I’ve driven from Melbourne to Adelaide today.

 I’m taking the night off. I’m buggered. 

Today’s song:

The Car is Nearly Packed

With all the travel I do, you'd think I'd be used to packing. But no. 

Making it harder is that I'm travelling with the beastie. Lucifer, once I catch him, will be bundled into the car and driven to Adelaide. He has to come with his belongings. It's like travelling with a toddler, albeit one that's a lot quieter in the car and less prone to tantrums once he's in the cage. Getting him in and out of the car is another matter, but I am praying to my better angels for help. A colleague has suggested rubbing Rescue Remedy into his ears before we go - it allegedly calms them down and can't do any harm. 

The car is nearly packed. The crate is set up, complete with a litter tray and bedding. The Christmas presents, my clothes, the food I'll take so Mum doesn't complain about the regime. All that needs to go in is the car is the computer and the cat, and me and we'll be on the way for the long drive back to Victor Harbor. 

Fun facts about Victor Harbor. 

1) When using the town name, there is no 'U' in harbour, unlike if you were spelling it like the place where boats park. 

2) It's God's waiting room. It's THE place to retire in South Australia. 

3) My grandfather started his career down there in 1915. He used to run telegrams for the post office. My great-grandmother was stuck with six kids when my great-grandfather went off to work for the military. 

4) It was initially thought to be the place for the state capital, but there was not enough water and it wasn't flat enough. Colonel Light chose the current site instead as there was more room to move and expand. 

5) Victor Harbor is where kids go to schoolies in Adelaide when they can't afford to go to the Gold Coast. 

6) There are three pubs in Victor. The Hotel Victor, The Crown and the Grosvener. A pub crawl in Victor means going round in a loop. Each used to have it's charms and pitfalls. 

7) Victor Harbor has a horse drawn tram which goes out to Granite Island. Granite Island is home to fairy (little) penguins. And rock wallabies. It is not a trip to Victor without a mooch over to Granite Island. 

8) There is a cinema at Victor Harbor. Tickets are $17 - like 2014 prices.

9) I am going to miss communing with the kangaroos and rosellas which used to frequent Mum's garden. I love being near kangaroos. The Eastern Greys are just wonderful. 

10) Victor Harbor has a ParkRun on Christmas Day. As it's going to be a hot day, it's a good excuse to go for a walk before it gets really hot. I'm hoping Mum has her printer hooked up as I've lost my barcode. 

Time for bed. It's going to be a big day tomorrow. 

Today's song:

Soft Poached Eggs

 Unpopular Opinion: Soft-poached eggs are the worst. 

I love poached eggs. When I make them myself, normally using those old 70's egg rings, like I've been poaching them for the last nearly 50 years, I tend to make them so the yolk is a bit firmer, not too runny. For me the perfect poached egg is semi-firm. Just a touch of ooze from the yolk in the middle. 

As cafe culture has overtaken the landscape, it seems the trend that you poach the egg so just the white firms up and the yolk remains really loose. 

And I don't like it that much. 

Part of me would like to ask that cafes leave the poaching egg in the water for another minute or two. But as I also normally order a large almond, decaf latte to go with my breakfast, I'm seen as enough of a wanker. Asking for firmer poached eggs is stretching the friendship just a little bit too much. 

Case in point, today at my favourite cafe on Bambra Road, I ordered Latke and Lox. A couple of fried potato latkes (like a Jewish version of the hash brown, but better), with smoked salmon, horseradish cream and poached eggs, with a bit of dill on the side for good measure. It's wonderful. 

But the eggs were very, very runny. 

And it's not like I don't like the flavour, but I don't like the texture. 

I also don't like the fact that whenever I have soft poached eggs, invariably I end up wearing half of it down my front. Being the possessor of a shelf (read big tits), the yolk will always end up running down my front, not matter how careful I try to be. Soft poached eggs will always end up as something that looks like seagull poo running down my shirt. 

If they left them to cook for a minute longer, I'd be right. It can't be that hard!

Today's song: 

That's Work for the Year

 'Tis done.

It's over. 

That's it. 

No more sitting in front of a computer writing about electricity meters and bills for two whole weeks. 

Yay!

I'll admit to being a little burned out. it's been a big year. According to my hotel awards points I've spent 87 nights away from home this year.

And now I'm getting my head around the things I need to do over the next two weeks. This includes: 

• Driving to Adelaide with the cat. 
• Christmas in Victor Harbor.
• Seeing friends in Adelaide. 
• Driving back from Adelaide, with the cat. 
• Doing some writing. 
• Hopefully getting onto the second season of Bad Sisters. 
• Finally reading The Bee Sting. I want to get this done before I get onto the book group book. 
• Going to see the Yayoi Kazuma exhibition. 
• Go to the gym regularly
• Maybe do the ParkRun on Christmas Day in Victor Harbor. 
• Maybe not get a speeding ticket going out of Coonalpyn this year ($545 I'll never get back). 
• Maybe put myself back on the dating apps in the new year. This is a maybe. A big maybe. 

And I look at this list of things to do and I'm thinking I should book myself a week in Bali with a villa and its own pool and take a litre of gin from duty free and go toes up over there in the not-too-distant future. 

Ah well. At least I don't have to think about electricity meters for two weeks. 

Today's song: 

Vale Michael Leunig

I was trying to think of something to write tonight. 

