Garden of Unearthly Delights

Bromeliad stir-fry

Okay, “Unearthly Delights” is gilding the bromeliad a bit, but with Aunt Irma due, all I really felt like doing today was snarling at anyone within a 100m radius and eating left-over Zombie Jesus chocolate.

This is a couple of Broms planted in an old wok that had Teflon dandruff, and the lid of our superceded Weber. The lime-green ground cover is Yellow Sedum or Cedum… the bloke I brought it from wasn’t sure. I like to think its “See’d Um” as in:

“Wow, look at that spectacular Chartreuse groundcover!”

“Yeah, I seed um.”

Charcoal Bat Plant

Bat Plant: up close & personal

This little beauty is a Bat Plant – the evil Goth cousin of the Madonna Lily. I’d like one as my funeral adornment, please. Just bung the whole old Weber on my biodegradable recycled cardboard box, then stick it back in front of the chookyard when we’re done.

You can see a wedge of Tikka’s arse in the first photo. Yep, she’s tunnelling her way to freedom again. Just call me Colonel Klink.

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92 Responses

  1. Now that’s a flower I like! I couldn’t spot the tunneling chook’s bum (a sentence which, on reflection, I would probably never have typed if not for your blog) but there is what appears to be a piece of skull in photo #2. Just saying. I ask no questions and make no judgements.

  2. Hehehe.

    Whoops. Should have, erm, tidied up before I staged the photoshoot.

    Henchmen aren’t what they were, are they? No pride in their work. As soon as they hear the combined sirens of the AFP, the bomb squad and the local heat, they’re rabbiting over the back fence faster than a kamikaze chook.

    Actually, Oh Bearded Tupperware Shirker: (1) It’s not a flower, it’s a bract. Magic Man won’t let me have any flowering plants in the garden. He’s anti angiosperm. (2) It’s not a poorly-interred victim, it’s Elf Boy’s werewolf mask. He practises at full moon, for his 13th birthday. Father’s side, again.

  3. What happens on his 13th birthday?
    Does Satan come to claim him, or is this something to do with human sacrifice and annoying neighbours that I’m better off knowing very little about, in the event that it makes the headlines and attracts the attention of Anna Coren?

  4. I like that middle photo. Not only is there a monkey skull, but the black bat ‘flower’ looks like a wild cat with really long whiskers. I like cats.

    No, I couldn’t see a chook’s bum either. I looked. Which means, Madam, that you are going to have to change Tikka’s name to Wally. Or at least christen her bum Wally, anyway – so her Wally would be the bit that the googie eggs come out of.

    Yes, I have been taking lots and lots of painkillers. They go well with those Lindt eggs (from Kmart, and Myer) and with my nest eggs (which were white chocolate, by the way. Did I mention that I love you, Madam?) – but no Wally eggs. Lots and lots of painkillers. Wheeeeeeee!

  5. Absolutely a garden to never venture into at night!

  6. Beware and be warned
    by this garden’s skull grin.
    For few come out
    Though many go in.

  7. Wasn’t that bat flower stuck to the side of Posh Spice’s head at the royal wedding? If not, then it should have been. I like it. Never seen one before.

    And I want what Catty’s having.

  8. Oh Stafford, I’m crushed. I take it you won’t be coming to my next backyard soiree.

    Claimed by Satan, Quokka? Nuh. Hell’s not tough enough to wrangle my youngest. No, on his 13th birthday he’ll come into his true dingo nature and will no longer need the mask when howling at the full moon. We’re planning a barbie on Frazer Island – can I put you and Allan down as definites?

    I love you too, Catty. So much that I hope you won’t operate heavy machinery or even stand up from the couch too fast.

    Greybeard, you’re a thing of beauty. I want someone to scrimshaw that verse into a leg bone so I can hang it from the front fence – for those times when a padlocked gate and a 55 kg Hound are insufficient deterrent.

