I had a bunch of flowers delivered to myself today, with ‘Dear Catherine. Congratulations on your new appointment. Love from Donna’ written on the card. I’m going to leave it inside my front gate for a couple of days to see what happens.

The men at work keep readjusting themselves. They don’t even know they’re doing it. What is the matter with them? And why do I notice?

Also, I’ve been noticing at work lately that whenever any of us make a mistake Stuart is on to us, but when he does, he just says, ‘Mea Culpa’, and we’re all then supposed to forget that he made an error and move on. I think I might start saying ‘Mea Culpa’.

Phoned an agent at work today using my mobile. Mid-conversation the call cut out so I rang back, to find the number was engaged. Obviously, they were trying to ring me at the same time. I think we need some clear etiquette on who rings back when a call is cancelled, to avoid both parties ringing, not getting through, and then both parties waiting for the other person to ring. I suggest the person who rang in the first place be the re-ringer. Or should it be the other one?

It’s like when you just miss a call from someone or get a text, you ring back straight away, and they don’t answer. Where do they go?

The good news is that the UTI (read thrush) has cleared up, so I had a visit from Ian again tonight. The sex was pretty good, although he didn’t tick all the boxes, on account of the recent UTI, I expect. Anyway, sadly, it was still nice to see him.

It was HF’s second day today, but already she’s called a team meeting. I didn’t know we had a team. She wanted each of us to come up with two KPIs for our area. I know my main KPI is that I’m still alive when I wake up. I’m thinking of putting a chart on the fridge (next to the one I don’t use to record my exercise sessions) to record if I wake up each day. There are probably advantages and disadvantages to being dead, but I suppose the disadvantages outweigh the advantages.

Anyway, we all left the meeting mumbling to each other and scratching our heads. Who does she think she is, anyway?

Perry’s replacement started at work today. Her name is Susan. Susan the High Flyer, apparently. She’s stacked, long-limbed and was wearing trousers. There goes my secret glass ceiling theory. She’s on about three times my salary, hardly has any qualifications, and has arranged to start late, finish early and have six weeks’ holiday a year, so she can look after her kids. It’s so galling, more so as I’m the one who has to organise her salary to be paid each month. I must get some kids so I can have six weeks’ holiday each year.

Stuart says he appointed her on the basis of her track record in the industry. Apparently, she’s made some awesome deals over the past few years. I can only guess how she’s done that. Meow.

I find it disturbing when women succeed this well. It makes the rest of us look bad. It makes it look as though she was chosen on merit and that we mere mortals aren’t performing up to her lofty standards. The rest of us under the glass ceiling, including the men, are jacked off.

Cousin Liz rang this morning, mainly to push her various agenda items onto me. She was ranting about the evils of high-rise developments and the big banks, both of which I know her superannuation fund invests in on her behalf, as she likes to brag about what a great return her super gives her. Then she started going on about how terrible it is that Bunnings is pushing all the small local hardware stores out of business. I said I thought she shopped at Bunnings all the time and she said, well, yes, she does, but only because they’re cheaper and carry a good range.

She genuinely thinks she’s the most ethical person going around. She had a final rant about how lots of Italians are spoiling her suburb by moving into it, before wishing me a cheery goodbye.

Thanks for asking how I was, hypocritical racist cousin.

Ian dropped in for a short while with a birthday present for me. It was quite special, as he was able to squeeze it in between dropping one of his kids at footy and picking him up again. Plus, he had to buy the present in that time. And of course I’ve always wanted a coffee machine. Ian isn’t keen on instant. Well, not coffee, anyway.

Spent the evening rearranging my wardrobe followed by watching Seinfeld DVDs. They really are funny.

Wonder what Bryan is doing. Probably no more Brussel sprouts coming to me from that direction.

Guess what. Loser Bryan rang me at last. I think he was trying to make himself feel better after last Saturday night. I didn’t mention my query gonorrhea. He can find that out for himself. He kept on going on about how he wasn’t promiscuous, and if I understood him correctly his reasoning for that was that he doesn’t often have sex with women he doesn’t have sex with often. He said he was faithful to all of his girlfriends, and then the drongo asked me what I was doing tomorrow night. Yeah, like it’s Friday already and I don’t have something arranged for Saturday night. So of course I told him I was busy, even though I don’t have anything arranged for Saturday night. He said, on reflection, that was probably for the best because he thinks I’m probably a Ford Falcon sort of girl, whereas he prefers Holdens. I have no idea what he was talking about, but I won’t be seeking clarification.

Well, I should be happy today, as the antibiotics seem to be doing the trick. But, I’m not.

About mid-morning Stuart called us all in for a meeting. He announced that he’d head-hunted someone to replace Perry, and that they’d be starting on Monday. You can imagine how peed off I was. I thought I would at least come under some consideration, seeing as how I’ve de facto been doing Perry’s job for the last six months. Stuart didn’t even pretend to interview me.

I can see what the feminists are on about sometimes, with their glass ceilings.

Left work early today. I’m going to look for another job. Stuart is really giving me the gripes.

I had to let Ian know that sex was off the table tonight. He said that was OK, we could use the washing machine. Ha ha. Then I told him I had thrush. I don’t think he even knows what that is, as he asked me if it was in a cage, but when he found out it meant that he might have to spend that part of his evening strummin’ on the ol’ banjo, he said it was probably better for both of us if he didn’t come over. Apparently, my allure is so great he was worried he may not be able to control himself and ravish me anyway. Thanks a lot. We could have watched a movie together.

Still, I mustn’t get too elevated on my moral high horse, I suppose.

Turns out it’s probably just as well I didn’t go out with Ian last night, as it looks like I have some sort of UTI now. It itches like mad. Thanks, Bryan, hope you’re itching too. Didn’t see that in your profile. I had to call in sick and make an urgent appointment with my doctor, who had me pee in a bottle and give some blood for testing, before prescribing something for me to be going on with. I now have ‘query gonorrhea’ in my medical notes. Great. Every girl’s dream.

New rule: don’t have unprotected sex with someone I’ve just met — I can’t believe I didn’t already have that rule. Saturday night is going straight into the fucket bucket.

Of course, I was hoping that I didn’t bump into anyone I knew in the doctor’s waiting room, but everything there was handled confidentially and professionally. Not so at the pharmacy, however, where the staff seem to take delight in loudly calling out your name when your script for antibiotics is ready.

When I arrived back at work I bumped into Stuart, who said he hoped I enjoyed my birthday on the weekend. I said thanks, but how did he know it was my birthday. He hesitated, then had to tell me that Natalie had accidently read the card attached to the flowers that Christopher had sent me. Accidently! It was inside my locked front gate. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a motion sensor camera mounted outside my house to track my comings and goings.

This evening, Christopher finally face-timed me for my birthday of two or possibly three days ago. I was a bit emotional talking with him, what with it being my birthday and everything. I’m a little out of practice with birthdays and this year’s was a real downer. Anyway, we had a chat for about half an hour. It was so great to talk to him. I didn’t mention my query gonorrhea, though. Your kids don’t need to know everything about your day.

Well, that does it. Ian texted me this afternoon at work to say he was sorry, but he has to postpone my birthday dinner, as his wife had organised something that he’d forgotten about. We’ll probably have it in four years. I don’t think.

I actually felt a bit off when I got up, anyway, so I decided to do a RAT test and a pregnancy test to be on the safe side. Unfortunately, I multi-tasked, and now I’m not sure what the results mean.

Donna’s monthly saying arrived on cue today. It is One mind has the power of one, two minds have the power of three. But, what if the three are morons, like at work? Or even two out of the three?

Feeling very flat. My birthday is 29 February, so three years out of four I don’t know if my birthday is today or if everyone missed it yesterday. What are the chances? One in four times 365.25, I suppose. It has always been a good excuse for everyone to ignore it, as three times out of four, I’m told that 28 February isn’t my birthday yet, and when the next day comes my birthday was last month.

Anyway, I guess this means I’m actually only 11 years old, as that’s about as many times as I’ve had Happy Birthday sung to me. Which is why I want Happy Birthday sung at my funeral, as every time it’s sung at someone’s birthday party after that it will remind everyone of my funeral, and how they should have been nicer to me.

After last night, I’m thinking it’s possible I’ll die of AIDS soon anyway. I know you should never make important decisions if you are tired, drunk or horny and, inexplicably, by the end of last night I was all of them. I know life is a gamble, but it seems to me the odds are too heavily stacked in favour of the house.

Ian rang this morning, most unusual for a Sunday. He wanted to know what I was doing last night, so I told him I was washing my hair. Well, I did before I went out. He said can he take me out for my birthday tomorrow night. He seemed a bit down too, so I told him he sounded a bit lost, to which he replied yes, he did feel a bit lost, but he’d rather be lost with me than found without me. Occasionally he jags saying the right thing. Anyway, we’re going out for dinner tomorrow night for my birthday. Yay!

