Lady Karma, I kiss your cheeks.


Karma, I love you so. Today we heard on the gossip line that a former principal who had made my life miserable and destroyed the careers of some very good people, has received a massive kick in the butt from Lady Karma.

After chewing up and spitting out a number of people he broke his contract to leave our school  early for what he thought was going to be his ticket into the upper echelons of education. Well, the people he had to work with mutinied, revolted, and just rose up against up on mass – he always plucked his victims off one by one – and he was fired!

Sadly it is not total revenge as he has enough clout to be assisted into a principal’s position at a nearby school – but not ours!

He’s still on my stick list [the people I am going to hit with a stick on my last day], but at least I know his ego has been trimmed. I smiled all day. I am still smiling.

Stick lists, vitriol and maleficence, life would be complete.


The stick list has a sibling. The stick list being the list of people that I am going to go around and hit on the last day. Its sibling is my retirement speech. The speech that you ruminate over for years, composing it with vitriol and maleficence. Naturally, when the time comes, you are so relieved to be leaving that you can’t be bothered saying it.

I am sure I will deliver it, stick in one hand, list in the other and hip flask in my pocket.

Not that anything terrible, horrible has happened. I was just in the shower, where all our best thoughts come from, and the image of someone I really, really, want to whammy came into my mind’s eye and I was off. Small man in big job, who is just one of the world’s shinning examples of a bastard.

Sigh, tomorrow is another day, but sadly it is not retirement day.

need to know basis is sometimes too much knowing or needing

car 1

I am a fairly patient person. Let me rephrase that. I try to be a patient person. Lately though I have been struggling with Minerva’s need to finish an explanation or her back grounding to a decision or question, long past the post of me having given my feedback or decision.

Once she starts her story, that story must be completed. I will have summed up the information she has provided, given a verbal reply and be communicating through my body language (usually starting to face away from her, one foot poised to step onward, ever onward) and she is still “The I said…and she said… and I thought….” I just want her to shut up. MOVE ON.

That’s not nice is it? Me, not her. She is long winded, She should do something about that, or at least know that if I have given my reply I don’t need the colour of the buttons on the dress of the person who- well you know what I mean.

This can happen several times a day.

I like Minerva, I really do. I’m not allowed to hit her though am I?

Travelling with a fruitcake

fruit cake MRFD

Monday was flight to Perth day, and despite a major accident on the highway we were early enough to the Brisbane Airport to have the privilege of paying $38AUS for two ham and cheese croissants (barely toasted), two flat white coffees and two bottles of water.

The day before Mr FD and I have a slight tête-à-tête about seating arrangements. Mr FD of recent years has been in more frequent need of the bathroom and was ecstatic to discover two seats right next to the toilet. However, opinion was expressed that someone did not fancy sitting next to the toilet and toilet line for 5 and a half hours, so a discussion ensured.

Mr FD saw the error of his ways and booked seats so far away from the toilet line as to be almost in the next aeroplane. And not without complaint may I add. His complaint.

I got the window seat, as Mr FD garnered the aisle seat for a free loo run. I enjoyed miles of nothing except red dirt and salt pans that is the Nullabor Plains – so very, very dry.

In economy, we stifled a moan when it was announced business class would be receiving their free alcohol. We did however get a mini weis ice-cream bar for dessert which was most enjoyable. If you can ever get your taste buds around a mango and ice cream bar, do, even if it costs top money. (One of my nieces once worked as their food technologist and never gave me one free sample and for that I have never forgiven her.)

I read Jenny Lawson’s Furiously Happy on the plane over. In one chapter she discusses dermatillomania (scalp picking) which the son of a colleague suffers with. I developed an even greater interest in the subject when Mr FD knocked his cup of hot coffee down his jean leg. Yep, one in every plane.

Not long after, I needed the bathroom myself, and so Mr FD had to display his wet brown leg to the masses as he stood to allow me to exit our seats. The toilet was in fact ahead of us, so maybe a third of the plane were entertained by me scratching to open the loo door until I noticed the “occupied” sign was red.  I explained to the man sitting right next to the toilet that “I am your inflight entertainment, today.” He smiled back as though I was a toilet roll short of a full pack, and I pencilled him onto the stick list for being a witness.

