A Thousand Shades of Twilight

Too darn hot

 

(Image from 'People' Magazine, March 14 1962. Photographer unknown)

And now for tonight's weather forecast:

In 1908 Adelaide had its hottest heatwave, with six days of temperatures over 40 degrees (celsius).

Current forecasts predict Adelaide will match that century-old record on Sunday.

Sunday already? Oh, Goodie!

Here is a series of 'firmly held misconceptions about life in a hot climate' taken from 'People' Magazine in 1962:

1. Air-conditioning is dangerous because it produces a shock to the system

2. Physical exercise in the form of domestic duties is harmful

3.Alcohol is necessary for health.

The good news is, I guess, that I will not have to feel guilty about having the airconditioning on as I scour my stove, shock free, in a state of unsullied sobriety.

Sigh.

I must say that the apocalyptic parched earth daydreams of my childhood are coming back to haunt me. 'We are done for,' I barely think before rolling onto my stomach and dribbling water all over myself. I do not think I can face another joke about moving to Iceland. Iceland is, no doubt, melting. Which is no longer funny.

That said, I do not have the energy or brainpower for the usual operatic lamentations. I know I am in a bad way when I cannot even muster up a skerrick of good old fashioned self-pity. I would rather just liquefy and seep slowly into the ground. Seeing as that is not a viable option, there is nothing for it, then, but to take myself off and to.....loll. Loll like the Gina Lollobrigida of lolling. Just watch me loll.

My life as a clown

 

Oh, what a silly time I have been having of it lately. It has been one of those periods where, to the untrained eye, it may just well appear that I have in fact been storing my brain in a cardboard box under my bed. In just one week (apparently scripted by Buster Keaton) (it was actually two weeks ago but I can only bring myself to talk about my great shame now), I did four very preposterous, dimwitted things:

1.  I provided a certain party with a USB stick supposed to contain important documents for discussion at a meeting of over 150 people. Unfortunately, the certain party only discovered in the throng of the meeting itself that  the only document on the USB stick was a third party's exam paper. That third party being my boss.

2. I accidentally stole some very sensitive documents off the desk of a very newly appointed very important person. I only realised my mistake as I powerlessly watched said documents disappear further and further beyond my grasp on a security scanner's conveyor belt.

3. I went to sit down on a chair only to find the chair was not where I thought it was. I ended up on the floor, cursing. I happened to be in a packed court room at the time.

4. I somehow managed to break one of the toilet seats at work while getting changed into my alarming walking home outfit. It took some explaining.

Now, I offer all this by way of explanation rather than excuse. Last night I fell off the wagon. In fact I wriggled in the dust watching that wagon trundle off into the sunset. Which explains the image above (by Frank Horvat in Camera 35 Magazine, February/March 1961). It was just me and Darling M on the couch. The recipe demanded vermouth. Which is how it usually starts. There was no show tunes, but a nice time was had.

Today, however, I have no choice but to eat myself into oblivion.

And to rue the loss of more brain cells that, clearly, I can ill afford to squander.

More than once his hopes were raised, for he often saw ships on the horizon

I have rediscovered my resolve to find a new job. I don't have anything lined up yet, and, uncharacteristically, do not intend to do anything rash. But I figure that by telling as many people as possible, it will somehow make it more 'real'. Perhaps folk will hassle me into putting my money where my mouth is. Anyhow, it's been seven years in this particular gulag, and for one thousand reasons, moving on suddenly seems like an inevitability rather than a post-lunch daydream.

How many times have I ventured to the edge of this particular precipice before? What's the definition of madness again? Having been here before, I have been able to identify 4 things which always prevent me from making the final leap:

1. There is someone in authority who will lay a heavy guilt trip on me. It has happened before. However, I've already disposed of him. Not had him bumped off, but, rather, I have told him of my intentions and made it plain that I won't be listening to any of his guff. He looked envious.

2. There is someone in authority who will shut me down because the whole thing would be highly inconvenient for her. It has happened before. There was a certain frostiness followed by a glimmer of remorse. I'll be ready for it this time and will do my best fascimile of unintimidated.

3. I will apply for a dog of a job and decide that I don't want it. It has happened before. I had an interview once that made me realise that there were definitely worse things than staying in my current position. David Brent from The Office exists, and he was on the interview panel. I withdrew my application.

4. I will have a few good weeks and decide it aint so bad. It has happened before. After all, the three cliches I always trot out at parties are:

1. Can't complain, mustn't grumble.

2. It's a crust

3.It keeps me off the streets.

All of them true.

What I've never really understood, though, is why someone doesn't just pay me to be on the A-List and go to parties all day. I'd be good value, I swear. I'd talk to people, and smile. And try not to drink too many freebies. I'd try to be light and entertaining and interested at all times. Hey, I'd settle for the C-List.

Is there a V-list?

(illustration by Adrian Bailey from 'The Daily Mail Boys Own Annual')

Woe is me!

This picture (from 'The Concise Home Doctor' Volume 2) neatly encapsulates my mood right now. I apologise in advance for any excess sookiness or whingeing. Since Thursday, I have been afflicted by some goddamn annoying virus which seems to be doing the rounds at work. It's not debilitating, it's just damn downright pesky. I feel like I'm constantly about to hurl but also know that it won't come to that. Which frustrates me no end. I even tried to eat some ancient, dubious butter in the reckless hope that it may induce vomiting, but to no avail! Fingers down the throat is looking pretty attractive right now. And that aint pretty.

This unknown malaise is like a constant case of really bad car sickness and it has the TEMERITY to impede my habitual joie de vivre (I know, I know - the fact that I have any of that worthwhile french stuff may be a shocking revelation to those who read this little cyber-lament regularly..).

I loathe doctors, well not any individual doctors, who I'm sure are lovely (althought there must be some bad apples in the bunch, as there are in any profession. Come to think of it, I have encountered some awful doctors in my time. But I digress...) Rather, I loathe the concept of seeing a doctor. I avoid them like the plague, so to speak. Usually what happens is that I humm and I hahh about seeing them until, by the time I actually set foot in their cursed surgeries, there is nothing they can do for me. That is, if there is anything wrong with me to begin with. 9 times out of 10 there aint.  The only thing I seem to suffer from is a recurring bout of hypochondria.

So, I would be grateful if you could grant me your indulgence and read the above as a sort of disclaimer for everything that may follow tonight..