However there will be protests, I can imagine the arms going up "I didn't touch her, she knocked me", sorry sport, the ref has spoken, home you go. When I think of it we have a sort of red card in place already. A recent incident (of which we are yet to get the gory details) of a local retail CEO who was red carded about some bad behaviour got the 'sorry mate' and told it's time to walk the walk of shame. We desperately need a political red card, in fact we need a whole pack for them and for the NRL and AFL they need to be red carded for life, sorry love you have no respect for women and you think black people are not equal to you, off you go and become a call centre operator if you're lucky. Failing that we should be able to just sit in their homes and blow loud plastic horns at them until they learn to behave better.

We are ze people in your neighborhood

It's time to think about travel. I am heading off to France in January and need to start making plans. This will be about my fifth time to the pastures of pastry and to date have only made petite attempts at any language learning. I can navigate enough French words to eat, drink and shop in fact I probably have a collection of at least 10 French words that revolve around my favourite wine, food and basic greetings. My usual approach is to sit around and wait until one of my 10 words comes up and then I say 'oui sil vous plait' and I'm sorted. I've tried listening to the french language CDs in the car but they are usually circa 1980 and the voice overs sound just a little bit 'Allo Allo' for me. I don't think it's been really helpful. When I travel I can't imagine any situation where the opportunity would arise where I would ask 'how do I get to the camping ground?' or when I'm visiting the local market where the women at the cheese counter would sooner stab me in the eye with an artichoke before letting me in, and all I can say is 'I like dancing'.

I'm considering private tuition only because I've tried the group classes and for some reason they believe that when you walk through the door you have reverted to a toddler and Sesame Street learning skills are the way to go. I actually attended a language course where the teacher asked everyone in the room to form a circle while he asked us to throw an Elmo toy to each other in order to learn how to count. This happens so often in Paris. I want to be able to string a sentence together with some of my 10 words and not have to stumble for the point and smile fallback position. I need to know how to hurl good french aussie abuse at a rip off taxi driver and be able to have a conversation with the man who brings his dachshunds into the restaurant to sit at the same table every night. That's life and language. I can find my own way to the train station.

If I could turn back time

I was speaking with my Chiropractor today whilst he was working on my leg that somehow fell off and ended up being put on backwards. We were talking about how our memories of ourselves and our fitness levels often remain stagnate. In my mind I am physically capable of everything that I was 20 years ago and will attempt to lift furniture and conduct spontaneous fits of exercise without any adjustment or thought put into natural degeneration, hence the good relationship with a Chiropractor. It's true of so many people that suddenly decide to run the marathon as they did 10 years ago or play tennis like they can still get away with wearing white shorts. I have a similar theory with parents. I believe that parents have their children firmly wedged in an era of childhood in their minds that no matter how many times you marry, divorce, have children again and again, to your mother and father you will always be 12. In my case it's my father who carries a photograph of me and my sister in his wallet to show to enquiring friends (they don't really enquire, it just happens). In this photograph I'm with my sister and I'm holding a teddy bear. When I visit my parents and we decide to go out for the day I will be placed in the back seat of their car because in my parents mind I'm not old enough to drive a car. They'll check on me to make sure I'm not getting car sick and ask me if I can feel the heater/air conditioner every few kilometres. I'm sure if I look hard enough there are probably colouring books under the seat somewhere. I will be told to eat all of the food on my plate and I'll be criticised for spending money and not saving it (for what, my funeral I'm already grown up?). So with the long weekend and a visit to parentville coming I'm already mentally preparing for the reverse degeneration and anti aging atmosphere. I wonder if this is what Cher was singing about?

What the?

When I was in Singapore I caught a bus to the Chinatown district and stumbled across what looked like a Chinese shopping mall that very little done in renovations since the 1970's. It was shop after shop of poor quality shoes, travel agents that will sell you a ticket on a train to anywhere so long as you don't mind sharing with a live chicken and a few other suspect outlets that looked like they had to close in a hurry. One stall holder amused me greatly because she had the courage to set up her stall right in the middle of the mall. She was offering to remove moles. Yes, that's right, she was waving some rusty implement in the air spruiking for customers to come and have their moles removed. I politely declined as I failed to select the Gangrene Extras cover on my insurance. Who would have thought to combine medical procedures whilst shoe shopping. Apparently our State Government and a major city department store thought this was just the ticket. Whilst not happy with plain old mole removal, they've decided to install a breast examination booth smack bang in the middle of a department store. Gee, I don't know about you but I always forget to put that on my shopping list, handcream, mascara, mammogram, moisturizer. Now why should this sit so uneasily with me? Because I know that the items in any department store are there not because they care about me, but because the department store wants to make money. And so do medical franchises even when it's a 'free' service, someone is getting paid. I don't want health check booths to block up the perfume aisles any more than a man would want a prostate screening booth in front of the Foxtel in the local pub. So with the upcoming sale season will I expect to find 20% off or a scan one get one free offer? I suspect not. Take your boob bashing booth and bugger off, I'm here to shop.

