hen's night havoc

i'm not at liberty to spew a host of incriminating photos online, but i can't resist sharing the show of sisterly affection and sassy posing talent as demonstrated by the cheam awesome foursome. i know, i'm weeks behind, but you know the saying...

call me, mrs choo, when you're back.

photo meltdown 101 - daylesford dream

joy's happiness heh

spot the "spa" sign in the background?

see the blinding smile in the foreground?

the cheeky chef...

...and dinner is served

butter never looked so good...

...nor breakfast

under the apple tree

the fruit of wine divine say, can i eat this?

purple paradise

rustic touches

scenic snapshots

great landscapes

my dream cellar

nothing beats hot scones and cream for a smashin' mornin' tea

lost admist fields of lavander...

...and then some

chocolate bliss

featherless peacock brings on some action

hands and tongues off

fat albert and his 30 kilo choco belly

great trees, beautiful water

on the water's edge at evening's light

party of webbed feet

smooth sailers

sweetwater cottage

lucky ducks

coaching ducks on life's basic lessons...

Unlisted, naturally

The thing about a private number insistently flashing up on your mobile phone screen despite two prior rejections on your part is that it can bring about such a sense of anticipation, such expectation. Despite yourself. Despite hoping being the very thing you deliberately strive against. To answer, third time round, and be disappointed, naturally.

Or, conversely – as one must surely wish – the other way round. But at this point, naturally, naturalness will show you how even she, has her limits.

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Bad book

Homework, today, was to search for “a bad book” to bring in the coming week. That, and to think about ways in which to better it.

It really isn’t my fault I immediately thought of a coffee table hardback, a beautifully produced, tasteful pornography-picture book, every inch the glossy, page-turning wonder many a coffee table book is. A charming collection of artwork of the human anatomy, really, in vast and astonishing contortions, proportions, compromising situations. Yes, a book of that nature would indeed present itself to be a bad, bad book.

And the way in which to better it?

Some form of highly sophisticated accompanying sound effects at every turn of page.

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Eats, Shoots and Leaves

...has got to be one of the funniest books on punctuation I have read yet. With the amount of style guides and other such titillating literature I have been gnawing through with only the stars in the sky for company, Lynne Truss’ Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation has gotten me chuckling into the wee hours of my now-and-forevermore nerdy editor-to-be-fingers-crossed nights. The importance of commas, say, is incomparable. But I’ll let those “friendly little tadpoley number-nine dot-with-a-tail[s]” and friends convince you themselves:

A woman, without her man, is nothing.
A woman: without her, man is nothing.

That’s right boys, take note. Girls being the pedantic and cunning creatures that are may, some fine day when you’re not looking, write you a “Dear Jack” letter, saying:

Dear Jack,
I want a man who knows what love is all about. You are generous, kind, thoughtful. People who are not like you admit to being useless and inferior. You have ruined me for other men. I yearn for you. I have no feelings whatsoever when we’re apart. I can be forever happy – will you let me be yours?
Jill

…which really, through careful inspection and reading under special lighting, you discover in secret ink an altered-punctuation version of the letter which reads:

Dear Jack,
I want a man who knows what love is. All about you are generous, kind, thoughtful people, who are not like you. Admit to being useless and inferior. You have ruined me. For other men I yearn! For you I have no feelings whatsoever. When we’re apart I can be forever happy. Will you let me be? Yours,
Jill

I already know I’m a nit-picking, pedant of a stickler. Should I be worried that I’m turning into a boring weed of a nit-picking, pedant of a stickler-editor-to-be-fingers-crossed?

the strange case of unconsidered underwear

I’ve wondered, not too rarely from time to time when events of related-nature work to remind me, of the peculiar particulars which surround the mysteries of underwear. One can speak confidently and freely only from one’s own experiences, and of these I have two – the Malaysian underwear mystery, and the Australian underwear mystery. Let me snag you into the first. Mentally picture a densely filled bah zhang (or de-boned meat cocooned snugly in net, deli-style, if you prefer), and we be on our way.

I say snag deliberately, for what underwear (always a part of a set – thank heavens the rest are spared!) I have come across, is underwear which must necessarily become a hurdle of a hold-up, and catch onto the body like a drowning rat on driftwood. Tell me, what in the name of all things practical, possesses the makers of such underwear to make them in – sit down now – free size?! The stupidity of that I refuse to even discuss, so blatant is the error of their ways. My disbelief is only spurred further by their going against what is to me, the obvious benefit of making bigger rather than impossibly small. But of Malaysian folly I shall say no more.

Moving on to the Australians. I suppose one cannot expect too much out of convict descendents, but I do think this is pea-brained. Tell me if you think I’m being too harsh. In this case, both maker and user are daft. First, the dense makers make them in sizes 10, 12, 14… which in truth, are actually 6, 8, 10… which then, make the supposed 6, 8, 10s really 2, 4, 6. More power to the bah zhang. Of course, we mustn’t forget the morons who buy them. Can they not see that podgy is not beautiful? Or am I on a planet of aesthetics of my very own? So the makers are mentally wanting. If you were a faction smarter then them, buy the size 10 if in reality, you’re a dress size 6. And to think I suck at math. All I can make of it, is that these shoppers work on auto pilot, and their fragile egos cannot bear the thought of wearing something (supposedly) two sizes up. Their not-so-fragile bodily lumps and humps sure do make up for it.

The conclusion to both cases be that, were I to succumb to using such nonsensical harnesses of torture, is that I would be no better than a bah zhang on legs; the tightly wound string, the underwear; the pregnant oozing body of glutinous rice, me. Indeed, not a pretty sight.

NB: By no means am I condoning the use of frumpy, air-pocket granny undies here. Go lace, satin, ribbons all the way – just in the fitted, not squeeze-to-death version, thanks.

the cuff-clock clash

I have encountered a problem I know not how to correct. It appears to be, that cuffs – French, in particular, or mine at any rate – have taken a serious dislike to watches. For the life of me, I cannot seem to make them cooperate to any form of harmonious cohabitation on my poor left wrist. Subsequently, I’ve succumbed to a very bad and, I hope, brief arrangement of going without my watch. In defence of both, I don’t think the cuffs are any more fitted than normal, nor is my watch particularly chunky. Yes, I have tried using different watches, and no, it didn’t work.

Any help or advice I’d take gratefully.