Those who know me well, understand from experience that Captain Chaos is probably busy drinking and getting maudlin in a Glaswegian bar somewhere and has never even heard of me but he's a great scapegoat. Let's tar and feather the bastard anyway.
I got sucker punched. I'm puppy-sitting.
You could comment. "Ohhh, he's sooo cute!"
I'll remember that, when I need to palm him off.
He is a disaster area. He's here for a month. He's dug up the rotten fish fertiliser, rolled in it and spread it all over my doorstep. He's bent starpickets in endearing, wriggling moments of absolute joy. He's utterly terrorised the chickens, the cat, the bandicoots and the black skink (the original specialist in terrorism and guerrilla kibble-hijacking) has left home in a huff.
I've had a week of
*people rear ending me at roundabouts,
*people yelling at me because I'm unloading tables too slowly at the markets and they would like to park their fucking Merc just past my banged up old Rodeo.
*trying to quell catfights at the local petrol station. (Man, those policemen can scratch!)
I decided today, that I needed to wash these things off me. You know, just clean the week away and emerge from my dirty little encounter with the Captain, if not virginal, then at least partially intact.
Washing after feeling so dirtied is real nice - when you have gas.
Then the kettle exploded.
Our Sunshine arrived from Melbourne with a shell-shocked Chihuahua and set up a tent in the backyard. This morning she set about the makings of a fire and cooked me breakfast.
So with lashings of fried mushrooms and eggs, ("Isn't there something special about food cooked unevenly on a barbie?" she asked me and I have to agree. It's the crispy egg white thing with gooey yolks on toast, cremated on one side and lightly browned the other. Yes.) and the most awesome ginger coffee I've ever tasted, my depleted internal para-copers are regrouping.
I still need a wash. The combination of deckhand and no running hot water is just wrong. But things are looking up. I photocopied dozens of this image, stolen from a mate's blog and have decided they are now my official business card.
"A problem? Sorry to hear that. Here's my card."
Bloody hilarious and well said!! Yes, the world is full of them....I said just recently to one of my friends, "you know I am really fed up dealing with people's dysfunctional personalities...they need to get some fucking therapy and just leave me alone". I think your calling card (stolen from Shark?) says it much more succinctly and directly. I might steal it myself and distribute it strategically.
ReplyDeleteAlbany is going to be full of these small cards..
ReplyDeleteYou listed a number of things you could have blogged about Sarah Toa, maybe it's not the idea's which ae escaping you as much as the will to write about them.. This popst was a great expression of this.
Take care
Thanks Juice and Seashell. After all that whingeing, I woke up this morning to the paper with fire and death all over the cover and felt very guilty about whingeing at all. Don't sweat the small stuff hey?
ReplyDeleteHey Sarah, you can shower at my place any time you like.
ReplyDeleteAnd we could discuss the meaning of today's word: dander
An impeccably dressed male goose?
ReplyDeleteDogs! They have been keeping me up all night here in Kampot with their incessant barking. Fuck it, I'm moving to Vietnam where they eat the bastards.
ReplyDeleteThe calling card is excellent. No Michelle, it was not stolen from me, i stole it from Spencer...
What else can i say. It's a dog-eat-dog-food world.