    Melbo, I think you’d need a greenhouse to grow one Down There. Although the plant tag did say that you can grow them inside in colder climates. Wouldn’t it make a lovely mobile above a baby’s cot, too, with those dangly whisker thingos? Mental note: Google toxicity of Bat Plant.

  9. There’s a house on my dog walking circuit that has a collection of livestock skulls nailed to the front fence, so that may be the decorative touch that’s missing at your place, MM. Actually now I think of it, perhaps that’s what I need here, to stop the Irish pissing on my fence.
    Some strategically placed bullet holes between the eyes wouldn’t go astray either.

    • Nah, just electrify the fence & video the results.

  10. I thought Mythbusters already officially busted that one?

    • Damn! Must have missed that one. Now I’ll have to dream up some painful/humiliating way to punish peeing Irishmen.

  11. What, worse than the combined powers of their hangovers and my petrol powered made in China leaf blower?

  12. How about I send my youngest round, pretending to sell cub scout cookies, first thing… I’m thinking, 5:30 am or so… on a Sunday morning, dressed in his werewolf mask and cheetah tail?

    While you leaf-blow.

  13. Werewolf mask?
    He’d need a gas mask to cope with the dope fumes.

    Last years noisy batch of amphetamine-soaked Irish seem to have gone north for the winter, but there’s a new batch that aren’t so wild but are steadily stoned.

    That’s OK, the builder should be here in spring and for about three months, nobody in heavy machinery hearing of me will be sleeping past 7am at least five days of the week.

    Can’t wait to see the ditch witch tunneling up that side garden path. They work saturdays, surely?

  14. Oh and how’s My Preciouses?
    Yours now, unless you’re sick of them of course.

  15. Wheeeeeee!

  16. Remember to keep up your fluids, Catty.
    Vodka, pimms, and stout.

  17. Darling furries. They’re just gorgeous. But showing a great deal of interest in the birds flitting past the windows to ravage the tea-trees… so we definitely want to keep them as inside cats.

    Vodka, Pimms and Stout… hmm, what’s that called – a Russian Royal Wedding Crasher?

    I’m having a BBQ tonight. Why? Don’t ask me. You know how much I hate people.

  18. So why eat them? Think of all the trans fats they’ve consumed. You’re better off with fish.

  19. Yes, thanks to their view over my grevilleas they’ve long had avian murder in their hearts. Perhaps we should get them a trainer rat, to set them on the path of honor and virtue.

  20. But Madam . . . if you hate ‘people’, why do you breakfast/lunch with us? On second thoughts, please don’t bother explaining. It might crush whatever tiny fragments of my self-esteem Fifi hasn’t yet destroyed. I’ll get me coat . . .

  21. Quokkas and Cats aren’t people, Greybeard. They are deceptively cute and fiercely loyal creatures with extremely sharp claws and a penchant for Red Tulip rabbits. As for you, Greybeard, Mayhem’s Mum outed you over at CBG (we now know you’re a Wookiee). And the other regulars and visitors? I have a perfectly good explanation for their warm welcome too, but will refrain from imparting that explanation until the pills have worn off. Wheeeeeee!

  22. Well, Quokka: to offset the tasty, tasty animal fats appearing later in the menu I got allegedly baby octopi on special. Marinated, skewered then charcoal-grilled ’em. Tasty, but a little tough – still, they were more skate-ramp sized than creche sized, that might have had somthing to do with it. That, or I should have nipped down the front and banged them on a rock for a bit.

    Catty was fabulous when she was straight – but isn’t she adorable on these pills?

    Now, now Greybeard. Pet. Don’t take your balls and sashay home. Did I not, earlier in this very thread, remark; “Greybeard, you’re a thing of beauty”?

    Obviously I didn’t mean us. Good lord, if we’re people heaven help the human race.

    And Fifi is fabulous. She has no more time for people than the rest of us, surely?

  23. I’m shocked.
    Fifi seemed far too efficient to overlook those sorts of details.
    GB, shouldn’t you be off making soup for her and massaging her feet in the foot spa?

  24. I’m sure she’d also appreciate an avocado face mask… winter air is so harsh and drying… and something dipped in chocolate.