Viva Las Bogus

Because I now live on the 8th floor I believe I should be lucky. For those who believe in such things the number 8 is the luckiest number of all. People pay high prices for number plates and houses with the great lucky number 8 and believe that it will bring them good fortune. I'm still waiting. I don't have a good history of luck. I don't gamble generally, not because I have any moral fibre, it's more because I'm so incredibly bad at it. If I put money on the stock market the next day I would be woken up by a crashing sound of free falling markets plummeting through the floorboards. A colleague of mine today received a call on her mobile phone from a complete stranger telling her that she had won a trip to Florida and that all she had to do was pay $900 US with her credit card, pay for her own airfare to the States and when she got there she would receive her prize of a world cruise. She politely told the caller that she was at the gym and didn't have her credit card details, she suggested he call back another time. He responded, very concerned that she would only be able to claim her prize today. She politely ended the call. I admire her for her restraint. I don't think I would have been able to get through that conversation with at least giving the caller some direction of what to do with his prize and what part of his anatomy I suggest he insert it. I did however get a call once and was told I had won a trip to London and accused the woman on the end of the telephone of trying to sell me something and just before I was able to hang up in her ear she reminded me that I did actually enter a competition 2 days prior and I had actually won. And I didn't have to give my credit card details. So on lucky number 8 floor any minute now lady luck or her slack cousin should be knocking on my door any minute. I hope I'm home.

Some things are best left in the dark

Self tracking devices are the newly desired apps to load onto your phone according to today's Sunday Age newspaper 'self accounting' they tell us is all the rage 'digital heart-rate monitors and running watches with inbuilt global positioning systems; websites to monitor alcohol consumption, calories, illness, mood or sexual encounters; mobile phone applications that lie next to your pillow at night, tallying your sleep'. Who are these self obsessed people? The need to monitor your life through internet spreadsheets and a personal pie chart sounds just a tad indulgent more so than anything Bridget Jones could have come up with. Awesome, today I've reached my maximum heart rate while opening the fridge door to consume no more than 200 calories to reach my recommended daily intake to match my low mood cycle that peaked during the first 3 hours of tracked rapid eye movement sleep. Wow, could life get any more fun than this? Tracking your weight loss doesn't require much more than noticing that your pants no longer fit and recording how many litres of water you drink a day can only lead to counting how many times it comes out the other end. Personally I think sleeping with a mobile phone under your pillow would be as healthy as sleeping in an electricity substation and if you need technology to remember how many glasses of Chardonnay you have had then you probably have a problem. As for sexual encounters being put into a colourful graph, now that would be such a turn on for any prospective date now wouldn't it? I'm sure there are some out there who would derive great pleasure from comparing each others graphed peaks and falls however the prospect of last night's encounter being captured as a year to date figure is not the stuff that dreams are made of. So even if things are trending in an upwards direction, I'm happy to carry on in the dark.

And on the 7th day God did laundry

At this time of year the watercooler and shopping mall conversations describe plans to go away somewhere warm and the latest flu virus hits homes faster than anything Apple could release in stores anytime soon. More often than not we continue on while throwing down pharmaceutical efforts to ease our pockets of cash and maybe or maybe not ease a few symptoms as well. But we soldier on as if to give in to illness is somehow seen as defeat. I'm reminded of an episode of Dharma and Greg where Dharma decides to run for the local council and pushes herself to extremes in trying to please every single minority group in the neighborhood. She pushes herself to the point of exhaustion trying to please everyone and as everyday passes she develops more and more health problems. She gets ugly red sores on her face, she has a limp, her hair begins to fall out and she loses a tooth along the way but she is compelled to see it through to the end. You don't need to be a script writer to determine the lesson learned in this episode however I wonder if we ever write a lesson learned in our own episode? This week I felt like Dharma with that little voice in my head saying I'll just get through this next period and then I will take a break... as I limped down the street with a numb right leg. I'm too busy to go to the Chiropractor because I'm too busy going to the dentist for more root canal treatments where I've had so many of them I'm almost ready for the home do it yourself kit. I have a feeling that this particularly 'soldering on' gene is more prevalent in women. The smarter male of the species with a mere sniffle takes a swan dive onto the couch with remote control in one hand and the sporting pages in the other. I blame the superwoman myth. If men want to be super they put on a pair of tights, fly out the window and call themselves a hero. Women just put on another load of washing. I declare this day a day of rest. As soon as the spin cycle finishes.

