By The Pricking Of My Thumbs

““I used to be Snow White, but I drifted””

— Mae West

I realise that with the election finally being called, I should be making pithy (yes, pithy)  social commentary about the current political climate and what I think is going to happen in September. But honestly? The Parly House gang make me feel so dispirited at present that I am going to talk about something more believable.

Fairytales. 

I wrote an entry a little while ago called 'I'll Get You My Pretty... And Your Little Dog Too' about the Wicked Witch from The Wizard Of Oz. Then yesterday, on Facestalk, I was begging Sleeping Beauty's evil fairy Godmother for some of that fabulous hundred years' sleep (I was really, really, REALLY tired). And it made me start thinking. 

Were these so-called 'evil' women truly bad? Or did they just think living in a forest with seven dudes, or talking to mice and singing songs to bluebirds was a little bit doolally?  

So here we go. The Abbreviated KS Audit of Fairytale Villianesses. (Clears throat, adjusts microphone). Please note all mention of the word 'evil' will be withheld until the conclusion. I thank you.

The Stepmother and Stepsisters, Cinderella.

So. You arrive at your new squeeze's home with two kids in tow. The new hubby casually turns around in the carriage and says 'Oh by the way sweetcheeks, forgot to mention, I've got a daughter... yeah, she's a bit weird, likes talking to rodents, spends a lot of time singing to them, worships me, thinks you're a real piece of work, doesn't want anything to do with the two girls. Probably should have said something before, sorry about that.' 

He then dies and leaves you with the little oddball, who believes in invisible fairy godmothers (what the who now?) and doesn't want to pull her weight around the house. Plus, she thinks only a prince is good enough for her and makes up stupid songs about him which after a while really, really get on your nerves. You have two very unattractive lumps on your hands already. You don't need this crap.  

Is it too much to ask her to bake some bread every once in a while? Hell to the no. 

Get under that emberella, Cinders.  

I thought we were trying to smash the glass ceiling - uh, I mean slipper - anyway... 

EVIL FACTOR: Meh. Blended families. So not the Brady Bunch.

The Queen, Snow White

OK, so talking to a mirror is not exactly tip-top on the sanity scale, but if you view it as a fairy-tale form of FaceTime, who are we to judge? Again, there is a clear case of Electra complex going on here with dear Daddy and young Snowball. The whole 'eat her heart thing'... maybe there was a misinterpretation in the text? Let's face it folks, Snow White has to be one of the most annoying 'heroines' in fairytale history. Interrupting the home life of the Village People - uh, I mean the Seven Dwarfs, singing to bluebirds (what is it with these girls and singing to animals - they aren't Francis of Assisi), waiting around for some dude to rescue her... 

I might eat her heart. With some fava beans. And a nice chianti. 

EVIL FACTOR: Well, a little bit. She should have invested in a good eye cream and some anti-ageing serum. Maybe HRT. Or just got it on with the Huntsman. Snow White is SERIOUSLY annoying though. So can't blame her completely. 

The Witch, Hansel and Gretel

Now this one... well! You're living quietly in the woods. You have invested your life's magic savings in a gorgeous cottage - just right for you and the cat. Decorated to your exact specifications by the Muffin Man (who lives on Drury Lane). Then, one morning, you hear 'chomp, chomp, chomp' - and suddenly there's a hole in the living room wall, Foxtel is on the blink, and two fat little kidlets are standing there with gumdrop smeared around their cakeholes.

Bugger that for a game of soldiers.  

It's game on. You were really looking forward to the new series of True Blood and now you will miss out on naked Eric.  

Don't even bother with the pepper and salt I say. Shove the little piglets straight in the pizza oven.  

EVIL FACTOR: Non-existent. Didn't your parents ever tell you lollies were bad for you? You should have listened to them. 

So there we have it. Three very badly misjudged women who aren't sitting around waiting for some nancy boy on a white horse to save them. These sisters are poisoning apples all by themselves! You may think otherwise and be on the side of the pretty (weird) young things, but not me. I say bring back the bi- uh, witch. 

And hand me some of that gingerbread.  

Sure Of You

Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: “What! You too? I thought I was the only one.”

— C.S. Lewis

Today, I was reliably informed earlier this morning - and under the circumstances, suitably, by a very close friend - is International Friendship Day. OK, it may have originally been a Hallmark Holiday (seriously) but now it is a 'really really' day about all that is good about our mateys.

