I live in Queensland.  We can’t have daylight savings up here, because: cows and curtain care, so sometime around 5am an INFERNAL RACKET starts up.  No, it’s not the kids sneakily turning on iDevices to play Minecraft (that starts at 5.28am), it’s BLOODY BIRDS.

Billions (yes, that’s right, billions) of them.

Outside.

How dare they? You’d think they bloody owned the whole of outside, they way they carry on.

I hate birds.  Yes, even Rainbow Lorikeets.  Yes, even Doves.  Yes, even tiny little Finches.  Yes, even your cute little pet that is so friendly and cute and wouldn’t peck anyone and for some reason you have taught how to repeat inane phrases.   All.Of.Them.  Winged rats they are, spreading disease (maybe) and poo (definitely) and making noise, and waking me up every.single.morning.  They are vermin and they should be stopped.

The good news is, I have a cat.  Woofa, her name is, and although I don’t want her to go around killing birds (maybe), I got her to be an effective bird deterrer  great pet for the kids.  Trouble is, this is Woofa:

Woofa the Shitcat

and that is what she does all day.  Finds things (in this case it is Kid 2’s reading folder) and lies on them, sleeping all.frigging.day.  Putting long white cat fur on the dark coloured stuff, and long dark-brown cat fur on the light coloured stuff.  You could be forgiven for thinking the cat has no eyes, because you never see them.  But this is not a post about that shitcat, it’s a post about birds and how much I hate the infernal pests.

Did I mention I hate birds?  It’s not Ornithophobia, I’m not scared of the bastards (any more), I just abhor them and their stupid little pointy mouths. And their ugly little stick legs.  And their beady dead eyes. Evil, beady eyes.

So, the morning birds: they suck, but today a new horror began: afternoon birds.  Some kind of huge, black, cockatoo things have come to roost and shriek like Nazgul in my front tree.  They scream and squeal and decimate the bottle-brush and chuck the bits they don’t like all over the drive way.  Or, like today, onto my head.  It bloody well hurt. I may have been seriously concussed mildly stunned.

Birds=1, Me=0

Tomorrow I’m gonna fix them and this terrible situation.  I’m getting a hacksaw out of Nath’s trailer and I’m gonna hack off every one of those bottle-brushes so they won’t have a single thing to eat.

Yeah.

Birds=1, Me=1.

But then: birds starving and die, so,

Birds=1 (and dead,) Me=2.

I win the bird wars.

What do you think of birds?  Ever been pecked by one of those filthy magpies?

What’s your worst animal?

Hi there y’all.  I’ve had a bit of a big day* and don’t have the time or the energy to get you a well constructed, hilarious, heart-wrenching or warming post sorted out.

So in lieu of a blog, I give you This . Someone else who had a big day.

May your intestines flow freely and your Friday be happy.

*A big day from work,  not from pooing. Just work.

Ever overflowed your toilet?

Thanks to  AmosKeeto for the link

I am 42 years old.

I’ve have borne two children.  One of them was 9lbs 6oz in the old measure.  So we shan’t chat too much here about what’s stretched and what’s not (this isn’t Mumsnet* after all).  And it has gotten hot here, in my part of the world.

***Cue the Darth Vader scary music***

It’s time to go shopping for bathers.

Like I said, I’m 42 years old, and in that time I have learned two things about shopping for bikinis:

1.  Only buy Seafolly. The rest are rubbish.  They fade and stretch and pill, so it’s really just smoke and mirrors and false economy.

2. It does not matter ONE BIT how you are feeling about yourself or your body.  On the day you go bathers shopping you will feel like shit by the end. Bright lights, tiny 19 year old shop assistants who only help you when their FB feeds are silent and trying to stuff your knickers into the bikini bottoms so you can see what you’ll look like galavanting on the beach like a Libra Fleur ad.  So you might as well go on a day you feel ordinary anyway.  That way at least it can’t get much worse.

Currently, I’m in need of a haircut.  I haven’t waxed or plucked or defoliated in any way.  My skin is pasty.  So that day, was today.

I took a glug of Rescue Remedy and went into Sea Elements.

Bright lights: tick

Lady-girl at the counter: tick

Racks of scant garments in sickening shades of iridescence: tick

I don’t have a particularly big rig, and I’m between a size 8 and 10, but let’s just say gravity has not been kind.  What little breast-tissue was not hoovered up by the two parasites I spawned, has definitely gone south.  And a bit east and west.  With not a northerly in sight.  So I require ‘assistance’.  Unfortunateiy, this assistance is limited, as I abhor strap marks, so I also require a strapless top.  Let’s call that problem challenge #1.  Secondly, I used to have legs that ran, and a bottom that knew how to boogie.  Now I have legs that prefer a nice couch and a cuppa, and a derriere with more dimples than Shirley Temple, aka travesty challenge #2.  I may have already mentioned that I’m 42 years old.  My vintage means that fluorescents, iridescents and scintillants were for years long gone by.  Florals and animal prints are still in the future.  Which doesn’t leave much, I know: conundrum challenge #3.

I marched up to Lady-girl and explained the parameters of my purchase.  She blinked a few times, doe-eyed, then nodded.  Challenge accepted.

I absconded to the shoebox cubicle and paced in the (almost) nude waited patiently for her to bring me some options.  And bring  she did.  A veritable motherlode of lycra.  Stripes, zig-zags, spots and plains.  Bottoms that went up your bottom and bottoms that looked like your Nan’s bottom. Tops that lifted up and pushed up and foofed up.  The change-room floor looked like the remains of a vanquished Sunday-cyclist peloton.  But none of them quite right.

The she handed me the final pair.  ***Finger-of-god light and harps***

Perfect.

