R U QRS

How many accidents are caused by drivers deciphering number plates? One minute you're driving along with a chronologically placed plate in front of you and one behind you. Generated by a bureaucratic database, they're numbers you can trust.

Then...

Out of the blue, a quirky creative strip of metal flashes by. The number plate in a perpetual state of perplexment. In the ensuing moments your mind leaves the road as you try to work out what it means. In most instances your autopilot maintains the car on its flight path. I can only guess that some must leave the road in askance at a stranger's turpitude.

I narrowly avoided a lamppost recently as I was trying to figure out why someone was querying my sexuality. R U QRS was translated by me as 'are you queers'. I realised after a few cranial gymnastics that it meant 'are you curious?' No I'm not curious but I would've been furious if my head had nogged the lamppost. By good fortune I wasn't behind a wheel at the time.

There's no hidden agenda in BCY186 - I know, because that's my number plate. It was on the car when I bought it. A simple number plate for a down to earth car. I love my Toyota Corolla but will never use it to advertise my sexuality or availability. Who wants to know and even if they did, by the time they'd worked out that I was a rampant hussey (I'd like to point out that I'm not, sadly) they'd be several kilometres out of luck.

And I'd still be behind the wheel listening to my radio station of choice, singing with all the gusto of an operatic diva without the gift of tune.

But interestingly, I've started to notice the radio ads. Unfortunately to get a radio station that has songs with a tune, you have to wrestle with your own mortality. And as you tootle along the road missing cats and pedestrians you're brought face to face with it.

I am intrigued how the ads manage to put the fun back into funeral. I'm nearly excited about buying into a retirement village although am a little concerned that there are more women than men. I rationalised being several decades younger might give me a head start in the dating stakes but worried that live-in children might not be a welcome asset.

The erectile-dysfunction-fixer ads offer a glimmer of hope to the limp, although sometimes they're so oblique that I may have drawn the wrong conclusion as to the product. It might be elephant's toothpaste or a hair removal product for all I know. But the voices are always reasuring if not a little obtuse.

And then there's my hearing... eyesight... joint problems (not the naughty ones)... and the list goes on. All things that I hadn't been worried about in my thirties.

As I squint a bit at the screen, feeling the crows feet claw in, I think it's time for my beauty sleep.

Chocologic

What is it about chocolate? How does it manage to ursurp the sensibility chip in the most rational?

It's an antitoxidant which means that it's like eating a tomato only it's brown. For some unknown reason the tomato doesn't invite the tongue teasing and testing that chocolate endures. I've never seen anyone suck a tomato but then I've never jumped off a bridge with a bit of elastic stuck to my foot. A sheltered existence some might say but having two live feet firmly on the ground is something I pride myself on.

Today, when negotiating a piece of Toblerone, carefully peeling away the tinfoil, I reasoned that these two brown morsels could last me through to dinner. Afterall, it only had seven hours to fill in. Suffice to say, it didn't and re-fuelling was required by something a little more substantial and less brown a little later on.

This particular chocolate was being offered in the lunchroom at work. The approach to eating in the lunchroom is vastly different to eating at home or in your car. Had that bar been stationed in the fridge at home, the chocologic would've really kicked in. Some use this logic to ration it, two pieces a night viewing Coro with a cuppa. I do not. I can not.

My rationale for eating said chocolate is exactly that, eat it. Eat it all. Why bother dividing it in your head, especially if you're mathematically challenged. By doing that you use up all the health giving calories before they've even reached your tongue.

As a point, do you often torture yourself on the bathroom (should be 'bath-rue') scales, manoeurvring your tummy so that you can read the malignant figures at your feet? Well, do it get off and balance a packet of chocolate biscuits on your head -get back on and voila - there is no change in the reading. Thus proving eating biscuits and chocolate plays no part in weight gain. Note of caution: remove biscuits from a tin or cookie jar as this could cause you serious injury to both body and spirit.

Chocologic does not confine itself to cocoa derivatives. It's that over thinking crashing through scenario after scenario in your small cranial colesseum. If you'd only kept your right hand on the steering wheel instead of offering another driver a single-digit driving directive you'd not be driving around in the panel-beater's courtesy car. Or if only you'd decided to wear yellow instead of red when you were crossing that field with all those udder-less cows in it.

Well, as this is in chocological order - which is an oxymoron as chocology has no order and is a nonsensical at the best of times except when reordered ad naseum in your head - then it's bedtime and time to offer another note of caution. Do not leave chocolate under your pillow with the electric blanket on. The initial heart shape, romantic in solidity but the ensuing gooey mess is reminescent of something much less so.

Sweet dreams.

Dis-appointment

Firstly, there was the mailbox disappointment. When opening it only produced a moth or bill, the heart sank just a smidge. With the advent of the answer-machine (because they were whirr-gigging machines whereas robotic blips now bleep out your disappointment) came the crashing ego-whack when you returned home, after two days visiting Nana, to find there was only one message left and that was somebody trying to sell you life insurance. Not only reminding you that you have no friends but it didn't matter anyway as you'd probably be dead soon so there'd be nobody at your funeral. Oh well, less to spend on egg sandwiches and asparagus rolls.

It's bad enough not getting snail mail but technology has gifted us an array of disappointment deliverers.

Now, mobile phones offer disappointment at your fingertips, 24 hours a day. That text you'd been waiting for... and waiting for... and waiting for... was obviously been sent to the wrong person. How many texts can you send before you're deemed a stalker and have a restraining order slapped on you? Should you conclude with a x or a xox or just your name ... or ... should you lose the vowels or ride high in the saddle of the grammar pedant? Questions posed and answered in a thousand different ways... all in your head.

The internet through your computer portal offers you an abundance of disappointment and disillusionment. The empty cyber mailbox. Doh! Or worse, full of inconsequential cyber detritis which serves only to remind you that you live in a world that has all the depth of a gnat's puddle. Who really cares if you only have seven friends on Facebook, and that figure includes an Ethiopian stranger?

And that one email where you compared your boss to a syphilitic despot was the one you hit reply all to. The intended sole recipient informing you of your career-dunking keystroke before offering to help you pack your career into a small brown box. Very kind, but asking you if you'd mind leaving your Elvis mug as a keepsake... blooming cheek!


Of course, it's gets better. Spam is not oft-wished-for missives and more annoyingly, it's hard to pass off Mi Knob or E. Normous as a good friend. They sound like jolly good sorts though, as they assure you that your partner 'won't need a magnifying glass to see your instrument'. Then there's Rod Hard who boasts that 'it will be hard to hide your bulgy pride' after you've knocked back a couple of his con-cock-tions. Indeed.

So now you have no friends... are nearly dead and have the added disappointment that you lack a penis. Even if you were fortunate to posess one, it would be too small to operate in the over-inflated world. And then to enable you to operate it with your head held high, and I supsect your member in a sling if the photos are anything to go by, you'd need to pop little pink pills for your partner to be satisfied during your 'couch adventures'.

It's all quite exhausting.

With all this talk about appendages to be proud of, I look down at our new family member. Sammy, a scruffy tabby, looks up at me adoringly. I can only cross my fingers that he can't read because his little man was lopped off without much ado and I certainly do not want to be responsible for his lamentations at this loss.

I've got enough to worry about already.

Techno-flagrante

Children can slip into contraeceptive mode in inadvertent moments of comic genius.

One friend told of the time she stood waiting in the queue at the checkout. Flourescent lighting, chewing gum and trolleys. Her little girl, fed up with oggling the forbidden sweets, instead turned her attention to the man behind them.

'Look Mummy.'

Mummy turned.

'That man has a front-bottom on his face,' her voice, loud and clear.

Mummy turned red.

The bearded man looked pointedly down at his bananas in his trolley.

Another friend was being served by an efficient bank teller as her little girl tugged insistently on her skirt. 'Mummy, mummy...'

Mummy looked down.

'The lady looks like a monkey.'

Mummy's eyes narrowed briefly then brightened quickly, 'She's going through one of those phases.' Her eyes returning to the teller. 'She says everyone and everything looks like an animal at the zoo... that's where we went today,' she added.

'No I don't,' said the little voice. 'No we didn't.'

Mummy smiled tightly.

The little girl was not finished.

'The lady has a nice face,' she said. 'A nice monkey face.'

Mummy smiled apologetically as her toes curled in her Birkenstocks. She crossed her fingers, hoping that the teller wasn't vengeful towards small children and was now channelling all her funds into an account to help the Chimpanzees' Charity for Cosmetic Surgery.

With the progression of technology, the scope for embarrassment has widened considerably.

In one case, thanks to a small gadget attached to another one, a whole can of cyber worms was spewed forth to an unsuspecting recipient. One who'd have happily left the can opener in the drawer.

Munching on a crumpet, my friend sat pillowed on her bed, as the morning sun streamed through the window. The unexpected pleasure of a Saturday morning still in bed.

Tinkering away on her laptop, she decided to Skype a young relative as she noticed he was on-line.

He quickly came into focus. He noted that her hair looked interesting and she commented that he was wearing quite a bit of his breakfast on his pyjamas.

Then she noticed the background start to move and the boy's head bobble. The camera was obviously attached to a laptop at the other end of the line and was on the move.

The camera followed the boy's journey down a dim hallway, and stopped focussing on a door. The door opened, obviously pushed open with a good thwump.

'Arghghghghhgh!'

Two bare bottoms presented themselves full screen. Then a face, peered out from behind the cheeks wearing a look of abject horror. The face had been caught inflagrante by her son. Bad. Then realisation that their bare skin was being aired live in someone else's bedroom. Very bad. Boy, very, very bad!

A face froze on screen, the mouth a full circle of horrible realisation. My friend took a moment or two to realise what was happening in her laptop.

'No!!!!'

Faced with four unexpected cheeks, she fell out of bed, flinging her laptop to the floor.

The first thing she did when she regained her composure and rescued her crumpet was remove the camera from her own laptop. She'd pop it on the one in the lounge... later.

Stud Finder

Studs are not what they were. They're no longer associated with lusty, lingering looks across a crowded, darkened room. As a middle-aged, new home owner I'm surrounded by studs, and fascinated by them but for different reasons to the youngster gripping her Southern Comfort and ginger ale in a sticky-carpeted pub.

Although I'm still looking to nail a stud, the nail is now literal. Looking for one has a lot more to do with tapping and if you're hearing has been dessimated by the Bee Gees screeching through your iPod, there's a nifty little tool that you can use to find them. It looks easy and positively fun in the picture.

First things first.

Last week I watched, intrigued, as a friend tapped across my walls with a look of consternation and concentration. Studs were found and followed. But upon his departure when I mimmicked the exercise, I could disern no difference in sound from whatever or wherever I tapped. It was not for lack of knocking, as my knuckles were distinctly red from the rapping.

It was because of my dismal failure at being able to distinguish a stud from a live cable that I found myself in the hardware aisle at K-mart. Drills, hammers, crow bars and tool 'things' crammed the shelves vying for my attention. It was under the eight metre retractable tape measure and above a vicious looking tool 'thing' that I found it. The Stud Finder. It sits in front of me as I tap, and although I haven't actually been able to liberate it from it's plastic entombment, it will be disinterred and find its way around the walls any day soon.

I do intend to tap across the walls in the hope of nailing a stud or hanging a mirror but as I sit here in the banality of my own thoughts, an opportunity for digression has arisen.

Have you taken a close look at your reflection recently? A pond is kind but if you've had the misfortune to live with a bathroom mirror crucified by halogen bulbs you'll be more than aware that with the ripples of time comes the growth of your own Magnum. Suddenly hair is sprouting up in all sorts of places where in Victorian times you could very well have been a major exhibit in a travelling curiousity show.

Whatever happened to Magnum PI? I wonder if his magnificent upper lip adornment is still intact? Possibly not because I think it may have landed on me.

Forget the Stud Finder, where are my tweezers?

Blegging

When is it ok to beg?

Should you have to beg somebody to marry you? I'd say not in this particular circumstance. Begging here shouts desperation and a ticking biological clock. Love, for that's apparently why we tie the knot, should be offered not extracted.