Back in my seat, I found Mr FD playing chess on his seat screen. I have been married to that man for 38 years and I never knew he could play chess. What else is he hiding? A second family?

Not long before arrival I turned to Mr FD and commented, “You know, you haven’t been to the bathroom once this flight?” Naturally, he immediately had to go. My revenge was complete.

Despite two suitcases checked in, we also had a small carry on bag for Mr FD’s electronics and CPAC machine, and a backpack that conveyed the Christmas Fruit cake for Daughter2. As we disembarked, Mr FD carried the backpack – the cake must weigh close to two kilos! It was a heavy backpack.

As we disembarked,  Mr FD who always makes comments with the assumption that everyone knows exactly what he is referring too, muttered all the way up the plane aisle, as those passengers unlucky enough to still be seated, ducked their heads, “It’s a fruitcake.”

Certainly was, Olly.


Country life : egg poachers and neighbours at the mail box

eggs in a basket

I am so excited.

I have a new egg poacher!

Mr FD can poach a fairly decent egg in a saucepan of boiling water with a dash of white vinegar, but the few times I tried, the egg was, well less than delectable.

In the past, we have owned several egg poachers, but they all had plastic cup inserts, which often cause multiple issues. The cup slipping and egg overflowing into the water so that the water would then boil over making an horrible mix of watery egg. The last set of egg cups may have melted when someone left the pan on the stove and forgot to  turn the stove off. That was a few years ago and so we have been egg poacherless since then.

I am Flamingo Dancer, and I have been frying my eggs. Not in fat or lard, but with a little vegetable oil spray, but fried none the less.

So, recently when I was purchasing a chef’s knife for D2 Son-in- law’s birthday (Peppercorn’s Daddy to be) I succumbed to the lure of the shiny new egg poachers and ordered one online.

It arrived while I was in the City and I had to drive to the post office to collect it. Oh Happy Day. To illustrate its importance, it had been packed in a delivery box about twice the size of the actual pan and the said box filled most of my car boot {trunk}.

I raced home with it, wanting to stroke its gleaming newness, but at the mailbox I was flagged down by the neighbouring lady who wanted to chat. I know, niceness. Niceness when I have a new thing!

These neighbours have lived beside us for two years, and while Mr FD and Son have spoken with them, I have somehow never had the honour. For those of long term readership, they are the neighbours who wanted us to chop down our trees to suit them!

Husband has recovered from his foot cancer, but is now so obese he cannot fit down their halls, or pass through their doorways, so they have built an obesity house, as I call it, on the other side of our Village. They will be moving out over the next month. I always seem to get to know neighbours as they move out…oh dear, how sad, not.

So there I am, knowing my new friend The Egg Poacher is waiting for me, and I have to stand and exchange life stories. Twenty minutes. I guess I got some vitamin D. She is lucky she didn’t get a stick list position.

something is going to give


There’s this guy at work. The office he works in is opposite my office, and as soon as his supervisor is not physically present, he downs tools and comes into my office and tells me his opinion on everything, including education even though he is an IT technician and not an educator. If it is not his opinion, it is his father’s opinion. Both opinions are so far distant from my opinion as to be on separate planets in totally different universes.

I do the usual thing of keep working, no eye contact and just saying “mmm'” but to no avail. He actually cranes his neck to read papers on my desk, or my laptop screen, as well.

I have spoken to his supervisor previously, which gave me some relief for awhile, but it has peaked again this week. I have informed Minerva that if she doesn’t rescue me, I shall beat her to death. Minerva has taken to coming in to my office and declaring “I need to speak with my boss”, bless her little survivalist heart. (She knows my mantra is “revenge is sweet” and has seen the stick on my desk.)

To be honest, I am not the only one he pesters; we all have a turn. He can spend 30 minutes telling you how busy he is – busy because he avoids every bit of work he can!

BUT he is an IT technician and we all depend on him, so we can’t actually offend him. Slit his throat, maybe, but not actually dint his thick hide.