Will you still need me, when I'm 64...er 3!

Have you ever thought about retiring? I do every Monday morning however having done the calculations I will need to work a little bit longer, until I'm at least 112 then I can go part time. In Paris last week they were thinking about retiring. According to the Australian newspaper today France last week announced a plan to raise the legal retirement age from 60 to 63 and judging from the photograph of protesters they were not real keen on the idea. If someone said I had to wait another three years before I get to sit in the sun drink great wine and eat smelly cheese all day I'd be a bit grumpy too. So when the day of retirement comes what are your plans? Mine don't go beyond much more than sleep in. Followed by ... sleep in again the next day. I don't do camping, art and craft shows make me nauseous and the only thing I can think to do with a caravan involves a heavy crane and steep cliff. Volunteer work is, well work and unless it's so much fun it's not work, then leave it in the work category and pay up you tight arse scrooges and joining a painting or craftwork group is just an opportunity to eat biscuits until it's time to go home for 'Antiques Roadshow' made by and about, you guessed it. Maybe I will get up for work tomorrow. I'm not quite ready for the great road trip around the bend just yet.

Shhhhh you're disturbing the peas

I try to avoid the big supermarkets as much as I can. I just can't find anything to buy in them. My local one is so bad I might as well do my shopping at the service station where you can buy a warmed up again 'meat' pie or a pre(historic)packed sandwich. I like to go to the grocers where they have a choice of products not just their own brand and one other from Thailand, where the oranges are plentiful because they are in season and not from America where for some reason they are so bright you could use them as high viz traffic cones. However of late I have noticed a new kind of pest has permeated the food aisles, the mobile phone shopper. The I'm so popular I can't even buy sprouts without one of my five thousand hilARIOUS buddies calling me. They generally stand in front of the food item that you need to get to, staring at it with head cocked to the side and empty basket in arm, screaming into the freezer "you're fucking kidding me right". At the deli counter they leave bewildered assistants waiving leg ham in the air as the lesser ticket item holders suffer through a conversation about a four year old's teen model birthday party. I have nothing against mobile phones, I have two, one for work and one for personal use. In fact there is enough radiation coming out of my handbag to microwave a whole chicken. Perhaps if the supermarkets could provide a little outdoor area allocated specifically for mobile phone use to eliminate the risk of inhaling other people's crap conversations. Hmm. Might need to make that a bigger room.

Frozen Songstress Anyone?

Some pop star wants to be frozen. That's what they told me on the radio this morning. She learned that Walt Disney did it and now she wants it ie., kept frozen until the technological know how is invented to revive her, the medical knowledge is invented to cure her of whatever it was that killed her in the first place and most importantly...someone to remember where they put her. Why wait until you die? Do it now, save time. So with an horrific vision of a minor celebrity wedged in between my chicken stock and frozen peas I ate my breakfast and caught up on yesterday's newspaper. More food dilemmas. Beef prices are going up so we all have to eat chicken according to the word on the fast food street "Burger kings crying fowl over beef" The Australian May 25. "In addition to pushing its boneless chicken wings..." one fast food chain is reported. Wait one featherless sick chicken pickin' minute there my friend. Did you say BONELESS chicken wings? And do I think for a minute that Mr Meat Processing Man is going to pin bone a scrawny mass produced chicken wing every .5 of a second one rolls in front of him? No, let's just assume that they are now growing them without bones because nothing would surprise me in the industry where an animal is not an animal but a product to be dispatched. The movie Food Inc. is out now and if you are brave enough to take responsibility for what you eat, I dare you or pick up a copy of The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan and read how it doesn't have to be this way. Bet you didn't even know that cows ate grass - not grains, mashed up fish offal or bits of other animals, corn, antibiotics, hormones, but grass. I don't want to get to the point where everything we eat is a slimy brown or orange colour and the only choice I have is in a box or a bucket. Just give me a bucket, blahhh.