Even Mum and Dad are confused about the date of my birthday, although they took a punt and rang me today to wish me happy birthday, and also to invite me for a birthday dinner tomorrow night, but I told them I had other plans. When Mum sounded a bit disappointed, I said I could come tonight, but she said they’d already promised to go to a karaoke night with some friends.

Then, when I went out the front to water some plants there was a welcome surprise waiting for me immediately inside my front gate — a bunch of flowers from Christopher, with a card reading Happy Birthday Mum. I Love You.  Thank you. Life saver.

Home now from my date with Bryan and his sideburns, nose hair and five o’clock shadow. Also, one extremely long curly hair on his cheek. Don’t think I’ll be doing that again in a hurry. Apart from his lack of effort, he was rather judgmental as I was already seated at a table when he arrived, he was twenty minutes late, but he, after a perfunctory hello, decided he wasn’t happy with my choice of table, as it was too close to a table that had six women at it. He said he can’t stand constant raucous talking and loud performance laughter. Also, when I was on only my second glass of wine he told me I shouldn’t drink so much. OK, great start.

I asked him what he does for a job, and he said he’s a research assistant, and so spends his work week pushing back the front ears of science, the nong. He called everyone he was talking about Wotsisname. Also, somehow all of his shouts were cheaper than mine. When I asked him if he’d had a long-term partner, he said he hadn’t, so I said maybe he was frightened of commitment, so he said he didn’t think so, as he doesn’t want Brussel sprouts either, but he’s not frightened of them. What was he talking about?

Anyway, I still had sex with him in the back of his car afterwards. I was a bit worried at first, as when I told him I needed a safe word to get him to stop if he was taking things a bit far, he suggested ‘Himalayas in the Caribbean’, including the correct accent on every syllable.

Turns out there was no need for the safe word, all quite regulation, but now I’m feeling a bit nothing. Why do I do it? Seemed like a good idea at the time, I suppose. Maybe I do drink too much. Still, no harm done, and I did enjoy seeing how excited he became because of me. It was kind of sweet, as even though he seemed to expect it, it also seemed that he couldn’t believe it was happening. I wonder if he’ll ring me.

Started looking at a dating site on the Internet at work today for a suitable match-up for me. I’m not happy that Ian cancelled at short notice on Wednesday. By text. Without offering a good reason. I’m not going to be at his beck and call. Well, certainly not at his beck. Also, I can’t take another night with Donna at the moment.

Unfortunately, Stuart came in as I was examining the possibilities and I think he twigged what I was doing, even though I quickly alt-tabbed to a spreadsheet. After a glance at my computer screen, he said something about how he’s really good in bed, and when I said ‘Oh, really?’ he said yes, he gets a solid eight hours sleep every night.

Anyway, meeting some bloke called Bryan (with a “y”) in the local pub tomorrow night. He looks and sounds great on the website. Can’t wait.

I was running late for work again this morning, mainly because I left home late. However, it didn’t help that I was stuck behind this car on the West Coast Highway doing the speed limit, which is 50 km/hour, 40 km/hour in some parts, which is ridiculous at peak hour. Or at night.

Stuart saw me arrive, of course. He came into my office to complain about a newspaper article that claimed that men with a certain qualification get further in industry than women on average. He said it would be more enlightening to compare their qualification plus their full-time years worked in an industry. He reckons that when you get your degree or whatever, all you’ve done is graduated from kindergarten, and then the real learning starts. I don’t know any more. Or care, really. He’s worn me down.

Donna made the car call again today, while I was struggling to balance a budget. Why is it so important they balance? We never stick to them.

Donna rang to inform me that she’s enrolled in an arts degree, majoring in classical literature. She went on about it for ages. She’s sounding posher already. I was pleased for her. For one thing it will do her good to think about things for a while other than what’s wrong with men and why can’t she get one.

A bit later my schoolteacher cousin Liz rang. Liz has met Donna a few times, and thinks she is wonderful as well as marvellous, because of how she manages to support herself, despite having only her ex-husband’s family payments and living in their ex-family home rent free. Fortunately for Donna, the ex worked hard to get a higher degree before he met her and now works about 60 hours a week in some high-flying job. Anyway, when I mentioned about Donna’s arts degree, Liz’s predictable reaction was ‘go girl’. You know, I think we will know we have arrived in equality land when we can do something that men take in their stride without some woman somewhere saying, ‘go girl’. I can imagine the reaction I’d get from Stuart if I said ‘go boy’ to him if he enrolled in a quilting class.

Still can’t balance that budget. To top it off, Ian texted me to say he can’t make it tonight. He has a family commitment. Great.

Gritted my teeth and called in on Mum and Dad tonight. When I got there, Dad was out getting fish and chips. It takes him a while, as Mum insists that the fish from one shop is best, but a shop in an adjoining suburb makes better chips. And Dad humours her! So, usually they have hot chips with lukewarm fish, or vice versa.

Anyway, had a boring night, listening to lots of stories about friends of their friends. And, sometimes, it was about those people’s friends. Apparently, some of them have been overseas recently. Also, Mum and Dad feel that the speeds indicated on road signs are far too high.

I suppose I should be grateful that Mum and Dad are happy in their bubble. They’re devoted to each other, and I guess it doesn’t matter what you’re interested in, as long as you’re interested in something.

But, there’s no reason to inflict it on your daughter. Wish I was interested in something.

Also, why do I feel lonely when I get home from Mum and Dad’s?

I was late to work today, which I hate. Stuart is always in early, so he knows when I’m late, but he also goes home early, so he never knows about all the nights I work late, unless I tell him, and then I have the feeling he doesn’t believe me. I try to send an email about something or other immediately before I leave work, but of course I could be doing that from home while sipping on a glass of wine and watching Frasier. Anyway, this morning, as I was about to back out my driveway, with plenty of time up my sleeve, I noticed it had been barricaded off, as men (I’m not being sexist, they were all men, well, they all looked like men.) were resurfacing my road. A heads-up would have been useful. Went and spoke with the traffic control bloke, and he said I’d have to wait about an hour before I could get out. I said it would have been good to have been warned the day before, as I could have parked around the corner. He said, yes, everybody’s been saying that.

When I finally got to work, I rang Gary’s local police station and explained his situation. They were aware of the issue, and said they were doing all they could, but not to hold my breath.

Rang Gary to pass this on and asked him how he was going. He said he was OK. He has his disability pension (and I suspect an additional agricultural source of income) and owns his van, which he proudly tells me contains a television, a microwave and a deep fryer. He said it’s pretty cool. He has a few friends in the caravan park, and in the evening they have a couple of beers and a smoke together. The couple who own the park seem to look after him. They let him stay cheap and read any letters to him that come for him, as he can’t read. He sounded cheerful enough and had forgotten all about the Sandi issue. I wished him well and hung up.

Went down the beach this morning. There weren’t many cars in the car park. The SHG was in. Parked my car and was opening the door to get out when this bloke parks right next to me, causing me to have to squeeze out, legs akimbo, rather than exiting in my usual graceful manner. What is it with that? It must be some sort of human flocking instinct. Whatever it is, it’s annoying. By the time I returned there were five cars jammed up against each other in the middle of an otherwise empty car park. I think I’ll see where I can make them all park next time.

After I got home, I received a phone call from Gary, my feral half-brother. I shouldn’t call him that. He’s a nice man, actually, very gentle. He just lives in a universe that runs parallel with ours, occasionally touching it when he needs something. He’s lost his licence for life twice but he doesn’t mind. It doesn’t mean he now doesn’t know how to drive, and so he does. No problem.

He’s hard to understand when he speaks as, apart from being drug and alcohol and whatever addled, he also had a stroke about ten years ago, and his speech is slurred. At the time of his stroke, he’d been recently charged with possession of a considerable amount of marijuana, but because of the stroke he was deemed unfit to plead, and so the charges were dropped. He was really pleased.

Anyway, Gary had rung me for some advice, but I don’t think I was much help. He’s been trying to get a divorce from his wife Sandi, but she’s shot through with their two kids, Brie and Jemima, and no one knows where she is. I think Gary also has a wife in the Philippines, hence the desire for a divorce.

Gary lives in a caravan park, as Sandi kicked him out of their home a couple of years ago. What happened was that about 17 years ago Trevor, Gary’s brother, had a baby, James, with a lady named Sue, who happens to be Sandi’s mother. So, James is Gary’s brother-in-law as well as his nephew. I think it might make Sandi her own grandmother. Anyway, after Trevor, Sue shacked up with some loser called Ivan, and Sandi found out that Ivan was sexually assaulting young James, so she confronted Ivan, who beat her up, but she came home with James. Kudos Sandi. A restraining order was taken out against Ivan, so that he wasn’t to come near Sandi or Sue or James. However, not long after, Sue moved back in with Ivan. After he had sexually assaulted her son and beat her daughter up!