Would I write about the fact that I have nearly completely checked out of work for the year? No. I have one more day, and one of my managers regularly reads this blog. Not that I've actually checked out, but I think most of us are at the stage where something comes up and it's not automatically a "January Problem." So yeah. Meter Testing Protocols. January Problem? Pre-paid electricity vouchers? January problem. Confluence repository structure for various parts of the business. Umm, better get that out of the way. 

Then I thought about writing about the book I'm listening to. Philip Pullman, where have you been all my life? I'm listening to the second book of the His Dark Materials trilogy and he's incredible. I still don't get how these buttoned up, repressed Oxbridge types can have access to such imagination and emotion. Think about CS Lewis... or TS Eliot...or.... the list goes on. 

The I hear the news that hit me with a thump. 

Michael Leunig has passed away, aged 79. 

Michael Leunig, the much maligned, rather controversial, always poking the bear cartoonist who's work adorned The Age for years. He is no more. Mind you, he's been in semi-retirement for years. 

Leunig's calendar, which came with The Age every year for decades, used to adorn my kitchen wall. 

Leunig, who used to make you think, and feel, with his witty and pithy observations. Sometimes they got a bit close to the mark. 

He was a left of centre thinker. I wasn't afraid to court controversy, and make you smile while he was doing it. 

And he'd go to places other were afraid to, which much success. 

I liked that saw the world a little differently. I could relate to his cartoons. 

He was a poet at heart. 

And he was never afraid to get political. 

And I've admired him for the 25 years I've lived in Melbourne. Love him or loathe him, as he was always polarising, it was great to see this man stir for such a long time. 

Vale Mr Leunig. May you, and Mr Curly and the ducks rest in peace.

Today's song: 

Listening to One's Self

 I'm very proud of me. I listened. To me. 

And I feel the better for it. 

This week is never an easy week. We'll avoid talking about the recent full moon or the fact that Mercury has just come out of retrograde. 

I'm not sure I'll ever feel right about the third week of December. It's a week of anniversaries. Nine years ago, on the 16th, my niece passed away after a battle with leukaemia. She was 15. She would have been sixteen on the 20th of December that year. On Friday, she would be turning 25, if she'd not died. 

I'm not sure this week will ever be easy again, not that it ever was. I've never been a big fan of Christmas. 

On top of this, it's Christmas Party week. I'm not great with large groups - preferring to hang out with groups of six or fewer. And yes, we had our old dream group meet up last night, and tonight it was supposed to be a meeting of the retreat girls, followed by a gig at the same place. The gig was starting at 8 pm. 

I woke, shuddering at the thought. Crippling social anxiety is hard to overcome, but the thought of going out, again, was not making me happy. I was also trying to work out how I was going get my work backpack home, feed the cat, get out to Northcote and still have a stress-free time. There's no way I was going to get out there feeling anything other than under the weather. 

So, I listened to myself. 

Mid-morning, I put my ticket up onto a reselling website, in the hope of getting my money back. There was no way I could do a gig tonight, no matter how much I wanted to go. I'll admit to being exhausted. 

I committed to going for a drink for an hour. Then do what is known in our circles as "Chucking a Charlie."

"Chucking a Charlie," named after a friend's son, who unabashedly goes out for an evening, stays for around an hour, then makes his excuses and leaves - usually sober, happy and fit for work the following day. Charlie looks after his mental health. Charlie has the right idea. Not bad for a kid in his early 20s. After an hour, you've normally talked to everybody you wanted to talk to anyway. What's the point in staying. 

I set this intention. Have a drink. Have a chat. Then go home. 

After work, I made my way straight out to Northcote. I had a lovely drink with two friends. We'd booked a table for eight at the pub. Four of our party bailed before the event. Another arrived after I'd left. As I'd made clear, I was going to "Chuck a Charlie." It was lovely to hang out with my friends in a quiet pub. The lovely weather made it even better. I didn't have to explain myself. I had a good time. 

An hour later, I said my goodbyes and caught the train home. 

The ticket sold on the website, so I got my money back, and somebody else got to enjoy the music. 

And I'm proud of me for listening to my needs. 

I'm feeling better for it already. 

Today's song: 

Goodbye Tupperware

 Tupperware has gone bankrupt. 

In Australia, you won't be able to buy Tupperware anymore. 

Seriously, no more Tupperware parties. Your friends are no longer going to be sending you catalogues or telling you to come and buy some stuff. The days of home shopping are over. 

Yes, Tupperware was expensive, but it was good. 

And now it is no more, and I'm half-cursing myself because I sort of coveted one of their drink bottles. 

It all seems a bit surreal. Tupperware, and Tupperware parties have been part of the Australian cultural landscape as long as I've been alive. 

I mean, doesn't everybody's family have a set of these containers?

It feels like a bit of my childhood has gone away. 

I also found out that Avon is no more. 

Many a long hour was spent pouring over the Avon catalogue. Avon's moderately priced makeup in ever colour under the sun was something I aspired to. And yes, I look in my handbag and there are many designer lipsticks floating around the bottom, but nothing used to beat a trawl through the latest Avon catalogue. I mean, where are all the grandmas going to get their SkinSoSoft oil now? And where can you get a soap on a rope for you Dad for his birthday?

It feels like the fabric of the universe is being dismantled. 

It's a sad day. 

Not that I ever need another piece of tupperware, but it's still sad. 

Today's song: