Saturday, September 18, 2004

Hazelblackberry: The Aeroguard. Don't forget it.

Dear Nick,

Forgive me, I was talking about weekends and I was sidetracked.

(Allow me to sidetrack for a moment more: I trust your conjunctivitis has cleared up. This reminds me of a mildly amusing story (well, I found it funny) told to me by an acquaintance of mine who you may also know - The Stool Pigeon. The Stool Pigeon is always immaculately groomed and well-presented to society at large. Mostly he's well-behaved too. What I'm saying is, it matters to him how he comes across. Anyway, a few years ago he had a few days off work with conjunctivitis. When he came back to the office one of his co-workers asked him if he'd been sick. He said yes. Co-worker asked him what was wrong. Stool Pigeon told him he'd been off for three days with cunnilingus.)

Anyway, the weekend is coming up and I believe the last thing I told you was that Grumpy is no doubt planning a channel-surfing feast for himself, which, I reiterate, I have no real objections to. As long as the TV goes on sometime after 11am. I loathe early morning TV. Though only on the weekends. Nothing gets me ready for a day at work better than tuning into the latest madcap antics of Mel & Kochie. And that Grant Denyer! I laugh at the pathetic attempts of Steve & Tracey to shed their stiff, bureaucratic ways and just go with the flow like they do over on Channel 7.

But on the weekends it's a different story. I can find myself in a white hot rage when I hear Grumpy stagger into the lounge room at 7 o'clock and put the television on. I lie in bed indulging in murderous fantasies that bring about a collision between his soft, unsuspecting back and a freshly turned, glittering pig-stabber striking down again and again. I don't know why I hate it; I just do. Oh no, hang on, here's the reason why: because it's as though, having only just rolled out of bed, you've already given up on the day before even putting your nose out the door. The sun is shining, waves are gently breaking on the beach, magpies are swooping and you think that the world has nothing better to offer than the blasted TV.

What's that you're watching? Oooh, the Golden League. Okay, I'll sit down, but only until the end of this race....We should get some breakfast soon......Well, it's a bit late now. Just watch this and then we'll get lunch organised...........You know, we really should eat dinner.

However, this weekend, Nick, I am feeling magnanimous. Grumpy can watch all the TV he wants because I want to be left in peace to organise the shed. Our lovely little shack is, unfortunately, woefully low on storage space. We needed shelves at the back of the shed where Stuff could be stored. In stepped the Little Red Rooster. Little Red Rooster is a rare beast amongst our friends and acquaintances: that is, he's A Real Man. He makes stuff that people find useful, and he's been a farmer and played footy for years and drinks lots of beer. He's also got a Bravery Medal. And get this: he plays netball. So, you know, just be aware of who you're messing with here.

He is married to my dear friend, The Patented Burp, and they have two boys. Which is just as well. You wouldn't want to go sissifying a bloke like that with GIRLS. Though imagine the dirty tricks he could teach them for those roughhouse netball games.

So Little Red Rooster came over a couple of weeks ago and in two short days the back wall of our shed was covered in layer upon layer of useful shelves, waiting to absorb all our junk. When he'd finished, he even took a few old paint cans and bottles of linseed oil and put them up on one of the shelves - it was like a serving suggestion. We were enchanted. (Not that Grumpy would ever admit in the presence of A Real Man to being enchanted by something.) It's so nice knowing just one Real Man - apart from Bloody Ern of course, who is so much man he had to get lupus to reduce the manly quotient a little so other males would not spontaneously combust with awe and shame in his presence. When you've got a friend who is A Man, you can bask a little in the reflected glory. Like his handiness and practicality could just rub off on you any minute now and you could leap about fixing this and building that, covering yourself in glory.

And probably also a great deal of spakfilla.

Until next time, Nick. Avagooweegend.


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