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Gliders, Kensington Street, Chippendale

2017-01-11T20:11:00.001-08:00

A delightful cup of coffee served with style and finesse.
The street would be right at home in Tokyo or Singapore.

Glider, Kensington Street, Chippendale

2017-01-10T22:08:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since a cup of coffee in Sydney has moved me sufficiently to praise it.
This soy cap was perfection. Beautifully presented, robust flavour, and a creamy texture.
Kensington Street, Chippendale is a gem, not far from Central Station in a lane way
street that would sit very comfortably in Singapore and Tokyo.

169 Darlinghurst Road

2016-10-17T02:58:00.001-07:00

169 Darlinghurst Road

2016-10-16T15:10:00.000-07:00

On a busy corner but with such a nice feel to it that you don't notice the noise.
The city provides an enticing back drop
Coffee is very good but the cup was way too small for me.
Photo to follow.

Coffee Cantata

2015-02-01T14:24:00.000-08:00

A shopping break in Bondi Junction. Gusto in Spring Street is an ideal place to pop into for a casual, and consistently good coffee. Their $6 coffee and a pastry deal is a bargain.

Coffee Cantata

2015-01-31T15:27:00.000-08:00

The coffee cantata revival.
I have let this subject lie dormant for too long. Time again to pay tribute to the best cups of coffee in town

A self made caffeine fix is the ritual that kick starts my day. The mid day coffee is a different story. I seek out cafes around the world in search of that wonderful nectar that's made to order by an exceptional barista. I'm back home in Sydney for a few months with time to seek and find this city's best.
This week's winner is this elegant cup filled to the brim with a wonderful soy cappuccino. Where? The French House,Edgecliff Road, Woollahra. Enjoy!

- Image -: Selfish

2012-03-17T15:56:00.001-07:00

- Image -: Selfish

Selfish

2012-03-17T15:55:00.000-07:00

Oscar Wilde was spot on with his definition of selfishness. “Selfishness is not

living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live.”

So how to justify a flying solo lifestyle choice to the knockers. There are obvious

parallels between choosing not to have children and choosing to live alone.

Uninvited life factors that determine both. So is choosing to live alone or not to have

children, selfish?

Both situations are the subject of barbed insults, innuendo and unsolicited advice.

The 1 + 1 = 2 relationship that chooses not to have children embraces an ‘it only takes

two to Tango’ approach.

True, if you haven’t been a Mum or Dad, you won’t have experienced the pleasures

and pitfalls of parenting. But maybe, just maybe, individuals who make this conscious

choice have no desire to embrace the motherhood/fatherhood role. While those who

choose to live alone don’t wish to have to share and care within the framework of

their own space.

Surely selfishness doesn’t enter into it; self-fulfilment does.

The Extra extra

2010-07-18T23:27:00.000-07:00

A seven day shoot (10 years ago) - I'm sure that nothing has changed.

Extra extra read all about it.

Five hundred plus extras working an average twelve hour day. A huge logistical exercise in moving the masses in atrocious weather conditions, on and off track, at Sydney's Randwick Racecourse. A Mission Impossible? - let's wait and see.

The floor crews were well versed in the subtleties of crowd control, talent spotting, and 'pushy' people management.

Placating the masses is no easy task. People are herded compliantly towards wardrobe, make-up and meals but when it comes to being 'noticed' (with a view to being given a bit part), conformity disappears and the competition becomes fierce.

If there's a downside to being an extra it's got to be the boredom of sitting around for hours, and the repetition of take after take of the same action. "Rolling, action, background, cut, reset" becomes the focus of my day. Lack of sleep and exercise sends the mind into an atrophic state; mentally unstimulated and physically restrained, very similar to that induced by jet lag. Money earned is quickly spent on remedial massages, deep rejuvinating facials and re vitalilizing hair treatments.

A positive - an extra is one of the few occupations that can take you from the cradle to the grave. The world isn't full of beautiful people. Casting can accommodate the metamorphoses of the body over time, For extras there are no govenors' on the ravages of time. Extras fortunately can come in all shapes, sizes and ages. They include thwarted actors, actors between jobs, muso's between gigs, the glam wan-a-bee's, young mums taking a break from the monotony of the domestic routine, ladies that should be lunching but have chosen to be part of a 'new' scene for the week.