It's ok for a dog to beg for a bone or a cat to beg for a fish. It's fair to say that I've never seen a cat stoop to such a level. They will capture their want with a level-headed stare and a flick of a claw if necessary, but begging is usually left to their dopey-earred canine 'friends'. A cat's dignity seldom flounders whereas a dog's is often lost in its eternal search for a compatible bottom, upon whichever species the bottom may sit.

Is it ok to ask your partner to stay when you know their heart has strayed an uncapturable distance from your own? You can covert that heart as much as you desire. You can lasso it or harpoon it but it will never stay in your cage. I'd say, in this instance, let the heart go. A little voodoo may be in order but not begging. Buy some pins.

What about when there's only one chocolate left in the box? The little tinfoiled one reaches the height of desirablility when it languishes alone. If there is more than one mouth in its vicinity, then it is OK to beg, especially if one of those near is sticking little pins into a small, ugly doll. Begging should be encouraged in this instance although it shouldn't be necessary as the chocolate should be offered in sympathy. But don't bet on it.

When Funny Face plays on the radio - beg or blast? If begging doesn't work, blast it or hit the radio/cd player/computer with whatever instrument is near at hand that will be able to shut it up. You may not have time to beg, then just bang and blast. Baseball bat or bazooka, your choice.

And it's always OK to bleg your friends for anything... that's what friends are for... and they are inevitably capable of slapping you with a one-eyed wet fish if they feel the need.

Slap!

Mad Dogs

A long time ago, when skin was smoothe and soul untarnished by cynicism, I travelled to London. The big OE was, and still is, the right of passage for many kiwi kids. We needed to connect with and see the real world. The big world.

It was the first time I'd been on a plane, the first time I was separated by great chunks of water from my family. Alone, it was a big adventure, something I'd dreamed of many times as I sat on Takapuna beach watching cruise ships and tankers crawl past Rangitoto.

My cabin bag was heavier than my suitcase and I had to nearly drag it down the aisle while pretending it was feather-weight. Wedging it between my seat and the one in front, it became my footrest for the journey. I remember the zip was threatening to burst so I tried to relieve the pressure by unzipping it a little. But the zip was akin to a bladder awaiting a scan, there is no such thing as a trickle. The contents spewed forth. And at that same moment a baby (German) projectile vomitted across the aisle. The baby bile served as a marinade for the bag's contents.

It was in that bile that my cabin bag acted like a mile-high hangi. So the first story was born before the plane had even taxied down the runway. I burst into tears.

Arriving at London's Heathrow, and after an unexplained chest x-ray I met my two friends as I struggled with my mobile hangi. Dave was an old flatmate and Laima his wife. They were bedraggled by living in Britain. Their hair was lank, their skin pale. It was the eighties and as I hovered under my shoulder pads, their shoulder blades stuck out from thin jumpers.

Delighted hugs and pleasantries were exchanged before we started on our way 'home'. My new home was Little Baddow, a small village not too far from Chelmsford in Essex. Well, actually, on that early morning it was two tube rides, two bus rides and gratefully a taxi ride. The trip home was more exhausting than the plane journey, taking over three hours.

Little Baddow is a tiny village of picturesque cottages and a local pub, the name of which escapes me over two decades later. We arrived at the driveway which wound up to the house my friends were boarding at. The taxi crackled over the stones and through the overgrown garden encroaching on the drive, to arrive at a rather grand albeit decrepit house.

Stopping near the front door, we paid the fare and helped unload the car.

'We've got to tell you something,' Laima said.

I looked at her with red eyes.

'About Fiona.'

'Fiona?'

'A black labarador.'

'Oh lovely.'

'Not really,' Laima continued. 'Fiona... oh you'll find out soon enough.'

Great, just what I needed, Cujo.

We carried the luggage up to the house. The door swung open, and my nasal passages were invaded by the smell of... dog poo. Looking down the dim hallway and along to the staircase, I could make out dog poo littering the floor and stairs. The poo was more prolific than the flowers embedded in the carpet's pattern. It was obvious by the deposits that Fiona had a healthy appetite.

My shoulder pads drooped.

Welcome to Blighty.