I was on hold for a while today; I put the phone on speaker and kept working. The hold music was a local radio station, and they were having a phone-in quiz competition to win a cinema voucher or some such. This, I swear, is how it went:

Announcer: And on the line now we have Sarah. Hello, Sarah.
Sarah: Good thanks, Glenn.
Announcer: Er, yes. So, Sarah, you've waited all this time, are you ready for the final question?
Sarah: Yes, Glenn.
Announcer: Good. Now... do you like shoes, Sarah? That's not the question.
Sarah: Haha, yes, I love shoes.
Announcer: How many do you have?
Sarah: Oh, too many.
Announcer: So you're a real shoe lover?
Sarah: Yes, yes, I am, Glenn.
Announcer: And did you like "Sex and the City"?
Sarah: Yes, yes I did.
Announcer: The show and the movie? Did you go and see the movie recently?
Sarah: Yes, I did, I loved it, it was great.
Announcer: Ohhh, Carrie and all her outfits and her shoes, all those shoes, my wife loved them, I bet you did too.
Sarah: Yeah, I wish I had them.
Announcer: Wouldn't that be great? Wouldn't you just love to afford all them? Right, great, so are you ready for the question?
Sarah: Yes, I'm ready.
Announcer: So, Sarah... what is Manolo Blahnik famous for?
Sarah: (long pause) Ummmm... does he play soccer?

Dearie, dearie me, I laughed. Poor, shoe-loving, non-hint-taking Sarah. The next caller won.

I'm trying to write an entry each day this November, and I was pottering about this morning wondering what I could write about today when - serendipity! - John came in with a box of paper. He works at the performing arts centre and does various bits and bobs for the local theatre companies, and, being a thrifty fellow, keeps old scripts and gives them to me to use as scrap paper for printing. Today's box of paper contains three incomplete photocopies of the script for a musical called My Favourite Year and a sheaf of pages of tongue twisters, obviously meant to be actors' warm-ups. Excellent! Let's limber up now, shall we?

We'll start with the oddly difficult two-word twisters like pacific lithographs and knapsack straps.

Getting slightly harder: The Leith police dismisseth us.

Getting slightly more disturbing: Freshly fried fresh flesh.

This one, to mix a metaphor, brought my tongue to its knees: The seething seas ceaseth and twiceth the seething seas sufficeth us. I seem to have a problem with sibilants; the syllables somehow switch themselves around in my mouth. I remember from my radio-presenting days that I could talk my way through any number of long and difficult words only to run into trouble when I got to an item about the Anti-Cancer Council (or the Anti-Cancil Councer, as my listeners know it).

But I think my favorite tongue twister on the list (and one that poses me no problems, except in typing it) is the sad tale of the two-toed tree toad:

A tree toad loved a she-toad
Who lived up in a tree.
He was a two-toed tree toad
But a three-toed toad was she.
The two-toed tree toad tried to win
The three-toed she-toad's heart,
For the two-toed tree toad loved the ground
That the three-toed tree toad trod.
But the two-toed tree toad tried in vain,
He couldn't please her whim.
From her tree toad bower
With her three-toed power
The she-toad vetoed him.

Well, that loosened everything up.

How much do I want a mondrianium? It reminds me of the mondrimat, which was one of the very first sites I ever visited on the Internet. Ah, memories. Who'd have thought that adding lines and colouring boxes could fill in so much time?

*****
I've been feeling slightly disgruntled since my second-last radio shift on Tuesday. First, I was with Bernie, who alone is quite enough to disgruntle anyone. Then the new assistant station co-ordinator brought a new reader into the studio only half an hour before air time and said, "This is Peter, he's going to read today." Oh, is he? With no training and after we've finished putting the show together and against all established guidelines for new readers? Right. Anyway, Peter seemed like quite a nice chap, and was, of course, completely unaware that his arrival had caused a hurried reshuffle; we got him to air for twenty minutes and he did quite well.

In times gone by, I would have gone to the new assistant co-ordinator after the show and explained that that isn't the best way to introduce a new reader; it's stressful for everyone, and if he tried it on Thursday, for instance, Jan, who is much more forthright than I, would send them both packing. I came over all Pontius Pilate though, and washed my hands of the matter. I was more concerned that the roster preparation sheet hadn't appeared yet, preventing my announcement of my imminent retirement. I had to tell the new assistant co-ordinator - the skeevy guy I don't like terribly much - instead. He shrugged and said, "Okay then, I'll cross your name off."