Anyway, unfortunately, a sixteen-year-old mate of James’ also moved in to Sandi’s with James (are you following all this?), and fat, middle-aged Sandi started having an affair with him, and kicked Gary out of his own home. I told you they live in a different universe from us.

Bottom line is Gary is trying to locate Sandi and his kids and asked me if I can help. I can make a few phone calls, I suppose, but not sure what else I can do. I’ve got problems of my own, although admittedly not as convoluted as this.

I felt I was in danger of breaking what I thought was one of my simpler New Year resolutions today, so I went and bought a new vacuum cleaner from Kmart, for one tenth of the price of the one I bought at the vacuum cleaner shop. And guess what. It’s brilliant. Sounds like a jumbo jet, has big openings (always a good thing), picks everything up, doesn’t get stuck on corners, and doesn’t decide to empty everything it picks up from one room onto the floor of the next room. I think it’s time the media exposed this great vacuum cleaner scam. Put me in a good mood for the rest of the day. I love solving problems. Although I now have a new problem. What am I going to do with my old top of the range vacuum cleaner? It cost too much to throw out and it’s so awkward to store.

Anyway, tonight, to celebrate my vacuum cleaner success, I went out with Donna, down the local. I was hoping for some admiration. But it’s impossible with Donna. It’s like she interviews people all night but never listens to the answers, as, while they’re answering one question, you can see her brain is madly searching for the next question. She insists you learn by asking questions. No Donna. You learn by listening to the answers and, even then, only if the other person knows what they’re talking about. She talks faster than I can listen. When is it my turn to talk?

Came home empty-handed of course. At least I have clean floorboards.

Stuart came to my office to have a rest on my desk again today, and so he could have a whinge about Patricia. I don’t know why he tells me. I couldn’t care less about their disagreements. Stuart was going on about how her latest craze is Feng Shui. He says Patricia has told him he has to clear his Chi and remove obstacles in his path. He says he’s tried that, but she won’t leave. She also wants him to brighten up his entry, but he told her he wasn’t having anal bleaching for anyone.

Stuart has no filter whatsoever. He reckons he has, but if he has it has very big holes in it.

Almost had an accident driving in to work today. Driving along, minding my own business, listening to Roger Whittaker, when, bang, the car in front of me ever so slowly bumped into the one in front of it. I screeched to a halt.

When I got out for a squiz at the damage, not much, I saw that the front car had been poked in a bumper sticker that read ‘Care Factor Zero.’ Isn’t it funny how people have bumper stickers that insult themselves.

Anyway, the bloke in the front car got out and was going mad. Clearly, he did care about something, which I was pleased to see. His care factor wasn’t really zero. It was definitely a large positive integer. I assume the sticker refers to his care factor for other people. Anyway, it was difficult to feel sorry for him, even though the accident wasn’t his fault.

I was so tired at work today. The stupid woman next door (aka SW) has seven dogs. They’re those ridiculous little white ones with small dog syndrome that yap non-stop at the wind. It’s like living next door to seven Ronalds. They started at about three o’clock this morning and kept on until I got up and yelled at them over the fence. Then I heard SW come out saying, ‘Come on, Princess, there’s a good girl. In you come.’

If she could hear me yelling, how come she couldn’t hear her stupid dogs barking and come out and shut them up? Of course, I couldn’t go back to sleep after that but lay there thinking about how you’re only supposed to have two dogs at the most and why doesn’t she trade her seven small dogs in for two proper big ones. Finally dozed off ten minutes before the alarm went off.

I’m definitely going to contact the council and complain.

Still haven’t heard from Ian.

Stuart came into my office today, plonked himself down on my desk, lucky it’s solid, and asked me what I thought of all the music they play on the radio these days. I’m quite pleased my boss likes to run ideas by me, but sometimes I wish he’d ask me something about work. Anyway, I said I liked some of it and some I didn’t like. He said he was listening to the radio on the way in and has concluded that men must write their songs when they’re on cocaine. I said what about the women, and he said he thought they must write their songs when they’re on their period. Walked into that one.

Anyway, I didn’t know how to reply to that, and he was still sitting on my desk, so I told him that, as a woman, I was offended by that remark. Seemed like the appropriate thing to say. Of course, Stuart replied that, as a man, and see how stupid that sounds, he thought that was an imbecilic way to begin a sentence. He said how patronising of me that I should think all women would want me to speak on their behalf. He said it was possible that there was a woman out there who thought differently to me, even though we were both women. He said he was going to start getting offended on behalf of all overweight, florid, balding, rich men, because he was one. Didn’t have an answer for that. Stuart is an annoying boss. Also, he forgot ‘jowly’.

Another phone call from Donna from her car again today. Max is upsetting her, as he’s still spending his evenings lounging on his front veranda, drinking wine and laughing with some well-made girl or other. I know, Donna, you’ve told me before. Get over it. I told her he was probably trying to make her jealous, but I don’t think she bought it, and she’s probably right. I think Max may really be having a good time. Donna is obsessed by the situation. I wish she’d obsess about the same things the rest of us do, like the great times our friends are having on Facebook.

Speaking of Facebook, I keep getting these Friend suggestions. They’re nearly always of some young woman displaying endless selfies of herself with other young women, all posing provocatively or pulling ridiculous faces. Don’t they have any male friends? Don’t they have anything more substantial to give to the world or think about other than how they look? They all seem so self-absorbed, superficial and useless. I think Cindy Lauper might be right. Is this the result of Stuart’s Fun Fems’ activities? Anyway, I decline the invitations.

Had a bit of a headache today, so I stayed in bed. Then around sunset I took a walk along the beachfront. Spotted that homeless lady again, so I followed her to see where she went. I expect she didn’t do anything special for Valentine’s Day either. I suppose I could have bigger problems. Anyway, she shambled about a bit until it was dark, and then set herself up in one of the shelters on the park. I think she sleeps on the table. At least it’s a warm night tonight, but it can’t be much fun in the winter. She actually doesn’t look as old as I’d thought, maybe mid-forties.

The last thing I saw before I skulked off was her getting a mobile phone from her trolley and texting. I wonder how she charges it. And, who is she texting?

It’s everywhere. Couples strolling on the beach, holding hands, love songs on the radio, picnics in the park, couples gazing moronically at each other over their meal. It’s a beautiful night and it’s sickening. There isn’t even a SHG. I think I’ll have a glass of red and watch the State of Origin footy on TV or, I must be desperate, the Winter Olympics, to take my mind off everything. Unblocked Ian, but no text from him, or anyone else.

Ian rang me from his car this morning after he’d dropped one of his kids off at school cricket. Now he’s doing it. I now feel extra special.

He said one of the little kids at cricket only had central vision, nothing peripheral, but still seemed to be able to join in OK. I said that must be terrible to be able to see only what was directly in front of you, and he said it probably wasn’t that bad, as you would still be able to see cleavage. He thought in fact you could probably get away with looking at it for longer without getting sprung. I told him that I thought that was so wrong on so many levels, and that it was certainly politically incorrect. Then he started going on about something can only be correct or incorrect, and it was an oxymoron to use an adjective with the word correct. He said maybe it was a little bit correct. I said I disagreed, and he said that was because I was slightly unique in that way.

To try to change the subject I said it looked like being a beautiful day, and that the wind wasn’t blowing for once, and he said that is all the wind does — if it isn’t blowing, there isn’t any. He said what I meant to say was that the air wasn’t blowing, so I said it could blow up his bum for all I cared, and if you go through life with a stick up your bum like he does, all that means is that at the end of your life you’ll find you’ve had a stick up your bum the whole time. So, he said in that case how could the wind blow up his bum, because the stick would stop it, so I told him not to ring me again and hit the little red phone on my mobile really hard. Then I blocked his number.

He’s so anal, always going on about how little electricity he uses. When he dies, they should engrave his tombstone with his average daily kilowatt consumption. That will be his life’s big achievement. I’m sure he’d be happy with that. I know no man is an island, but he’s got to at least be an isthmus.

Bad timing, though, I just realised. Tomorrow’s Valentines Day.

After Ian left last night, I had a peculiar dream about snakes. I think I might be watching too much TV, as I’m starting to have ads during my dreams. Sometimes I wake up for a few seconds to fast forward over them.

I was in a good mood today, despite the whistling on the way in. Then Kylie changed all that by telling me that the men reckoned they could tell when I’d had sex the night before. Stuart said something about sexual healing, which was annoying, the more so because, well, it was sort of true, except it’s more like a sexual prophylactic. I guess Marvin Gaye couldn’t find a word that had the same number of syllables as prophylactic and that rhymed with it.

Anyway, Stuart was puffing and sweating from walking up the stairs. I asked him if he was OK, and he said yes, he’s as fit as a Mallee bull. I said it must be one of those Mallee bulls you see leaning against a fence post having a cigarette.

