The Blog

See, now I'm really screwed...

So, in the good old days, if James and I had a fight, at least I could email Heidi and four days later get a reply saying, 'Tony does that sometimes, it's just a phase' (Hello? Six-year-olds go through phases, boyfriends being mad at you means something).

Now, however, James and I have a spack where he can't see my point of view and thinks I'm being unreasonable; and I don't even have the polite fiction of a best friend who cares anymore. That's just bloody marvelous.

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See, this is what I love about the internet...

www.oh-by-the-way-we-have-darla-stashed-here.com

(Someone was watching Angel tonight.)

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Books: Ruddy Gore...

Okay, so I've been doing a lot of BookCrossing lately, and I realised something important: I absolutely hate not being able to remember what book it was in that I read such and such a scene. So, even though I will most likely never meet up with any of the books I've met through bookcrossing again, I thought it might do me good to start writing up reviews of them for later on. Primarily just for my benefit, in case I ever decide that I wish I had a copy of this one or that one, but what else is a blog for. It's a diary of my life, after all, and the books I read are an important part of that life.

So, to get on with it then, the book was "Ruddy Gore", by Kerry Greenwood, which appears to be completely out of print. It's a murder mystery, set in 1920's Melbourne, though I get the impression that the heroine, Phyrne Fisher (what a name) has travelled the globe a lot in the 'series' of books. Of course, nowhere on the book was it written that this was a story about an established character, but I kinda figured that out from the way the author wrote about her, as if all her readers already understood this character's quirks.

The story starts out with our favourite private investigator going to the theatre with a friend. After this night, we never hear from this friend, or any of the other people from that scene again, with the exception of Phyrne's old lover, who hangs around and falls for someone else. This is perfectly okay by Phyrne, as she finds the idea of settling down with a man for the rest of her life repugnant.

Two people are killed on stage, so Phyrne gets to investigate to her heart's content. The blurb makes one believe that the Chinese people in Melbourne are somehow connected to this, but actually, Phyrne just takes advantage of one of them to figure out the last mystery.

Actually, I finally found a page of worth, saying that the book has been reprinted this year. Here's what they had to say: it turns out that this is book the 7th, in particular it's important to the series because of the introduction of Lin Chung, who gets to be her sidekick later on.

I could see how people might get attached to these characters, but really, I found all the actors to be as annoying as the author wanted them to be, and Phyrne is a complete Mary-Sue, down to the bit about having a name from mythology with far too many 'y's in it. Everything she does, she does well and with style, and nothing ever phases her, save for about five minutes after she'd just missed being crushed to death when she did lose control and kiss a handsome man. She even has no trouble adapting to life with a Chinese lover, though every other caucasian person in the book feels the Chinese to be dirty heathens. Phyrne is entirely too self-sufficient to be believable in her role in that period. It just doesn't really work.

However, if you can ignore all that, it was a good afternoon's read.

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Everyone loves the Brits...

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Fuck you all!...

It feels really good to say that. I'm tired of being everyone's doormat. I'm tired of not being able to say it out loud. I'm tired of not being able to escape from bad situations. I'm tired of being trapped here as Catherine, dutiful daughter, loyal friend and target for all the shit around here.

Today I threw a 'Mental Health Day', as my mum calls it. I stayed at home, and scrubbed the house, top to bottom, thought it was great. I vacuumed, I washed, I dried. I swept, I folded, I put away.

Then everyone else comes home. I get a compliment from dad, but I think the only reason he noticed was because I was still sweeping. Then he went out to his real friends online, and I got on with it.

I packed up Ben's laptop from the dining room table, because: a) it pisses me off always being there and b) I was about to shake off the tablecloth. He comes home, and demands to know why I touched his hallowed computer. I say "because I'm about to shake the tablecloth off", so what does he do? He puts the laptop back on the table. I ask him not to, and then he starts hurling abuse beause I "have no right to talk" to him.

Well, fuck him, I think, leaving the broom and the table as they are in the dining room and going to my room. He wants to speak like that, he has no right to have a clean tablecloth. Whatever.

The next thing I know, dad and he are yelling at each other, and dad demands my presence so that he can yell at me for disturbing his afternoon. Because standing there and silently taking the abuse my brother gives me is disturbing him.

Fine, I don't have to take any of this crap. I spend a pleasant half hour in my room, then remember that I have a drink outside. I go and find my cup empty, and upon asking I find that not only did Ben knock it onto the newly-swept floor, but he cleaned it up by mopping it with one of the bathtowels I'd washed today.

Does this not seem fair to anyone else out there? Does anyone even listen? Does anyone even care?

James keeps saying that I'm overdramatising everything at the moment because I'm broken by something my friends did on the weekend, but right now I don't feel dramatic. Just quietly sad.

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PS. God, you're not being funny...

There were inspectors on the train tonight.

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Inflatable Religion...

The title of today's post comes from a spam I received this morning. I'm rather proud of it actually. I should use spam subjects more often.
And yet, despite the title, I'm not going to talk about religion today.

I realised this morning that bus drivers and train station managers don't give a damn about whether or not you actually have a concession card. Twice last night I flashed my wallet at them, and they gave me a student-priced ticket. This morning I realised that on sunday I had put my concession card in the pocket of my bag, and I'd been flashing an empty pocket at the ticket peoples.

What does this mean? Can anyone just flash an empty wallet at them and buy a half-price ticket? I know that inspectors on the trains and buses actually check concession cards, but I usually only encounter those roughly once a month.

*sighs*

So now I'm watching cnn's election website, wondering if the Americans care about what the rest of the world thinks of their current president and fears the outcome will be. Actually, thinking about the title of this post, for many people over there seem to regard politics in an almost religious sense. They are brought up believing that it's right to vote for a party, regardless of the candidate and their policies. And of course, both of the big candidates are using religion as a way to capture votes.

I dunno, but I hope that everything will come out all right anyway.

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