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I don't want to suggest it was a slow news day here in the City by the Sea, but the local paper featured an interview with a woman who has two dishwashers.

My mother was watching Selling Houses earlier. It's a show in which people who want to sell their houses call in a team of experts to fancy them up a bit first. Tonight's couple who wanted to sell their unit on the Gold Coast were... really in need of the expert assistance. Their unit had been on the market for three months and in all that time it hadn't occurred to them to mow the lawn to make the garden look tidy. I mean, that's basic stuff, house sellers! Anyway, at some point, they had decided to give their bathroom a bit of a makeover. When they bought the place, the bathroom walls were "a sort of yellowy-green colour". Did they paint those walls? No. Did they tile those walls? No. What did they do? )

I saw two bats flying overhead tonight. Or maybe it was the same bat twice. It's hard to tell with bats.
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I think I said a couple of weeks ago that the City by the Sea's train service has been deemed the worst in the state. How bad is it? Cop this opening paragraph from an article in today's paper:

A UK woman staying in Warrnambool over summer was so appalled by the state of the region’s train service she penned a nine-stanza poem about her experiences. And sent it to the paper, obviously.

You might enjoy reading the poem. It is a DELIGHT. It rhymes "destination" with "destination".
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The fashion spread in today's newspaper supplement was for men's fashion, and featured not one but TWO blazer-and-formal-shorts combinations. That's following the one they suggested a month or so back. No. It's still not happening, Sunday supplement.

Back in spring I planted some seeds in my seedling tray. All sorts of things. Most sprouted, except the eggplants. Only one sad little eggplant seedling popped up. So I tended it and nurtured it and soon it was big enough to be planted out into the garden, where it grew. And grew and grew and grew. It's big. So big. I mean, you could climb this eggplant and find a giant at the top, that's how big it is. It's the biggest eggplant plant I've ever seen.

Today I was looking at it and noticed that it had buds and... they didn't look like eggplants. If anything, they looked a lot like the plants that had been in the next row of the seedling tray. That's right. My eggplant is a sunflower.

My computer's auto-correct has lately taken to auto-correcting my email address from alician to Galician (in fact, I let it do the work just then) when I have to fill in a form. It's very hard to fix, because I will reject the change, so it suggests it again, and I reject it, and then it will change it anyway, just to spite me. Which is irritating.

I have been put in charge of making the non-pudding Christmas dessert this year. Most years I make pavlova, but I thought this year I might do something different. Since outsourcing my Kris Kringle decision worked so well, let's try that again. The two options are:

1. Pistachio and Turkish delight ice cream pudding

IceCreamPudding.jpg

2. Brown sugar pavlova with strawberries (or whatever other fruit looked nice) and cream

BrownSugarPavlova.jpg

They're both health foods, obviously.

[Poll #2031285]

Perhaps in 2016 I could make all my major life decisions this way. Then I could write one of those "I did X for a year and this is what I learnt" books about it.
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I offer you this sentence from today's local paper:

Defence counsel Glenn Casement said ... after a raid by fisheries officers, Robinson’s wife left him and his client realised he had no future in the fishing industry.

Anyone wanting to write a tragedy, there's a story for you.

Walking to work this morning, I passed a man with a clipboard saying to a group of teenagers standing around him, "Look at this junction box placed so close to that one over there. That means that the street has been modified at some point." I was tempted to stay and find out what else I could learn about the street, but they moved around the corner.

Last night I saw an episode of one of the Law and Orders (Laws and Orders?). There were three men on trial for an especially heinous crime, and while giving evidence, one of the witnesses confessed to also being involved. So at the end of the episode, the lawyers were having their little chat about the case, and revealed that the three accused were found guilty and sentenced to however many years, and the witness who confessed got one year. That's not how it works, is it? You can't just confess to a crime you haven't been charged with, then get sentenced. Wouldn't the witness have to go through his own process?

I finally packed up the cat bowls, toys and brushes in a box last night and stored them in the cat carrier in the garage. I haven't had the heart to do it before. My mum is taking all the tins and unopened bags of dry food to one of her friends (for her cat, presumably, not herself), and I'm soaking a handful of the opened dry food in water each night and leaving it out for the birds. I thought that was the end of it, but I had an email from my friendly local supermarket this morning. They thought I might be interested to know that some of the things I buy often are on sale this week. First, toilet paper... yes, I'll own up to buying that on a regular basis. Second, Dijon mustard... well, I suppose. Do I really buy that much Dijon mustard, Coles? So much that your system has me down as some sort of Dijon mustard freak? Okay then. And third, Kangaroo Snackers Cat Treats. Oh no, Coles, not any more.
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I was looking at piano videos on YouTube before, and came across this comment:

when i play the beet is inside of my heart.

Which is rather touching, and also physically improbable. It makes me wish I could draw, because then I would draw someone playing the piano, all black and white except for their heart, dark red with a leafy green top.

Speaking of physically improbable, this week's How To Treat in the medical newspaper we get at work is How To Treat... Fingernail Discolouration. How bad could that be?, I thought as I turned the page. I was so innocent, f-list. Page after page of hideous, weirdly coloured fingernails. Yellow, green, red, brown, blue. Generally speaking, the yellow and green ones were caused by fungus or bacteria, the red and brown ones were cancerous and the blue ones were caused by eating too much silver.

Some people have a naturally occurring brown stripe down their fingernails, which looks very groovy. But! Under that was a photo of an almost identical brown stripe that suddenly appeared on someone's nail, and next to that was a photo of the same finger with the nail removed to reveal a melanoma. So: lifelong stripe, interesting conversation starter; suddenly appearing stripe, harbinger of death. Remember that.

Some people have a condition called Benign Racial Pigmentation, which means that the skin under their nails is a different colour to everywhere else. What a saving on nail polish.
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One day last week I was in my work's kitchen waiting for my soup to heat up, while our research assistant was eating lunch at the table, flipping through the medical newspaper. The middle pages of the paper are a lift-out section called How To Treat..., and they always feature many clear and helpful photos of whatever ailment is being treated. There is always a little frisson when you are about to turn to that page. Will it be something entirely appropriate to look at while eating lunch, such as a photo of someone looking panicked to illustrate How To Treat Anxiety? Or will it be, as it was so memorably a couple of years ago, a full-page photo showing How To Treat Testicular Cancer? How To Treat Leg Ulcers, that was another good one.

Jane the Research Assistant called to me, 'How To Treat this week!'

'What is it?' I said.

'Get ready,' she said. Cut to spare the delicate )
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Well, last week was quite A Week. All sorts of excitement that I could have done without. Here's hoping this week life returns to its usual sluggish pace.

It won't though, because - oh, joy! - I will be taking delivery of my new fridge. I know, my thrilling life. It's this one. It's got telescopic freezer bins, so I'll be able to use them to look at comets.

A headline in the paper the other day proclaimed a Grandma pushing ice, which sounds like a nice little old lady has turned to a life of crime, doesn't it? No, though. The 'grandma' in question was 39.
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Hello, f-list. Last Wednesday evening, my body decided to expel, quite violently, all sustenance, and reject, also quite violently, any attempts to refuel. So it's been a fun few days. Today, though, I had a slice of dry toast and a banana for breakfast, and a couple of slices of roast chicken for lunch, and I'm even starting to feel a little peckish for dinner, so that seems to be positive. Fingers crossed.

Co-incidentally, before being struck down by a stomach bug, I had made a note to mention the fun story in this week's medical newspaper. It was about a man who was admitted to hospital for intoxication, despite swearing he hadn't touched a drop. Hospital staff didn't believe him. They probably hear that a lot. His wife bought a home breath-testing kit and they found that his blood alcohol level could get up to 0.4%, even when he had witnesses to swear he hadn't been drinking. He was placed under observation, and doctors found his blood alcohol went up after eating carbohydrates. So they did tests, which revealed that he had brewer's yeast in his gut, so his stomach was effectively brewing its own alcohol.

Other dispatches from the week:

There was a birth announcement in the local paper, a couple saying how proud they were on the birth of their "twins". In inverted commas. "Twins".

I learnt a word this week: pediculous. It means infested with lice, or contemptible. Feel free to use it as applicable.