    Possibly part of you, if you play your cards right, Greybeard.

  25. Mmmm…. chocolate…. Did you know that KMart is practically throwing out its Easter stock? I just spent $8 and got enough chocolate to last me until Mothers Day – and that’s a LOT of chocolate!

    I’m thinking of melting some to dip my pain pills into. Sort of a Codeine Fondue, so to speak. I may need to add a bit of Psyllium to the mix, as the Codeine seems to be gumming up the plumbing.

    Yes I was told that Codeine makes you constipated, but I didn’t give a shit. I still don’t, more’s the pity.

  26. “Yes I was told that Codeine makes you constipated, but I didn’t give a shit.” Oh that’s hard Catty!

    Would Madame care for a Vodka Metamucil? Orange of course.

  27. Hehehe… but constipations’s no joke. Ask William S. Burroughs, or Screaming Jay Hawkins – better known for “I Put A Spell On You”, and being bat-shit crazy – who wrote a song called “Constipation Blues”.

    Plenty of fluids – sorry to say, but alcohol will only dehydrate you and make matters worse. Water, mostly. Prune juice would be helpful – but is vile, even if you add vodka. Pear juice may be effective.

    A stool softener (Coloxyl or paraffin oil) may help unclog the… erm… backlog.

    I hope this passes soon, Catty.

  28. And yes (Sob!) Fifi does like a nice foot rub in the evenings with a bit of scented sorbolene. Still, can’t complain. One of you would be sure to tell her if I did. Besides, it makes her, erm, more pliable.

  29. Sorry, I shouldn’t have referenced “bat-shit” in my previous response.

    I didn’t mean to mock the afflicted, with visions of the free-flowing guano to which she can only aspire.

    Why not try the fruit of an Umbrella Tree? It seems to invariably give flying foxes the copious purple runs over clean washing and fresh duco.

  30. I thought purple guano was caused by mulberries and the artist formerly known as Prince?

    Yep, I’m attacking the problem symptomatically, but I have also ditched the Codeine. Now Ibuprofen, with it’s anti-inflammatory properties, is the drug du jour. I’m not sure it was a smart move – it’s not as effective at pain relief, and I miss bouncing off the ceiling.

    Perhaps a nice lie down on a flat surface – with this freshly baked batch of psyllium enriched chocolate cupcakes – will help.

    • Ooh I can’t take that Ibuprofen, or aspirin. Does narsties t’ me pore old gut, it do. Sigh. Just have to stick to the old Panadeine Forte (30mg of codeine for extra wheeeee!)

      AND that purple bat guano is caustic. Eats paint. Was Bat Guano a Mexican gunfighter? Or is that the codeine talking?

      • Am I the only one on this blog who isn’t off their tits on opiates?

        So help me, I’m gonna email a Mexican Chemist just as soon as these racking shakes die down.

        Speaking of Mexican Chemists, I’ve been copping some penis enlargement spam so hilarious I’m tempted to let it through. Particularly the one which says, in part “There are so many penis enlargement methods from which to chose that it can be hard…”

        Snort. Yes Virginia, it can be hard.

  31. Hehehe. “Purple reheyheyheyn, purrrrple reheyheyn!”

    You’re an artist, Catty.

    I don’t know another person who could combine laxatives and chocolate into a tasty nom.

    Bravo… and my sincere wishes that you soon give yourself the shits.

    • Shouldn’t be too hard. I seem to be able to give everyone else the shits without even trying.

  32. You know I was reading the other day (on the New Scientist site before anyone gets nasty. And I only read it for the articles.) that there are some methods that *do* work. As they involve the long-term attachments of rather heavy weights, I can’t see them catching on in a big way. Loved the dry way they said “counter-intuitively, the increase in length was not accompanied by a decrease in thickness.” I *so* would not want to be one of those researchers!

  33. Is it the Natural Turkish Method, by any chance?

    Because those men send the most side-splitting spam.

