Seagull or Fish?

The die was cast a long time ago, but we don't know yet whether we are the seagull or the fish.

As far as we can tell things are proceeding normally with the contract while debate rages in the media. Rage about whether it's even possible to gain approvals to construct the transport corridor in its original location.  Rage about when a decision is not a decision.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Rage, rage against infrastructure and population growth, rage against lack of infrastructure, rage against stuff happening in their backyard.

Their rage is blurring our thoughts, so we try to keep some focus on plan "A" and leave the rage to others.

Que sera sera.

Spent

Today the Building and Pest inspections went without a hitch.

Today was the day the "cooling off" period in the contract was to have expired.  Just how a government actually cools off was not explained.  Neither, given that the inclusion of such an instrument in a contract was designed to overcome pressure sales tactics applied to unsuspecting old ladies by gold toothed rats wearing white shoes rather than considered and protracted resumption purchases by governments, was the reason for actually having such a provision in the contract.

Today was the day we received the letter from their people advising that the revised alignment of the highway has been reconsidered and that there will be no need for resumptions in our neighbourhood and that they'll catch up for a chat in a few weeks.

Today we are not quite sure exactly what is going on, but why, we ask ourselves, should today be any different to any other day in the last eight months or so?

Today was a day filled with very strange emotions indeed.

As is always the case when one is in the midst of great personal turmoil, the rest of the world raced by, going about its business without so much as a sideways glance.

Clouds

I think I'll miss this more than anything else.

Sitting on the back steps early in the morning with my coffee.

High tide.

Floating above the clouds.

Home Again

Home again and the soldier crabs are back too.  There are just a few at the moment, and unusually large they are as well, but if all runs true to form they'll soon be joined by hundreds of offspring, no bigger than a pea.   The smaller ones have much less colour and tend to blend into the greyness of the muddier sand near the low tide mark, but I have never been able to fathom the camouflage of the adults.  Sure their legs look very much as though they were meant to disappear in the sand, but hmmm... I wonder where their bodies are?

We have been known to spend quite some time watching them from the comfort of our deck, through binoculars, as they marshall their troops and capture each tiny hill.

The stingrays don't bother to watch, and probably have never seen the colour either.  They just cruise along pumping them from the safety of their own homes.  No building and pest inspections required by the stingrays, they resume them and flush them through the system, no beg pardons.

They'll be here soon.  The stingrays and the building and pest inspectors.

Wimmin's Business

While the rest of Australia had a day off to commemorate ANZAC Day,  the wheels of industry didn't stop whirring in Springwood.  

It's now just three weeks give or take, until Lily arrives to meet the family, and it's not just the blokes who are madly tiling and painting and trying to bring some semblance of completion to the house renovations.  Mother and daughter(s) have been going through the whole nesting thing all weekend.   Cots have been erected, curtains 'taken up', furniture shifted from one side of the room to another and back again.

I hope after all this, she likes us.

Uncool

I am led to believe that parading in public in plastic clogs that are cheap imitations of a well known brand is decidedly uncool, perhaps even more uncool than parading in public in orange versions of the well known brand.

Fortunately for me, parading around in caravan parks is socially acceptable it seems, as indeed is wearing them for any workshop related task where thongs don't provide enough protection.  They've been copping a bit of a flogging of late, plastered, splashed with artists acrylic paint and tile cement, but I know that I only have to sneak them into the washing machine with a bunch of towels and they'll come out as good as new.  (Just don't tell you know who my secret!)

I had thought of giving them a whirl in the dishwasher, but they don't quite sit in the plate racks like thongs do, and I'm not sure if the heat would do them harm.

I have a dark grey pair as well, but I keep them for best.  Actually if rumours are correct, we may be seeing the last of the cheapies, which is a shame because while I can't remember exactly what these cost I did buy a watch and a pair of thongs at the same time and had change from twenty five dollars.

Repressed Memory

"Tiling Floors" is the other name for repressed memory therapy.  It's only when one begins and can't back out of the job, that the memories of just how long it takes and how bad one is at it and how sore one's back can get, and how badly damaged one's knees really are, come flooding back.  By then it is too late.   

That's why they're called LONG weekends I suppose.