Had an argument with the glass repair bloke this morning. He took my car for a test drive, and then reckoned the whistling was coming from my air conditioning. What, since he put new glass in my window? How would that work? We had a drive together and I finally convinced him, after turning off the fan and putting the air on recirculate, that the noise was coming from the window. Anyway, he finally agreed to replace the glass at cost (gee, thanks), which he did. He then disappeared quick smart, and I went to work. It only happens now when I go faster, but IT’S STILL WHISTLING! I’m going to have to sell this car.

To top things off, Ronald (always Ronald — never Ron), Mister Compliance Manager, who now seems to think he’s my boss, but he’s not, Norman is, has decided to micro-manage me. Unfortunately, he has zero people skills. So, when I arrived at work today there was an email from him waiting for me, underlining a couple of insignificant errors I’d made in a cash-flow spreadsheet (a couple of misspellings of headings), cc’d to Stuart and Norman, my real bosses. Not only were they underlined, but also bolded and in red, and he’d somehow managed to insert a graphic that put circles around things. Sorry teacher, I’ll try to get all of my homework correct next time. I’ve only been doing this job for ten years, and we haven’t gone broke yet. If you’re going to go over everything I do in detail, why don’t you do the job yourself in future? How to give someone ownership of their job and enhance their morale. On the other hand, why did it upset me so much?

At least I got to see Ian again tonight. We had a good evening together, after I’d got the whistling and Ronald stories off my chest. He’s a bit of a child, but he does calm me down.

After he left, I felt satisfied, tired and sad.

The whistling is driving me mad. Anything over forty kilometres an hour and it sounds like I have Roger Whittaker in the car, whistling one of his lesser known but more boring tunes. I’ll have to ring the glass repair bloke again.

Then, arriving at work, I was about to pull into my parking spot, without whistling, as I was going slow, when this blockhead coming towards me against the arrows made me pull over and brake sharply. I almost sideswiped a parked car. He looked straight ahead and kept going, as though everything was normal. What does he think the arrows are for? Obviously, no one is going to tell him what to do. He’s an individualist, and he advertises it by not cooperating with others. I wonder what side of the road he drives on.

Glass repair man is coming in the morning.

Got into work late today, as this bloke came to fix my car window. He assured me it would be OK now and left pretty quickly after I paid him (he preferred cash). Now, something new to torment me — the new window whistled whenever I picked up speed on my way to work.

When I did get to work, Stuart called me into his office. I thought he was going to tell me off for being late, which I thought was a bit rough, considering all the extra hours I do for him, unpaid. But when I got in, he shut the door and asked me what the hell was I doing recommending an 8% return on that property on Thursday, and was I trying to send him broke? I stammered something or other, went back to my office, and changed the recommendation back to my original suggestion of 6%, which Stuart also thought would be about right.

Jesus, another one of Donna’s monthly sayings that should be ignored.

Car still whistling on the way home.

It was hot today, so I went to the beach this afternoon. Of course, as I arrived the SHG came in, so I found myself a sheltered windbreak in the dunes. Within five minutes I had this irritating lifeguard come and tell me I can’t sit in the dunes. It’s against the rules. I said what’s the difference, I’m not doing any harm, and he said I was wearing the dunes away, and what if everyone did that, the dunes would soon blow away.

I have to say, I have never understood this ‘what if everyone did that?’ argument. What if everyone in my city drove down my street every day. We would have gridlock, and I wouldn’t be able to get out of my house. So, let’s not let anyone drive down my street because, what if everyone did that? Ponce. What if everyone minded his or her own business? That might work.

Anyway, couldn’t be bothered arguing, didn’t want to be put in the stocks or transported to England, and the SHG was increasing, so I packed up and went to visit Grandpa for a bit of sanity. When I arrived, I spied him from a distance, hunched next to his bed in his pyjama pants and a long coat, his medals pinned to his chest. He was pleased to see me. He said he was sick of sitting there, who could blame him, so I took him for a walk using his walking frame (for him, not me). Unfortunately, as we got going his pyjama pants fell down, revealing his incontinence pads. This made Mabel chortle loudly, causing Mary, who has assumed the role of Grandpa’s girlfriend (without Grandpa’s consent), to begin loudly abusing Mabel. The nurses had to come to sort it out. Grandpa said Mary is always abusing any of the other female inmates who talk to him and it gets on his nerves. He said that one of the inmates has a sign over his bed at the moment that says, ‘nil by mouth’. He said he’s asked for one that says, ‘nil by ear’.

Anyway, I had a fascinating chat with Grandpa, without sitting at his feet, and found out that Jesse is always packing her bags and then walking up the corridor towards the front door saying ‘budabudabuda’, thinking she is leaving, that Buddy is always getting in the way in the kitchen, red hair sticking out, trousers up to his armpits and braces on, while Fred, who only has one eye while the other eye looks the wrong way, annoys Grandpa by having coughing fits every meal-time before asking for his cigarettes. I give anyone who reads this permission to kill me if anyone ever puts me in one of those places. We’re all in palliative care from birth. I just want mine to be at home.

Said goodbye to Grandpa, came home, turned up the air conditioner and watched Four Weddings again. What a great movie.

Shopped at IGA this morning. Easter eggs are on sale already. Really? Anyway, I get to the checkout (avoided April’s), only one woman in front of me, so great. Then, as her groceries are almost finished being rung through, this look of enlightenment appears on her face, and a light seems to glow above her head. She tells the checkout chick (young roosters are also chicks) she’s forgotten something, then high-tails it back into the depths of the store, while we all stand around cooling our heels, trying not to look at each other. She comes back five minutes later carrying a bag of bananas and a frozen pizza, smiling at everyone in the queue, saying thanks for waiting. As if we had a choice. Sometimes, I get why Americans like to carry guns. Am I the only one who finds these things annoying? I suspect I am.

Stuart met with Perry today. Stuart asked me if I wanted to come, but I said I was busy at that time. I could see it might get ugly, didn’t want to be a part of that, and anyway, I had already given Stuart the figures.

Apparently, Perry ranted and raved, but Stuart wouldn’t have a bar of it. Not sure if Stuart is an alpha male, but he’s definitely at least a beta-plus. Loves a fight. Anyway, Stuart came to see me afterwards, bushy eyebrows still bristling. He was pleased with me, as all the figures and advice I’d given him were correct. Perry didn’t have a leg to stand on. So, now I suppose I’m glad I wasn’t kind to Perry.

Being in a good mood after work, I gave Donna a ring and we decided to go out for a drink. When I arrived to pick her up, Max waved to me from his front veranda, where he was lounging with his latest leggy. Surprisingly, she looked old enough to be his sister. I wasn’t sure whether I should wave back or not, so I sort of moved my hand backwards and forwards, but didn’t raise my arm.

The evening with Donna was a washout. If she’s not criticising something or other about me — top is too low, hair is too long, too much war paint, too friendly with men, too much eye contact — then she’s going on about crystals or astrology or something. I’m really getting fed up with her. She insists on ordering only organic food (I thought all living things were organic — they can’t be inorganic, can they, and they have to be one or the other) and then she goes outside for a smoke while they’re preparing it. I hope the tobacco is organically grown, so that her lung cancer will be the organic type. She does actually grow a lot of her own vegetables, which she calls organic, because she grows them. I asked her if she had ever had the soil in her garden tested, in case a previous owner used lots of snail pellets, dumped his car sump oil in it or chucked out a mercury thermometer. But, no. No testing. Just blind faith that what you grow in your own polluted garden is better for you than what you buy at IGA.

I’m going to give Donna a miss for a while. She needs to practise sometimes thinking things without saying them. I usually come home after an outing with her feeling worse than I did before I went out. She’s so full of strong opinions about things she isn’t exactly an expert on. She doesn’t believe in evolution, but she does believe in astrology. Her clinching argument is that evolution can’t be true because mules can’t have baby mules. I have to get some intelligent friends. One, at least. Yes, Donna. And the world is only 7000 years old. And flat. And man didn’t land on the moon. Anyway, I told her that I’m a Pisces and Pisces don’t believe in astrology. She seemed to accept that, although I think she’s going to check.

We had a finance meeting today. I recommended that we set the return on the property we were discussing at 6%, which I’d calculated to be a good conservative estimate, but Kevin, one of our new guys, he’s quite young, sleepy cornflower eyes, had estimated 8%, and was pushing for that. I was going to argue my case, but I could see Kevin had stuck his neck out trying to impress Norman, so I thought, no, better to be kind than right, and so I let him have a win. I was still feeling bad about not letting Perry have his way the other day. Kevin was really pleased. Maybe Donna’s saying this month is a winner. I definitely felt better afterwards.

It’s nearly midnight, and I’ve finally finished working. I had to cancel Ian, which he didn’t like. Mainly, I think, because he didn’t know what he was going to tell his wife about why he was home so early.