Why then do film extras choose this calling? For as many reasons as there are extras. Could be for the movie making experience or for as for me that one second of fame. Sometimes a 'star" is born - an extra actually gets a full face to camera, not just a hat, a hand, a backside or a bosom. Some go along for the networking, others for that warm fuzzy feeling of being part of a 'groupie' bonding thing.
Seeing and being seen is the object of the exercise, but it's being in close proximity to the 'stars'(in this case Tom Cruise) that gives the ultimate adrenaline buzz. The star is a serious working person, as opposed to the person who is working for the supposed "fun of it all".
Consequently the 'star' is to be respected for the true professional he/she is. No way must an extra act like a crazed fan. No gawking, touching, chasing, flirting or heaven forbid...stalking.
An extra signs a confidentiality agreement to not at any time, directly, or indirectly, disclose any information of any kind. My lips are sealed.

Like the 500 plus extras I'll be queuing at the box office for a one second glance of my straw hat's fleeting moment of fame.

Getting published - a first timer's guide to the galaxy + the writing process

2010-05-25T00:36:00.000-07:00

Tips and pointers gleaned from the recent Sydney Writer’s Festival 18 -23 May 2010

'It’s exceedingly rare to go from literary oblivion to an overnight literary sensation.'

The Budding Author
So you’ve written your book?
Now it’s time to find an agent to promote it, a publisher to publish it, or better still, both. A caution – be prepared to put in the hard yards, a publisher will not do them for you. Apparently some publishers prefer agents to act as their professional contact/intermediary with the potential author.

“We all have a book in us” but it would appear that that’s where it will stay unless
you’re prepared to write justfor the joy of writing. Don’t even consider going down the writing track until you’re 100% sure that you’ve done your homework.
• Know your market, or at least be confident that you can generate a sizeable market for your manuscript.
• Know exactly what type of books potential agents and publishers have in their stable of books already on the market.

The total package is both the writer, and his words and he needs to succeed as both
Not surprisingly one pre requisite for success would appear to be (based on the speakers at the Writers Festival) a half-way decent, well grounded and disciplined writing background. Practice leads to a more perfect outcome.
If you want a hope in hell of being published you need to write for an already predetermined public as classified by the demographic and genre your manuscript fits.

Off-loading your manuscript
Before dumping your manuscript on an agent or publisher’s doorstep check either via their website or by calling their office, if they are currently accepting submissions.
This will save time and the disappointment of yet another rejection letter.
You’ll need to dazzle a publisher or an agent with your wit, media savvy and mass audience appeal (ability to capture the attention of your potential fan base). Prove that you have the nous to be able to make money, and to continue to make it….to turn your smile, and your articulate self, into cold hard cash, and be prepared to run the gauntlet of the “speakers” circuit and all other contacts and circuits relevant to the content of your book. You become the trinity: the writer, the seller, the promoter.
You must be willing, and able to ceaselessly self promote, and once published, become everyone’s property. Your potential ‘fan’ base will determine if your book heads to the stratosphere or sits on a bottom shelf gathering dust. Your public will dictate just where your book will go next. So get it out there.

The writing process

Keep a pen and paper handy. You never know when and where inspiration will strike.

This is where the long hard road begins.…… You’ll have an innate sense of where you think its going, but you’ll change direction several times before hitting pay dirt.
Whatever the motivating factor the desire to eventually see your manuscript in print must be behind your decision to go for it.

Caution – know your intended genre and stick within its publishing framework and parameters.

The subject of your manuscript will most likely be the result of an ‘awakening’. Could be a first of the morning inspiration, a dream from the night before, a plot that’s been brewing for what seems like forever, one of life’s multilayered experiences,or an observation that is begging to take wing. For non fiction writers the ‘call’ is most likely the result of years of extensive in-depth research that you want and need to give a voice to.

Checkpoints
• Don’t think too long and hard about the direction you want to take the text.
• Don’t stew over words, tense, grammar and punctuation. Just write
• Don’t panic if there’s a gaping hole in your manuscript or a chapter you just can’t seem to get your head around. Leave it alone and come back to it when you’re in the ‘write’ space. It will eventually right itself.

My as yet unpublished children’s manuscript went to an agent minus the pivotal(since completed) ‘climax’ scene. It wasn’t so much a case of “writer’s block” as a case of this writer’s procrastination.

Is your manuscript fiction or non fiction, romance, murder –mystery, children’s book etc.? Does your manuscript have the potential to sit comfortably as an e-book?
Some genres are more suited to the electronic media than others.
Perhaps that isn’t your initial intention, but remember that’s what your soon to be ‘public’ could be looking for.

Engage emotionally with and get up close and personal to your characters, plot, theme, and story line. Sometimes a character’s personality doesn’t evolve until the manuscript is nearing completion. For those writing non-fiction, make sure that the facts are accurate and can be verified at source.

Feel free to self edit throughout the writing process. Early on establish a buddies Co-op. Not of your nearest and dearest, but of those who are prepared to be objectively cruel to be kind. A group of friends, fellow writers, and enthusiastic readers who will pass constructive judgment on your manuscript. After each ruthless dissection be open to making changes, changes and more changes.

Remember, at this stage your manuscript is still very much an ‘open’ book.

People with the power to..

2010-05-19T01:14:00.000-07:00

No, not that endearing bunch of under threes; they already rule the world, but that ever expanding army of bullish grown-ups who should know better.
These people lurk in public places waiting to pounce. People with the attitude that if they don’t use it they’ll lose it. Their verbal gymnastics, tantamount to bullying.
They operate by engendering fear, hopeful of keeping the masses in theirplace.
Meet the usher. Last week, along with a few hundred other shareholders, I attended the AGM of a well respected Australian company. The venue, a Sydney icon. The registration staff went out of their way to be obliging. The ushers, their day/night job being to show people to their seats, must have misinterpreted their brief.

Someone’s Uncle Bob and Aunty Jane came down from Gosford (some 50kms up the coast). They’d woken at five, had an early brekkie, caught the train, and arrived in the city ready for the action.
They made their way to two seats, ten rows from the front – ideal to see and to hear the proceedings. So far so good. Just as they were about to settle in, an officious usher screeched “You can’t sit there, those seats are reserved for microphone participants only”. With no suggestion of alternative seating offered a much chastened, Bob and
Jane headed for the Gods. May this usher not find a seat waiting for him in heaven.

A volunteer (of the domineering kind), at a prestigious gallery, on guard at an exhibition entrance (unlike the usher she wasn’t being paid to be officious)
Unaware that it was a paid exhibition I strolled in. A distant voice shouted – “you can’t just walk in without a ticket, go back to the information desk and buy one”.
Not to be outdone by her upstairs mate, a downstairs dragon, in response to my comment “I’m going to get a coffee and will be back shortly” retorted “well you can’t bring your coffee in here”.

A librarian. Libraries generously offer free internet research time. A quick glance sideways and it’s obvious that there’s not much ‘pure’ research going on at this library. A Nintendo type game; travel bookings; dating sites being given the once over, and the GP’s nightmare,
on-line self diagnosis. Not exactly confidential or precious stuff.
Here I encountered a particularly pushy librarian, one who took it upon himself to monitor the print outs. Having made the unforgivable mistake of helping myself I was told in no uncertain terms “don’t ever do that again, we are holding confidential stuff for other people”. Funny that –
the reception desk was littered with thesesupposedly, “confidential” printouts for all to see.

There are polite ways of rebuking people without reducing them to road kill.

