Well last week was quite a week. The media storm following dinner with the PM was quite something. Is there really that much anger and hate in people over something so inane? Really?
It occurred to me that perhaps more people would be swinging by for a look see so if you have, hi!
Of course, the next thought in my head after “smile and wave boys, smile and wave” was don’t fuck it up. I mean, it’d be nice if you did swing by that you’d like to come back again.
So naturally I have the most spectacular case of performance anxiety. In fact, my inability to think of anything erudite to write has only been outdone by my ability to scoff hot cross buns with lashings of butter as compensation. What, it’s a symbiotic relationship. Clearly.
My brain is now in that awkward place normally reserved for parties at which you know no one and join a conversation just as it ends and a painful silence ensures. Just.say.something.
Behold a bigger crisis than a busted back:
Someone’s getting pretty plum tuckered with this five days a week of school:
Felix has confirmed that playing rugby professionally is something he wants to do. He’s also mentioned heart surgeon so you know, he’s keeping his options open. This announcement and wanting to play rep footy means I now have somewhere to unleash the Show Mum in me. Part 1 of this involved this:
Safe to say, I will never EVER be an AR. Not without at least 20mg of valium under my belt.
God FORBID if I had to try and comprehend whether a ball was “in touch” when the player was in the air/on the field/off the field/in the dressing room/running straight for me while the ball was moving/not moving/had touched someone or someTHING.
OR grasp what constitutes foul play (note for fellow rugby lovers – rucking, you know, where you ram your studs into an opponent, is TOTALLY legal so long as you are clearly looking to “progress the ball”. Stomping however is not. So get your leg action right to get away with it.) AND how to report it to the referee.
Seriously, I’d be lying down playing dead within ten minutes of the first whistle if I had to fulfil AR duties. That or yelling at the crowd for someone to find an adult.
Do NOT get me started on the arm gestures or USE OF A FLAG.
Apart from the stress of it, I now proudly own my limitations and well, give me a list of rules and I will implement them to the letter. Handy if the world’s ending and we need to keep order for the survivors camp upstate but probably not ideal in a game where the whole purpose is to keep the ball in play.
This tendency to love a rule and carry it out no.matter.what was no better illustrated than my role as a School Monitress and then as a Prefect. Yes, I capped those two titles. I attended an exclusive private girls school in Sydney and would, by today’s funding model, be the aberration that allows an exclusive private girls school on many many acres on Sydney’s Leafy North Shore to claim it was educating children from family’s suffering financial hardship. That’s right, my presence at that school was doing them a favour and I said thank you by carrying out the rules to.the.letter. Let’s just say part of the school uniform was wearing a hat and well, if you didn’t have that hat on I would write you a blue slip quicker than you could say what a dork. No matter your year or social standing. I was
stupid dedicated ruthless.
So yeah. I have realised my limitations and accepted my ideal role is that of Field Marshall.
I just ate an entire packet of SAOs with butter and vegemite in the space of two days. Note to self: do not buy what you can not control.