    It’s meatier, and takes much looooonger to read than that of the other penis enlargment spammers.

    But I’m not mocking, Greybeard – we loves a bit of science content, don’t we, Precious?

    And any sentence that includes the word “counter-intuitive” is a keeper. I suspect all the increase – be it length or circumference – is scar tissue, though. Nice and hard, but regrettably insensate.

    • Wot, you mean like Andrew Johns?

  34. I’m confused. Are you two saying that turkeys make their reproductive organs bigger by waiting? So I assume they’re sending emails to pass the time while they wait, right?

  35. Catty, you’re hanging out. Have more codeine.

    Here’s an important – and scientific – contribution to the penile size debate:

    Most of a woman’s vaginal nerve endings are concentrated in the first three centimetres from the… erm, outside world. Deeper is a sensory wasteland – discounting the G spot, which is a moot point – until you hit pain receptors around the cervix.

    So – if you proceed from the assumption of a certain (average, normal) diameter on the bloke’s part, and relatively normal anatomy on the women’s side – to me, dental hygeine has always been more of an issue than penile statistics.

    With the exception of one unfortunate gentleman with whom I dallied briefly, who was hung like a toothpick. He did have lovely teeth, though, and… *clears throat* other skills

  36. Oh dear.
    I leave you all alone for five minutes and this is what I come back to.
    I’m off to peruse my tupperware catalogue as therapy.

  37. That’s what’s missing from the Tupperware catalogue!

    I couldn’t put my finger on it until just now – thanks, Quokka.

    Sex toys.

    And sex toy storage containers – nobody wants a stale or dessicated sex toy. Lubricant pumps in gelato tones…

    Tupperware, we know you’re out there. My cut is 15%.

  38. Well they have branched out into silicon.
    Remind me to keep you away from the bundt pans come T-day.

  39. That’s it for me. I’m going out the back yard to talk to the unicorn.

  40. Only one unicorn? I have several. No, wait, that would make them multicorns, wouldn’t it? Just like my feet.

  41. Good luck with the unicorn, Greybeard – but I think you need to lure him with a virgin, and they were all sullied in the floods.

    Hehehe. Multicorns. Welcome back, Catty. How’s the hip?

    Quokka, by all means reserve your Bundt pans – too rich for my blood.

    Okay, let’s raise the tone.

    Elf Boy has been lolling around with high temperatures, refusing to eat, for days now – but only on and off. He also has bouts of fighting with his brother and demanding hot buttered crumpets.

    Is there some pixie ailment consistent with these symptoms, am I missing some human sickness – or do you reckon he’s elevated his malingering to new heights of realism?

  42. CMV or EBV, perhaps?

  43. CMV??

    Thanks, Quokka.

    I was just thinking acute leukaemia or grumbling malignant abdo tumour, but it’s reassuring to know that I should put rampaging viral encephalitis into the mix

  44. Dad, being a canny beast underneath all that insanity, figured out early in the piece that sending me off to the blood suckers to have pathology done was a wonderful way of warding off future episodes of malingering.

    If my nieces claimed ill health and required a day off school, the trade off was regular doses of liquid Echinacea and worse, as I deemed necessary. Generally they preferred the horrors of school to what I had to dish out, although a few episodes of genuine Plague did rebound on me in the form of vomited witchy things.

  45. Strep throat.

    Strange, when I was up after midnight one of these recent mornings putting cold washers on Elf Boy’s fevered brow I could have sworn it would be retroperitoneal carcinomatosis.

    A little knowledge is not just a dangerous thing, ladies and lurkers – it’s damn near lethal!

  46. Yep, it surely is, because now I’m thinking Rheumatic Fever.
    Good thing you don’t live in a cardboard shack on the outskirts of Alice Springs.

    Think the antibiotics will have kicked in to leave you at liberty on Saturday afternoon?
    I suspect there’ll only be a few of us but that’s not my problem, that’s the tupperware lady’s accounts payable problem. And it leaves more sushi and chocolate noisette gateaux for the truly dedicated – or deranged, as it may be.