How do you describe your friends? How do you put your finger on what makes a good friendship? More importantly, how do you say 'I am grateful' to those who stand by you through thick and very, very thin?

To me, friendship doesn't have to be about talking to someone every day. Sometimes the best of friends don't talk for weeks or months - maybe even years. It's not about material things or keeping a record of who has done what for whom over the years. It's not about the longevity of a relationship; with some people you know in a heartbeat that there's going to be some serious silliness ahead and that's that.

The best friends are the ones who give you a hard time when you talk rubbish. Who don't roll their eyes (too badly) when the 3 a.m. text comes through saying 'I need to talk to you now'.   Who catch your eye at a social gathering when things are a bit tricky biscuit and make you bite down on the inside of your lip so that you don't snort with inappropriate laughter.

They are the ones who catch you when you fall. And fall hard.

They listen to your hiccupping attempts at talking through monster tears. You may have even been sick near or on them. They hold you tight - as tight as they can - and threaten vile recriminations and concrete-shoed death threats against those who have hurt you. They nourish your heart and your soul, and give you everything of them that they can. Sometimes more than they can afford, both emotionally and in some cases even financially, just because they love you. They will be truthful and sometimes tell you things you don't want to hear, and you may not like them very much at times, but there is beauty in honesty.

This is what friends are. 

If you are like me, and therefore a bear of very little brain, they are the Piglet - and in some very special cases, the Tigger - to your Pooh.

So today, on a day that the entire world has decided is all about friends, tell your mates, your cobbers, your besties, your collective fidus Achates, your soul mates, your confidantes, the group of idiots who know all your deep dark twisty turns...

Tell them you're grateful for them.

Give them a very, very big hug.

And some chocolate. Because no doubt you owe them about 25 tonnes of the stuff.

And possibly a dry-cleaning bill or two.

In Vino Veritas

““We were not a hugging people. In terms of emotional comfort it was our belief that no amount of physical contact could match the healing powers of a well made cocktail.” ”

— David Sedaris, Naked

Last night was spent doing one (or I suppose it's two) of my favourite things. Stuffing my face, in the best possible company, with cheese and salami and fruit and pretty much anything that's yum to eat - and drinking truly exceptionally good wine. 

I make no excuses for liking booze. Because I do. A well-made martini can make me smile like a Cheshire Cat, and feel as though I am at one of Jay Gatsby's soirées and I am just about to glimpse the host himself.  A good wine is a joy. A great wine - that's just bliss in a glass. And my penchant for champagne is no secret to either anyone who knows me or in fact most of the Western world.

In other words, if you are ever at a loss for a present with me, stick a bottle of Veuve in front of my nose (or a nice Pouilly-Fumé, I'm a reasonable girl) and I will pretty much be your friend if not for life, at least until I need another bottle of vino.

Feel free to add a gift voucher for shoes. I'm a simple girl. Bribery works. 

But there is the flip side of the cork.  

Alcohol is a depressant. It makes people do incredibly craptacular things to other people. Just like any other addiction, if you don't have a kill switch when it comes to consuming it, it can take over your life and cause untold misery.  

I don't say this to be an equally big depressant. I am just acknowledging that not only is alcohol hours of fun for the (in theory) 18+ members of the family, it's an issue for a hell of a lot of people and I don't discount that. 

Back however to my personal obsession with the grapeful dead.  

I have spoken before about why champagne is just so amazing. (Answer: it's champagne. QED.) But what makes wine tick? Why is it such an important part of the dinner ritual? The choosing, the matching... what is it about that glass of sauv blanc at the end of a really, really yuck day? 

This is what it is for me at least. 

With dinner, it's all a part of enjoying the process. It's part of the fun! I personally don't care about matching reds with red meat, blah blah blah - if you are not committing the atrocity of drinking botrytis semillon with a steak then fill your boots, drink whatever the hell you like. If you are with someone who enjoys wine, then the discussion adds to the enjoyment of the meal... you can be wine wankers together safe in the knowledge you are not judging each other. 

As for that glug at dusk? 

That's easy. 

It's an 'AAAAAAAAAARGGHHHHHHH!!!' in a glass. 

Cheers. 