Our strange coffee habit

2010-05-16T01:14:00.000-07:00

Is it a habit, an addiction, or a social condition? – which ever, it’s firmly ensconced
in our daily lives. It’s not life sustaining, but it does seem to be the essential ingredient needed to kick start our day. We’re talking coffee in a paper cup. Full grown men, resplendent in business suits, suck on the nozzle of the plastic lid. A hang-over from their infant dummy days perhaps, or a more recently discarded cigarette addiction. It’s not gender specific though; the females of the species are equally ‘sucked in’. If you’ve ridden a peak hour escalator you’ll relate to this comic situation. There you are standing directly behind a suit clad, brief case carrying, umbrella wielding, coffee cup balancing, person. It becomes a matter of personal judgement as to which you should dodge to avoid a crack in the ribs, a poke in the eye, or a cup of coffee right down your front.
I’ve watched bus, train and ferry passengers on a short commute, sitting or strap hanging, clutching their precious cup of coffee. There are those who put it on the floor for safe keeping then promptly kick it over, leaving a trail of lukewarm liquid to make its way under the seats. There it stays for the rest of the day unless some unsuspecting passenger accidentally uses their sports bag or brief case to mop it up.
If the carrier and the cup do eventually make it to the office the cup often gets knocked over in the morning flurry. The result – a soggy keyboard, or worse case scenario, a drowned laptop.
During office hours these same coffee addicts punctuate their day and hence the time that they spend at their desk, with frequent trips out to pick up another ‘fix’.
City bins overflow with discarded cups; that’s if the drinkers subscribe to the “keep Australia clean” message. If not, you’ll spy these wayward cups dumped on ledges, in gutters, or heaven forbid, on vacant tables of outdoor cafés.
Office workers haven’t got exclusive rights to this compulsion to suck. Bus drivers to have cottoned on. Here’s a real life experience to prove it. It’s the end of his shift, time for a change of driver. The passengers sit patiently waiting while the driver checks the destination board and ticket machine then …horrors, he looks for a place on the dashboard to rest his coffee cup. The passengers pray silently that the driver will have to stop at every red light (not a prayer that they’d normally want delivered) to give him time to finish his coffee before hitting the peak hour traffic in the CBD.
But wait, he had competition on his inside lane. A sweet young thing, driving a mini minor doing a juggling act with, you’ve guessed it – a cup of coffee, a mobile phone, and the steering wheel.
Time for a strong black coffee……………..

An Observation

2010-05-14T01:10:00.000-07:00

Uninvited, I watched a couple of pigeons at ‘play’.
He circled triumphantly around his hapless female prey, then
unabashed, shamelessly walked away.She crouched shell shocked, her head jammed up against the concrete wall of the bus depot; her dishevelled tail fanned out.Some time later she to moved away.
No questions asked, no guilt perceived, no defence needed...

Conversation openers - the trite, the trivial, the tedious

2010-01-30T01:44:00.000-08:00

“How are you today?” subtly transposed into Australiana -
“how’s you’s today?”

An open ended question addressed to and foisted upon the unsuspecting and the ill prepared.

It’s not designed, to elicit an instant response. Heaven forbid you’re probably not even expected to respond at all to this assumed territorially right of passage.

Instead, it is couched as an introductory platitude,more by way of a one sided conversational exchange, one that doesn’t expect a comprehensive response.

You’ll recognise it for what it is – the territory of the vaporous, "my sales figures are down this week" shop assistant.

It’s thrown in as an aside. Meanwhile the assistant continues to furiously text his/her ever growing circle of twit/tweet/facebook friends on the intricacies of his/her last“big night” out.
Alternatively, well within your earshot they’re comparing a “he said, she said, I said” conversations with a fellow assistant.

Assistants of the male gender that I’ve encountered tend to be a little more subtle in their verbal subterfuge, or they take the path of least resistance by simply ignoring you and 'getting off' on their own agenda.

There must be a preferable middle road. For me a killer smile is worth a thousand words. It’s much more user friendly than this trite conversational ploy that lands like a damp squid.

The ‘sophisticated’ French keep it simple, yet open and personable, “bonjour Madam/Monsieur”. Only if you’re a ‘regular’ or a ‘familiar’, does the conversation flow beyond this introductory gesture.You are however, out of courtesy, expected to respond.

Let’s move the ‘scene’ to a Friday night, or a Monday morning. Friday night/ Monday morning, in the train, on the ferry,on the bus,or in a CBD high-rise lift.

The mantra is well established, an acceptable part of the working for a living, begrudgingly or otherwise, psychic. It’s routine and repeated ad nausea - on a Friday afternoon.... “what’s on for the weekend”, and on a Monday morning “how was your weekend?” A “none of your business” response to these stock phrase questions, would be considered, rude. An ‘over response’ i.e.responding with a graphic description of your weekend’s activities, the ‘highs’, the ‘lows’ and the ‘if only’s’, the ‘hits’, the ‘misses etc etc.would be considered to be over-kill.