Most of the work I did should’ve been done by Kylie but, when she’s not doing Stuart’s underwater hockey work (which means he thinks she’s marvelous) she spends most of the rest of her work time making long personal phone calls, having long lunches or shopping. Then she goes home on the dot each of the three days she works. Today, she asked me, all bright-eyed, if I could mind the phone for ten minutes while she went out to pick up the mail. She didn’t come back for about two hours. She’d met a friend she hadn’t seen for ages and went and had a coffee with her. Meanwhile, I’m answering a constantly ringing telephone, taking messages and transferring calls to everyone in the office, when I had a lot of work to get on with — which Kylie was supposed to be helping me with.

I should say something to her, but I don’t want her to be annoyed with me. What’s the matter with me?

Perry rang today and abused me for not filling in his termination form correctly (in his opinion). I put his lump sum down as a payout rather than as a redundancy, which was correct. But it means he will have to pay a higher rate of tax on it. He was so abusive, and it really upset me. I didn’t want to argue with him, so I referred it to our solicitors. I’m sure I’m right, but now I wonder if I should’ve been kind, and just changed the reason to keep him happy.

Vacuumed tonight to try to take my mind off Perry. Unfortunately, all that did was make me angry, which I suppose was better than being upset. I bought this vacuum cleaner last year from an actual vacuum cleaner shop for about $600, and all it does is create a gentle breeze while it picks up a little of what is intended, followed by the whirly thing on the end dumping it in the next room. All I seem to be doing is moving dust from one room to another. And heaven forbid I should try and pick up a leaf. Even the spiders aren’t scared of it. The man in the vacuum cleaner shop went to great lengths to explain all of its features. The only thing he forgot to tell me was that it doesn’t work. Yes, I’m sorry to say that my vacuum cleaner sucks (if only).

Drove to work today with no glass in my side window. And then I made sure I locked the car when I left it in the car park. Why?

I wouldn’t mind getting a new car, actually, but, where can you find one now that doesn’t lock itself when you don’t want it to, where the radio doesn’t beep every 20 seconds if the engine isn’t running and you have used up 1% of the battery, where you don’t have to press a screen to say you agree to something you never read before you can fiddle with the sound system, and where you can open the driver’s door with the engine off and with the key in the ignition without the car hysterically beeping at you? All the new models are so highly strung. Also, I need a CD player.

Donna’s monthly saying arrived by email this morning. It was It’s better to be kind than right.

Not sure about this one, but I suppose I’ll give it a go. Last month’s saying didn’t work out too well. That reminds me, I still haven’t bought those socks for Grandpa.

Anyway, not to be put off by the officious surf club types, I went to the beach again today. I decided to park a little further along from where I usually do, so as not to be the subject of continuous helpful instructions issued in a grating accent. Had a pleasant time sunbaking, reading, swimming and watching the scenery. Although I have to say, the men, apart from the surf club ones, dress far too conservatively for my liking. You see all these women parading around with their sideways boobs hanging out and a piece of spider web up their bum, give me a break, while all these hunky guys are wearing boardies and T-shirts. What’s that all about? I have to admit, though, boardies are classier than, say, jock straps or mankinis, the male equivalents of what the girls are wearing, would be. Come on girls. How about a bit less arse and a bit more class. You’re not doing yourselves any favours, and you’re giving the rest of us a bad name.

Anyway, after I’d had enough, I walked to my car, only to find the front window smashed and my purse missing from the front seat, where Ian is always telling me not to put it. So, spent the rest of my day cancelling all my cards, applying for a new licence and searching for money in the house. Very frustrating.

Next time I park at the beach the only thing I’m leaving on my front seat is a snarling Alsatian. And where are the surf club types when you need them?

Sitting on the beach today, huddled up against a sand dune trying to keep out of the SHG, when this condescending surf lifesaver who sounded like he’d recently got off the boat (or possibly the plane) from the Old Country (our country has only had human inhabitants and a continuous culture for more than 60,000 years, but we call England the Old Country) came up to me and told me I had to move, as there are snakes in the dunes. I told him I know, I’ve been coming here for thirty years, but I haven’t heard of anyone being bitten by a snake yet. I said if he was worried about everybody, his time would be better spent getting everyone out of the ocean, because there are sharks in it. He was insistent that I move, and I was as insistent that I wouldn’t. Anyway, I won.

I reckon the importance of these surf club types is greatly exaggerated. I must swim between the flags, keep out of the way of the IRB activities that nearly run you over, watch out for their idiotic wooden boats that they keep narrowly missing you with, and with which they’ve never rescued anyone. Jesus, it’s my beach too. Then they pack up and go home at five o’clock, two or three hours before sunset, and no one drowns in their absence. Or gets bitten by a snake. So, what were they doing all day, apart from parading around with their Speedos pulled up their cracks? At least we can have some peace in the evening.

I recall a past Premier advising us to swim between their flags to avoid sharks, as they keep eating people. Now, our beach is about four kilometres long, and the flags are about 30 metres apart. Seriously, if we follow his advice, it’s going to get awfully crowded. And, what about surfers and scuba divers? Also, what to do after 5 pm? You really should have to pass some sort of IQ test before you’re allowed to run for parliament.

Donna rang me at work today, wanting a long chat while she was driving and while I was trying to work. Apparently, Max has started to bring girlfriends home, young ones. She wonders where he gets them all from. Maybe Woolies? He sits on his front veranda with them, laughing and drinking. It’s pissing Donna off. She wanted me to go to her place tonight and sit out the front with her and laugh and drink. I asked her what we were going to laugh at, and she couldn’t think of anything. Anyway, I didn’t go, mainly because it was stupid.

I told Donna to find someone younger, but she said she doesn’t go for younger men, as they usually aren’t sporting the streamlined edition. She said she doesn’t fancy the idea of the old philately with them. Who knows what might be marinating under there. She can be quite crude sometimes. On the other hand, I’ve never thought about that myself. She may have a point.

Had a walk along the beachfront this evening. It was a beautiful night, the SHG was only at about half strength, and I felt good. Then, I noticed the green plastic bags. Since I was last at the beach, plastic bags have appeared around new plants in the dunes, hundreds of green ones held up with sticks, for about a hundred metres along the dunes in both directions. Talk about visual pollution. They look awful, and they’ll be there for years. Just leave the dunes to fend for themselves. They’ve managed for the past 10,000 years. Do-gooders and their egos.

Then, on the way back to my car, I passed that homeless lady. She’d finished her ablutions and was pushing her trolley to who knows where. She caught my eye, so I nodded at her and smiled. Are you supposed to do that with homeless people? Anyway, she sort of acknowledged me, then quickly looked away and carried on. I’m beginning to resent her. It’s making me feel guilty, even though I haven’t done anything. Hmm, maybe that’s the problem.

Stuart arrived at work today wearing a baseball cap. It wasn’t until mid-morning that we realised he was completely bald. Apparently, Stuart gives himself a number four all over his head weekly so that he doesn’t have to pay a barber to cut his hair. But last night, unbeknown to him, Patricia borrowed his electric shaver, attached the number one comb to shave her legs (and possibly her moustache) and didn’t replace the number four after she’d finished. Stuart had shaved half his hair off before he’d realised, so had to continue to the bitter end. I would love to have been a fly on the wall.  It’s the only time I’ve ever seen him look sheepish. He stayed in his office all day. Anyway, he looks better bald. Suits his personality.

Ian came over for a few hours tonight. It was nice to see him, and we had an OK night. I actually felt a tinge of tenderness for him tonight. He went home at about 9 pm, leaving me writing this.

Feel a bit flat.

Stuart asked me today what I did on the long weekend, and I told him not much, and that I was starting to get worried I wasn’t meeting any new people. He pretended he thought I meant babies, the irritating man. So, I asked him didn’t he want to meet new people or learn new things sometimes and he said no, he has his people and that he already knows too much and is trying to forget things. Lucky him.

Not much else to report today.

Australia Day

Australia Day today. I can’t stand it. It’s the worst holiday ever. I’d rather be at work, calculating Perry’s payout. The beach is full of boguns with their tatts, their beer, their associated bellies, and their swearing. You should see the rubbish left behind when they go home. It’s worse than Woodstock. They all make a big deal of coming to the beach on Australia Day, even though it’s not hot today, because that’s what Australians do. Thank God you never see them for the rest of the year. But, on Australia Day, here they are, tearing up and down the coast road, yelling at everyone, Australian flags flying. Give me a break.

The most annoying thing is that they all seem to be having so much fun. And I haven’t even mentioned the hordes of 14-year-olds whizzing by and almost running you over with their motorised scooters and bikes.

And the bloke on the radio adds insult to injury by asking if you’re proud to be Australian. What, like that lot? Anyway, how can I be proud of something I wasn’t responsible for? I’m not proud to be Australian. It had nothing to do with me, apart from my not actively emigrating. Am I supposed to be proud of that? I am, however, pleased to be living most of my life in Australia, for lots of obvious reasons, like gum trees and kangaroos and stuff.

