If you died in your sleep, would you want any of these books found stacked on your bedside table?
When I was quite young
and quite small for my size,
I met an old man in the desert of Drize.
And he sang me a song I will never forget.
At least, well, I haven’t forgotten it yet.
He sat in a terribly prickly place.
But he sang with a sunny sweet smile on his face.
When you think things are bad,
when you feel sour and blue,
when you start to get mad…
you should do what I do!
Just tell yourself, Duckie,
you’re really quite lucky!
Some people are much more…
oh, ever so much more…
oh, muchly much-much more
unlucky than you!
Be glad you don’t work on the Bunglebung Bridge
that they’re building across Boober Bay at Bumm Ridge.
It’s a troublesome world. All the people who’re in it
are troubled with troubles almost every minute.
You ought to be thankful, a whole heaping lot,
for the places and people you’re lucky you’re not!
Just suppose for example,
you lived in Ga-Zayt
and got caught in the traffic
on Zaty Highway Eight!
just for instance,
you lived in Ga-Zair
with your bedroom up here
and your bathroom up THERE!
Suppose, just suppose, you were poor Herbie Hart,
who has taken his Throm-dim-bu-lator apart!
He never will get it together, I’m sure.
He never will know if the Gick or the Goor
fits into the Skrux or the Snux or the Snoor.
Yes, Duckie, you’re lucky you’re not Herbie Hart
who has taken his Throm-dim-bu-lator apart!
Think they work you too hard…?
Think of poor Ali Sard!
He has to mow grass in his uncle’s back yard
and it’s quick-growing grass
and it grows as he mows it.
The faster he mows it, the faster he grows it.
And all that his stingy old uncle will pay
for his shoving that mower around in the hay
is the piffulous pay of two Dooklas a day.
And Ali can’t live on such piffulous pay!
He has to paint flagpoles
on Sundays in Grooz.
How lucky you are
you don’t live in his shoes!
And poor Mr. Bix!
Every morning at six,
poor Mr. Bix has his Borfin to fix!
It doesn’t seem fair. It just doesn’t seem right,
but his Borfin just seems to go shlump every night.
It shlumps in a heap, sadly needing repair.
Bix figures it’s due to the local night air.
It takes him all day to un-shlump it.
the night air comes back
and it shlumps once again!
So don’t you feel blue. Don’t get down in the dumps.
You’re lucky you don’t have a Borfin with shlumps.
And, while we are at it, consider the Schlottz,
the Crumple-horn, Web-footed, Green-bearded Schlottz,
whose tail is entailed with un-solvable knots.
If he isn’t muchly
more worse off than you,
I’ll eat my umbrella.
That’s just what I’ll do.
And you’re lucky, indeed, you don’t ride a camel.
To ride on a camel, you sit on a wamel.
A wamel, you know, is a sort of a saddle
held on by a button that’s known as a faddle.
And, boy! If your old wamel-faddle gets loose,
I’m telling you, Duckie, you’re gone like a goose.
And poor Mr. Potter,
He has to cross t’s
and he has to dot i’s
in an I-and-T factory
out in Van Nuys!
Oh, the jobs people work at!
Out west, near Hawtch-Hawtch,
there’s a Hawtch-Hawtcher Bee-Watcher.
His job is to watch…
is to keep both his eyes on the lazy town bee.
A bee that is watched will work harder, you see.
Well…he watched and he watched.
But, in spite of his watch,
that bee didn’t work any harder. Not Mawtch.
So somebody said,
“Our old-bee-watching man
just isn’t bee-watching as hard as he can.
He ought to be watched by another Hawtch-Hawtcher!
The thing that we need
is a Bee-Watcher-Watcher!”
The Bee-Watcher-Watcher watched the Bee-Watcher.
He didn’t watch well. So another Hawtch-Hawtcher
had to come in as a Watch-Watcher-Watcher!
And today all the Hawtchers who live in Hawtch-Hawtch
are watching on Watch-Watcher-Watchering-Watch,
Watch-Watching the Watcher who’s watching the bee.
You’re not a Hawtch-Watcher. You’re lucky, you see!
And how fortunate you’re not Professor de Breeze
who has spent the past thirty-two years, if you please,
Trying to teach Irish ducks how to read Jivvanese.