Moving on to the trite, standard issue, weather related exchanges. Isn’t it hot, cold, wet etc.? When it rains the standard response of NSW’s population is “we need it”, irrespective of where the rain falls – dams, city, suburbs or rural NSW, is irrelevant.
Surely a more appropriate response would be “let’s hope that it’s falling in the catchment areas”. Irrespective of where it is falling of greatest concern is that it is fine for the weekend.

We say so very little of meaning when we speak – we are experts in the art of obfuscation. By way of conversational exchange we chatter about things that simply don’t matter.

The processing and re programing of a redundant

2006-11-16T14:45:00.000-08:00

I was detoxed, desensitised and demoralised then re programmed and re invented.

Eight years ago I went through a near death experience - redundancy at middle age.

In their infinite wisdom one of Australia's top twelve companies decided to outsource (dirty word) my job to an external facilities management company. This company, so they considered had its finger on the pulse of the new millennium.
Before they gave me the 'golden handshake' I was given the opportunity (apparently a legal requirement) to apply for my old job, now the recreated 'new job'. Applying came with several strings attached. I was still shell shocked when, close on the heels of the announcement came a two hour behavioural interview. The aim, to check if I would be suitable for the new/old role that I had been doing for the past two years. Beware the behavioural interview - it's designed to trip you up when you are right down. The 'corpse' is delivered at the thrown flat on the back stage, then allowed to sit up slowly, given enough encouragement to help it to walk and talk then finally allowed to run out the door. My career path over the past ten years was dissected leaving me just short of jumping off the cliff that was laid open at the end of it. Obviously I hadn't been reading the signals. There was no way that I would get my old/new job back. The decision had already been made well prior to the interview.
To console me I was offered a lesser position within the company and when I graciously refused and let them off the hook I was assigned to a re deployment officer.
I had to report twice weekly to this outside version of a prison parole officer for processing She always escorted me into an internal office with no windows. We played monopoly, card games, used lots of lovely coloured pens - just like a child at a restaurant who is given crayons to colour in a scene on the place mat. All in the name of trying to find out where my strengths, weakness's, skills and abilities may be hiding and ultimately what and where my next job should be.

She must have missed a vital clue - freelance writer didn't rate a mention.

The Journey

2006-11-11T01:23:00.000-08:00

We’ve been waiting weeks for this.
A warm, almost but not quite, cloud free Sydney day.
A reprieve before the sticky heat that heralds the oncoming of summer.

The 389-bus route passes through several areas that make up a very small segment of this sprawling, cosmopolitan city. It's a pretty route -
It starts at the sleepy seaside suburb of Bondi North and ends up at Circular Quay. It travels via a trendy new shopping centre, through a leafy suburb of gentlemen’s residences. then meanders its way through two kilometres of lovingly restored (at great expense) Victorian Terrace houses. It passes through a one street Italian quarter, then on to the throbbing heart of the city, the CBD.

My journey begins in the gentlemen’s suburb, sitting, praise be, in a covered bus stop. My silence is broken. “Is there a bus due soon?” asks a guy in his mid 50’s. He is casually dressed in a plain blue open neck shirt, indigo blue jeans and on his feet a pair of 'I do a lot of serious walking', shoes. I reply “there’ll be one within ten minutes” He’s off on another tangent, “I used to live around here thirty five years ago”. I did some quick arithmetic. Based on my mid 50’s assumption; he was 20 when he lived here. “There are a lot more trees around here now than there were then.” He considers this to be "a good thing" I consider it to be a not such a good thing as the trees are rapidly encroaching on my spectacular view back towards the CBD. He must have been on a trip down memory lane as he got off at St Vincents Hospital hospice “to visit an old friend”.

One stop prior to this, a red faced guy with a shirt to match, and a bottle that’s not a bottle when it’s wrapped in a plain brown wrapper, boards. He is obviously on his way to join a friend or two for lunch. We pass a small park sporting pigeons, prams and pushchairs then on to the stop at the National Art School to pick up a couple of funky 'grunge' mode students. A corner florist with a glorious window display of November lilies affords a sea of tranquillity and a visual respite from my people watching.

The pavement tables of the tiny pocket of Italiana named , Stanley Street, are very under populated for mid day on a Saturday. I resolve to stop off at Bill and Toni’s on my return journey for a shot of good strong Italian coffee. A Sydney institution, Bill and Toni's is renowned for it’s big bowls of ‘spag bol’ and its even bigger jugs of sickly Orange cordial that they plonk unceremoniously on the tables.

