Buffer zone

And yet my idea for chilled toilet seats never took off.

Voodoo child

In space, no-one can hear your maudlin philosophising

Licenced to quill

This morning as I ate my porrindge
I read that nothing rhymes with 'orange'.
I thought: What nonsense! Next some derp'll
tell me nothing rhymes with 'purple'.

THANK YOU. THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Ant problems

Over the past weeks, it has become increasingly apparent that my household has an Ant Problem.

Those little guys are everywhere. If a crumb of a crumb so much as touches the ground, they’re on it. Last week I was pouring a coffee and when I tipped the kettle over the cup, dead ants came out. They must have crawled in for a bit of an ant jacuzzi but it ended in a way that was presumably reported in the local ant press as an ‘ant holidaymaker tragedy’.

I don’t know how many ants got into the kettle but I filled and emptied it over and over and each time there were still ants when I poured it out. Eventually I poured a cup that had just a single ant torso in it and I took that as a win.

We keep our place pretty clean and tidy, but we’re in a leafy area in the suburbs so ants and cockroaches are something we’re used to dealing with. Once my mum had a wall full of bees.

Still, even by those standards, things were getting out of control so we decided to get an exterminator in. He was a lovely old gentleman who happened to be in the business of MASS KILLINGS and he knew his trade. I am confident that the poison he used was effective because now whenever we see cockroaches, it’s only because they have come out into the open to die really melodramatically.

The ants, on the other hand, are a fucking tough bunch.

I don’t know how they’re doing it, but the poison has had NO effect on them at all. If anything it seems to be making them stronger. I saw an oat making its way across my loungeroom floor the other day thanks to the amazing force of poison-fuelled antpower.

I’m documenting this because I think they will get me very soon. While the ants and my family have had an uneasy co-sharing arrangement for the past few weeks, my small child tipped over my coffee this afternoon, and while I haven’t seen the ants today, I know they’re still there.

And now they’re caffeinated.

Funky Town

Sometimes I like to imagine that somewhere, in the darkest depths of 1980, this actually happened.

An encounter at Kmart: A true story, mostly.

'Can I help you?'
'Yes, I'm looking for a 30-centimetre round cake tin.'
'Hm. Let's have a look. We have this 22-centimetre cake tin.'
'Yes. But I need a 30-centimetre cake tin.'
'A round tin?'
'Preferably. It doesn't really matter.'
'Hm. A 30-centimetre round tin.'
'Yes.'
'I don't think we have one.'
'That's OK.'
'Sorry.'
'That's OK.'
'There must be something—'
'No really, that's OK.'
'I mean, 30 centimetres is very specific, isn't it?'
'Good heavens, so it is! I had thought that it might be an idea to work out how big a cake to make in order that everyone at my party receive a portion of delicious sponge—but now that I think of it, you're right. I'm being precious. I'll just take this novelty nine-centimetre baking tin in the shape of a goldfish instead. In fact, you know what? I don't even need a cake. I'll just give the guests a bag of flour and a spoon. Thanks!'

See if you can spot where it stopped being true.