What is it with six year olds?

On Saturday I took my little four year old niece to see an amateur version Cinderella (the Musical). I know, I know - I'd never heard of a musical version either. Anyway, Miss EJ and I had a lovely time and I even had her photo taken afterwards with Cinderella (to give to Grandma).

What made me laugh was that they ran with the whole Panto premise throughout the event. One actor at the back of the stage would say something cheeky to the ugly stepmother and she (although it was a guy in drag and I don't think Miss EJ noticed) would stalk about the stage asking "who said that? which of you said that?" etc. The little girl sitting behind us (all of six) (who was so excited that she was standing up in her place with her little hands screwed up) kept shouting "Cinderella said it, Cinderella said it".

When I related this story to a friend at work, she told me about when she took her six year old to see Annie. Apparently during a sad song that Daddy Warbuck sings (when he thinks he's going to lose Annie), my friends daughter said in a very piercing voice "oh, is he dying? Good, can we go now?".

I think I may have to move to Peru for a year when Miss EJ turns six.

Personalised Number Plates

I have long held the opinion that personalised number plates are naff and that most people with personalised number plates are tossers. I mean having a number plate that says "HRT003" (as in Holden Racing Team, not Hormone Replacement Therapy) just says dickhead to me.

But the other day I saw a number plate that was cool. This number plate immediately made me smile and has consequently revised my opinion of personalised number plates. It said "CU JIMMIE". You'll need to cast your mind back to an episode of The Young Ones called Bambi to realise why I smiled. This is exactly what Special Patrol Group (Vyvyan's hamster) says to the teddy bear supporter of Footlights College, Oxbridge at the filming of University Challenge. SPG then thumps the bear.

I guess you had to be there.

House Hunting - part two

Today we went and looked at another house. And I am now beginning to question my own sanity. The house was nice enough on the outside but the inside was hideous. Actually, it was beyond hideous. Just looking at the carpet made me want to wash my hands, but there was no way I was using that bathroom. That's ok, carpet can be pulled up and bathrooms can be replaced - the biggest problem was that the ceiling and the walls were made of fibro and it's pretty expensive to replace it all with plasterboard. Oh, and the roof was asbestos which is ok until you want to replace it and the builders have to wear breathing apparatus because the asbestos particles are carcinogenic.

Nice huh?

House hunting

Handsomest and I are looking for a new house. Which is horrible. No, no, I mean the looking part is horrible, not that we are looking for a horrible house. Handsomest has looked at a couple but we haven't yet found what we want. And with our champagne tastes on a beer budget, I think we are going to be looking for a while. Which is ok, we're not in a rush.

Yesterday we went and looked at a nice old Queenslander. For those of you who don't live in Queensland, a Queenslander is a wooden house built around 1920 with a corrogated iron roof. They are built on stumps (usually low, fat stilts), have high ceilings and the internal walls are vj's (which are vertically joined timber boards). They also have a covered verandah at the side, front and/or back. Often this verandah has been built in during the late 60's and is now called a sleepout (cause when you only have two bedrooms, some one has to sleep in the sleepout).

So the house we went to see looked was lovely. It was the right price, has a three year old roof and the kitchen and bathroom were replaced about five years ago. It is set on 589 square metres with a couple of lovely big trees in the front yard. The internal doorways still had the original wooden fretwork over them and the floors were polished. All looked good until we got to the dining room and realised that we were at eye level with the train line which was about 10 metres from the back of the house.

So I guess we will keep looking.

I'd like you to meet Mickey

About two months ago we had a death in the family. My lovely, yellow budgie Letitia fell off her perch, literally and metaphorically. When budgie's get sick, they are usually on the verge of death before they actually show any symptoms. Apparently this is a survival thing. Anyway, poor Letitia died.

So, feeling sorry for Albert for being all alone, we decided to get another budgie. So we traipse off to the budgie breeders house to look at the birds. We decide on a big, fat, green bird so we give the guy 15 bucks and take the newly christened Mickey home in a shoebox. He's a lovely bird but when we put him in the cage he's about three times the size of Albert.

Within a week, Mickey started looking a bit unwell, he had his feathers all fluffed up and was very quiet. So Handsomest, fearing the worst, took Albert and Mickey to the bird specialist vet. Which was very successful and well worth it. Apparently Mickey had a bacteria in his first stomach which meant he wasn't able to absorb what he was eating. So the vet gave us some special bird antibiotics. Mickey also had a few bird lice which he brought with him from the aviary. So the vet gave us a spray to fix this. Albert has a benign tumor on his stomach about the size of a life saver. The vet can't do anything about this. We also learnt that Albert is actually an Alberta. I know, I know - I feel pretty stupid about this one.

We also learnt that you shouldn't feed budgies bird seed - it's the bird equivalent of eating nothing but McDonalds. You are meant to feed them these little bird pellety things which are the birdy-equivalent of dry dog food. Very nutritious but not particularly tasty so you have to ween them off the bird seed and on to the pellets over a month or so.

So the good news is that Mickey and Alberta are looking much better and they were singing when I left home this morning.


*PS. That's Mickey as in the pikey from Snatch not Mickey as in Mouse or Mickey as in Oh Mickey you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind, Hey Mickey.

Hey - I'm back from the dead

Well, not really. I just felt like I was dying. Again, no-one else thought I was actually dying but I still felt like crap. I'm feeling a bit better now but my head still feels like it is fully of cotton wool. So I don't really have anything to post. But I'm here and that's the main thing right?

So thanks for all the sympathy and kind wishes - your regular viewing will be back soon.

Would you tell this story to your child (or even your hypothetical child)?

When I was a little kid, I had a big book of fairy tales that used to make me feel sick inside. There was one story in particular about a boy who finds a silver ball with a little bit of thread coming out of a hole. He discovers that the thread that comes out is the skein of his life and he can make time pass quickly by pulling out a bit of the thread. The only problem is that once he pulls the thread out, it disappears so you can't put it back in. The boy vows to be careful with the silver ball and to use it sparingly.

Of course, the very next day at school he pulls out some of the thread, and it's suddenly time to go home. The story skips to when the boy finishes school and starts working as an apprentice. Predictably, the boy pulls out some of thread when boring stuff is happening. Again we skip ahead to when he meets a girl and they want to get married, but they can't for another year. So he pulls some string out the silver ball.

Eventually we get to the boy in his old age (ok, technically he's now an old man) and when he tries to pull out some of the thread, it comes away in his hand and he dies regreting that he didn't live his life to the full but skipped the dull bits. But when he opens his eyes, he realises that he is still a young boy and it was all a bad dream.

This has to be one of the most appalling fairy story for a child, especially one predisposed to day dreaming (like me). Even thinking about it now gives me the creeps.