There was one funny moment today, though, that made it all worthwhile. One of the bonehead’s cars jumped up onto one of the low wooden fence posts as he was doing a wheelie. In other words, as he was thinking he was impressing everybody. Anyway, the car got stuck up there, its front wheels spinning in the air. All the other boneheads on the front veranda of the pub spent about twenty minutes singing ‘Dickhead, Dickhead’ while the driver tried to extricate his car. Unfortunately, he was too dopey to know he should be embarrassed.

That’s the trouble with dumb people. They’re too dumb to realise how dumb they are. I have to keep reminding myself that half of Australians are below average. Australia Day seems to be the day that half choose to celebrate.

Donna rang this morning, troubled. It was difficult to understand her on account of all the crying. Hers, not mine. Max broke up with her last night. She can’t believe it. I don’t know why — I can. She doesn’t bring much to the table, and she’s so, I don’t know, emotionally disorganised. She needs to get a life of her own first and then think about having a relationship. Well, listen to me. I had to listen to her for about an hour, though. She said that a couple of weeks ago Max told her that he wanted to wear her ring, which she was really excited about, but now she thinks maybe she totally misunderstood what he meant.

Luckily, a neighbour knocked on my door, so I had a chance to hang up.

The neighbour wasn’t happy. He said Malleable had taken one of his shoes from his veranda. While he was talking to me Malleable was sitting on my outside couch, munching on the shoe, so it was difficult to deny it. You’d be surprised how many people leave their shoes outside their front door. Malleable isn’t surprised though. I’m going to have to do something about keeping him in. Whenever I come home at night he’s always escaped again, and I have to spend ages looking for him. I had a cyclone fence put up last year and he dug under it, so I put mesh along the fence with rocks on top. Now he climbs the fence like he’s in the SES. He’s amazing. I am meeting quite a few of my neighbours lately , but not in a good way.

Mum and Dad came for lunch today.

Dad isn’t my biological father. Mum married him when I was six years old. I call Dad Dad because to all intents and purposes he is my dad.

Mum and my biological father, Phil, split up when I was about one year old, and I have no memory of Phil ever taking me anywhere or buying me anything, even when I was a cute little girl. Not a birthday card or Christmas card. Luckily, I turned out great, but it does always make me wonder about people you read about who bemoan that their lives have been badly affected by being abandoned by a parent, even when they’ve nevertheless had an upbringing no better or worse than most of us. How we react to things must be programmed into our genes. To me it’s no big deal. I could make it one if I wanted to, but my thought is, when you’re standing on a bridge, it’s preferable to just let the water flow under it than to try to dam it, then have it inevitably rush over and sweep you away.

When I was about six Phil moved down south and remarried, a wild woman called Loretta. They had two kids, Trevor and Gary. Phil died a few of years ago, and since then Gary contacts me whenever he’s in a jam. I don’t hear from Trevor. They’re both badly drug and alcohol affected, quite feral, Trevor is the worst, but they get by. I asked Gary once if he misses Dad, and he said yes, especially when he needs money, which is where I sometimes come in.

Anyway, as I was saying, before I got side-tracked, Mum and Dad came for lunch today. They were only forty minutes late, which was good form for them. And parents have a way of winding you up, don’t they? I had made a roast with all the trimmings, but Dad insisted on splattering tomato sauce all over his meal. When he couldn’t find the sauce immediately, he accused me of not having any, rather than doing the obvious thing and asking me where it was, which was in the fridge. He does things like that. It’s so annoying.

Dad, who is starting to look rather gaunt, can’t smell anything anymore, not even tomato sauce, which isn’t a good sign dementia-wise. I told him not being able to smell things (we can still smell him OK) is called anosmia. Mum said she thought that would have been something to do with dyslexics who can’t sleep at night. Quite funny, really.

Still, they always seem perfectly happy with each other, which proves that miracles can still happen.

Stuart called me into his office today and, as far as I can work out, it was to have someone to rant to about feminism. I think Patricia, who has never worked a day in her life but thinks she’s achieved marvels because she married an ever-so-slightly on the spectrum (on several intersecting spectra, actually) but, nevertheless, shrewd and hardworking, man, has been giving him a hard time again. He can’t stand it. He was going on about how feminism is like communism because it is at odds with human nature. I suppose he means his human nature, if you can count him as human. He claims that’s why there are so many wealthy communists and misogynist feminists. He says he isn’t anti-women, but anti-anti-men. He was going on about the Fundamentalist Feminists who seem to dominate the social and traditional media (the Fun Fems, he calls them) and who, according to him, are a minority radical branch, a third gender, not normal women, that consider all men to be infidels. He thinks it’s ironic that it’s called feminism because, from what he can see, none of them are what he would call feminine.

Not the point, Stuart.

Ronald Two Shoes was ranting and raving today about how we aren’t following his procedures properly. What a chocolate soldier. The thing is, he doesn’t follow them himself, but he’s so aggressive towards us normal-sized people. I suppose he can’t help being short, so I should have some sympathy for him, but he seems to be so enraged all the time.

He’s the only one in the office who wears a tie, and he had it tied unfashionably short again today. If he thinks a larger gap between the bottom of his tie and his belt makes him look taller, it’s not working. He can’t be much over five feet.

Ian turned up tonight looking haggard and wearing thongs and shorts and shedding sand. I think he thinks he’s fashionably dressed if his thongs match his t-shirt. Also, he was unshaven and as red as a beetroot. He doesn’t go back to work until Monday, so I think he’d spent the day on the beach with his family. I had the pleasure of rubbing calamine lotion all over him and then watching him go to sleep for two hours. No six white horses for me tonight. Not even a Shetland pony.

I need to make some changes.

When Stuart arrived at work today, I made a point of going to his office with the payout figure for Perry’s redundancy. I thought it couldn’t hurt to remind him that I work for him. I wore one of my more alluring dresses. Stuart does have a brain stem. Not too revealing, though. Didn’t want to look unprofessional. Actually, in addition to a brain stem, Stuart also has a face like a bowl of porridge, pig ugly really. He looked particularly florid and paunchy today. Grey hairs and white lard spilling out between buttons at waist height isn’t what I call erotic. I don’t know how old he is, but he reckons he can remember when the dollars turned over slower than the gallons. His wife, Patricia, looks like one of those people they regularly interview on the current affairs programs who claim they can no longer afford food, but who look like they weigh about 120 kilograms.

I thought Stuart would want to talk about the Perry situation, but no, he started going on about his underwater hockey. He’s obsessed by it. He gets Kylie to do all the admin work for the association while she’s supposed to be helping me, which is annoying. For the last six months I’ve been doing my own work plus half of hers plus half of Perry’s.

I have to say, though, Stuart is great at his job. He seems to have a knack for picking properties to buy and sell. He’s made himself and the sales team a fortune over the last ten years. Now that Periwinkle’s gone, I’m hoping to jump on that gravy train.

Well, we’ve all known it’s been coming, but it was still a shock when it happened. Stuart finally sacked Perry (as in Winkle) today. Perry’s been slacking off for months, and is becoming increasingly uncooperative with everyone. Stuart gave me instructions for calculating Perry’s separation package and asked me to pay him out as soon as possible. He’s been on a huge salary, so he won’t do badly.

I’m going to apply for Perry’s job when it’s advertised. I’ve been doing most of it anyway, especially over the past few months when he’s lost interest, and I know Stuart likes me. It’s quite exciting.

Remember when gardening used to be a quiet, peaceful occupation? No more. The dingbat over the road had his leaf blower, the most moronic thing ever invented, just ahead of the jet ski, screaming at 6.30 this morning. He blows all the leaves that have fallen from his trees across the street over to my side. He even gets up on his roof and blows all the leaves off that. I wish God’s big leaf blower in the sky would blow him off his roof. What a great contribution he’s making to noise pollution, air pollution and the using up of irreplaceable fossil fuels, because he doesn’t like the look of leaves that aren’t on trees. Does he ever go out in the bush? He must hate it. Soon after he’s finished, God’s big leaf blower does kick in, blowing all the leaves back to where they came from. If he does insist on temporarily relocating leaves, why does he have to do it early on a Sunday morning?

There are obviously two types of people in the world — those who can’t stand a single leaf on the ground and those who quite like seeing them there. I’m all for the second type. For one thing, they don’t wake you up at 6.30 on a Sunday morning. To top it off, I know he votes Green. Get a broom, mate. The exercise will do you good and we can all sleep in until seven o’clock on Sunday mornings.

He goes on about being vehemently opposed to nuclear power as a matter of principle. Thinks solar power is the way to go. Doesn’t he know that solar power is nuclear power? It’s just that the nuclear reactor is ninety-three million miles away.

