Dickheads and slappers and hoons, oh my!

A pictorial of our normally sleepy street over the past few weeks, i.e. why I hate summer:

No, I don't know what the body paint is about, although I suspect the letters spelt the name of an overpaid, overweight, peroxided cricketer at one point.

It's that time of year.

There's no place like Oz

I've only just recovered from the intoxicating wave of patriotic fervour over the Australia Day long weekend.

I was pissing green-and-gold all over this wide, brown land along with all the other proud Aussies and I have never felt more validated as a human being. Especially when telling someone who wasn't nearly as Anglo-pure as myself that "I grew here!"

In truth, I avoided all contact with anyone wielding a Southern Cross in any form.
I did, however, capture a glorious sunrise:

By the way, the fucking cancer is back. Somehow I'm not surprised.
Looks like more chemo is the only way to go.

Oi oi vey.

Suzi, action dog

It's always important to project an air of enthusiastic exertion, even if only in one's choice of venue:

Similarly, when returned home, pose attractively and emit a sigh of exhausted self-satisfaction:

Demand food.

The Coco Channel: Who the hell is this?

The horses have a new arrival.
He's chestnut, which I presume translates as ginger in the horse world.

Here they are last week, managing to get along – warily – in the face of new carrots:

The semblance of harmony was short-lived, however.
Coco, in particular, has shown her true colours and has rejected him.

Just quietly, they're not becoming on her – she turns, I tell you. 

Here's an abstract of what I assure you was not a pretty sight:

Anyway, this new neighbour – given his white feet, we're hedging our bets and calling him Socks – is hanging in there and doing his best to fit in. He's a little timid for his own good, unfortunately.

He could literally be starved for attention by the end of the month...

Back on track

I've managed to crawl out of my slump, sort of. I think.

In this spirit, I share this:

Via The Antipodean Homo, who says this is Nadine Strittmatter standing up for fashion at Christian Dior.

NYE Horseshoe Bend

Okay, so that was just the 9pm fireworks, but given Suzi's reaction – a sprint to the backyard, where she barked furiously in every direction until I corralled her – I think I'll forgo a trip to the riverside to watch the midnight event.

Besides, You Can't Stop the Music is on Channel 9!

Poor me a drink

While Googling for details on what creative director Marc Newson has in store for Sydney tonight, I found this beauty, courtesy of The Australian:

I'm glad we decided to avoid the riff-raff.

Setting of the sunflowers (this time for sure)

Mick and I have been hesitant to yank out the sunflowers, but they're now looking a bit like something you might find in the backyard of the American Horror Story house:

In any case, it's time for them to make way; the pumpkin plant is on the march once again:

Woo. Uh... Hoo.

The so-called festive season is almost over (thank Christ!), just the colossal waste of money that is NYE fireworks to go.
I was a little gobsmacked at how elaborate they were up here last year. I honestly don't know why they bother.

Anyway, I may or may not venture to the river to watch them.
Somehow I think I'll be in front of the tele instead (click for personal light spectacular):

Happy etc.

The perils of Pauline, or There goes the neighbourhood

Mick came home from the Metro on Wednesday night with a horrifying piece of town gossip:

Pauline Hanson, the failed politician who appealed to the dumb bigot in everyone, has supposedly bought my favourite pub-turned-antiques store, the old Tooths Exchange Hotel:

Galling: that she allegedly paid only $440,000 for it.
Even worse: she wants to turn it into a wine bar.

Or woin bar. With chips!

If she continues with her recent string of reality TV-driven attempts at image rehabilitation and tries to turn this venture into a series of camera-friendly mishaps and meltdowns, I may have to call upon Pauline Pantsdown to stage an intervention:

Sublime, ridiculous...

I post this, the last of our current zucchini crop, without comment:

Suzi: The new fragrance

Mick and I took Suzi to the groomer yesterday.
It was just for a shampoo; the dog, bless her, really stank.

