All the news thats fit to print

Had a call from Stephen yesterday and when I told him that I’d recently flown over and wondered “which was his shed?” in relation to the buildings collected at one end of the extremely long wharf. Eventually I had to admit that my fly over was only at the auspices of that respected international carrier, Google Earth, he resolved to leave a painted message on his roof stating something to the effect of COK accompanied by the date, for Google’s next satellite pass. Might loose him his job but that’s not much price for transient immortality, or fifteen minutes of fame is it. He sounds pretty happy with his five acres (I think he said) to scratch around, and is already generating some favorable comment. Although on the mainland he refers to it as the island owing to the fact that it is accessible only by sea or air though it’s not as isolated as Chris led us to believe, they do have satellite phone, internet and TV.

I went shopping with Alice at Bondi Junction yesterday sort of filling the role of girlfriend as she sought a pair of shoes to marry in. The first pair chosen were unavailable in her size, the second were available but only to someone with two left feet. The bewildered sales girl plead that nothing in her training had prepared her for this eventuality. The third, successfully acquired, came with the portentous name “marry” so something was working. Returning home we drove by Hugh and Betty’s place at Paddington to get her street number for mailing an invite and as we drove up Betty came out so we stopped. She had just returned from lunch with a girlfriend and found Hughie with a bloody head wound from a fall in the yard, bid us to go in and see him while she proceeded next door to see if the doctor neighbor was in. Hughie in bloodied pajamas in the living room was surprisingly compos, recognizing Alice and I without any prompting after such a long time. He had a wound at the back of his head which was congealing but seemed otherwise bright and well for one recovering from recent Pneumonia. Raising myself to full professional height and recollecting the full extent of my medical knowledge, learned at my mother’s knee, I held forth that a blow to the head that doesn’t bleed can be a worry, perhaps butter should be applied. A blow that bleeds is a great relief as long as bleeding subsides and it has. On reflection I do hope Betty got a second opinion.

Alice is pretty upset with John Howard, not just for the disruption caused to the plans of potential wedding guests caused by his tardy election timetable decision, but for the potential politicization of the wedding itself. He has certainly blown what little chance he ever had of her vote. Well who would want their wedding day to be remembered as the day John Howard, who’s Hooch like bottom lip will surely soon require a prosthetic dam to hold back the drool, won his what? Fifth election. Only in the fifth dimension surely. On the other hand it might lead to an interesting collaboration with David Williamson on the finale to his illustrious playwriting career called simply “Alice’s Wedding”. Mmmm.

Even if the other crowd win it’s difficult to think that all 250 guests will be apolitical enough not to be somewhat distracted by goings on in the tally room which owing to time differences and the importance of the WA vote will be hard at work till late evening or more.

Mention of WA provides a nice segway to note that we have received regrets from the nomads and Stephen that they will not be driving back for the event, and Kelly who’s marathon swimming prowess has suffered recently in direct proportion to her alcohol intake will be unable to attend. This led me to reflect that I missed the weddings of Dot, Chris, Hugh and Stephen only being in attendance at those of Nanette and John when I was too young too have a good personal excuse. So Alice it is I who owe you an apology for having set such a precedent. Luckily, I need have no other regrets - ehem!

Well what about that eh, some relevant possibly even useful news this week instead of the usual hypothetical drivel of scocio-political mores. Even less to be regretful of. Chuffed I’m sure.
R.