And think of the
poor puffing Poogle-Horn Players,
who have to parade
down the Poogle-Horn Stairs
every morning to wake up
the Prince of Poo-Boken.
It’s awful how often
their poogles get broken!
And, oh! Just suppose
you were poor Harry Haddow.
Try as he will
he can’t make any shadow!
He thinks that, perhaps, something’s wrong with his Gizz.
And I think that, by golly, there probably is.
And the Brothers Ba-zoo.
The poor Brothers Ba-zoo!
Suppose your hair grew
like theirs happened to do!
You think your unlucky…?
I’m telling you, Duckie,
some people are muchly,
oh, ever so muchly,
muchly more-more-more unlucky than you!
And suppose that you lived in that forest in France,
where the average young person just hasn’t a chance
to escape from the perilous pants-eating-plants!
But your pants are safe! you’re a fortunate guy.
And you ought to be shouting, “How lucky am I!”
And , speaking of plants,
you should be greatly glad-ish
you’re not Farmer Falkenberg’s
And you’re so, so lucky
you’re not Gucky Gown,
who lives by himself
ninety miles out of town,
in the Ruins of Ronk.
Ronk is rather run-down.
And you’re so, so, So lucky
you’re not a left sock,
left behind by mistake
in the Kaverns of Krock!
Thank goodness for all of the things you are not!
Thank goodness you’re not something someone forgot,
and left all alone in some punkerish place
like a rusty tin coat hanger handing in space.
That’s why I say, “Duckie!
Don’t grumble! Don’t stew!
Some critters are much-much,
oh, ever so much-much,
so muchly much-much more unlucky than you!”
How can the media and retailers forcing people into spending huge amounts of money on trash be considered romantic or an indicator of real love? Someone handing me a bunch of flowers on cue, like Pavlov’s dog salivating, is in no way a romantic gesture. It merely means that they respond to instructions, not necessarily given by the people they should be listening to either.
Romantic to me, is my partner filling my car with petrol because he knows I have an early trip to make next day, and bringing me home my favourite ice-cream from the service station after he does.
Romantic to me, is someone who can sleep next to me when I are covered in chicken pox. For a week.
Romantic to me, is a bunch of flowers, but a bunch of flowers on any day of the week just because he missed me during the day.
Romantic is when he is willing to trail behind me for hours in museums and galleries while I indulge in my passion for all things historical.
Romantic is when the alarm goes off at 5.15am and my partner, who doesn’t have to get up for another 2 hours, rolls over in bed and says “The mallet is in the corner of the room. You may use it either on the alarm clock or on me, whichever makes you feel better” as Mr FD said this morning. Offering your own life on behalf of another, now that is romantic.
However, making such a romantic offer and not thinking I would take up that offer is just plain stupid…
My job start has been postponed until Friday due to the weather and road conditions. Hopefully the rain wll be less by then. We have had 100ml of rain in the last 24 hours alone. December was Brisbane’s wettest month on record and it has rained all January so far. There comes a time when the sheer volume of water over the land starts to generate its own rain, and so we have started having storms as well. Lying in bed listening to the rain is no longer so soothing. Not having fun, now.
I think the Big Whatever can turn off the tap now!
Growing older is inevitable.
As I approached the writing of this post, I considered number one on my list of things that you shouldn’t have to wait until you are fifty to learn : growing older is inevitable (refer to Things Learnt page),. I thought that a good way to hook a reader might by the use of a witty quote about the inevitability of aging. A quick Google search came up one with quote that seemed to be repeated web wide : growing older is inevitable, but growing up is optional.
Now that hooked me, but I suspect not in the way the original creator would have thought. Growing older is inevitable, but growing up is optional. Really?
My impulse is to disagree. Growing up is not optional. Society and our own growing expectations force it upon us. We push the envelope, tear at the bit, and want, want, want; a natural progression of the species in a way. Well, at least in a consumer based society.
Growing up has an obvious emphasis on behaviour. The Peter Pan myth shows us what happens to people who refuse to grow up; Michael Jackson its latest victim. May I add Michael Jackson and I were born the same year. As was Madonna. You do the math. The connotation is that we need to remain young at heart, hug our wonderment and awe tightly to our thoughts and actions, and live in the moment. Not always easy though is it?