Mick had attempted to shower her, but it proved such an ordeal (she was so determined to avoid it, she managed, for the first time, to leap into the bed with me) that we took her to Raymond Terrace's Pet Parlour again.

Raymond Terrace is, shall we say, a less salubrious part of the lower Hunter Valley.
It's often mentioned in local news broadcasts: "Police caught the alleged suspects in ...", "The burnt-out vehicle was found in ...", etc.

Still, you pass some pretty scenery on the way:

Plus, they do a good, cheap doggy wash and Suzi now smells like a rose, as interpreted through one of those motion-triggered room fresheners.
She laid down in the car for most of the way home, perhaps in post-traumatic stress, so I didn't get a good photo of her.

She looks much the same, to be honest, so here's one I prepared earlier; just imagine her smelling a lot better:

Moving violations #4

Close to home – next door, in fact – we have a classic example of the new idiocy.

This car either belongs to the neighbours or one of their many friends who come and go in unnecessarily loud fashion at all times of day and night.
Whether the neighbours are dealing is a matter of conjecture, but we wouldn't be at all surprised.

Anyway, here you go:

Nothing like getting your freak on in a hatchback, is there?

Setting of the sunflowers

Apologies for the absence. Haven't felt remotely like blogging anything, a combination of the time of year and my semi-swollen face – there's only so much a hermit can share.
At least I've made it to the backyard on occasion to monitor the sunflowers.

Here they were, December 9:

And just over a week later:

They're on their last legs, so to speak.
It was lovely while it lasted.

When all else fails

Click to engage:

Australia: All Mine*

Amid the high-sodium snacks and local businesses being spruiked on billboards along the New England Highway, one can be momentarily distracted – or subliminally swayed – by the odd pro-dig-a-hole piece of propaganda.

Lest you worry that the constant removal of earth be somehow detrimental in the long term, surely this convinces you otherwise:

No passengers!
That's not creepy or portentous at all.

Then there's the smiling, hi-vis face of the many and varied economies reliant upon our current obsession with literally undermining what is now pristine countryside.

Because if you go down a hole, someone has to lift you out of it, right?
Enter the helpful, gender-balanced workforce of professional lifters ... sorry – thinkers, Robertsons:

I applaud them for their choice of headwear – finally I know what thinking caps look like.

* I think I should send this to Tourism Australia as a slogan suggestion.
Can't be any worse than their recent efforts. Certainly more honest.

Blame it on the Endone

I've been in a post-radiation painkiller haze, hence the recent lack of posting.

It's also my excuse for not paying attention to the zucchinis.
I added the ruler to show how comically large some had become as a result:

I don't know what Mick's excuse is.

Don't stare directly at the sunflowers

The sunflowers are out and looking impressive:

... facing different directions, for some reason:

The one on the right has always been a bit behind the other one, development-wise, so maybe it hasn't quite worked out where to look yet...

Meanwhile, the first pumpkin has appeared:

They grow up so fast...

Ossie Mk II: Hypno Mosquito

A routine trip to the doctor today had an unexpected bonus.

Residents of Hexham and readers of this blog have reason to celebrate – Ossie the Mossie is back and better than ever:

Okay, so my visions of a giant, explorable mosquito (possibly with a restaurant/souvenir shop in his head) have not come to fruition, but closer inspection reveals his secret allure:

Is this the roadside equivalent of subliminal advertising?

Are those hypnotic, spiral eyes silently beckoning potential problem gamblers?

In any case, it's good to have him back.

Anyone got $1.9 million?

This is genuine now.
Honest!

There's a seriously fabulous multi-purpose residence for sale around the corner from our place. It's been on and off the market since we moved here and has been the source of sundry domestic fantasies.

Welcome to Mansfield House:

The agent does it more justice:

Anyway, it's been steadily dropping in price; at $1.9 million for a 9-bedroom, c. 1887 Italian Renaissance-style glamour pile, it's a fricken bargain.

Besides, imagine what you could get up to in this room:

Seriously, anyone got some spare cash?