A BEX AND A GOOD LIE DOWN

OK, so I’ve had a Bex and a good lie down and have returned sans the drama queen theatrics of my previous post. I do love a good faux-tanty once in a while...

Not much of groundbreaking interest to report really, and after my previous ahem… “post” I seem to have exhausted most of my rant energy for the day, but a little Mum-friendly update won’t go astray. Hopefully will be back soon with something slightly more interesting…

WHAT PSYCHIC?

OK, so I promised a post on my visit to the psychic on Sunday. Sorry to report – it didn’t happen.

So I turned up to this Psychic Fair and the place is pumping. Lots of sad and confused looking, jowly WA housewives wanting to know where it all went wrong, wondering where their lives snuck off to while they weren’t watching and hoping that a psychic could channel it back for them via the angelic realm. For a fee of $40, naturally.

And there I was, numbered amongst their kin. Sad and confused - yes. Jowly - not quite yet. I mean, we are talking wall-to-wall women in search of god-knows-what through psychics with names like Diane who look like they just stepped out of a K-Mart catalogue. There’s no way I’m gonna trust a psychic who isn’t deluded enough to change their name to StarCloud MysteryAngel, drape themselves in black lace and crushed velvet and drown themselves in essential oils.

I don’t want a normal-looking psychic called Diane in a chocolate brown turtleneck and jeans. I mean c’mon Diane, make an effort, woman! LOOK THE PART. Would you consult a stockbroker wearing a pair of boardshorts and a fluoro-pink mesh singlet? No! Would you trust your bank manager if he was wearing a blue velvet safari suit with the bum cut out of it? No! Wait, would any reasonable person ever trust their bank manager regardless of his business attire? No! OK, so poor example… But do you get my point, Diane? You’re a psychic. You must!

Anyway, that’s not the reason I didn’t get a reading. Diane and her fellow “alleged” psychics all had a waiting time of at least 40 minutes apiece while they spent their time duping their respective succession of jowly housewives. And y’know, time is money when you’re important like me… Ok, so I have zero patience. Plus I had a craving for cheese Twisties…

Diane never stood a chance against the Twisties. Gotta work on those jowls…


WHAT RUGBY LEAGUE GRAND FINAL?

Well, I missed the NRL Grand Final on the weekend, which turned out to be a blessing anyway. Against every fibre of my working class roots I was barracking for the yuppie Roosters to appease my more strident feminist roots and their strong aversion to that tribe of drunken ADHD rapists from Canterbury.

So Canterbury win the NRL title in 2004. And women everywhere run screaming for the exits. Ho hum.

How’s this but… My love affair with WA is rapidly turning sour (see previous post). Fair dinkum, they broadcast a DELAYED telecast of the Grand Final (and remember, we’re already two hours behind the east coast). So the game started at 10:45pm Perth time. THAT’S 12:45am SYDNEY TIME!!!! About 5 hours after all the medals had been handed out and the Bulldogs started feeling up their female fans!

And so, misogyny lives to rule the day. Or the NRL, anyway.


Must depart for my daily appointment with Dr Phil. It’s a riveting life, to be sure…