What are my fellow passengers wearing? There’s the beach gear from Bondi, the dateless suit that is heading for an afternoon at the Bridge Club and, because of the outdoor air temperature, lots of bare arms and legs. What are they carrying? - shopping from the flashy shopping centre, numerous variations on a theme of the handbag, and heaven forbid, a plastic wrapped packet of sushi. I fear for it’s shelf life and for the e-coli count when it reaches its eventual destination.

The air in the bus is close; opening the window provides no relief. The sound of silence ensues. It’s surprising what a rise in air temperature will do to the tongue. No one is talking; this is a journey of visual and aural observations only. The fountain in the park dances teasingly in the middle distance.

The CBD arrives unannounced. A long queue has formed on the pavement outside of ticketek, all eager for tickets to watch Kylie Minogue wiggle her bum or to hear the sounds of U2 or perhaps both. Fortunately for those in the queue, ticketek uptown is located next to the Hyde Park pub. No worries mate; Aussies don’t need an excuse to buy a beer.

It’s 11 November 2006 and the big department store, David Jones already has its windows bedecked with Christmas decorations and the inevitable snow and a Nativity Scene. Hasn’t anyone told them that it’s 32degrees celsius and that there are still 43 days to Christmas. It’s got to have something to do with the recent increase in interest rates. Guess they want their bite of the household budget before the next mortgage repayment is due. Make mental note, the post Christmas sales will be BIG this year.

A reality check, we have arrived at Circular Quay and the remaining three passengers are left to face the gathering of the masses. The moment has passed; my journey has come to an end.

My next journey begins with the hauntingly beautiful overture from Les Sylphides................

The Terror that is Technology

2006-10-30T16:29:00.000-08:00

I’m on technology access overload. The only thing that consoles me is that I’m not going through this agony alone.

Its 6:50pm, the steak is marinating, the aubergines are under the grill. The phone rings (as it has a habit of doing at dinner time) I answer it - a one second silence, then a voice, not unlike the sound an echo being sucked up by a vacuum cleaner, responds. “How are you today?". I reply (in a state of high irritation) “I really don’t think that should be any concern of yours.” Not put off by this affront the voice continues, assuring me that he is “just checking that you have everything you need from your telephone, internet and mobile provider.” I reply that “yes I do” hastily adding “thank you”, in the hopes that this simply courtesy will get me off the hook. No such luck, the voice continues “I can guarantee to make you even more content by offering you a price cut, discounts, and numerous other bells and whistles.”

I less than politely take my leave and head for the kitchen. Not to be, I’m stopped mid stride by a buzz on the intercom. It’s the Foxtel guy wanting to regale me with the reasons why I should go the digital way. He engages scare tactics – "if you don’t go digital you'll loose access to the history channel". Now he’s got my attention. This is just not possible as I have no desire to miss out on my escape to those periods in human evolution that were untouched by technology. Consider it a done deal..I sign up.

Dinner is a disaster, over marinated steak that tastes more like venison than beef and incinerated aubergines. I have no choice but to revert to using the microwave to heat up frozen leftovers.

Two down - bad luck comes in three's. It's not over yet. A final check of my emails for the day delivers a dose of technology over- kill. The Christmas flight to the US has had a schedule change. The bank hasn’t paid the Visa account because apparently I didn’t pick up my confirmation pin number, which comes to me, courtesy of a text message on my mobile. There's confirmation of my registration for E-tag – I can now use the cross city tunnel to go to the Organic Market at Orange Grove School. The last piece de resistance is from a real estate agent letting me know that he has found me the perfect apartment. Joy oh joy, it has a much sought after media alcove.

Time to restore my equilibrium and my sanity. I run a bubble bath, light a non-scented candle, pour a glass of Italian White (produced by Monks at a C16th monastery) and switch off.

Oh for a 'Life so Sweet' Give me back the simple things in life.

A Doggy Conversation

2006-10-22T17:01:00.000-07:00

I had a doggy conversation today; it went like this.

Her:"Don't you hate it when they do that?" I'm thinking to myself, do what?
Me: "Fortunately I don't have a dog".
Her:"Oh! they're really very good company, (I guess that I must have had the look of someone in need of company) "roll in something nasty" she replied. Her: directing the conversation to the dog, "No more hot soapy baths for you (I concluded that she was keen on reducing Woollahra's reputation as the biggest water users in Sydney)
But no, her to me "I'll just have to hose her down with cold water". My turn to reply."Are you allowed to use the hose"? Her reply, "I don't care, I'll be using it for a thirty second hose down, I'm certainly not touching her in that state". Dogs are obviously exempt from the Sydney wide water restrictions.

To me, as a non-dog owner, doggy talk is on a par with baby talk. Why is it that dog owners and proud new parents have the feeling that they have the right to inflict this unsolicited information on an unappreciative audience of total strangers?

My daily commute starts with a ten-minute, what should be pleasant walk, through a leafy park. For me, a ground level commune with nature is a joy before heading to a high-rise office in the city. Out walking with me are dog owners and their dogs taking their morning exercise and answering their dog's call of nature.
I have nothing against sharing my path with the dogs or their owners, but I have no desire to engage in unsolicited doggy conversation with them.

It goes like this. Owner to dog: "Leave the lady alone, don't sniff her handbag their's no food in there". Wrong - clever dog has sniffed out my hastily prepared lamb and lettuce sandwich.
Owner to dog: "Aren't you ever so cute (read obstinate, my version) blocking the lady's path, she just might be in a hurry".

This is the two on one approach, it gets much worse though. My horror walk is when I'm confronted with the doggy 'play school group', en masse. Path,what path? The dogs and their owners have total monopoly. The doggy talk reaches stratospheric levels of stupidity. I-Pod headset wearers are on to a winner.
No, I don't hate dogs, but I do object to being engaged in doggy conversation.

One positive comment though, in my leafy suburb they do at least pick up the pooh.

The Humble Mechanic

2006-10-19T20:26:00.000-07:00

Here’s a man with his foot placed firmly on life’s reality pedal.
A ‘grease monkey’ to the core. No grandiose high rise for him.
The garage forecourt and workshop on the corner of a busy road is his castle.
Noise, dirt and grime, hoists and pits are his domain. The camaraderie
is infectious. You know that you’re among people that are doing their
job because it’s not only what they do, but also what they enjoy.

I drive a car that has been in circulation for twenty five years. My friends call it my anti establishment machine. The paint work no longer responds to a cut and polish and the roof and bonnet sport golf ball size pock marks, the result of a freak Sydney hailstorm.

For the past six years it has been serviced and had ‘rego’ checks at my local garage.
With each advancing year it becomes a greater challenge to get it through the ‘rego’ check. Were I to ditch my humble mechanic and transfer my aged car’s loyalties to another garage, it would have been sent to the tanners long ago. My guy likes the challenge. This year my 'loyal companion' hit its biggest hurdle yet, the silent killer, rust, threatened to be the master of its demise. After an in depth consultation with the humble mechanic we came to a compromise – cut out sufficient rust to get it past the ‘rego’ inspection. Cost to be kept to a minimum to avoid exceeding the’ trade in for parts’ value of the car. The result, a labour of love, a vision to behold. Gone were the fist sized holes and smudgy rust marks, in their place pristine perfection. It was with great joy that I handed over the cash.

Next step was to get the inspection report transferred electronically to the
Roads and Traffic Authority. When I asked my humble mechanic if this had been done
he sheepishly replied that he was “only the guy that cut out the rust, not the guy that handled the paper work”. He was flabbergasted when I praised his role as being of paramount importance. I drove off triumphant, knowing that I had scored yet another reprieve for my dream machine.

There’s a sequel to this story.
It was raining heavily the first time I used the car, post its 'face lift'.
To my horror, the inside of the windscreen took on the guise of a dam
spillway. The rust was cut out alright, but the windscreen hadn’t been sealed.
Back to the humble mechanic. My return attracted a bevy of mechanics all offering advice on how to reverse the situation without, at great expense, removing the windscreen. A consensus was reached; a silicon seal around the window would do the trick. It was mutually agreed that there would be no charge but as I drove off one of the guys shouted out "he is a big chocolate cake fan" to which I replied “done”.