Cat woman

One evening I stayed back late at work to continue the mountain climb I had started previously. It’s now taken 5 days and 27 attempts to even get close to campsite three. Whatever the case I soldier on as I always do…just stubborn I suppose?

Surprisingly I can achieve more work in two hours, after hours, than a normal 7.5 hour day (probably shouldn’t announce that, but unfortunately it’s true) Half way through the evening I am disturbed by a cat fight - I assume they are fighting since that awful mournful meow keeps filling the airwaves.

Eventually having heard enough of this painful noise I get out of my seat and stretch my neck out of the window, but before yelling something unspeakable from a young lady I take notice of the situation - One big black cat has a smaller tabby trapped against a fence with no way of escaping. Outraged by this bullying I think quickly and frantically look around the office for something to throw at him. This took some deliberation since I couldn’t throw anything of value and had to resort to a marker pen. I suppose if I were cat woman I would have leapt from the building landing “cat style” on the ground below, spring across, grab the nuisance by the scruff of his furry neck, and kick his less furry arse!

But this would take too long and my tabby friend was running out of meows, so I took aim and lobbed the marker as hard as I could. This inevitably landed short by two meters, but was close enough to distract the bully. The tabby didn’t need to be told twice and quickly took this opportunity to exit stage right, although not at the speed I am sure it could have achieved. The bully being a bit slow, as most bullies are, didn’t notice this escape until the tabby had managed at least 5 cats lengths head start.
What happened after they disappeared behind the building I don’t know, but I can sit back at my desk with the satisfaction that I have saved someone from an arse kicking tonight.

Paper Mountain

Over the past few weeks I have neglected to notice the small pile of papers on my desk accumulating. It was only by chance one day that I sat down at my desk with a cup of tea and decided to look up from the computer screen. Stopping in mid sip, my eyes widen to take in the huge paper mountain before me.

An assortment of questions begins filling my head - Where on earth did this mountain come from? How long has it been growing? Did I grow it? What shall I name her?* Whatever the case I’m gong to be the first to the summit and quickly scull down the last of my tea and rush to the kitchen for some equipment.

A while later I return with a spoon and blunt knife (digging gear) some string and plastic bag ties (climbing gear), two bourbon biscuits and a packet of milk (rations). I contemplated a bottle of oxygen, but could only find the fire extinguisher, and decided pure CO2 or foam was a bad idea! Finally I armed myself with the PAID and ENTERED stamps and set off.

Having sourced my knowledge of mountain climbing off Discovery channel I decided to set up camp at the base of (the newly named) ‘Mount Data” and pull out my homemade map formed using paperclips, since the mountain had consumed all the paper! Checked the compass, which pointed straight for the paperclip map, but tried to mark my current position. Unfortunately this ended up in a paperclip daisy chain and made my map unreadable, so I packed it away neatly and consumed the first bourbon.

Two hours later I leave camp and begin the trek. What seems like hours of stamping (trekking), shuffling (climbing) and filing I finally reach campsite two. It’s here I encounter the first signs of life in the form of a goat. I ask for directions, but unfortunately can’t speak fluent goat and it just walks away without even a backwards glance. “Fine I find my own way then just don’t eat my mountain!”

I decide to not stay long at campsite two and consume the last bourbon and milk quickly. Another four hours into the journey and I look at my watch…Shit 4:25 it’s nearly home time – maybe I’ll try and reach the summit tomorrow.**

* Who do I contact to register new mountains for geographical records?

** With any luck the goat will consume my mountain!

The Earwig Jig

I consider myself musical and enjoy dancing when I get the opportunity, although being fairly shy about my unique style only dance at home in the lounge with the curtains blinded. Don’t get me wrong I have rhythm!* But have a tendency to flap my arms uncontrollably and leap around like a kangaroo on speed…even more so after a few beers! (Don’t believe me? Just go to Deanos (local pub/club) one weekend – I’m already blushing thinking about it, but thank fully too drunk to notice the laughter at the time).

I only refuse to do a line dance or anything with country music. Although there has been the rare occasion where I have been seen to Foxtrot and Quickstep, but I tend to be waltzing out the door by the third country song, since I can’t stand the depressing lyrics and am normally too pissed to stand let alone dance. It’s quite enjoyable making up new titles for country songs though like:

“I lost my cowboy boots on the hokey pokey down town alley round the corner”
“Stop that dixie dog drivin’ a train of daisies round my heart”
“Take my money, my wife and home, but leave my guitar alone!”
The list goes on…**

Just recently I have created a new dance, which I like to call “The Earwig Jig” Basically you feel a tickle (say down you leg, on your arm or across the back of your neck) leap up, hop from foot to foot while turning in circles and slap the invisible beasties frantically. This is enhanced with the lyrics “F***ing horrible little b**tards!” This is quite amusing especially as a spectator…even more so when there are no earwigs in sight and you realize it’s all in their heads.

* I can play most music, I hear (hopeless at reading music though), on a piano and have even accomplished mission impossible – with both hands (Nyree!)
** The saddest part about this being I’m am very close to true country song titles – look it up if you don’t believe me!

And this picture sends a chill down my spine! Will be jigging any minute now!

Moving Overseas

A new experience, a new challenge and even more chaos!

We have finally decided to stop talking about moving overseas and take action on our words. Dan requires his mates ticket to get any further in life as a sailor and more so to appease his mind that constantly reminds him he is a 32-year-old deckhand.

I haven’t experienced this “I’m getting old and what have I achieved?” factor yet since I’m only 25 (although pushing 26), but feel I should stop wasting time now, (stop having children for a start) and get some qualifications under my belt before it’s too late.

With the mission set it’s time to get motivated…begin the countdown