So I left with these new bathers.

They have straps.  They are floral.  They have pink fluro.

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED IN THERE?

SEE FOLLY.

The End

Have you been bathers shopping this year?

Do you call them bathers. togs, swimmers or cozzies?

* Mumsnet discussing penis dunking. Very funny.

We are home.

There’s wifi.

And a big-arse tv. With surround sound. (And my god that tv is big.)

And there’s unpacking to do, and washing to wash and dry, and ewww brown liquid to clean out of the crisper, and cat fur to vacuum up, and lunches to make, and, and, and….

I was about you write you a blog.

But I’m on Twitter, (luckily) and the Southerners who have Daylight Savings, have reminded me that Homeland is on in a minute.

So this is the blog.

Lucky for you Kelly Exeter is so much more diligent than I.  She has done her bloggy homework, and even set you some of your own.  Even better, it’s a quiz.  About yourself.  So you can’t get it wrong.  I’m all over that.  I’m going to do it in the ad breaks of Homeland.  I’ve always been ENTJ, so hopefully there’s going to be some kind of explanation of why I seem to ‘like’ leaving my homework until the last minute.  And maybe why I’m addicted to Carrie Mathieson’s plight. And looking at funny animal memes on the internet.

And if all that isn’t enough for you, then check out THIS (Don’t say I never give you anything.)

Are you going to do the test?

What type are you?

I know I said I wouldn’t post any more sad shit, but I feel like crap today, so I guess I might as well bring you all down with me.  Last one, I promise*.

Today is the come-down I guess.

The day when you realise that you have to live the rest of your life without your mate.

That you can’t call her when you’re in a restaurant to ask WTF some fancy-schmancy ingredient is.  That you can’t send a scathing text to her when you see someone wearing a terrible outfit combo (and you can’t say it to anyone else or they’ll think you’re a bastard, which is fairly accurate.)  That you can’t send her a pic of the Cadbury Dairy Milk Family Block you are about to eat, knowing she will text straight back telling you you’re a bogan.

That you won’t hear her laugh again.

Or see her bloody big smile.

That you won’t be having all those family holidays you were planning, once she got well.

That you won’t be going to New York together for her 40th.  She won’t be having a 40th.

The hole that is in my chest right now just feels so big I don’t know how it will ever heal.  I know all the platitudes.  I’ve done this all before.  Several times.

I’m just wrung out today.

So if I haven’t already bummed out your day enough, check out this song by Xavier Rudd that played at the funeral.  It was written for Hayley I reckon.

*This might be a lie.  I will try though..

Today we had a funeral.  I didn’t expect it.  But if you have been following along, then you know that already.

A few years ago, Hayley and I decided you could only have a few really close friends in your life.  Five, or maybe seven at most.

I was Hayley’s third best friend.  And at her funeral today, as her third best friend, this is what I said:

Hayley and I are only friends because of cancer.

We met when she came home to be diagnosed, and embark on her treatment.

We first met at CCK, the chiropractic office I was working in at the time, but we really became friends after meeting up at the Koala Bar in Noosa.  We had both gone there to see a band, independently, and found each other by chance.  I impressed Hayls with my Jump Dancing skills, (which are legion by they way), and we were friends from then on.

*****

We were able to become close friends because of cancer.

Hayley wasn’t working at that stage, as she was devoting all of her energy to various things;

• strengthening her body,
• clearing her mind,
• eating nurturing organic food,
• and of course, getting ready to meet John, the love of her life, for the second time.

We used to spend endless hours lunching at the Organic Cafe, or swimming laps at Coolum pool, with lots of time to chat about all of the things under the sun.  We thought we had forever.

When I was pregnant with Liam, Hayls told me that she would be “Aunty Hayley” and I agreed.  I don’t have a sister, and having a pretend sister such as Hayls was a gift and a joy.  I liked to think that people would hear Liam, and later, Coco, say “Aunty Hayley” and think we were actual sisters.

My ‘little sister’ made me laugh more than anyone in the world.

She softened my sharp edges.

She made me irreverent, made me swear, made me play, made me light.

I could tell her anything.

I could do anything, dream anything.

I could be my whole truth.

Because she encouraged such things.

So now the very thing that gave me my friend, my honorary sister, has taken her away.

*****

A patient of mine told me last week that she believes some people build bridges toward others, that they have a talent for bringing people close.   Hayley was one of those people.   She built roads and tracks and pathways to entwine, and join us all together.  She did it with her cheeky sense of humour, her naughtiness, her strength and her gutsiness, her loyalty and dependability, and her laugh, always her laugh.  She built bridges to us all, and she built them well.

Hayley was a chef of food of course, but she was also a chef of the soul.  It’s like she could take a little piece of you, the very piece that you liked the most about yourself, and then she would roll it and knead it and carefully bake it until it was all plumped up, making you better than you were before.  It’s how she made her markings on your heart.

She named her cafe Sister, and even though I know it was meant for Rick and Belinda and Hayley, I like to imagine that she meant it for all of us.  I like to think, that with the laughter that was always just under the surface, and ready to burst forth, and the truthfulness that was always, always there, that she made us all her sisters.

Those of you who know me, will know I love a good literary reference, and so today I would like share with you a reading.  It’s called ‘The Best Friends Book’.

(Sorry blog readers: I gave the book to darling Olive, but it is by Todd Parr.. I did intend to take a pic of it to show you, but, well, I don’t think I was at my bloggy best…  The last line is: )

“Best friends stay close even if they are a million miles away.”

*****

Oh Halys, I wish you weren’t a million miles away.

Cheers.  I might* be pissed as I post this. Sorry if it’s a bit rough.  I’m not proof-reading.

*Am