AFLuenza

Spending a bright sunny weekend in bed with the flu brings out the worst in anyone. For some it always seems a little worse than it is. When I take to my bed, I generally like to stay there until it's safe to come out (safe for anyone else that is). Visitors are strictly prohibited and any attempt to come over and 'cheer me up' would probably be met with a sawn off shotgun at the foot of the bed. Phones are not answered, email is left to fester in the never never and any advertisement suggesting I should soldier on is drowned out by a tirade of blocked nasal pitched abuse. With not much left but television and newspapers I find my tolerance levels for wall to wall AFL even lower than it's usual miniscule amount however one little gem this week couldn't go unpicked. Gays. And how AFL footballers are apparently scared of them. I laughed so hard that I needed to straighten myself up before I could consider that they really do believe in their own hero mythology. Here are some of the great AFL myths. That they are good at all sports, that they are world famous and that all women AND men find them desirable. Either my medication is working better than expected or I actually read that Eddie Maguire publicly disagreed with the comments made by this overpaid neanderthal. What next, he will be asking them to consider women as equals? I need to lie down.

What is that in your closet?

When you are in the process of job seeking, first impressions are everything. You need to demonstrate the ability to be positive (even though after the latest restructure you now report to the work experience kid), be flexible (ie., bend over backwards on a regular basis) and most importantly you need to present yourself in the best possible light (preferably fluorescent so as not to show the veins straining in your neck as you outline the details of an entirely fictitious resume that includes everything from a recently acquired MBA ie., Masters in Botox and Ageing to first job as an astronaut. When driving home last night my mobile phone rings and I know it's the pimp from the agency. I reach into the black leather abyss only to cut the call, nearly rear end the ute in front and scream "fuck" very loudly only to realise, she was still on the phone. Oops. Yes first impressions are everything and starting your candidate/consultant relationship with fuck is not the recommended approach. Whilst during the interview one should present oneself as friendly, liking all things business related and not slightly pissed off at all. Speak of achievements and KPI's, fondness for fitness, cooking and reading. No need to mention the dislike of small dogs, children and anything remotely linked to the AFL. Best they find this out after probation. And salary expectations? Back up the truck and throw in a few wire coat hangers for old times sake.

Gosh, men are so much better at everything...

For a perfect night in what would you prefer, he cooked the meal or did the dishes? On Friday night I opted for the meal. I have a dishwasher honey. But not just any old meal. Have you ever wondered what you would answer in that quiz that asks 'what would be your final meal?' I believe this tells us a lot about ourselves. Some are keen to go to the next life free from saturated fat and flatulence whilst the rest of us think what if their ain't no afterlife and the birdseed bread sandwich was a wasted effort. On Friday night I ate cassoulet. For those not in the know it's a French winter bean stew with pork belly, duck confit, pork sausage and depending on who makes it, it's the food of the gods - with wine of course if the gods select a good red. This is the stuff that sends vegetarians into anaphylactic shock. For me, when a good looking Frenchman knocks on my door, leave the chocolates and flowers at the service station, bring me food and wine. And given the content of this dish, when I say this is nominated as my last meal, according to most doctors, it very well could be. What would be yours?

Managing Minors

I work for a company that bought another company. The two companies now work in the same building. They had someone who does my job. Now there are two of us. He thought he was my boss and I thought I was his. He is about 20 years my junior but wants to be my senior. Are you still with me? Should I be the adult and take the high moral ground or do I spend my day plotting to blow up his lunchbox? He's fresh out of the education system and full of newly acquired management speak so he requires an interpreter most of the time to assure us he's not setting fire to platforms and when he keeps referring to touchpoints he's not about to molest us. Should we put as much value on getting the right boss as we do getting the right job? When I think back through my resume of previous 'in commands' I come up with a frightful list of disoriented, disengaged and some all together scary human beings. From full time magazine readers to the ever present teflon manager with the non stick work coating, I think I've suffered under them all. What is it that makes a boss a real plonker? Is it the David Brent character of 'The Office' scenario where he thinks he's a good all round bloke and friend of everyone when the reality is most of the workforce want to snap him like a twig, or the psychotic power woman with the hair that doesn't move and who keeps saying we're moving forward when you know it's more like pushing you know what up you know where? What makes a good boss...nice feedback? No it's cash. Anyone who tells you that job recognition is as simple as a thank you and a pat on the back should be thrashed. I won't bother asking the new boss for any feedback because it probably would come via text message and ending with a :) or a smiley face.

You don't have to put on the red light

I'm officially on the job market. I'm actively seeking employment and therefore relying on the services of those who supposedly match candidate with client (you can see where I'm headed already). For the similarity between recruitment agency and pimp may seem an unlikely bedfellow but for me it couldn't be any more cosy than if they installed a stripper pole in the foyer and said "only those wearing 9 inch heels may apply". Basically they'll pimp your wears and hopefully hook you up with a paying customer. And there is plenty more on the street where you came from but it's the paying clients they've got to keep happy. The street walkers, job seekers, whatever, have got that addiction thing happening too, career progression. They all want it and can't get enough of it. It seems like they just get one off the street and then in a year or two they are back for more. Resumes describe all the tricks they pull, why they do it so much better, faster, more outcomes and achievement based to get their juices flowing. And then they wait in vein for the call and hope they'll be picked as the one that's fancied the most. No luck today. Maybe it's my ballet flats.

Don't give me any more of that pink ribbon shit

Since when did Mother's Day become Cancer Day? With a lineup of yesterday's celebrities tripping over each others walking frames to get into the limelight in the name of the big "C" makes me cringe just a bit. The real stories of extraordinary bravery and survival from cancer deserve their day in its own right. No more would we want Father's Day to become Prostate Day (and I'm sure there is a ribbon for that too) should the women we love and respect be only associated with serious illness. Womanhood or motherhood does not mean victimhood. We do not need rescuing and if we did we have a mobile phone with a list of contacts under W for white knight if needed. We do not need to wear pink to remind us we have ovaries. If you love your mother and want to show her your appreciation, cook her a meal or buy her a car, your choice. Happy mothers day to the strong, independent, funny, powerful, motivating, intelligent women out there who do it all every day. It takes a bit more than a ribbon to represent all that.

That time of the month in 1945

These photographs remind me of the photographs of my mother's era where all the girls would stand around for a photograph that you can probably imagine took about 15 minutes to take provided the 'box brownie' was working. There was often a girl sitting on a lawn, with a dog. Black dog called Nigger (OH MY GOD!) and a cat called Tiger (even that has a new meaning these days!!). I was thinking of these women on the weekend when I was reading something about a collection of stories by women who are relaying tales about their first period. Eeuuww, I hear, and yes, but when you delve a little further, these are some of the funniest stories around. In the days of God, King and Country 1940's women had no access to sex education other than a large leather bound 'Ladies Handbook' about a ladies' reproductive organs and being a good wife. I still have my mothers handbook that was handed down to her from her mother and handed down to her from Hippocrates himself I suspect. Having perused this tomb of pop up drawings of pink internal organs I'm surprised that I'm here at all. The Ladies' Handbook of Home Treatment 1939 provides illuminating drawings of the 'female figure' with an intestine that appears to have overgrown everything that could be even slightly sexual or reproductive. The chapter on 'Beginning of a New Life' provides a highly detailed drawing, FIG.1.-a Stigma b. Anther. c., Stamen d. Petal. No wonder they were confused, they thought their reproductive organs came from the garden. The chapter on making a marriage a success provides valuable insight into not very much but rest assured we learn that 'Good women are a nation's chief asset' however by the time we get to Chapter III 'Sex Physiology and Hygiene' (this is 1940's Cleo don't forget) we've learned that the function of reproduction is the noblest of all human powers. I'm not sure if I'm meant to be marching into battle or just getting laid. Getting back to my original point, I recall my auntie describing the first time she discovered herself menstruating. She, of a family of 5 brothers and sisters announced to everyone at the breakfast table that she was dying. My grandmother recognising immediately that perhaps the Ladies Handbook had not answered all of the questions, announced to the family over their porridge that there was nothing to be bothered about and she had just cut her arse! Come to think of it if she ever did get to the end of the Ladies Handbook she would be probably too old to worry about it anyway.

Nothing Much

I've declared my Sundays a day of do nothing. Groans of 'alright for some' I hear from those who are washing, ironing, folding, wiping and windexing. I'm doing all those too but I declare that once that's done, I'll do nothing. Well not much more than reading a book anyway. But then why do I feel guilty? The fear of commitment goes beyond a mortgage and a marriage, it extends for me to team sports and group activities as well. The thought of getting up early on a Sunday to meet, do team things together is as appealing as watching someone else's child sing 'I Dream a Dream' in their school concert. As Monday slams into my next morning, without doubt there will be someone who goes to great length to describe their weekend activities starting from 5pm on Friday which usually goes along the lines of 'we had drinks with friends on Friday then a wedding on Saturday and friends over for dinner on Sunday no, nothing much...'. I'd need a week off after this, preferably in rehab. Does everything we do in this country involve booze? Whilst I come from a long line of alcohol appreciators and I've been known many years ago to give it a nudge or two in the attempt to prove my youthful uselessness, the open bottle of wine in my fridge these days will go off before I get to finish it. So when the question comes around on Monday I'll probably skim over the book reading bit and rely on the old 'quiet' weekend response as if my preferred option is a well fuelled joint social activity when in fact, I had a really lovely time. It's just a shame that do nothing needs to be say nothing as well.