  47. Chocolate noisette gateaux….

    I intended to say something, but now all I can think of is fluffy, moussey, cakey stuff….

    Oh, that’s right, I remember now. My kidlets had on-off bouts of lost appetite, fever and lethargy in December. It lasted about ten days – and then the Pox appeared. All of us got it. All of us had had it before (except the youngest, who had been immunised. THAT was a waste of money!). Hopefully Elf Boy doesn’t have Zombie Pox, it was horrible!

    I’ve had CMV. Not nice, it makes you so tired and achy!

    Now I’ve just got old-age aches and pains. (Despite only being 29ish). My hip is on the mend, thank goodness, and I was able to get the vacuuming done today. Just as well, as the dust bunnies have become unionised, and approached me this morning with a list of demands. Little bastards.

    The virus going around down here is one of those lingering ones that nobody can shake. I sure hope Elf Boy doesn’t have that one, Madam. Have you tried rubbing Vicks under his feet at bedtime? I always do that to my kidlets when they’re sick; they get a much better night’s sleep that way – and so do I, as they’re not coughing all night.

    I’m off to the kitchen. Has anyone else noticed that dinner STILL doesn’t cook itself? Huh. They can put a man on the moon, but they can’t make a self-cooking dinner. Makes you wonder why we bother paying taxes, doesn’t it?

  48. You know I love you, Catty – but the phrase “thank goodness… I was able to get the vacuuming done today…” has no place here.

    As for the self-cooking dinner – sister, I hear you. But since men mostly shirk dinner cooking, here’s my list of technological developments we’re more likely to see:
    (1) The self-chilling beer
    (2) The self-chalking pool cue
    (3) The self-winding fishing reel.

    Saturday? Quokka, I’m there. I’m hoping he’ll be off to school (finally) tomorrow, since he’ll have had three doses of antibiotics by then. He’s nowhere near as sick as he was on Monday, thank Gaia. And my party favours are all made and ready to go.

    Yes – I have been going stir-crazy.

  49. “But since men mostly shirk dinner cooking”? Pfft. After my yesterday/last night’s efforts dear little Son of Evil came home with mountains of sushi. OK, technically he didn’t ‘cook’ it but it’s the lack of effort that counts. And there were spare soups & pizza yesterday for the freezer. Now what wine goes with sesame chicken?

    Catty, dust bunnies can make entertaining and low maintenance pets. Very low maintenance. I feel a personal interest in ours cos Fifi says they all have at least a few gray hairs. Or should that be hares?

  50. Hares.

    As in “Mad as a march…”

    🙂

  51. Yeah, I used to love my grey-hared dust bunnies too. But this lot have gone feral. They even tried to take the littlest kidlet hostage when he crawled under the table to retrieve a pencil.

    Well, that was the excuse he gave me when I asked if his homework was finished, anyway.

  52. It’s a shame you live so far away, Catty.

    Your children sound as twisted special as mine! They could play “Devise and Destroy” together… you create your own civilisation, and then smash it to atoms.

    *Shrug*

    At least it gets them outside, in the fresh air.

    • The kidlets do come out with some corkers. Yesterday, the middle kidlet announced that her big brother can’t take up the trombone lessons he wants – because his arms aren’t long enough.

  53. Oh lord, vacuuming.
    I knew there was something I was meant to be doing.
    Excuse me if I’m absent from the online chatter for a day or two, I’ve got case studies to write up and domestic clutter to contend with before T-day.

    Good to hear you’re coming MM.
    And Catty, good to hear that hip is on the mend.
    GB, we will need to hear this from Fifi before we believe a word you say, you do understand.

  54. Have fun, Quokka. Hey, maybe you could do a case study on deranged housewives? I’m available for everything except dissection. And possibly anal probes.

  55. Oh, go on – you’d love an anal probe. It would take your mind off your hip pain and the vacuuming, for a start.

    Do it, Catty – think of how you could advance the knowledge base of witchcraftnaturopathy!