Also, the blockhead had the cheek the other day to go on at me about watering on my non-watering days. Says I’m wasting water. I happen to have it on authority that, unlike fuel molecules for leaf blowers, there are as many water molecules in the world now as there were a thousand years ago. If he’s worried about running out of water, why doesn’t he move to somewhere where it rains a lot? Maybe North Queensland or Indonesia. Also, it might help if he turned his carefully programmed automatic sprinklers off on the days that it’s raining.

I’m going to say something to him one day.

Went to the beach today. Thought there was a car park spot in the main car park, but it turned out to be the disabled spot. Why do we call them disabled? They’re only handicapped, not disabled. Maybe we should start calling the Melbourne Cup a disabled race. You know, for horses with broken legs, or that are dead. No, some of them may be handicapped, but they can still compete and maybe even win.

Anyway, sitting on the beach, minding my own business, when this umbrella comes flying along, propelled by the SHG, and hits me right in the head. Bop! It really hurt. The bloke who finally caught it laughed and thanked me for using my head to stop his umbrella from going further. There are comedians everywhere. Of course, I just smiled at him and said no harm done. For goodness’ sake, secure your umbrella properly, mate. You could take someone’s eye out.

Ronald (Mr Goody Two Shoes) drove me mad at work today. He’s our new compliance bloke, but he seems to work for the other side. He’s in the office next to mine, and he insists on putting his phone on speaker-phone, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head and yelling into it from a distance. The whole floor can hear him, but no one is game to say anything to him as, if he senses he’s being criticised, he either gets really red and angry, or else he gets really red and upset. In either case, he gets really red, and no one wants to see that.

Today, he was yelling for about an hour at a builder who is building his new home. I don’t know who was at fault, but that didn’t stop me feeling sorry for the builder.

The funny thing is, he came up to me later and started to complain about my part-time assistant Kylie, who he thought wasn’t pulling her weight. At least she was quietly working on company stuff, not loudly on her own stuff. It amazes me how little self-knowledge that man has.

Went for a walk along the beach after work tonight. It wasn’t pleasant. The SHG was in, and the sand was whipping into my eyes.

That homeless lady was at the beach park again, having a semi-naked shower. No one helps her, but no one bothers her either. Is that good or bad? I wonder where she sleeps. She has one bag of possessions that she pushes around in a trolley. You can’t help thinking there shouldn’t be anyone sleeping outside in a rich country like ours, but I’m not doing anything about it either. I guess she’s a modern-day version of one of those jolly swaggies we all romanticise about and write poems about. But it doesn’t seem quite so romantic when it’s happening here, today, and to a woman. Also, she doesn’t look too jolly, and I’ve never seen her with a jumbuck, whatever that is. And, as far as I know, no-one’s written a poem about her, either.

Ian came over tonight, even though he hasn’t returned to work yet. Not sure how he escaped from home. Didn’t ask. He works at the airport, and I can never work out what he does there, but I think it’s something to do with planes. He told me tonight he’d like me to meet him at his work one day so he could show me around and so that afterwards I could kiss him behind the hangars. I’m not sure if he was joking or not.

Anyway, we had a peachy night. Little Ian was back with a vengeance, and we seem to have settled back into our routine. He told me that to make it last longer he thinks about John Worsfold. I told him that works for me too.

Of course, he had to leave at about ten, leaving me wide-awake and writing this. I’m going to have a Baileys and watch some VEEP.

I saw Stuart today for the first time this year. Because he’s my boss he thinks he can boss me around. Actually, he can. I’m quite intimidated by him, even though he’s a cretin.

About a year after I bought this apartment, which I love, Stuart was looking around to buy a place for his daughter, Natalie, to inhabit. So, of all the hundreds of thousands of homes in this city, he bought the apartment next to mine! You could think it mightn’t be too bad, but it is, as Natalie not only has a face like a ferret but is as nosey as one as well. I feel like I’m under surveillance all the time.

Anyway, I told Stuart I was going to the shops at lunchtime to return a yellow, red and green blouse Mum and Dad gave me for Christmas, so I don’t, you know, look like a traffic light. He said he supposed that after Christmas the returns counter would have many happy returns. He thinks he’s hilarious. I told him mine was one.

First day back at work after the break today. It wasn’t too bad. Not much happening. Spent all morning chatting with people, especially Norman. Norman is sort of my boss, jammed between Stuart (the owner of the company) and me. I suppose you’d call Norman my supervisor, except that he’s too polite to be a supervisor. Anyway, we both know I don’t need supervising. I’ve been doing this job for nearly ten years.

It was good to have a drinkable cup of coffee again. Norman makes a really good cup somehow, and for some reason I can’t make one to save my life. All I have to say is, ‘Getting a coffee, Norman. Do you want me to make you one?’ and he’s up like a shot, elbowing me out of the way, boiling the kettle in case I do it first. It’s pleasing to have coffee made for me, I don’t want him to stop, but it’s also, well, insulting. I can’t work out which feeling wins.

Norman spent the break with his family at their holiday house down south. I think he was glad to be back at work. He can’t stand them. They spent most of the holiday cleaning and tidying up. Great holiday. Also, it took him away from his golf club committee responsibilities. How did they manage without him?

Took Malleable to the dog beach today. As I was opening my car’s back door for him, trying to get his lead on before he bounded away, this bloke with a tiny penis got out of his huge tank, I’m assuming about the penis, came over and went crazy about how I’d parked my car. Cool your jets, mate, who cares? My whole car was between the lines. It just wasn’t straight. We had quite a philosophical discussion about it. Socrates would have been impressed. Loser. In the end I told him I understood what he was saying, but that I was struggling to care about it.

Had an enjoyable time on the beach regardless of the argument and the SHG. There weren’t too many dog fights to break up. Then, on the way home, Malleable was riding with his head out the window, smelling the smells, as he does, when he suddenly and inexplicably disappeared from my view in the rear vision mirror. I stopped and got out and looked behind to see what had happened. I spotted him in the distance, holding a branch and dangling off the ground, legs pumping. He must have grabbed a low branch with his teeth and hung on really tightly. I’ve never seen such a surprised look on a dog’s face. I hope he isn’t going to make a habit of that.

New rule: don’t wind the windows too far down when there’s a dog in my car.

He’s asleep on the couch at the moment. I notice he jerks and whimpers occasionally.

Went to IGA to get some groceries this morning. Hung around the soft fruit section for a while, but no luck. Not a single sleazy remark.

Avoided April’s checkout on my way out. Didn’t feel like being judged today. However, while I was waiting at my non-judgemental checkout, this willowy Asian lady bought 15 packets of rice, put them in a box, balanced it on her head, and calmly walked out. Everyone stared open-mouthed. I had trouble controlling my trolley.

Then, had an exciting time this afternoon vacuuming my house. The vac did get stuck a couple of times, but I calmly unstuck it and carried on. Well done, Cath. Sometimes it was the cord that got stuck, in a way that I could never achieve if I deliberately attempted it, but I suppose I can’t blame the vacuum people for that. Anyway, I did well to maintain my equanimity, and now my floors are sparkling clean, as I also mopped for added excitement. I hope someone visits soon.

Donna rang today. She always rings while she’s driving, so she doesn’t waste her time, she says. Makes you feel special. Anyway, for a few months now she’s been having a relationship with an older bloke, Max, who happens to live over the road from her. He’s the only boyfriend she’s had since she separated from her husband, and I think her husband was the only other one.

She met Max in the soft fruit section of her local Woolies. He said something sleazy about her big melons and she laughed. It seems that she’s now feeling a bit vulnerable about the relationship, and thinks that maybe he’s going to dump her. She said when they first got together, he told her that he used to see her across the street and fantasise about her, but that now they have started to have sex he fantasises about someone else. (I wonder if it’s me.) Weird he does that, and equally weird that he told her.

Anyway, she was predictably upset. She thought her fragile state was either because her psychic powers (I can tell she’s psychic, somehow) sensed Max was going to dump her, or it was that her ectoplasm wasn’t aligned with her potassium molecules. Or was that her sodium molecules? No, that was last week. Anyway, she shouldn’t be driving in that state. I think the main problem is that she keeps nagging him that he drinks too much. In other words, more than what she does.

Went to the beach this evening to watch the sun set. I didn’t take Malleable, as I couldn’t face another argument at the moment. The sea breeze was in, so sand was whipping along the beach, which was vacant. It’s been in for about two weeks. I don’t know why we call it a sea breeze. It’s more like a sea howling gale that arrives late morning most days of summer, so there’s no one on the beach for about eight hours of daylight each day. I think we must have the worst beach weather in Australia, no matter what the thermometer and rain gauge say.

Anyway, as I was sitting in my car, I noticed this lady having a shower at the outdoor showers. It was hard to tell how old she was. She was almost naked, not a pretty sight, and she had a shopping trolley with her, probably with everything she owns in it. I think I’ve seen her there before. The passing walkers, joggers and cyclists pretty much ignored her. After she finished showering, she dried herself, put on a dress, and pushed her trolley along the beach path to who knows where. Poor thing. I wonder where she sleeps. Not too bad at this time of year, but she must be freezing in the winter. Makes you grateful for what you’ve got. Also, feeling a bit guilty. Why is that? It’s not my fault.

