Dealing with mutants

The cavalcade of mutant carrots continues.

In Mick's defence, a lot of them look relatively normal, albeit a little small, but then something like this crops up and I'm not sure what to do with it (apart from dressing it up a la Anne Geddes):

It doesn't look particularly appetising to me, but luckily Wiz has no such qualms:

Miscellany

Like I said before, not much to report.

The Gladiators' party wasn't the disruptive fair we expected, more's the pity. There was a big roar up Carrington Street but nothing compared to Dykes on Bikes.

I did notice one guy going up and down a few times afterwards:

I don't know why. Maybe for exercise.

Elsewhere, the chooks across the street have been enjoying regular breakouts:

While I stayed up far too late and came across American morning TV. Disturbing and amusing, my favourite:

I thought that was unsettling, but then I came across Mr T's Flavorwave.
Just having to spell it like that gives me the willies:

It apparently cooks everything. How?
Aren't they glad you asked:

In the end, you too can serve up a meal that looks like this (I can positively identify at least three ingredients!):

I'm just happy Mr T didn't sit there while George Foreman monopolised the kitchenware market.

Oh, by the way, the orange tree has gone insane with flowers:

It's almost October; I gather that's not normal...

Accidental gardening

Nothing much has seemed remotely blog-worthy.

I do, however, have this season's newest vegetable interlopers.

First, the spring onion (who knew about the flower?):

And of course, there's a renegade pumpkin in the compost heap:

At least this time we're prepared.

Manly endeavours

There I was, thoroughly satisfied after a testosterone-laden Bruce Lee bloodfest:

... when I switch onto Rage on the ABC and I see nothing but filth:

The infuriating thing about Rage is that they only show the name of the artist and song at the start of each clip.
I have no idea who did this video, but it was very cool.

A big weekend

It's all happening in Maitland this weekend.

Both the Maitland Pickers (rugby league, black and white kit) and the Maitland Blacks (rugby union, self-explanatory) are in their respective grand finals.

It's the first time in 27 years and the town is festooned with black balloons – it looks like someone locally famous has died.

Anyway, Mick is heading to Newcastle for the Pickers' final on Sunday. The Metropolitan Hotel has organised a mini-bus and I noticed among the names on the list of 24 passengers a Killer, a Crackers and a Mong, so he should have fun...

To top that off, the Gladiators are celebrating their 50th anniversary. There's already been a rise in bike activity on Carrington Street and god knows how long that'll go for. A bloke told us yesterday that other rival bikie members will be attending this strictly invite-only affair. It could get interesting.

Speaking of which, this is in the window of the pawn shop near the Metro.
It's a very strange pawn shop:

No reason

False advertising

This is one of the old ads on the Metropolitan Hotel.

Golf players are rarely this attractive:

Weeds

Found in this alley:

Poppies:

Glamorous!

Queens of the Nile

As I type, my favourite Agatha Christie is on TV. Death on the Nile.

Mia! Maggie!! Bette!!!

Spring is here

Our first stink bug:

Maitland glamour

This place is indisputably rough around the edges, but it has a certain rundown chic.

Cases in point:
Frens, the low-key Art Deco car-maintenance-whatever building on High Street, opposite the technical college-turned-gallery, the architectural style of which I'd describe as Triniansian:

And the back bar in the Metro. Fabulous:

See?

Puppy! Enough said

The mother of the family next door that owns the puppy clearly doesn't give a rat's arse about her. Mick and I reckon the separated dad (a "weekend" dad) gave it to the little son – they have two other teenage arsehole children – as an affection-grabber. The mother consequently hates it and quite possibly wants it to get run over.

Anyway, that's what I think.

The puppy's been on her own every day this week; our neighbour Diane has taken to driving at a snail's pace, terrified of running her over.
Mick wants to call the RSPCA but I talked him out of it for the time being. At least the puppy's safe in our backyard.

And really, how can I complain?

Mick hasn't been that attentive in years.

Adventures in puppysitting

Mick and I were terrorised by the neighbours' dog all afternoon.

Okay, so "terrorised" is a bit much:

The arsehole neighbours left her outside alone (again) all day, so this tiny thing has been roaming our street. She almost got run over twice (once by us) and nearly got eaten by the lawnmower in our backyard – in order to avoid puppy carnage, Mick had to move suddenly and wound up busting the water pipe open.

Anyway, we boarded up their front yard as best we could but the little tube of muscle squeezed her way out. Five times in all despite increasingly elaborate defensive systems (including a spare fly-screen door that Mick just happened to have under the house – I didn't ask):

She'd make a beeline to our front door and whimper, which was really giving me the shits by the end of the day. Still, the power of puppy cuteness cannot be underestimated.
I want one!

When confronted with the day's events when she arrived home, the mother of the house was vaguely apologetic but didn't really give a shit. Even mention of the RSPCA didn't faze her.
I wasn't surprised, to be honest.
They're a Today Tonight exclusive waiting to happen. But that's another post.

This doesn't end well

At least 15 minutes

I didn't really know who Rob Oakeshott was, but after his excruciatingly drawn-out election decider monologue, I do now.

It was a combination of indulgent Oscars acceptance speech and Eddie Maguire-style self-serving blather:

After what seemed like hours, he gave it to Gillard:

I hope that's the last we hear from him.

Nighty night

I overlooked this, a somewhat unsettling shot of Mick fixing the car:

Desktop clearance

In what may become a regular activity, here are some photos I have on my desktop that I've exported for no immediate reason.
Okay, so most I meant to write about/include and forgot.

The best part about going to Sydney – leaving via the bridge:

The last sad remnants of the pumpkin plant:

The camellia's making a mess, but what a mess:

The phone booth at the Metropolitan Hotel looks like it should be used for mob hits or declarations of forbidden passion.
There is no reason why these two can't be combined:

Wiz and Tuppence in their spring ensembles: