Not doing my violin practice

Today I'm not doing my violin practice. In fact, between writing a boring blog and doing my violin practice, I choose writing a boring blog. So that's why I'm writing this right now.
I simply don't understand why I'm not doing my violin practice - apart from the fact it sounds like a dying cat with strep throat and I usually injure myself in some way or another - because I generally quite like it. The fact that I clear the room within about ten seconds is a definite bonus. And when I move onto double stop scales, everyone's doors seem to shut at once.
Sometimes, on a hot day, I yawn and stretch my bow up to the ceiling, forgetting that the fan is still on. Then my bow gets a good beating and I have to quickly riffle through the insurance papers to check that if the cracked bit on the end did eventually fall off, I might be able to get it back.
Other days I get a crick neck from playing it for so long, and I can't turn around so I walk like a constipated robot all day. Or my scales become so monotonous I fall asleep while playing. Many people

Darwin

So at the moment we're globetrotting around Australia and I've found myself in Darwin, a place where a brisk winter's day means you're sweating like a pig by 9am in the morning (which, scientifically, is impossible, as pigs don't sweat to cool down, they roll in mud. Which I wouldn't mind doing right now, except that there isn't any mud for about 200 miles, or at least until you're in Adelaide, because anything that used to be mud is as hard as a hammer and crumbles to dust when you try rolling in it).
After a plane trip that scared the livings out of me because there was no little TV on the back of the seat in front of me, we drove for about half an hour to our friends' house. And let me tell you, the rumours are true. The documentaries are right. When you go driving in the Northern Territory, clouds of dust DO swirl around behind you. How cool is that?
While up here we went to some markets that are on every thursday night and about 9000 people turn out to them. Which is about a tenth of the whole population of Darwin, as there are only about 100 000 people in the whole city. Which explains the lack of televisions (I nearly died of fright when I woke up and heard a radio going. I mean, that's civilised).
At these markets they sold everything from asian cuisine to crocodile claw key rings - a specialty, as my friend told me - apparently this town in the middle of no where makes their livings on crocs. Desperate, I say. But it didn't stop me from ordering a crocodile burger, which tastes just like chicken. With tomato sauce and lettuce. And it came in a little cardboard box, so that was OK.
At the markets I scabbed $7 and bought a frog that was made from wood and had spikes on its back, and when you ran a wooden stick up its spikes it made a sound like a frog. I called him Herbert. My mum thought he was a cane toad and didn't give me her blessing to buy it, so I feel guilty every time I stroke his spikes.
Anyway, after the markets we had a nice couple of boiling hot winters days, which suited me perfectly fine because I'm a summer person after all. Luckily I ignored my mother's wisdom and packed three pairs of shorts, which have all been worn twice, while my thermal underwear and jeans were left neatly folded in my bag. My poor Mater has worn her three-quarter pants each and every single day. I wonder if they've died of heat yet.
We went for a nice walk along some place where crocodiles lived in the stream and all the grass was dead. No wonder these people nearly die of heat every year - they can never go swimming. Apparently even private swimming pools have fresh water crocs coming for a dip every now and then.
Along the way we found a green ants nest, and I was a proper native because I ate the bum off one of them. It tasted... like a green ant's bum. It's got a very distinct flavour. Like green ants. But with bums.
And then last night I got to eat some kangaroo burger. Mm mmm. Tasted like chicken.
Now we're off for another couple of weeks down to Uluru, a place where toilets are used about twice a year and it never ever rains. It's freezing at night and boiling at day. And dingoes eat wild babies. Luckily I left mine behind.

Enjoy the winter, folks!