Who can escape days when family issues, health issues or work issues don’t have us curled in the fetal position under our doonas? More than one day I retreated in my pajamas to my bed, clutching the jelly baby lolly jar to my chest as I watched an endless news cycle, confirming my worst fears that the world was indeed wrong, wrong, wrong, damn you! The terms doona day, or mental health day, have not crept into our society for nothing. Hard to be carefree on such days, isn’t it?
But you know what? I don’t have to be carefree every day. I know I won’t be, and only a fool would be surprised that we don’t live in a movie perfect world. My rider there is that I don’t want too many bad days, but I accept a few before wailing.
Growing older comes to the rescue in such times I have found. After a day or two, my hard won experience and wisdom clicks in and I get back on the treadmill, refreshed in a way, just because I know that this time will end. One day after another, time will change things if I just work with it. It mightn’t be what I choose to happen to me, but damn it, I can choose how I handle it.
I pity the young. They haven’t had the chance to grow up, to build resilience, or to consider that they are enough just the way they are. Older people have weathered the storm and are more comfortable in their own skins. Maturity gives one the power to say, hey this is me, and I like me, and I am enough!
Growing older is inevitable, and what a gift that is!
Went to the movies with Daughter2 to watch Love and other drugs with Jake Gyllenhaal and Anne Hathaway. I didn’t expect it to be based about Anne Hathaway’s character having a major chronic illness so was a little surprised, but it was a very sanitised version of illness. Hathaway made it look almost cool to be ill! I enjoyed it though, perhaps more than Daughter2 who felt that Hathaway’s character didn’t produce empathy in the viewer to understand why Gyllenhaal would give up so much to be with her, but that was more the fault of the script writer, not the issue. In all it was fun, and as we went to a morning session we were home by early afternoon.
We went to Mr and Mrs Boy’s for afternoon tea. Mr FD and Son as well, so it was a full flock of flamingos! We ate yummy tea treats, including mini gelato cones.
The Boys (aka Daughter1 and The Boy) have just had their house painted inside and out. The house is about 1930s vintage and has tongue and groove walls and the original windows. The have chosen lovely colours and it is so peaceful – feels liks a real home sanctuary.
Mrs Boy’s bridal bouquet is finally back from being preserved for eternity.
as I said before…it doesn’t get much better than that!
Have you ever looked deep into your loved ones eyes, a little misty eyed yourself, placed your hands softly on each side of their head…and twisted their head around and around until their neck resembled a cork screw? If so, did it relieve your anger?
Let me start at the beginning. I was having a lovely little sleep this morning. I heard the door click as Mr FD left the room, and rolled over in bed. One eye flicked open (easy when you only have one) and spied the bedside clock. 11.30am!
Be still my beating heart! Days out from Christmas and I am sleeping in until 11.30!
I leapt out of bed, rushed into the bathroom and dressed. I had presents to wrap, windows to finish cleaning, partridges and pear trees to source, as well as leaping lords and milk maids a milking to deal with; I needed every tick tock left on the clock.
Going down stairs two at a time, no mean feet considering my level of fitness, or unfitness, I rushed into the kitchen declaring, “Today is the day we go to the waste transfer station (garbage dump)!” I thought I was keeping the rising frenetic energy under control, but Mr FD did look at me as though I was one bauble short of a full Christmas tree.
Then the little voice in my head suggested that I check the kitchen clock. It read 9am. So did the clock on the oven. Truth slowly dawned. Power black out last week, plus request to Mr FD to reset the clock on his side of the bed. Mr FD and clock. Mr FD and the wrong time on the clock.
I only occasionally claim to be an Einstein, but this was one occasion when my grey cells didn’t have to rise too high. Mr FD had obviously not reset the clock in our bedroom. It was not 11.30 upstairs and 9am downstairs. It was 9am all through the house!
Mr FD’s inaction, or lack of attention to detail, had resulted in a frantic start to the morning for me. Needlessly, wasted energy. As I calmed down, I realised that there was no need for partridges in pear trees, leaping lords or dancing milk maids. I did have presents to wrap, but the presents and the wrapping were all safely on the dining table waiting their turn. It was indeed waster transfer day, but not until late afternoon when all the palm fronds had been picked up from the recent storms.
There was only one thing that really had to be done…come hither, dear. Let me stroke your brow … and twist your neck like a cork screw!
Retribution can be as sweet as revenge.