    Perhaps the secrets of the Universe could all be revealed through one quick trip up your back passage?

    Don’t be a tight arse!

    Okay, it’s passed through my system. No more bum jokes… well, I’ll continue to makepoorjokes, I’m sure, but not focused on anii.

    • “My God, it’s full of stars!” Oh wait . . .

      And you do realise Madam M, that all these probing remarks won’t help Catty’s ‘problem’? Gosh, she’ll be puckered up like a cat’s b . . . oops, sorry. I’ll go now.

  56. I’ve got telstra digging up my street for the next four weeks so if anyone wants volunteers for a dissection and anal probe type experiment, look no further.
    Does anyone remember the power pole replacement saga last year? I think we all know how I love to have bumblebees roaming the street smoking cigarillos and yapping endlessly on their iphones while I’m trying to study.
    Greybeard is there some logical reason why I can’t link to your blog when I click on your name, or is this just something else I should berate Janet’s tech nerd for failing to fix on my IMAC?

  57. The reason is that I’ve lazily done nothing bloggish for months & didn’t put a link in. I have now, but there’s nothing to see.

    If Catty’s around, did that game install using XP compatibility mode?

  58. That’s the next step in pyramid selling… anal probe parties.

    Tough gig, talking someone into hosting one of those for you!

  59. Madam, I’ve added some sage advice to Catty’s blog. Regarding children, not cooking. Although . . .

  60. I’ve given up threatening to eat the neighbour’s young.
    Although between now and next school holidays I really must nail this sign to the garden wall. Morgana, you’ll be invaluable as a character reference.

  61. Hehehe.

    Give my children coffee and you’ll only have yourself to blame, Quokka. However, I’m enjoying the free kittens as much as anyone – I’d forgotten how soothing it is to loll with a good book, surrounded by purring pussy cats.

    Now, if only dinner would cook itself.

  62. Speaking of probes, you can now get a 0.99mm wide video camera which can be inserted just about *anywhere*. I’m so excited – the places we can go, the things we can see.

    http://www.engadget.com/2011/05/04/worlds-tiniest-video-camera-helps-doctors-see-inside-of-you/

    Oh and Catty? They’re disposable.

  63. Catty’s the one with a Conspiracy Corner… why has my Delightful Garden turned into Anal Probes R Us?

    Oh well – if you can’t beat ’em, probe ’em.

  64. One of my young cousins in WA has a job flying around the country directing surgeons how to operate those things (microscopic cameras, not anal probes) so that they don’t nip through something important, like a major artery, or the nerve supply to the heart. Apparently she was turned away from the medical intake because they felt she didn’t have the appropriate bedside manner (at which point I should mention that she and I have found much in common) so she got honours in science and has worked for Big Pharma peddling drugs to GPs ever since. She’s now earning a shitload of $$$ saving people’s lives and even better, they’re unconscious when she does it so she doesn’t have to engage with them & tell them they’re completely stupid and no wonder they’re sick.
    She’s a genius, why didn’t I think of that?

  65. You know another top-paying paramedical gig?

    Ultrasonography.

    It’s quite high-tech these days and there aren’t enough of them. And you can’t usually chose your sonographer, so you only have to get on with your equally black-humoured and people-hating colleagues.

    • “black-humoured and people-hating colleagues.” Mmm, sounds like my kind of people.

  66. I was going to suggest that people-hating medicos would be better suited to teaching (a-la-Nurse Ratchett), but in my humble opinion, Quokka is far too loveable to crush the hopes and dreams of entire rooms full of students. She’d only destroy idiots who deserve it – oh, hey, that would make her Professor material, wouldn’t it?

  67. That’s us, Greybeard… now you understand my crack last weekend. We’re not people – we HATE people.

    Professor Snape, for mine, Catty… but much prettier and with better hair.

  68. I had a phone call from a lady trying to sell me something or other. I could hardly hear her for the flock of geese in the background.

    Note to self: If I ever get a job as a work-from-home telemarketer, keep the freaking geese outside.

