All posts filed under: Humour

Let us grow old without the guilt

IN MY MOTHER’S ERA, middle-aged women were content to be middle-aged women. They wouldn’t dream of trying to fit into their teenaged daughter’s jeans or befriending her friends on Facebook, if there was such a thing back then. I remember whispered concern about a particular woman who would walk miles to maintain a stick like figure, but mostly, women had a healthy approach to life. Manic walker aside, I don’t remember anyone looking like a whippet unless born that way, and there was no power walking with weights or hiring a personal trainer to work on ‘abs’. Cross-fit? That would be exercising with a bad attitude. There were no gym junkies because there were no gyms and a weekly game of tennis was the sociable ‘exercise’ of choice. My mother had a friend called Lorna but she wasn’t a gym clothing icon, her surname was Smith, not Jane, and she made stuffed toys for the family’s farm stall instead of stylish sportswear for lithe bodies. The more adventurous souls took up yoga when the fad …

Turning 50 – ‘Elle’ of a lot of pressure

THERE’S BEEN a lot written lately about Elle turning 50 next year. I take an interest because I am almost the same vintage and so, share a certain affinity with the magnificently proportioned and ageless model known as The Body. In case you’re wondering, the aforementioned tag justifiably stuck after her five cover appearances on the iconic Sports Illustrated magazine. I was born in July ‘63 – my friend Elle in March ’64 – which makes us a mere 8 months apart. We both finished school in ‘81 so could, theoretically, have been classmates. We could have enjoyed the same movies – For Your Eyes Only, The Postman Always Rings Twice, Raiders of the Lost Ark … remember those? We probably listened to the same music, boogied on the disco floor to Blondie’s Call Me, went through a phase of schoolgirl anarchy with Pink Floyd’s Another Brick in the Wall – and slow-danced to Captain and Tennille’s Do That to Me One More Time … aah, the memories. The similarity, I am sad to say, …

Liar, liar, your pants are on fire!

It’s local election time again in Queensland and politicians are out kissing babies, riding on tractors and planting trees. In other words, they’re trying to pull the wool over our eyes. They are also resorting to smear campaigns, digging up every last little nugget they can to try and convince an embattled public that they are the more deserving candidate. It’s ugly out there. And how out of touch they are. Exactly how short a memory do they think we have? When is Anna Bligh going to stop dining out on her tearful flood speech ie. “We are Queenslanders…” I’m sorry, but I just don’t buy it. I’ve witnessed her poisonous vitriol in parliament  – I tend to think people show their true colours under pressure and that, she did, going as far as suggesting her opponent, Campbell Newman was destined for jail on account of his business dealings. Another thing, Anna, I ‘aks’ you with tears in my eyes … please learn how to say ask. You’ve had enough practise by now. I get that …

Killer cat curtailed by CatBib

THE QUEST TO CURTAIL the killer cat continues with the addition of a ‘CatBib’ The ‘CatBib’ has arrived and already, it has curtailed the killer cat. The concept is not exactly rocket science. Made out of a sort of lightweight rubbery fabric, it attaches to the cat’s collar by means of Velcro. Invented by a ‘bird-feeding, cat lover’ in Springfield, Oregon, USA, the device seems to be doing the trick. The bib’s success is explained thus: “it works by gently interfering with the cat’s precise timing and co-ordination skills needed for successful bird hunting. The ‘CatBib’ is broad at the bottom and so when the cat lifts its paws to catch the bird, it simultaneously lifts the ‘CatBib’ which is then between the cat and the bird. It works by using the simple principle of ‘getting in the way’. And get in the way it does. Fortunately, Dexter was quite accustomed to a collar but the addition of a bib did not exactly have him meowing with excitement; quite the contrary. At first, he required …

Barry Hilton—a hit in Brisbane

I have to confess that I had never heard of South African stand-up comedian, Barry Hilton, “The Cousin”, prior to his recent Brisbane performance—I now understand why he has such a following. Playing to a packed audience at Fitzy’s in Brisbane’s Loganholme, his besotted fans made him feel right at home. Having lived away from South Africa for 14 years, I began to wonder whether I would still somehow ‘get’ the humour after so many years Down Under. I am pleased to announce that if Barry is anything to go by, South African humour is timeless. Barry Hilton, you are very, very funny and I think I get you. His ‘peeps’ clearly got him too and if he was looking for a receptive crowd, this was it. And, I gather, so were his ‘peeps’ in Perth. In New Zealand he is expected to perform in front of sell-out audiences from 17-29 August, with four of his ten performances already sold out. It was not all Barry, however—the show curtain-raiser was  New Zealand born comedian, Mike Bennet …

Easy Rider

TIMES ARE CHANGING. Not so very long ago, we could go on holiday as a family and all three children would wholeheartedly join in the family fun on offer. Every suggestion was met with enthusiasm and a joyful, untainted childish sense of adventure. A much anticipated weekend to a Gold Coast beachfront resort reminded me we were slowly entering a new era – one where family outings were not necessarily greeted with hoots of unabated joy. A phase where, dare I say it, we were no longer cool, fun parents but the source of acute embarrassment. The sad part of the tale is that we were both blissfully unaware our status had changed at all. We would have remained innocently unaware of our shortcomings until we innocently suggested a family cycle on this fine weekend away. Surely it was a pleasant, bonding activity to pass a perfect Spring afternoon? All three children seemed quite keen on the idea and even the eldest, at 14, seemed to agree it would be a pleasant ride following the …

Lost Soles

The family wedding was set to be an exquisite occasion. Our wedding outfits were carefully chosen weeks before the event. My two sons would be handsome and smart in their crisp white shirts and neatly pressed black pants, all bought especially for the nuptials of their precious aunt. As a sensible mother, and realising that children’s wedding outfits were generally one-off affairs, never to be worn again, I’d applauded my recession-savvy ways of borrowing shoes for my youngest son.

Leading a Blonde Astray

I took my dog for a walk this morning. I snuck out the back way, through the bush and along the fire track. I was rather hoping to avoid Slater. Slater is the neighbourhood vagabond. We live in a picturesque little enclave where most properties ramble into each other without the concern of fences. This is not sensible suburbia, neatly fenced and gated where the neighbourhood dogs are restricted to their allotted area. In spite of the general lack of confines, however, most local dogs stay on their own turf and have no interest in roaming further than the postbox at the end of a rather long driveway. Slater has changed all that.