Bandaids

Bandaids are the most useless things in the world. Trust me, I should know.
They seem to live everywhere. Homebrand ones that are ten years old and have lost their stick lurk in the bathroom cupboards. Tiny little ones that cover about three millimeters of skin and do nothing when you peel the tops off your knees on the netball courts live in Mum's handbag. And pus infected ones that have finally given way after six months flat on the same elbow ensure a dry patch at all times on the shower floor. And these are some of the lighter cases.
Only yesterday I was scraping some eleven year old stickers off my desk, and I scraped so hard and so fast I skinned my finger. On went the bandaid. And then it came off again. And the skinned finger is just as skinned as when it was without bandaid.
I read these bandaid packages like they're telling me where the elixir for youth is. I follow the instructions as carefully as if I was detaching a bomb tied around my mother's neck. And when I look at the final product, I may as well take it to Coles, show the monotonic employee I bought it from, and ask for my fifty cents back. Because every time, without fail, something has gone wrong.
It could be that a hair is stuck in it. A nice long black one, the sort you don't really want to know where it's come from. And even if you pull on this hair, the grease it encases means your fingers slip straight through, and you're in danger of needing another baindaid for that papercut. Without fail, the hair trails along every single thing you use your finger for. It gets stuck in the pancake mix you are making and trails eggs and milk and flour, and not to mention the ever-present grease, through the chamomile tea you're making your blind great grandfather. In short, it causes uncontrollable havoc within seconds.
Even worse, the bandaid may swivel around, the sticky part digging into the open flesh and causing an infection that gradually seeps into the body's system, poisoning the blood system and ensuring eventual amputation of the finger. When this does no good and you start feeling sweaty and feverish you are hospitalised for six months flat, running up a monstrous hospital bill that causes your parents to go bankrupt. Then you suddenly drop dead, your brothers and sisters are sent out to foster homes, and your parents have to live in nursing homes for the next thirty years.
As you can see, these sterile health and safety implements are a serious danger that many people are too prejudiced to believe. Harmless as they may seem, you would do well to take my advice: The next time you slice your finger open instead of the onion, do yourself a favour and put some antiseptic and a thick cloth bandage on. It may have been the last onion you had ever sliced.
You're Welcome!

Another Blog To Take Your Fancy...

If you ever get bored of reading about nothing, try something more substantial:

http://musingsofamadhatter.blogspot.com

The author is a friend of mine about to partake in a trip around Australia. And no, you did not read that wrong.

So yeah. Don't... explode from eating too many cheezels or anything. Yeah.

***EDIT*** actually, that last phrase prompted a sudden and explosive idea in my head.... a new blog name!! yay!! yay! etc.

School Days

I swear, school is trying to kill me.
No, I don't mean the surprise maths exams everyone else seemed to know about.
And I don't mean the "healthy" tuckshop lunches that comprise of a mouldy hot dog and a warm can of drink.
It's the uniforms we are forced to wear, in order to make the school "look good".
Let's take today for an example. Yep, the biggest bum freezer of 2011. The wind was about zero degrees. The temperature of the rain spitting pleasantly on the only part of my body I couldn't cover up, my face? Warm as toast. That has been frozen.
Needless to say, I'd covered the rest of my body as liberally as possible, without looking like an overdressed eskimo. Singlet, t-shirt, horribly thin dress, even thinner jumper, followed by the scarf that took three years to pass school regulations before it was finally introduced (three years? I mean, seriously?). Then follows the socks, stockings, and shoes. Unfortunately my face and hands were left to defend themselves, which they didn't do a very good job of. Six months of daily moisturising down the drain.
So as I poke around the school, squinting through the strong breeze, arms tucked under my armpits, I wonder how this could in any way make a school look good.
The alternative would be preferable - although possibly not in the name of fashion. I seriously don't know how people can do it - walk around as though it's the second hottest summer in Australia with shorts the length of their undies and singlet tops that disintegrate when the wearer puts their arms in the air. If that was me, I'd be a purple version of E.T. within seconds. But those people don't even have a single goose bump.
Either way, it's a lose-lose situation. So I'll take the loss and, if I ever become ruler of school uniforms in my future adventures, I'll be sure to include a dressing gown as part of the compulsory get up.

***EDIT*** To justify my opinions here, I have just found out: In my area was the coldest June day since 1916. I mean, I wasn't even alive then. I don't think my GRANDMOTHER was alive then. In fact, my GREAT GRANDMOTHER wasn't even breathing then. See what pain I must go through, being a descendant of these people? Also, it was colder at 3pm than at 3am. All I can say to that is, at 3pm, I should have been as asleep as I was at 3am.

My Dog's Health

The main interest of the past two or so years has been my absolutely GORGEOUS border collie called Connor. And when I mean interest, we're besties. I tell him everything. Which goes to show what sort of social life I have.

Anyway, I'm kind of worried about his health. To start with, he has a slight tendency of stretching weirdly every time he stands up, in a half your-highness nose-to-the-ground bow, half lifted-three-tonnes-of-bricks yesterday-and-struggled-out-of-bed pose. Which gives me the idea that he might be developing early arthritis.

Secondly, he eats just about everything. This could be anything from week-old porridge that has moulded itself to the pan to the grass that has been regurgitated by next door's cat. Don't get me wrong, we do actually feed our dog. I mean, who wouldn't want a big bowl of dried and dehyrdrated kangaroo flavoured biscuits "for the working dog"? Not to mention the occasional raw brussels sprout shells mum sometimes throws in as a treat. Yet he continues to eat anything that won't break his teeth. Yeah, I don't understand either. 

I think Connor must have bulimia or something, because we went on a walk the other day, and as we were crossing the road in peak hour traffic, he suddenly stopped dead in the middle, made a few cancerous rasping sounds and spewed up a leaf along with an assortment of unmentionable bile, eventually dropping splat onto his side. I mean, I thought he was DEAD. Just as I was thinking we'd have to call an ambulance before that semi trailer got too close, Mum yanked on the lead and he leapt up to make it to the other side. 

So, to put it simply, my dog is an arthritic, starving, bulimic and cancerous species of the canine race. Any ideas on how to return him to his normality?

Tissues

To me, all tissues are the same.
Yes, we see those ads on television promising us an experience of utter softness out of this world. Unfortunately, when coming to this experience, my hopes have been raised to a proportion unfair to the actual quality of the tissue.
There are times, in the year, when one hardly looks at a box of tissues, only using them to give the TV a good scrub before important acquaintances pay us a visit. However, everyone has been through the stage when, for several weeks, the humble box of tissues becomes one's faithful companion.
This would be the Cold season.
Colds are funny things. They creep up on you when you are least expecting it. Then they strike one morning, as you wake up, and realise that only one nostril is serviceable and the other has leaked all over your pillow. They are never so bad that you have to stay home from work, but always bad enough to keep up a constant beat of sniffing. In silence with a cohort of twenty others, these sniffs bear likeness to wearing bright orange to a funeral.
I take myself back to the good old primary school days when tissues were provided by the students, each bringing in a box for the year. My good old mother would always provide me with a box of the highest quality kleenex. However, try as we might, there are always the few that bring in the generic branded box, guaranteeing a one-ply-sandpaper experience. When my nose had reached bursting point I was forced to step out of the classroom and use some of these tissues.
Well. I would blow, and such an onslaught of discharge would follow that five tissues wouldn't have done the trick. I am forced to hold that wet tissue to my face, with green slime dripping down my face, as I try to conspicuously reach into the classroom for another handful. Of course, conspicuous isn't allowed in the classroom, and although no one ever says anything about it, you are mentally branded "The Snot Queen" and are forced to bear that name for the rest of the year.
My father has the ability to use one tissue for any and all occasions. It doesn't matter how much red cordial was spilled on the carpet, or how much vomit was on his brand new trousers, if we moved our hand toward the box to pull out a new one, we were dead meat. I have the feeling that in his past,  his school provided the tissues.
All I am saying is that Tissues are underrated and overused. Someone needs to bring something quiet and mess-free onto the market. Something that will curb embarrassment and make the cold season a pleasant journey.
All the same, it is rather funny.