Remember when you went to school and it was raining. Not drizzle but the long hard rains that marked our youths and that some of us prayed for so Saturday morning sport would be cancelled?
That you would then spend the day damp, your school shoes faithfully retaining that rainwater so your toes ached by recess. That smell of damp wool – from stockings, skirt, jumper and blazer – permeating every single classroom. That weird matted down hair from the dampness in the air and walking the last several hundred metres to school in the rain as the wind had busted your umbrella.
God I loved those days.
One of the shining lights of my year at uni started one of his first pieces to air with this line.
It was his intro for a story about a plane crash. As in:
“It’s an all too familiar story. Planes go up, dead bodies come down.”
I am not kidding.
While its certainly not an auspicious start to a television career, it is the perfect segue into my comments about plane crashes and air shows. Besides, is there anything more enjoyable that regaling the world with humilating tales about other people, particularly ones they hope to the core of their soul, everyone has forgotten?
But peoples, why why why is the heir to Walmart flying around in a h.o.m.e.m.a.d.e plane??? I mean really, the dude could have bought a couple of leer jets?
And why why why would anyone in their right mind go flying in a group of 22 light planes - IN FOG – and not realise the stats were certainly favouring the floor not the air?
How many air shows must we endure before we realise, “oh yes, all those planes in one place, doing wild and wacky things that defy gravity – what’s the likelihood one of them will come crashing to the ground in a ball of flames?”
I mean, derrr.
Heard my first Shane joke on the bus today, an oldie but a goodie –
A British newspaper has surveyed 500 women, asking if they would sleep with Shane Warne.
Only 10 per cent said yes, the other 90 per cent answered “Never again”.
Seriously, if Simone doesn’t clean that little creep out of every penny I will be deeply dismayed.
My prediction, after reading today that Shane was indeed back to his old game of texting sex to all and sundry when his wife’s back was turned (and also 12,000 miles away) is that we will see the following headline from the Warne Marking Director very soon:
“Shane’s Tragic Disease: Sex Addiction Stole My Family”
Just you wait, dial-a-quote sex therapists around the world are quivering at the loins in the hope of commenting on this one…
We live with my mother. When you stop laughing, this does have benefits. Sure, most days its hard to say these overide the gross infringements on privacy and the relentless suffocating sense of being sixteen even though I am completing my Masters, hold down a full time job, pay bills, have a great marriage and have produced two children yet to show any major psychotic tendencies. But the kids love her and it means I can duck out to shops or attempt a social life without the prohibitive costs of a hired babysitter.
and maybe this is due to the maternal breeding patterns of over-protectiveness, I was filling a bit under the weather this evening and AB, bless him, has made me custard. (an aside: after telling him I wasn’t feeling particularly loved the other day – remember the not-sharing-the-chips-tirade there’s been a whole lotta lovin’).
And I’m not sharing. She’s currently pretending to be teaching my children, but I know she’s loitering for proper-made-by-a-chef custard. And I’m here to say, that lovefest of cream and egg yolks is mine, all mine.