The Taming Of The Shrewd

““If I be waspish, best beware my sting.” ”

— William Shakespeare, The Taming Of The Shrew

There is nothing (well, almost nothing) I enjoy more than a good old argy-bargy. I know I should call it a debate for the sake of political correctness, but as there is nothing correct about politics at the moment, I feel down and dirty verbal fisticuffs just about covers it.

The issue I have though is this. If you want to step into the ring, then be prepared for the following; I will go the full number of rounds for a World Title (and I don't discriminate between the sexes - it's 12 or nuthin') - and secondly: 

Get your facts straight.

I don't purport to be Oz The Great and Powerful. I don't think I am of over-average intelligence. But if I enter into Fight Club about a topic, I make damn sure I know what I am talking about, and I expect the person I am talking to - and I do mean talking to, not at - to have done their research too. 

This happened the other night. I was having a yarp to someone about Topic X (no, NOT the Royal Baby - and by the way, International Man of Mystery, you owe me a bottle of Lagavulin on the name), and they said something so bewilderingly ignorant that I wanted to do the Looney Tunes cartoon thingy and 'boiiiiing' a frypan on their skull.

If it had been a case of 'this is what I have read and seen on the topic and these are the conclusions I have drawn as a result' - even if I thought they were the worst conclusions since Chamberlain said 'there will be peace in our time', then that's one thing. Opinions are opinions. As long as someone has put time and thought into what passes between brain and mouth, then much as I may want to call 'foul' - and I will try to rebut them - I have to respect them. But when it is just 'well, that's what blah blah says, and they are important/famous/on a reality cooking show so it must be right' - then frypans ahoy.

For anyone interested in romancing the Stone (intellectually speaking - ahem), and it's quite possible that nobody on earth is that insane, it's a pretty straightforward proposition. Engage my brain. Make me think. In fact, rile me up and give me a chance to get out my favourite piece of furniture - my soapbox. And when I am standing on it, floor me with a well constructed argument which makes sense, has logic and merit and makes me shut my fat trap for at least 30 seconds before I come back yelling. 

I will be, if not putty in your hands, then at least a bit more malleable than my usual Galatea-like state of statuosity.  

I may even agree with you. May being the operative word. 

But it will have to be a very, very persuasive argument. 

Oh, and by the way...  the things I enjoy more than talking loudly about stuff and more stuff? Shoes. Champagne. Smooching. Serious, serious amounts of time to read as much as I want. SkarsGod. Single Malt.

Some of those things may be combined. 

Let's discuss it, shall we? 

Put The Needle On The Record

““And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” ”

— Friedrich Nietzsche

Yesterday was a rather enormous day for me in terms of kicking goals and taking names, and it got to the point where if I didn't find some way of letting some of the 'YAY' feeling out, I was going to spontaneously combust. 

Sadly, as I had the equivalent of ten metric tonnes' worth of work to get through, a mid-afternoon champers was out of the picture (dammnit). So what to do, what to do? 

Hard as it is to believe, I chose to - ugh - exercise.  

Which isn't actually as weird as it sounds. 

One of the perils of both a. working from home and b. sitting in front of a very large computer screen all day is that whilst the mind is massively busy, the body is in the equivalent of a chocolate coma. So at the end of the day - fidget central. And yesterday - I really, really needed to be running down the street, punching the air, saying 'I couldah beenah contendah' with Eye of the Tiger playing loudly in the background.

Or possibly the theme from Flashdance.  

As it was, I donned the black stretchy pants and running top (no need to not be chic about this - I was celebrating after all) - and off I trotted out into the exceedingly average Gold Coast afternoon. 

God. 

I really, really hate running. 

Admittedly I have Rheumatoid Arthritis and shouldn't do anything beyond a gentle amble, but - well, if Rocky Balboa could keep going, yada, yada, yada... 

And I bet the most the Duchess of Cambridge said whilst popping out the Royal Squealer overnight was 'oh, bother'. So soldiering on, stiff upper lip trembling slightly, knees popping like corn, I ran up to the beach.

The thing that got me there (apart from excess adrenaline over total work wins), and the whole point of this post, was this. 

Music. Really, REALLY loud music.  

Much of it was totally daggy, and I think I was singing along (or wheezing along) at the traffic lights, and bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet, so no doubt I looked even more spaztacular than usual. Plus I run like a total girl, so I must have provided the locals with some serious entertainment. 