  69. Speaking of work-from-home and telephones, Catty…

    How are you at talking dirty (at length) to strangers with credit cards?

    If you can believe the German film industry, the geese may prove to be an asset!

  70. To be perfectly honest, I have an excellent phone… um… ‘manner’. If it weren’t for the Catholic angst my mother instilled in me so lovingly, I’d be a rich, rich woman.

    Also, I hate geese. And ducks. I wrote an article about it once – maybe I should go over to the Corner and put it up there so you can see why.

  71. Thanks, Catty. I’ll pop around the Corner.

    Well, our mate Kuokka (dodgy borrowed laptop, can’t type Kuokka or Kueen or Kuick or Kuinoa) held a lovely Tupperware party and – as far as I know – nobody died.

    Kudos, Kuokka.

    • Had to look up “Quinoa”. I could have just asked but I feared (present company and all) that it might be something truly appalling, about which no man should know. Huh, just a vegetable. ‘Goosefoot’ eh?

  72. Apart from a few synapses in the Bloke’s brain, thanks to a big night out at the German club. He came home muttering something about some bloke called Brian who was wearing lederhosen and who serenaded them after the footy with classic greats such as ‘I’ve had the time of my Life’ and the obligatory bit of sing-along-to-Chisel.

    Thanks to MM for the TupperChocs and the entertainment, and to Catty for the love.
    Is it wrong to be grateful that there were only five of us here?

  73. TupperChocs? Now there’s a product I could get excited about.

  74. I think you’re getting ancient Aztec grains confused with uterine prolapse, Greybeard. But never be afraid to ask. I don’t know how we got this reputation for being so terrifying. Sure, there are three witches in That Scottish Play… mere coincidence. Many things come in threes: unholy trinities, unlucky clover leafs, strikes-and-you’re-out…

    I liked the intimacy of the gathering – since I hate people anyway, people en mass really freak me out.

    I just hope we didn’t disappoint Grace. Never have I seen a young woman so committed to TupperWare. Inspirational.

    Catty, a sample of the TupperChocs will be winging… well, crawling, thanks Australia Post… its way to you some time this week. When my feeble aged brain remembers to tell my feet to take it to the post office.

    Speaking of memory sieve – wasn’t I supposed to pick up information about feline urinary tracts or something from you, Quokka?

    Thanks for the sushi, BTW. Elf Boy caressed the container all the way home, crooning to it “What’s that, my lovely sushi? No, I won’t let anyone else eat you. I will gobble you up all my own self…” etc.

  75. It is indeed good sushi and I just hope he ate it all last night while it was still fresh. And non-toxic.

    As for the Tupperware Girl (Note to Catty, my friend’s 6 year old observed that the T-lady looked much younger and fresher than her clientele) – I don’t think she’ll be too disappointed once our invisible friends add their orders to the list. I went through the catalogue just before, when I sat down with a cuppa and a nice bit of leftover hazelnut-choc gateaux – and I’d tallied up at least $200 worth of stuff before The Bloke stirred and announced that he wanted one of those heat and eat sets to put his lunches in.
    I’ve still got at least 20 ancient moccona jars that I need to put out to pasture at some point so Dog help me, I may yet do a rerun of T-888 day in the next year or so. Possibly when I’ve got a front door again, after the next batch of renos to Casa Quokka. I have plans for a large garden room with BBQ pit and pizza oven and the noise from such is designed to ring out loud and clear over Bog Hollow. When it’s done I will require a flock of noisy plastic enthusiasts to wreak auditory vengeance on the backpackers…meaning you and Vanessa will be at the top of that invite list.

    Hum de dum.
    I suppose I should go and cook dinner.
    Cauliflower cheese soup tonight.
    Uncle Blokesy is off to Cairns for 3 days and apparently it’s meant to be cold and wet tomorrow. So as much as I’d like to flop on the couch for the rest of the day, tomorrow I shall want soup.

