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.


If you had ten copies of yourself, today, what would you have them do?

ME 10

Can you imagine what the world would be like graced by ten copies of me – and the original me, making a total of eleven Flamingo Dancers. upon this earth? I think the original Flamingo Dancer might just need a cup of tea to handle all the excitement, too!

Do I want them to even a few scores, or to go forth and enjoy? The temptation is to send a couple forth with sticks to beat the brains out of a few people who could do with a good sticking (no one ever expects revenge by a lady). That’s not in the spirit of my New Year though, so I guess to answer my own query, I will turn my 10 MEs to fun and good times.

FD1. She will go to cooking school and learn to do all those things that professional chefs appear to do so effortlessly. She will cook for all family occasions, and all our meals will be healthy, gourmet delights.

FD2. Is going to go back to university, to study all the courses I would like to study  just for the sake of knowing – psychology, or art, perhaps. Not maths though, never maths.

FD3. She will be the writer. A great book, an enduring classic no less, will be the fruits of her keyboard. Of course when it hits the best seller list, I will send her back to the cupboard and take over the book signings. Better still, she can start work on book 2.

FD4. Poor workhorse, she goes to work, she lives the ordinary life that keeps the food on the table and the roof over our heads.

FD5. She is going to sewing class to learn to sew, something I never really had interest in, but wish my mother had encouraged when I was younger. Mum was one of those mothers who was always conceded that we would sew our fingers together or worse still, break her sewing machine. She sewed, and I am not sure she wanted us to challenge her skills so major lack of encouragement meant no interest on my part. So FD5 is going to make up for past stupidity. FD5 will create haute couture outfits that hide the lumpy or saggy bits while accenting the glorious bits (I have a great butt, and it should be appreciated)

FD6 is going to be the brave one. She is going to go to some far country and help women get an education. Or to help nurse sick children or feed the starving. She will earn forgiveness for all my evilosity.

FD7. She might, I think, run for politics and sort this country out. Being the Flamingo Dancer, no doubt she would soon be Prime Minister and later leader of the UN, and eventually, the world would recognise her greatness, and elect her Queen of the World for life. As per FD3, this is when the original FD, me, myself and I, will take the stage. FD7 can then go home and clean the windows.

FD8. FD8 is to be a Cuddle Mum, one of those lovely women who volunteer in hospitals to nurse babies when their parents can’t be there, or read stories to sick children in hospital. This is something I have always thought I would like to do, but now that I live in the country is probably less of a possibility, but then again, who knows what life will bring.

FD9. Oh the hell with it, FD9 is going to woman the Stick List, and beat all those people who have irritated me throughout my life. Coworkers who were bitches, or just annoying; employers who were pigs, and generally anyone who has irritated me to any degree throughout my life. Beat hard and beat them often. Revenge is too sweet not to take the opportunity.

FD.10. She is going to learn how to give me a really good massage. No more paying for massages, or having to leave my home to obtain one. She will soothe my aches and pains on a daily basis, bless her little FD replication!

And Me, me? I will sleep, and eat, read and create. I will travel, watch the birds in my garden, and do whatever I damn well please.

Where do I sign up for delivery?


the morning after


I have a bad case of crown hair.

This year, we were going to go Christmas crackerless, but Daughter1’s mother in law brought along a box and so we sat at the table wearing paper crowns. By some strange coincidence, of the eight people assembled at table, seven wore yellow or orange hats, and one a pink crown. Me. The power of my glorious aura even reaches out to Christmas crackers!

Daughter2, feasting with her future inlaws, sent a glorious floral table arrangement that was and is, just sheer joy to gaze upon, and finished our table beautifully. Just by chance, I had selected apple green linen napkins for the table and the same green was echoed in the flowers. More of my magnificence!


Petite Fille, sat on her chair, wishing all a “Merry Christmas” and hit repeat once she realised the attention it gained her. Recently, she has been making duplo dogs, and every “dog” was not considered to complete without the addition of one last block, which was deemed a “party hat”. So adults with party hats, surrounding her was the cause for much declaring of “party” and “hip hip hooray” with the appropriate arm throwing head high. The gin and tonic pre lunch, and the selection of wines during lunch meant more adult gusto as the meal went on.

The roast was a failure, as despite hours of “correct” cooking was still deemed “raw” at slicing, so back into the oven, but there was plenty of ham to go around. Once the shame of it all would have spoiled the event for me, but now I just laughed and shared the story. I did feel superior though, due to not over catering. There was one little container of left over sweet potato and pumpkin at meal’s end; not the dozens of little bits and pieces of previous years which meant a search through cupboards for odd containers and much use of glad wrap. The fridge is not groaning under the weight of leftovers, hooray!

The sticky fig pudding (egg free) with caramel sauce was to die for, and a couple of people went back for seconds. Mr FD and Son finished it off as their main course, Christmas night. The dishwasher washed into today, but it is all cleared and packed away now, ready for stage two. Daughter2 and Her Beau arrive on Monday when we shall party again with more family.

The addition of Petite Fille has made Christmas, Christmas again. She finds such happiness in small things – her glee at stroking Augie Dog, eating her first cookie (be it a chickpea cookie!) and having her two grandmothers in the same place at the same time (that took some mind altering processing!) was a gift I hope I never forget.

Boxing Day afternoon and I am still in my pyjamas. There were long phone calls this morning, with Daughter1 and my Sister to recap the day. Sister was with us for lunch, but we still found things to talk about for two hours this morning!

I hope that you found peace and happiness in your days. Blessings to you all.

Thank you for being my friend.


But don’t think this will get you out of a “sticking” should you require it…


heathens and philistines


It is so fashionable at the moment to adorn ourselves, and our homes with books. Sadly,not read though.


Jewellery is made from books, furniture is made from books, and of course art is made from books. Cafes and hotels grace magazine pages boasting book lined shelves and often no one could reach even if they were inclined to open the covers.

room 1

No one who reads has time, nor the inclination, to arrange their shelves by colour hue.

Someone should hit them with a stick, and I know just the person to do it.