Now, I wasn't expecting wailing and weeping and gnashing of teeth. Or a party, come to that. But after nearly four years, haven't I even earnt a "Sorry to lose you" or "Thanks for your time"? Hmph.

*****
The radio station we have on at work was broadcasting a tennis match from the Australian Open yesterday, and every single game was one of those that got to deuce then advantage, deuce, advantage, deuce, advantage, deuce, etc, ad nauseam. I used to play tennis, back in the day. Oh yes, I once hit the en tout cas as part of the Purnim Ladies' Club (Girls) team in the Warrnambool & Districts Lawn Tennis Competition. I even have a commemorative spoon to prove it. I had a cunning little forehand slice that I could put right on the centre line, baffling the two players on the other side of the net... and that was about it, really. It was my complete lack of ability, athleticism and ambition that stopped me from becoming world No. 1.

So while I'm au fait with the rules of tennis, I had a personal rule of my own, one that I deemed prudent not to mention to my team mates. Namely, when stuck in one of those interminable deuce, advantage, deuce games, once we got to deuce for the fifth time, I would let the other team win the game.

Years later, in an annual performance review, an employer told me I wasn't a team player. Well... guilty as charged, Your Honour.

I did my penultimate weekly radio spot today. I went in feeling positive about going fortnightly, had quite a good day, considering, and left with my mind made up to leave at the end of the roster in January. It's just worn me down.

As predicted, the Past & Present people have come to (metaphorical) blows: Radical Irena and Bearded Bernie have had a disagreement about the new program's focus, resulting in Bernie quitting in a fit of pique (and the scary thing about that is, having heard about the dispute, I agree with Bernie. Fortunately it's none of my business, so I can keep that to myself). Even some of Irena's Radicals, who were so keen to shake things up, seem a little disgruntled at the moment.

So Bernie has returned to the news - on Tuesdays, of course. If you please, a round of applause for the evil genius who thought it would be a good idea to put him on the same day as the program he has just left is recorded. When I arrived this morning, he was engaged in a debate with one of the Radicals about - and, I swear, his arguments are getting odder - pre-printed running sheets, of all things. We have to do running sheets for the program, you see; they list who was on, the date, the stories we ran, time allowed for them, and so on. We keep a stack of blank running sheets, ready to just pick up and fill in. The information on them is prescribed either by the Broadcasting Act, which forces us to keep records in case of complaints, or by the needs of running the program to schedule. There is absolutely nothing on them to cause dispute. ( And yet... )

I've been thinking about giving up my volunteer radio job recently. I keep thinking, "oh, that's right, I have to go there today", which seems a little less than enthusiastic. A few weeks ago, it occurred to me that as a volunteer, I don't have to go at all - all I need to do is finish this roster and ask not to be put on the next.

I can't pin down one single thing that's causing this; it's more a fitful, fretful feeling of dissatisfaction caused by a number of smaller things. Individually, I could just roll my eyes and ignore them, but all together they're exacting a toll. It's sad, because I enjoy putting the news together - what do you know? I'm good at being orderly and on time! - and to my great surprise I also enjoy being on air. I've always been a behind the scenes or orchestra person - I used to have panic attacks at the thought of appearing in public or playing solo, and I'm shy to the point where even I can see it's a problem - but radio? No worries.

I took a month off in the middle of the year while I sat exams, and I think I got used to not going. When I went back, the new station coordinator had started. She's competent and nice and all that, but it just seemed that everything was new and not like how I'd left it. Our local news program is based on strict guidelines sent from the main station in Melbourne - there is a lot of freedom within those rules, but if we don't follow them we could lose our broadcasting licence. Some of the other volunteers think they're too strict, others think they're too vague, and whenever the old station coordinator said, "We had an incident the other day", it was never too hard to work out which of the troublemakers it was this time.

When the new coordinator started, some people, including the troublemakers, asked for, and were granted, permission to develop a new, non-news, program. That's a good idea, because starting from scratch they don't have any existing station rules to follow. Credit where it's due, too, because the previous coordinator had several attempts at starting a second program, all of which failed for different reasons. This time round, the readers developed it themselves, did a few pilots and fiddled about until it worked. So all should be well, except... it isn't.

( Radicals, reactionaries and skeevy teachers )

Anyway, I've got another two-and-a-half months to decide.

At yesterday's staff meeting, Brian announced, "I won't be here Thursday, I'm going to the RACGP CPD day. I'll look at the PGPPP PGY policy next week." Tragically, I understood every word (and initial) of that.

Today's radio coverage took us to the mysterious (to me, anyway) world of amateur women's basketball. Who names the teams? The City by the Sea's team is called the Mermaids. I don't know that this is really a good thing to name a team after - after all, you'd expect mermaids to be a bit limited on court, wouldn't you? Actually, they're really called the Harvey Norman Mermaids, because their main sponsor has naming rights. That always makes me twitchy. I don't mind putting a logo on the team shirt, but changing the name as well? So undignified.

At least the Mermaids have a name of their own. The local basketball club has obviously gone with a subtle maritime theme; the men's team is the Seahawks. The article I had to read today concerned two teams from cities further afield and larger than the City by the Sea, Ballarat and Bendigo. Their womens' teams? The Lady Miners and the Lady Braves, counterparts to the mens' teams of the Ballarat Miners and the Bendigo Braves. Ugh. I don't mind the Miners as a name, really - Ballarat likes promoting its history as a gold rush town*, so that works out quite well - but as far as I'm aware, Bendigo has never had a large population of Native American tribes. As for sticking "Lady" at the start for the women? That's just cheap.



* As opposed to the City by the Sea, which made its fortune by, ahem, whaling (we just look at them now, though). At least whales are a constantly renewing resource - I doubt that Ballarat has much gold left.

Do you know what I am? I am a data farmer. Preparing for the audit tomorrow I put my finance files on the big table in the conference room and there it was, my bounteous crop, fruit of a year's labour, spread out before me. Then I went back to my desk and set up new depreciation schedules, sowing the seeds for next year.

*****
Buying the papers this morning, I overheard a man, who was holding an iPod, talking about his "EE-pod". I've always thought it was "EYE-pod". Which is it?

[Poll #777530]


*****
I've been marking radio auditions this afternoon, which is a job I very much enjoy. Prospective presenters have to read a list of one hundred miscellaneous words and two typical news items. My favourite part is the word list. The word most often pronounced incorrectly is "antipodes", or "anti-poads" as many potential announcers would have it. Personally, I'm pro-poads.

( How would you go? )

Death notices today: Ces Nosworthy, Carlyle Buntine and Aubrey (known as "Aub") Mattner. Happily, not all old people with great names are dying just yet. Today I also had to read an item about a couple of local Red Cross groups, which held a joint meeting to celebrate fifty years of good works by a lady called Melba Plush. I like that so much, I may actually change my name.

The fact that the Red Cross groups were from Nareeb Nareeb and Brit Brit (both of which are near Drik Drik) made it even more special.

*****
Conversation snippet #1

Man in suit on mobile phone, standing outside court: "Did she say that? She's a moll. (pause) I'm not saying she's a moll because she's a lesbian, I'm saying she's a moll because she's a frigging MOLL!"

Charming.

*****
I should have said last week: I'm having mushrooms for dinner! Out of the box in the laundry, of course. They're not as nice as fresh field mushrooms, but they're still pretty tasty.

*****
Conversation snippet #2
My mother: Did I tell you Sue Lewis bought a new sewing machine?
Me: No, you didn't.
My mother: Well... Sue Lewis bought a new sewing machine.
Me: Really? I hadn't heard.
My mother: Don't laugh at your mother.

The scary thing is that I have heard her have that exact conversation with my grandmother, only playing the other role. Brrrr.

I had to read an article on air today about a woman in Hamilton whose fruit tree grew a 5.8 kilogram peach. That's over 12lb for non-metric readers who want to share the general amazement. It was enormous, and apparently quite tasty. So there you go.

Exciting as that was, it still didn't top my favourite ever Hamilton news story, summed up in the headline: Woman still hasn't given birth. Hamilton's not a big place.

In case anyone's been on tenterhooks wondering how my mother's birthday went: she didn't even notice the pig-patterned paper. Phew!

It's a busy, busy week and it seems the only reason anyone else is coming to work is to annoy me, so I've been looking forward to my day off tomorrow. At least I was until I got a call from the radio station, asking, "Could you please, please, please fill in because everyone's sick and it's an emergency and there's nobody available but you and you're a gem, thank you, thank you, thank you, you're a star, and by the way your reader will be Bernie and your producers will be the Elders, bye!"

Super.

And then I walked home - in the rain, of course - and passed a sign that cheered me up no end:

NEW SEASONS SHOE'S AND BAGE'S

Of all the errors, the one that impresses me most is that they managed to spell "bags" wrong. Who knew that was possible?