But man, it was worth it. Music may be the language of love, but more importantly yesterday, it was the language of 'I can do this without having a myocardial infarction'. 

And also the language of total, total kick-arse.  

I'm going the distance. Possibly not for speed, Cake... 

But definitely the former. 

Aah, ahhhhhhhh... 

What's New, Pussycat?

“CATWOMAN:

[off screen] If you pick the right door, I’m yours, Batman. If you pick the wrong door, you’re mine. So which is it, Batman? The lady or the tiger?”

Last night I went to a costume party. There is a bit of a saga attached to this, so bear with me for a moment. 

I have a love/hate relationship with said affairs.  This started as a child, when my natural shyness battled with my mother's amazing creative talents - I wanted everyone to see my incredibly cool costumes, but I didn't want them to see me.  

Being the legendary woman that she is, Mama solved this by making outfits which hid me completely from view. For example, Frosty the Snowman (with me inside sheets filled with stuffing); a Christmas Tree (complete with copper wiring frame, soldered by my father) - these were worthy of consecutive Oscars for Best Costume Design, 1977-78.

And the same thing has continued - sort of. Love the dress ups, panic about being looked at, but invariably wear something which means everyone will look at me because what's the point in going to a costume party if you don't make an effort?  Hence past efforts of flappers, very, very dark angels, the inevitable 80s redux and others which I am a little scared of in retrospect.

And so. 

We come to last night. 

I was going as a naughty fairy. 

The naughty fairy costume was too big. Said fairy would possibly have fallen out of her fairy tutu, which would have been entertaining, but not really a look which I feel needs promoting by myself when there are iPhones around.

Thus - the Return of Catwoman ('The Dark Knight Rises' style). 

Walking down the street to the party in a skin tight catsuit, with thigh high boot thingies, cat ears and a mask on, I did think to myself 'what the HELL am I doing?'; but considering I was in the company of someone dressed in a pale blue safari suit, with the most horrendous wig and chalk-white false teeth, and another individual frocked up like a schoolgirl fantasy from SuckerPunch - meh. What the hell.

Then we reached the door. Rang the buzzer. 

'Hey, it's CATWOMAN!' I heard over the intercom. 

And the childhood nausea rose up in my throat. People were going to stare.  

Well, of course they were. I am a five foot ten redhead wearing a bloody skin tight catsuit. Roll eyes.  

And then something kicked in. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but I think I had felt a nudge of it once or twice in my life. You may have experienced it yourself. 

Self-confidence.  

Maybe it was the Sisterhood of Catwoman herself. Julie Newmar, and Lee Meriwether, and Eartha Kitt, and Michelle Pfeiffer, and Halle Berry - and yes, Anne Hathaway - all throwing their collective purr power behind me. Whatever it was, it worked. I had a great night, I felt amazing - and yes, the compliments were, well, complimentary (mind you, once we were out at a public venue, some were on the slightly disturbing side, but take the good with the bad I say).

Women of the world, unleash your inner Catwoman. You don't need the whole outfit either to make it happen. It is all about attitude. 

Although the mask is fun. 

Purr. 

Oh Happy Day

“Joy is to fun what the deep sea is to a puddle. It’s a feeling inside that can hardly be contained.”

— Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full Of Sky

I was sitting last night, feeling mildly - actually, really, really stuffed after a very big work week - and having a thoughtful glass of wine, as one does - and I realised something tremendous.

I was happy.

Not content, not 'yep, life's good' - but really happy.

But it wasn't because of my own life (not that I am complaining about that).

It was because so many great things seem to be happening in the lives of those I care about - and for many of them, it comes after a period of darkness, or yuck, or in some cases true tragedy.

And the more I sat there and thought about the things that were happening in their lives, the more it made me smile, until I felt like giving a big 'yippee', which would have made my fellow building dwellers think I had gone even more mad and scared the local wildlife out of their feathers, but so be it.

It was, as Ren and Stimpy would have said, a Happy Happy Joy Joy moment. And we need to be massively grateful for them, because life is generally pretty dreary and joy is in short supply.

I realise this may sound too twee for words, but seriously - we get so wrapped up in whether we ourselves are happy or unhappy that at times, we tend not to celebrate our friends and families' exciting moments in a way that does them justice. I am not talking about hiring a blimp or skywriting 'CONGRATULATIONS ON TURNING 38 AND THREE QUARTERS' across Sydney, mind you - I am just saying when there's something big going down, let them know how fantastic you think it is. Take time out from your own blather and bullshit for just a moment and say 'Squee!' Or, in the immortal words of Babe the Pig, 'la, la, la!'

Well, maybe not 'Squee' if you're not a total dork like me, but you get my drift.

Joy is love of life. It is a soul enriching feeling. It makes your heart sing, and your feet want to do a little dance.

And the best thing about feeling joyous because someone else is happy?

It's unselfish. It's not about you, or your ego, or how good you are - it's simply about being thankful that all is good in the world of those who deserve it most - the people who hold you up when you are close to falling.

And that's something that deserves a whole lot of gratitude.

SQUEEEEEEEEEE!!!

The Art Of Looking For Trouble

““Suppose you were an idiot and suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself.””

— Mark Twain

There is a horrible virus sweeping Australia. It's been here for a long time, but of recent years it has become more and more prevalent until now, in July 2013, it has reached crisis point amongst a certain - thankfully small - (and possibly expendable) sector of the population. Here are the symptoms to be watchful for: 

• You find yourself making decisive hand-chopping gestures to emphasise a point; 
• You talk in catch phrases like 'name the date', 'the rough end of the pineapple', or use alliteration like it's going gangbusters (sorry couldn't help it) ;
• You make up words ('conditionality'?) 
• You spend approximately 95% of your time denigrating your fellow citizens who are involved in the same field of work as yourself; 
• You are in a position to potentially do great good, but are too busy with all of the above to actually think about formulating public policy. 

I'm sorry to tell you, but the diagnosis is in, and it doesn't look good.  

You're a senior Australian politician. And the chances are, you're never going to get any better. 

Not without a cattle prod anyway.  

When exactly did our fearless leaders turn into rubber faced buffoons? And I am being bi-partisan here; there are exceptions to the rule, and those who know me are aware of the pollies I admire. But in terms of two tribes going to war, all I hear and see when I turn on the TV or radio is the worst kind of campaign being run by both sides; sloganeering, pure and simple.  

I don't see any policies on offer per se; I see 'let's do this' - but no 'this is why we are doing it, and this will be the flow on effect in other areas'. I also don't see a response other than 'well, that's crackers, and we are awesome, so vote for us'. There is no answering alternative, just empty rhetoric. The mindless blah blah blah of talking heads who love the sound of their own voice rocking around the country. 

Pig Iron Bob and Chifley must be turning over in their graves.

So how do we stop filibusteritis? Is there a treatment? 

Possibly, but it may be painful for those involved. 

Put them in a room together for a week with no TV cameras. 

Oh, and Silvio Berlusconi. 

That'll learn 'em. 

Fair shake of the sauce bottle. 

When Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word

““In this life, when you deny someone an apology,
you will remember it at a time [when] you beg forgiveness.” ”

— Toba Beta, My Ancestor Was an Ancient Astronaut

There are times in our lives when we all do one of two things; we either act in a way which means we hurt someone and need to make amends, or someone acts in a way which hurts us and they in turn need to make amends.

Unfortunately, due to the fact that we really are a pack of ratfinks, apologies - or rather sincere apologies - tend to be rather thin on the ground. And for every time we do manage to mutter the words 'sorry about that', there tends to be a follow up of 'but it wasn't my fault'. 

I am not making myself out to be Saint Kate of the Immaculate Mea Culpa here. I am just as guilty as everyone else at finding reasons why my actions weren't really anything to do with my own nastiness or thoughtlessness - or sometimes sheer laziness of the brain. Much as I would like to think I am a perfect princess, I am well aware this is far from the truth, and sometimes the urge to say 'but it was because X did this, not because I didn't do this' grips the space between my brain and my flappy tongue and next thing you know the sorry becomes a slag off.

We also seem to be very bad - maybe it's an Aussie trait - at accepting apologies. I have noticed when I am genuinely sorry about something (and I will say this - I don't apologise to propitiate people, or to stop an argument, only if I am genuinely ashamed of my actions) - often those I am saying the big 'S.O.R.R.Y.' to will either shrug it off or even go 'whatever' and keep whinging about the same topic ad nauseam.  