Oh, I also finished my self-imposed challenge to read the six books on the Man Booker shortlist, with a couple of days to spare before the announcement. If something happened to the judging panel and I was co-opted to choose the winner, I think I'd give it to Harvest by Jim Crace, but I could be persuaded to pick A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki. Although, honestly, there's only one I'd be unhappy about winning, and that's The Luminaries, which is the one I thought I'd like best. So there we go. Perhaps there's a lesson to be learnt there. Stay away from things I think I'll like? Or maybe, try reading things I wouldn't normally consider? One of them.
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The Sunday paper's supplement magazine has a what's hot/what's not list every week. What's hot this week? Achachas. I wrote about how good they are two years ago! I am so ahead of the curve. Their new popularity may explain why I haven't been able to find any this year.

I had to buy a new can opener today. The old one fell apart last night; just sort of collapsed, right in the middle of opening a tin of salmon for Lord Cat. So that was quite distressing, at least for the one of us that had to eat dry cat food for dinner. Anyway, while I was in the kitchen shop, I saw this thing, a little skewer with a tiny plastic roast chicken on it. The idea is, you poke it into your roast chicken, and when the real chicken is cooked, the plastic chicken's legs pop up. So that's fun.

It must be praying mantis season. I've found three in the house so far today.
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The local paper has a celebrity birthday section. It's just a list of names and occupations, with one name picked out as the Birthday Highlight. That person gets a little biography and a photo. Today's list contains people like Le Duc Anh, former Vietnamese president, Woody Allen, US actor and director, and Bette Midler, singer and actress. So the Birthday Highlight must be pretty special, right? Yep: Happy birthday, Pablo Escobar, Colombian drug lord.

November books read

* Whispers Underground - Ben Aaronovitch (2012)
* A Red Herring Without Mustard - Alan Bradley (2011)
* The Broken Teaglass: A Novel - Emily Arsenault (2009)
* Beauvallet - Georgette Heyer (1929)

My first two books of November were both the third books in their respective series, both mysteries told in first person, and the authors have initials that are palindromes of each other. Coincidence? Yes.

Whispers Underground is the third book about wizard/policeman/wizard policeman Peter Grant, who plies his trade in modern London. A Red Herring Without Mustard is the third book about 11-year-old chemistry genius/amateur sleuth/obnoxious brat Flavia de Luce, who plies her trade in the 1950s English countryside. Peter Grant is an amiable sort of chap - bright, but still learning how to use his new abilities - and I am looking forward to the next book. Flavia de Luce is an odious little creature, who actively obstructs police investigations. I loathe her, but I can't stop reading the damn things.

I thought The Broken Teaglass was a murder mystery, and it is, in a way. It's not a murder mystery like the previous two, though. It is the story of two young lexicographers working at a famous dictionary, who find a story hidden in the word citations. When they put it all together it turns out to be a confession. That's not spoiling the story, by the way. They work that out quite early. It's more about the journey than the destination, but I didn't find it a particularly interesting one.

I do like nonsense, and Georgette Heyer is top shelf, black label, gold standard nonsense. Master Puke-Stocking. ) All up, I thoroughly enjoyed Beauvallet.
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Livestreaming kittens! They always seem to be asleep when I look.

It feels as though someone has flicked a switch and turned on Christmas this week. It's everywhere. Decorations in the shops, carols piped in, gift catalogues in the paper. The Christmas issue of the supermarket's monthly magazine had pages of gift ideas, including a tampon starter kit in a sleek, black purse. Imagine the lucky girl who unwraps that on Christmas morning. The knick-knack section of the newsagent featured a ceramic cube with a painted slogan: MY MUM IS MY BFF. 'What's a BFF?' asked my mother, then, when I told her, 'Get me that and I'll kill you.'

Today I went to an exhibition marking the 140th anniversary of the local paper. My favourite exhibit was the front page marking the Queen's coronation. Imagine what that page would look like if that happened today. That would be the only story, wouldn't it? Maybe one big photo; maybe an introductory article leading to the pages and pages of coverage inside. That wasn't how it was done back then. The coronation story took up one quadrant of the front page. It was so short they had to fill up the column with a paragraph containing the breathless news that the Egg Board was putting up egg prices by half a shilling. Front page news!

I have been meaning to go to that exhibition for weeks, but I finally got my act into gear when I realised that this was its final weekend. In a couple of weeks, the local gallery's next exhibition will open, which will be all about pop culture aliens, including: the alien from Alien, an Ood and Matt LeBlanc's spacesuit from Lost in Space. I think I'll go to that one too.
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I submitted my Masters application today, so fingers crossed. I've been sitting on it for a while. The application itself is fine, but it requires all these certified documents with it. It's easy enough to get things certified, as doctors are one of the acceptable signatories and I am surrounded by them. Most of them are terrible gossips, though, and I wanted them to just certify the copy, not interrogate me on the contents, so I waited until kindly old Dr E came in.

Obviously you are all following the election news. The City by the Sea's local council election news, that is. It is a hotbed of intrigue. The local paper has been run off its feet. Last week, for example, several campaign posters were vandalised. Here's how bad it was: a bald candidate had hair drawn on him. Oh no! Another one had a mustache added. I am sure you are as shocked as I was, f-list.

For the last two years, the local paper's letters to the editor page has had regular contributions from a woman called Wilma Wright. In last Saturday's paper, Wilma wrote about the council elections, revealing a better-than-average knowledge of the inner workings of the council, and being particularly scathing about three candidates. During the election period, all letters about the election are required by law to be accompanied by the writer's name and address, and it turns out there is no Wilma Wright living on Hopkins Point Road, the address given in the letter. So today the local paper actually had exciting news: Wilma is actually the adult son of the council's CEO. Wilma doesn't even live in the City by the Sea. He has been writing his letters from Queensland. He wrote them, he says, because he loves the City by the Sea and wants to help us; he used a pen-name in tribute to the legacy of Mark Twain, and also to differentiate his opinions from his father's job. I think he's just made his father's job a whole lot more difficult. And now there is talk that the whole election may have to be cancelled and started again, so his is the sort of help we could have done without.
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Oh dear. (From here.)

In today's paper was an obituary for a woman called Sheila Scotter, who was an old biddy an old lady who was often in the paper for no reason other than being a bit posh and always wearing black and white. It turns out she'd done quite a lot in her life: born in 1920 to a military family in the dying days of the British Raj, studied aeronautical engineering, became a model for couturier Hardy Amies, moved to Melbourne to become a fashion buyer and socialite, was appointed editor of Australian Vogue and after retiring took to raising funds for the arts and good causes. She got an MBE in 1970, back when we still gave out British honours, and an AM (Order of Australia) in 1992. So that's all considerably more interesting than anything I've done with my life.

The bit that gave me pause for thought, though, was this, about her memoirs:

Ever the publicist, she finished the book with a list. 'I pay special tribute to some gentlemen with whom I have enjoyed breakfast,' she said. Twenty-four names followed. Apart from her two husbands, there was Harold Holt, Sir Ian Potter, Sir Robert Southey, Sir Anthony Griffin and Sir Frank Packer.*

(These are respectively: an Australian Prime Minister (who would almost certainly have eventually been Sir Harold had he not unfortunately drowned while he was still Prime Minister*); a banker who has a wing of the National Gallery named after him; senior Conservative politician and something do with the Australian Ballet; never heard of him but the internet tells me the most likely candidate is an Admiral in the Royal Navy; a newspaper proprietor and founder of a media dynasty. Obviously the other nineteen men were talentless no-names.)

Having written this list, she then asked Sir Frank Packer's widow, Florence, to launch the book, only giving her a copy to read the day before. Lady Packer took it well, saying her husband would have been furious as he would hate being on a list and would rather think he was the only one. Still, the friendship ended, thus justifying my original impression of her as an old biddy.

Meanwhile, in the local paper, every Friday they have a Q&A with a local person. You know, favourite song, that sort of thing. Today's interview was with a farmer and collector of antique machinery (favourite book: Power Farmer magazine). He offered these two answers:

If a genie gave me one wish... I'd wish for a wife with a sense of humour.

So either he's not married and that's who he'd like to marry, or he is married but his wife is humourless.

One of the nicest things to happen to me… was meeting my darling wife.

That answers that, then.



* But he got a swimming pool named after him, so that's something.
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For my annual newsletter this year, I am keeping track of things in the local paper from 1 December 2011 to 30 November 2012. I say things, I mean baby names. Mostly. Also, though, what makes the front page. I realised this morning that I've kept this record for over three months now, and curiosity got the better of me to know what it would look like. A good thing too, because I have learnt that it takes the '70' away from 'th wedding anniversary', which I should work out how to fix. Anyway, as a special treat )

It's going to be enormous by the end of November.
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I knew there was something I was going to say the other day! I remembered while I was watering the garden. There was an article in the medical newspaper we get at work, in which a doctor shared funny stories about doing pap smears. Nothing like a spot of medical humour to lighten up my lunchtime reading. Anyway, one of the stories was about a 70-year-old woman who brought her 15-year-old granddaughter along to watch her pap smear, so she'd know what to expect when her turn came. Which is a nice idea, I suppose, but I think that would traumatise her more.

It was so hot last night. So. Hot. The sort of weather that makes one petulant and whiny. Then the power went out. When it goes out on hot nights it's because of excess demand from air conditioners and such. I don't have an air conditioner — I get by with awnings and ceiling fans — so I'm quite resentful of other people's excesses spoiling my modest wants. Hmph.

Anyway, it was as hot inside as it was outside, so I thought I would sleep on the patio. I thought I had a foam mattress, but I don't; or if I do, it wasn't where I thought it was and it was too hot to be bothered looking anywhere else. So I made a mattress out of layers of blankets and, while I wouldn't want to sleep on it every night, it wasn't uncomfortable. It was quite nice outside, with a bit of a breeze. Only then the breeze picked up and swirled a host of dead leaves around me and banged the door of next-door's garage. Meanwhile, Percy thought me sleeping outside was such a top idea he wanted to snuggle into the crook of my knees, which, while hot, was preferable to his previous locations: the pillow next to my face and stretching over my feet. So what with the cat and leaves and door, I gave up and went back to my regular bed about two-thirty. I don't think I am cut out for camping, not even genteel camping like that.

Light Rust

Jan. 24th, 2012 10:14 pm
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In case you've been on tenterhooks about Ted the dog that was adopted by a new family while his old one was on holiday: he's been returned to his original family.

Yesterday was a good day. I saw a crab on the beach, which was exciting. I thought that the day couldn't get any better than that, but then I got to work and learnt that the person who made the whole merger business so awful has resigned, effective immediately. Huzzah.

I have a long term goal of being made Australian of the Year simply for being a model citizen who doesn't bother anyone. This plan has been unsuccessful so far. I mean, this year's AotY won't be announced until Thursday, but I think it's safe to say they'd have let me know by now. So I have been passed over yet again. Sigh.

But! It appears that someone is giving a new award. Well, I don't know if it's new. I've never heard of it before, at any rate. There was a news item the other day that took me by surprise: Barry Humphries has been awarded Australian of the Year in the UK today. At first I took that to mean that the AotY award was announced, several days early, in the UK, which struck me as being odd. It was only after thinking about for a minute that I realised that Mr Humphries had been awarded Australian (resident in the UK) of the Year. I don't see the purpose of this award, I must say, but best of luck to him.

Anyway, I am thinking perhaps I should go to a country where there are relatively few Australians and be a model citizen over there. Australian of the Year in Chad, maybe. I will romp it in.

Rust

Jan. 21st, 2012 10:51 pm
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Hello, f-list. I am typing this with one hand, while holding one of my mother's caramelised pineapple tartlets in the other. Delicious! Also, I am watching channel GO!'s Saturday movie, which is ¡Three Amigos!. So I am a happy daisy, full of exclamation marks. Or I would be if the ad that's currently on wasn't the Motor Finance Wizard jingle.

Before this, I saw some of the Australian Open tennis. They had this little filler piece, showing Andre Agassi reminiscing in black and white about his early days. He said one of his earliest memories was of going to the courts one day, opening his eyes and seeing a sea of tennis balls. I don't know why he had his eyes closed before he got there. Anyway, this statement was illustrated by... a lot of tennis balls floating on the ocean. I don't think that's what he meant.

This time of year brings the speedway to the City by the Sea. Some sort of motor race thing. I don't know. It's like prostate cancer: it's a big deal for some people but it doesn't affect me at all. I only know it's happening because there's a motel around the corner from me that has a parking area large enough for their trucks. That's fine. They've got to park somewhere.

The front page of yesterday's local paper, though, had one of the drivers being outraged — OUTRAGED! — because he had parked his truck over someone's driveway and they had complained to the police, who visited the driver and asked him to move off the driveway. And today's texts to the editor are filled with people complaining about the complainer, because these drivers bring a lot of money into the local economy and we should be nice to them. Up to and including let them block us into our houses, apparently.

In the gardening section of the paper today, someone said that the first instinct of people with a rose is to smell it. Is it? I mean, I do smell them, but is it instinct? Or memory of previous roses? Hmm.
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The office manager at my work was in a bit of a tizz yesterday. Her son is getting married on Saturday, and she bought a dress to wear months ago. She liked it, obviously; she showed her son and his fiancée, and they liked it. She duly put it in her wardrobe, pleased to be all sorted out so early.

Tuesday night, she thought she'd better try it on, just to make sure that it was all in order. Her husband took one look at it and declared it to be frumpy, like something his nan would wear. He suggested that she wear an old dress that he liked, and was surprised when the office manager explained that the mother of the groom really shouldn't wear white at a wedding. Hence her tizz yesterday, rushing around trying to find something. Well done, husband of office manager.

Of course, she couldn't find anything, partly because she was panic-looking and partly because just after the sales and in the middle of tourist season isn't the best time to find something. She was nearly in tears when she came back from lunch.

Anyway, last night she sent a photo of herself wearing the dress to her daughter, who pronounced it 'classy'. So the dress is back on and today she went out looking for shoes. So that was a saga.

Another saga has been running hot in the local paper. A family had a dog called Ted. They went away on holiday, leaving Ted in the care of a friend. Ted went missing one day.

What had happened to Ted was this: someone had found him and taken him to the local animal shelter. He wasn't chipped or registered, so they held him in the shelter for the required length of time, then put him up for adoption, from where he was taken in by a new family.

So the first family came home from their holiday, and started searching for Ted. After a week, their vet told them Ted was at the shelter and had been adopted. The vet acted as an intermediary, but to no avail: the new family won't give Ted up. So the first family went to the local paper, and now everyone in town has an opinion on the matter.

I think they should get together and see who Ted wants to be with.

Fir Green

Nov. 16th, 2011 01:36 pm
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Look at this map of Reykjavík! Doesn't that make you want to go there?

On its comics and puzzle page, the local paper has a celebrity birthday column. It's just a list of famous people who are celebrating their birthday today, or would be if they weren't dead. At the top of the list is a photo of one person from the list with a label: Mozart would be 255 today. (I mean, they don't claim they're all Mozart. But you knew that.)

Anyway, today's photo was Salvatore Riina turns 81 today. I wondered who he was, so I checked the list: 1930: Salvatore Riina, Sicilian Mafia boss. Does he seem like an, er, unusual choice of person to put in a celebrity birthday list? But, you know, happy birthday to him anyway.
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I am ambivalent about fireworks. On the one hand: Ooh, pretty. On the other: It's a lot of sitting around, watching one expensive firework and another and another and... .

But letting them all off at once? Genius. All fireworks displays should be like that. Short, but definitely giving you your money's worth.

There is something of a to-do in the local paper at the moment. A woman purchased a 30cm inflatable wading pool, took it home, then read on the box that she needed to talk to her local council about whether she needed to put a safety fence around it. So she spoke to our local council, and lo! She was told to put up a fence costing $2,000. (I don't know if the council specified the cost or she spoke to a fencing contractor.) So, outraged, she complained to the local paper.

I don't know. I am prevaricating. One: Building a permanent fence around a small, temporary pool does seem excessive. Two: I nearly drowned a couple of times as a kid (admittedly, in a much larger pool) and wouldn't wish that on anyone*. Three: She could have read the box before buying it, so she wouldn't be in this fix. Four: Won't someone think of the children?

Ultimately, I think I am coming down on the side of: If she didn't complain to the paper, who would know if she put up a fence of not? What do you think?



* It is true what they say about your life flashing before your eyes.

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