Then, as I was leaving, I nearly collided with some dickhead in a 4WD who needed to drive over the car park guttering rather than via the signed exit. There are only two possibilities: (1) he is too dense to find the exit or (2) he has to drive over the guttering to justify buying a tank in the first place, which of course relates back to (1). Well, guess what — my car could go over a low gutter too if I wanted it to, but I’m smart enough to find the exit. Also, I’m not a dickhead.

Well, it’s nine o’clock at night and Ian has just left. It was great to see him, and he seemed really pleased to see me. The only problem was that for some reason Little Ian wouldn’t put up his hand in class tonight, and that’s never happened before. It was a bit odd. I told him it didn’t matter, and I think he believed me. Nevertheless, it was frustrating. I wonder if he’s getting tired of my body. He’s still on holiday, so maybe that’s got something to do with it – maybe Little Ian’s still on holiday too.

I probably won’t see him again until next Wednesday night. Oh well.

Started out to IGA to buy a few bits this morning, mainly for something to do. After I went down the stairs to the garage, I realised I’d left my car keys upstairs (why don’t I just leave them downstairs when I get home?) so, back up and down the stairs. Then, forgot my shopping bag. So, up and down the stairs again. Maybe I’m getting dementia. The upside, however, is that I’m fitter than I’ve ever been.

Then, at IGA, the fourteen-year-old check-out chick, April, was sporting a badge indicating an award for efficiency. She was as slow as a wet week. Also, from the look on her face, she seemed to be rather judgemental about my purchases. And it’s not like I was buying cigarettes or full cream milk or caged-chook eggs. Anyway, must get a different cashier next time. Why am I so pathetic? Even a fourteen-year-old with a disapproving look on her face stresses me out.

Ian finally rang today and wished me Happy New Year. Gee, thanks. On the fifth of January. He had a lovely time away with his family. I am so pleased for him. He said he should be OK to come over for a couple of hours on Wednesday night, even though he isn’t back at work yet. I know it’s my own fault for continuing to see a married man, but it annoys me when I feel I’m being slotted in. I should do something about it. I’m going to.

Looking forward to Wednesday night, though. What’s the matter with me?

Took Malleable to the beach this morning, as it was so hot. It isn’t a dog beach, but Malleable is only little, so what’s the difference?

Ductile stayed home. Cats don’t like the beach, although I did see a man walking a cat on a lead at the beach a few weeks ago. Bizarre. The cat seemed quite happy and, as the man said to me, there aren’t any signs with pictures of cats on them with a red line through them.

Anyway, most people were OK about Malleable, although a few precious dears made disapproving remarks, muttered barely loud enough for me to hear and make me uncomfortable. Unfortunately, Malleable started yapping a bit and worrying this fat bloke’s ankles, so the fb kicked out at her. We had a big argument, I said it’s only a little dog, and he said, yes, but he didn’t want to get a little bit of tetanus. What a princess. So, I finished up coming home sooner than I wanted.

This morning’s argument has left me in a troubled mood. I hope someone takes their Rottweiler to the beach and sits next to that bloke and gives him more than tetanus. Although I suppose tetanus would be pretty bad.

It’s so hot. I wish I was still at the beach. When we arrived home Malleable had a long drink from the toilet and then collapsed on the couch. He won’t be licking my face again for a while.

To take my mind off things (Ian) I visited Grandpa today, Mum’s dad, at the Old Folks’ Home. I’ve really got to get a life.

That place houses so many weirdos. There’s Albert, this deaf bloke who plays the concertina endlessly; Norma, who plays the piano from 7am every day (sometimes at the same time as Albert is playing a different tune on his concertina); Doug, who walks around loudly reciting poetry while holding his toupee on his head; Ken, who is always insulting everyone; and Keith, who invites you to get into bed with him every time you visit. And they’re some of the saner ones.

Grandpa was quite irritated when I arrived. He said the physio had just been and had wanted to see how long Grandpa could stand on one leg for. Grandpa was heatedly of the opinion that that was a skill he would never require at this or any future stage of his life. Apparently, he fell over straight away.

Anyway, today I told Grandpa I was going to sit at his feet and learn from him. I really meant it. Unfortunately, all I learned was that he couldn’t remember much, that his socks needed washing and that he was angry that Bill Bristow used all the milk in the milk jug at breakfast this morning. I told Grandpa the staff are happy to refill the milk jug whenever it’s empty, but he remained quite hostile about it.

In desperation I asked Grandpa if he thought there was much point in sitting at the feet of an old person. He said he wouldn’t do it, as he hasn’t got much time for old people and that all the ones in there are dippy. That’s the only piece of wisdom I received from him today.

I don’t think this month’s saying of Donna’s is about to change my life.

Something has to.

Still nothing from Ian. I know he went away for a few days with his family, but you’d think he’d find time to send me a text while he was sitting on the toilet or something.

It’s very hot. I think I’ll drive down to the beach (it’s 800 metres away) and have a walk to try to cheer myself up.

11.00 pm

Still nothing.

1.00 pm

Hi all

Happy New Year to everyone.

Just woke up. Hungover. Feel terrible. Well, it was New Year’s Eve last night. Nevertheless, I’m logged on now, or should that be logged in?

My friend Donna and I went out last night to see the New Year in. She wore her usual short skirt and boots to set off her long shapely legs, while I wore a long dress but with a low top. Having different attributes from each other, I think we harmonised well.

Anyway, Donna, who, I reluctantly admit, is my best friend, pretty much scared all the butterflies away as usual by never shutting up with her strong opinions on everything she doesn’t know anything about. She doesn’t do that when it’s only the two of us. The trouble with Donna is, as a result of her contrasting looks and personality, she both attracts and repels butterflies.

At one stage we managed to trick a couple of blokes into sitting with us. Donna seemed to like one of them. He was on the lumpish side, but he seemed OK. She was moving her hands all over his various limbs as she talked, but then, when he put a hand on her leg, she pushed it away, loudly announcing, ‘don’t touch me, I’m a lady’. Well, you could have fooled me, Donna. Needless to say, we didn’t see any more of them for the rest of the evening.

I know Donna is my best friend, but I’d rather have spent New Year’s Eve with Ian. Of course, that was never going to happen, as he spent the evening with his wife. He says he’ll make it up to me. So, at midnight I had no one to kiss, or do anything else with, so I got drunk instead. Even then no one appears to have taken advantage of me. Poor Catherine.

Now I have arrived at my desk to document my New Year’s resolutions.

I see there’s already an email from Donna waiting for me. Donna’s a bit into herself. Her email address is hotfemail@hotmail.com. Donna hopes I got home OK. Yes, I did Donna, no thanks to you. When it came time to book our Ubers home, Donna said her iPhone was too old to support the Uber app, so could I order hers as well. Good one, Donna. Surely you can afford a new iPhone with all the money you’re saving on Ubers.

Anyway, her email ends with one of her corny sayings. I don’t know where she gets them from, but she sends me one on the first of every month. Most of them make me gag.

This month’s saying is, I have learnt that you can find wisdom by sitting at the feet of an old person.

I usually can’t stomach this tripe, but maybe I do need to change something. Am I a cynical person? I know I’m often less than happy. Maybe I should at least give it a go. I suppose the next time I visit Grandpa at the Old Folks’ Home I could sit at his feet and see if I come away any the wiser.

OK, so, my New Year’s resolutions are:

1. This year, I will embrace each of Donna’s cheesy monthly sayings for that month.
2. This year, I will make an entry on my blog every day. Good start. I have already achieved that one for today, even if I stop now.
3. This year, I will not get angry at the vacuum cleaner and kick it and swear at it when it gets stuck on corners.
4. This year, I will dump Ian and find a proper boyfriend (or, maybe, a girlfriend).
5. This year, I will keep all of my New Year’s resolutions for a change.

So, all I have to do is keep the last resolution and I’m home.

I’m parched. Think I’ll have a glass of water and go back to bed for a while. Missing Christopher. I hope he rings later. What time is it in London, anyway?

4.00pm

Just had a long chat with Christopher. I so miss him. It doesn’t help that I don’t get along with Wayne, so we never exchange information or thoughts about our son. Mid-chat, Christopher calmly announced that he got COVID over Christmas, but said he is fine now, just a bit of a sore throat and a runny nose. He’s in isolation with Olivia, who has all the symptoms, but keeps testing negative. Anyway, at least they have each other for comfort, which is a comfort to me. I told Christopher about Donna’s monthly saying, but he didn’t seem interested.

11.00 pm

Final check of my emails. Nothing from Ian. Donna rang this evening. I told her I was going to sit at Grandpa’s feet on Sunday. She said she didn’t know what I was talking about. I asked her if she had ever done anything like that and she said not that she could think of.