This isn't gracious and it isn't fair. If you are still upset, say 'well, I am still upset, and it may take me a long time to work through this.'  Don't ignore the apology as if it hasn't happened. It takes a lot for someone (and I speak for everyone here, not for myself) to put their heart in their mouth and say 'I really regret my words/actions - please at least think about forgiving me.'

Saying sorry doesn't guarantee you forgiveness, and nor should it. Your actions stand. But bear this in mind; next time someone does something that really gives you a bit of a kick in the heart - and it will happen, because that's life - remember an occasion when you may have done the same to someone else because you forgot about engaging your brain cells.   

Think about their response to you, bad or good. 

And this time around... make sorry an easier word for both of you.  

It may even lead to a bit of internal peace just that little bit sooner. 

Many A Slip Twixt Cup And Lip

““writing about a writer’s block is better than not writing at all” ”

— Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems

Those who read this blog (thank you, all three of you. You know who you are, and I love you very much) may have noticed a fall off in the number of posts recently. There's a very simple reason for this. 

I have been ill.  Wretchedly, horribly ill.

It's a common malaise. Many people suffer from it. It's endemic to those who profess to put words on a page for a living, it is heartbreaking in its severity and can cause symptoms as wide ranging as glugging wine straight from the bottle, headbashing on desks, throwing laptops across rooms and screaming randomly 'sod THIS for a joke!' and storming out of the room.

I refer of course, to (I don't even want to say the words)...  

Writer's Block. 

Sometimes the muse deserts me. Hell, she doesn't just desert, she goes on a bender in Vegas, wins big at the tables, gets comped a suite at Wynn and next thing I know she's married Prince Harry and I never see her again.  

For those who write, the need to put words on a page, or a screen, or on the back of an envelope is overwhelming. They need to get out of your brain somehow before it turns into the Woolworths parking lot on Christmas Eve. But that doesn't mean they are worth sharing with the world. And for me, the last little while has been a case of frosty wind making moan in my thoughts - every topic which has sprung to mind has ended up in the mental shredder. 

Until last week, when thankfully, discussions with two witty and wise friends brought the neurons back into a semblance of cerebral celebration. 

The relief at feeling words starting to flow again cannot be underestimated. And this is not about thinking 'maybe someone will enjoy reading this' - because quite frankly, I don't actually write for anyone but myself, and I think the day you do start concentrating primarily on what other people think, then the words will dry up for good. Nope, it was 'man, I am really loving just getting this out of my noggin'. 

And that is why this is a gratitude post. 

Gratitude for two people understanding that sometimes words - they don't come easy to me, to quote an old(ish) song; and even more gratitude that with a bit of verbal Drano, the blockage was no more. 

Whether others will be grateful remains to be seen, but as for me... 

Huzzah! 

In an annoyingly loud voice. 

Heh. 

The Body Beautiful?

“““She was clean”: no piercings, tattoos, or scarifications. All the kids were now. And who could blame them, Alex thought, after watching three generations of flaccid tattoos droop like moth-eaten upholstery over poorly stuffed biceps and saggy asses?” ”

— Jennifer Egan, A Visit From The Goon Squad

I (rather foolishly) got into a debate the other night on Facestalk with people far younger than myself on the merits or otherwise of getting a tattoo. Once I stopped shuddering at the heinous spelling and grammar and concentrated on what was being said it was incredibly interesting to see the range of views from very young Gen Ys. Beautiful, ugly, go for it, don't do it - I loved to see the debate, and I also loved that my opinion was taken into account (although the 17 year old boy who said 'you're REALLY old!' is a dead tadpole walking).

I was reminded of this yesterday with someone asking me my opinion of tatts - for a few reasons - and I started thinking about why I really, really have never wanted one, when I have succumbed to pretty much every other trend on the planet and I have the pain threshold of a non-complaining elephant.

I know that people get tattoos for sentimental reasons, not just because they think they look beautiful, and I comprehend this. My friend Lady L has a breast cancer Pink Ribbon tattooed on her foot and as a cancer survivor I don't do anything but applaud that. Others have names or symbols - Angelina Jolie with the latitude and longitude of each of her children's birth places. All this I understand. 