    Oh and Morgana, I think I was meant to give you a sack of Hills male neuter diet. Next time. They’re probably better off eating the hills oral care anyway because of the gingivitis. One of Vanessa’s big reds is prone to UTI so that’s the reason they were all eating male neuter – Tom wasn’t allowed to eat anything else so that limited their biscuit options.

    Lovely to see you yesterday and I’m very impressed by the creative chocolate wrapping.

  76. Vanessa’s daughter is a pistol. She reminds me of Elf Boy in the “speaking your mind” department. Dear Magic Man is much more tactful.

    Not to worry about bix – they haven’t even made much of a dint in the oral care sack so that’s all good.

    My sister was reminding me about the need to be mindful of neutered males’ urinary tracts… she had her’s at pussy cat A&E one Christmas Eve, so it’s uppermost in her cognition… so I will. Be mindful.

    In re chocs, thank you, thank you. I need to make the next ones bigger so we don’t have to get out the magnifiers to read them!

  77. Which of the following phrases/statements is the odd one out?

    “Hills male neuter diet.”
    “need to be mindful of neutered males’ urinary tracts…”.
    “I don’t know how we got this reputation for being so terrifying.”

    (PS. Great. Now Fifi wants to know where to get this male neuter diet stuff. Had to explain that it doesn’t actually “do the job” but is something you feed them afterwards. She shrugged and said “sure, whatever”.)

  78. Yes, I can’t imagine where Lily gets that from.
    Should have warned you Vanessa has Italian ancestry on her Dad’s side and aboriginal on her mother’s side. In terms of straight shooting that’s what I call double barrel shotgun genetics.

    The best thing to do with cats is to get a fountain so that the water stays fresh, gets filtered, and it encourages them to drink lots. Its not just my freaks of nature that like to play with water – Vanessa swears by the water fountain and says Tom hasn’t had a UTI since she got him his fountain.

  79. We’ll both be work widows for three days, Quokka. The Boss is off in the morning. It was supposed to be all week, but he’s going with his brother, and the brother’s wife just lost her father on Friday (poor love, she’s an orphan now). They have to come back early so she can fly up to QLD for the funeral. Sad times, we were all fond of her dad.

    Meanwhile, I must confess that I had the wrong idea about quinoa, too. I always thought it was a poison that pygmies dipped their darts in before shooting the darts into their enemies. Could be something to do with my mother’s cooking, perhaps?

    Greybeard, I have it on good authority (or, insistent authority, anyway) that the neutered male human requires a diet heavily supplemented with beer. It’s just the neutered male kitties that need biscuits and filtered water fountains. Make sure Fifi is aware of this before you go to sleep, as we wouldn’t want her doing anything unwarranted with pinking shears during the night. (I speak from experience….)

    Now, tell me again why we are considered terrifying? I like compliments.

  80. Condolences, Catty.

    Still, if anything, I envy the dead. No more having to get up to answer a “Muuuuum!” when they’ve just sat down for the first time in 4 1/2 hours. No more sick bowls and high fevers in the middle of the night.

    I often tell the children the grateful dead rest peacefully in their silent graves. The children then roll their eyes and plead “You’re not going to say that at school, are you Mumma?”

    You ladies will appreciate knowing that a great IRL friend of mine received a crock pot for Mother’s Day. I haven’t told her that it may give her the magical power of repelling her husband. Before I do – Catty, do particular recipes work better at husband-repulsion than others, or is it more of an electromagnetic fields thing, do you think?

    P.S You were thinking of curare. It’s important to have your neurotoxins straight before you order from my man, the Mexican Psychic Chemist.

  81. No, no special recipe. I merely have to think the words ‘crock pot’, and I don’t see the Boss for dust (or days, sometimes).

    This three-day away trip is my fault. I saw a bulk pack of beef on sale, and seriously considered buying it as there was enough beef to do three meals in the crock pot. Although I decided against the purchase, the damage was done.

    The MIL laughed at me initially, but I now notice that she leaves her crock pot sitting unused on her kitchen bench whenever a visit from the Boss would be inconvenient.

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