I am wearing my knitted blue dress and I am so sexy, even if I say so myself (and I do!)
We have a bird problem outside the library; birds perch along the exterior window ledges and poop over the paving, especially in front of the doors. We notice that it is worse after the weekends when the birds can perch unmolested. So, one of the building staff purchased a large plastic owl and had it installed on the corner of the building. The theory is that it will scare the birds away. I think it is more likely that the birds will fall about laughing! This morning a big black crow was making friends with it, and the crow only took flight when I walked towards the building (no, you don’t want to make comment as to the relationship between my appearance and the level of fright of the bird, well, not if you want to live). Pity the owl doesn’t have a voice and motion sensor. I would record the message “No food in front of the library! Put your bag on the bag racks! I am talking to you, kiddo!” Then it would really earn its place!
I increased my life insurance and income protection insurance this week, so if I mysteriously disappear in the near future, please feel free to point the finger at Mr FD. He has been following the Baden-Clay case closely, as indeed everyone has. If he suggests I suddenly developed a passion for going for walks late at night, call him a liar. We all know that I do not exercise, indeed exercise for me is moving from one end of the couch to the other (Flamingo Dancers do not get sweaty, we merely become dewey). I also do not swim in local water holes or creeks. I do not walk along the nearby river’s edge either. Even if he didn’t do it, he deserves to suffer in my absence. He should have taken better care of me!
The quote on my desk calendar states, “The plainest sign of wisdom is a continual cheerfulness: her state is like that of things in the regions above the moon, always clear and serene” (Michel de Montaigne). Obviously I am never going to possess wisdom, for continual cheerfulness is beyond me. To be continually cheerful one must no doubt be continually nice, and we all know that I find being nice so damn exhausting. Last week I developed a severe migraine from an extended period of niceness, and required a day in my bed to recover my evilosity balance.
Over a week ago I bought some green grapes which I put into the vegetable keeper of the fridge and promptly forgot about. On Monday morning I remembered that they were there (okay, I didn’t remember, I found them when searching for a tomato that hadn’t gone mouldy) and decided to take them for my lunch. Problem was that after a week in the fridge the grapes were no longer as fresh as they had once been (who is?) so when it came to lunch I allowed myself to reject them in favour of some chocolates that were being passed around. Guilty as only a catholic girl can be, I vowed I would eat them the next day, so I kept them in my lunch bag (lunch bag, think of something Fred Flintstone would carry, except in insulated black nylon!) Next day rolled around; as did grape time and I now know those damn grapes have been in the bag, not even the fridge since yesterday. My mind imagines the brown patches as browner, brown patches. Now, we all know that I am never going to eat those damn grapes. I am going to keep playing this routine until the damn things fall out of my lunch bag, or the fuzzy mould takes hold. Then I will throw them out. So, why don’t I save myself all these feelings of guilt and just turf them into the compost bin now? They are going to a better place – earth to earth and all that. However, there are still starving people in the world and so I keep pretending to myself, which is even worse, as it is not as though my lack of grape appreciation is public knowledge (I am no longer on Facebook) so I need only hide my dirty secret from my own consciousness, but I can’t. I have a solution though – I shall give them to Mr FD when I go home. And that, Virginia, is what husbands are for…
Speaking of vaginas, Virginia, male student was waiting for male friend at the circulation desk and was reading through a homework quiz. One of the questions was “Do women have a cervix?” Neither of them knew, and I did not enlighten them. Some things a boy just has to work out for himself.