Yes, I see the beauty in them to some extent. David Beckham flexing his abs and running around without a shirt - well, yes. Until he opens his mouth, I will sit and drool like a mindless idiot with the best of them. (Sorry Becks, but the day you started spruiking about 'Pepsay' in that voice, you lost me at 'ullo').  

The beautiful Miss A has them, and they suit her. I know the reasons behind hers, and I can appreciate them. 

And yet. 

The preponderance of meathead footy players with neck to ankle ink and twits like Justin Beiber covering themselves with symbols they don't understand - perhaps this is part of my 'thanks but no thanks'. Mostly though I think it's their permanency and the way they look on ageing skin. Today's proud eagle is tomorrow's sagging chicken after all. And the thought of living with a static image for the next forty years... quoting directly from yesterday's convo 'do I want a picture of Calvin & Hobbes lurking around for the next forty years?' 

Well, no. 

Perhaps the biggest thing for me - and this is very personal I admit - is something that is almost indefinable, and may sound painfully 'here she goes', but it's not intended that way. Judaism strictly speaking forbids the tattooing of the body for non-medical reasons as (this is simplifying it immensely) it breaks the sacred seal of the human body and the covenant with God. Piercings are the same - and yes I see the inherent hypocrisy as I have been there and well and truly done that. But with tattooing - what tool did Hitler use as the ultimate humiliation? What did he and Goebbels know would hit hardest?

And there we are.  

On a very much lighter note, I secretly know what my ultimate objection is.  

I will pick out a wonderful Chinese character, and have it put somewhere strategic for a select individual. One day I will be having a massage, or at the doctor, or wherever, and will be under the scrutiny of a Chinese speaker.

They will snigger, and I will ask them what they are laughing at.  

'Why do you have the character for "arse" on your hip?' 

Several Chinese characters. Exclamation point. 

The Loneliness Of The Long-Distance Lover

““And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us.” ”

— Pablo Neruda

As I hung up the phone last night after a very long conversation, a topic close to my heart sprang to mind - about potential physical distance between partners. Now that the world is in so many ways a smaller place, we tend not to think so much about actual bodily separation. But when it comes down to it, relationships are not usually based on being hundreds of kilometres and states - or for that matter countries - apart. 

Ask yourself the question; If you were separated from the person you love most for longer than a day, a week, a month - do you think your relationship would survive the travel test? 

Obviously there are some partnerships which are more inclined towards this way of working than others (military and miners spring to mind), and hopefully people go into them with their eyes wide open. But for those who perhaps meet one day and strike up an unexpected romance - or even acquaintanceship, return to their separate corners of the world, then decide to make a go of it via e-mail, and phone, and text, and the wonderful world of the interwebs - is long distance love a realistic proposition or a romantic dream? 

When it comes to keeping the flame burning bright over the boundless shores that constitute our wide brown land, I always think of the precursor to the horrendous You've Got Mail, the wonderful The Shop Around The Corner, with its post-war ideals of long-distance friendship and love between the literate. And yes, for me personally, there is no doubt that unless you have some serious electronic scribing skills going on, there ain't going to be much emotion across the ocean.

Don't underestimate the power of snail mail either; handwriting has its own mystery. And the joy of receiving a parcel in one's letterbox? 

Grin.

But it's not just about an ability to write what the other person wants to hear. It's about whether the relationship has more behind it than immediate physicality. Is there friendship? Is there a partnership? Are you happy for the other person to be doing things without you - probably with people you have either never met, or maybe never even heard of?  

Perhaps most of all... do you trust them?  

And - do they trust you? 

That's the biggie. 

You can write each other all the pretty words in the world. You can phone each other until the cows come home. You can use FaceTime, Skype, whatever technology is available to you.  But trust...

Old-fashioned? Perhaps.

But nonetheless valuable.  

Whether you are trying to make a long-distance love work for a month, six months, a year, or longer (frightening thought), the essential question - and indeed the essential answer - will always boil down to that one word.  And behind it is another word. I used it before.

Friendship.  

With those two things well in hand, I believe you can span a country. 

Or even a globe. 

And of course, eventually... well, eventually you will both move mountains - or at least pack large numbers of boxes - and meet somewhere in the middle. Because that's the way the destiny cookie hopefully crumbles. 

That's how it goes in the movies, anyway. So why not in real life?

Just this once.