The Life of Pitch Perfect.

Hey slappers.

I know youse are all keen to hear how the first day back to work went, but you'll have to wait til tomorrow before you get the full story.

Suffice to say we all made it through the day without any permanent emotional scarring, thanks for asking.

I can't fill you in just yet, because I have to write other stuff tonight. As you all know, I live an active, artistically and emotionally dynamic existence. So dynamic that I am struggling to keep the blog up to date with all the rampant socialising and entertainment that's been going down in these parts. Is it just me or did that sound a bit ruuuddeee? But I digress...

Let it be known that over the last week I have gone to the cinema not just once, but twice!!!! To see different movies! And one of them was on a DATE with M! Phwwooaaaarrrr...hahaaaahahaha. hahaha. Haha. Ha.

Aaannnyyyhoo, the first movie I caught was with my girl K on Friday night. We went to that notable gourmet establishment Fasta Pasta for dinner and moaned about our minor woes whilst shoveling carbs into our faces. Satisfying. This was followed by what just might be the BEST MOVIE EVER! I am NOT kidding.

Pitch Perfect, people! See what I did there? Alliterated the shit out of that sentence cos that's how I roll.

But seriously. Pitch. Perfect. OMG.

I have not enjoyed a movie like I enjoyed this one since, gosh, I don't know when.
Be warned though, my loyal readers. Do not attempt to enjoy this movie if you do not endorse, or are intolerant to, the following things...

- cliche
- sexual innuendo
- Glee
- fat jokes
- lesbian jokes
- Popular Music from the Hit Parade
- young people
- Glee
- cliches

I myself am hardcore good at casting aside all morals and good taste in the name of a good larrfff. Or in the name of awesomeness in the form of a COLLEGE A CAPELLA GROUP COMPETITION MOVIE.

So. Good.

I swung wildly between feeling pure and unadulterated pleasure at the simple Glee-tastic-ness of the artform, and stomach churning jealousy, as I yearned for the chance to go back in time so I could participate in such a phenomenon myself.

Why was I never in a college A Capella group!!??? WHYYYYYYY!!?? Oh, all those lost, wasted years, I could have been harmonising like a mofo..the pain, the pain of it all...

I take back everything I said about being a teenager again, I DO WANT TO BE A TEENAGER AND SING DAVID GUETTA AND LA ROUX SONGS IN AN A CAPELLA GROUP.  And be all indy and cool in spite of it all.  And get a spunky boyfriend who loves The Breakfast Club and just wants to HELP ME and GET CLOSE TO ME AND BREAK DOWN THAT GODDAMN WALL I'VE BUILT AROUND MYSELF SINCE MY PARENTS' BAD DIVORCE...ahem.  Sorry about that.  I guess we all need a dream...




I did do music at school and I suppose we did a bit of singing, but frankly my memories of our reedy three part harmony version of "Scarborough Fair" sung to the tinny backing tape we had made JUST DON'T CUT IT! Old school friend D, do you remember?  No funky dance moves there I'm afraid...such a waste.

OK, so the second movie I saw was with M, on Saturday night.  The Life of Pi.
I'd read the book and remembered that I loved it but I couldn't remember the story really.  I know why now, I'd probably repressed the memory because far out.  Talk about nightmares.  For the record it contains basically all of my irrational fears in one.

- Being on a ship
- Being in a storm on a ship
- Being in a storm on a ship in the middle of the deep ocean
- Being in a shipwreck in a storm on a ship in the middle of the deep ocean
- Being in a tiny lifeboat in a storm in the middle of the deep ocean
- Falling out of the lifeboat in a storm in the middle of the deep ocean. With sharks.

Urghurghurghhhhhh...my skin is crawling just writing this....

So all of those fears plus some I've never even thought of including -

- Being in a tiny lifeboat in the middle of the ocean WITH A HUGE BENGAL TIGER. And briefly a hyena. And zebra. And orangutan. No prizes as to how long the other animals last.
- Carniverous islands

If I could sum up this movie in a non-authentic haiku it would be -

The boy and the tiger

In a boat

Or were they?

Carry on, my well-read and movie-loving public.

EDITED TO ADD: Linking up again for Flog Your Blog Friday with Grace! You should all go and check out some other great blogs around the traps.xx

007 - Lady Date. Beach. Batshit crazy.

LANGUAGE WARNING.

I am feeling sweary.

Last night, being reluctantly torn from from my usual Saturday night activities (ie. watching Gardening Australia, folding washing, and going to bed early), I was forced out into the real world AFTER DARK.  Scary shit people.  I cant tell you how weird it feels when you are generally a shut in, only being released for solo nocturnal outings to ALDI or Woolies or some such place.  One of my dearest friends JJ (funky mother to three and arts worker extraordinaire) and I decided to throw caution to the wind and meet at that well-known artistic and cultural hub the Logan Hyperdome to view the latest James Bond film Skyfall.  Look, I'm not really a Bond devotee or anything but frankly anything that started at the right time of night (ie. NOT 9.30pm as that is hardcore past my bedtime) was fine with us, and I have always been partial to a bit of Daniel Craig ogling, so Bond it was.

The Hyperdome is about 20 mins from my place and 20 mins the other way from JJ's so it was perfect, but actually I'd never been to see a movie there before.  It was pumping baby!  The joint was jumping!  As JJ said, who knew!?  And why not, too....who wouldn't frequent a place that not only has a humongous cinema but also boasts a Sizzler's, a Gilhooleys pub and a Coffee Club amongst other things?  I don't BLAME them!   All you inner city snobs are missing out on all the action.  Anyway suffice to say it was the place to be and every man woman and child were there to see James Bond too.  Luckily it was in the most 'normous cinema ever known to humankind so that was fine.

I think the most exciting thing was seeing the trailer for Les Mis.  Oh. Em. Gee.  We were in ecstasy.  JJ reminisced about her youthful choral career and we both shed a little tear.  Hugh Jackman! Sacha Baron Cohen! Russell Crowe!  Heck yes. 

Skyfall was very entertaining of course in a camp sort of way.  Daniel Craig was looking a bit more haggard and weathered so less easy on the eye but I still felt fondly towards him.  Anyway there was sufficient bonking of Bond girls, car chases and blowing up of secret service buildings for even the most devoted of Bond aficionados, so all good there.  We had a blast.  We were totally Mums on the Run.  I pitied the people sitting next to us but not enough to stop our endless guffawing  and general chattering.  We have PRECIOUS FEW opportunities for this shizz people!

You can shake me OR stir me anytime, baby. [Source]

As a result I felt positively renewed today, like a new woman.  I felt kind and benevolent.

M had suggested we go on a family outing to the beach so I agreed, and after breakfast we packed up and set off for Currumbin where he thought there was a nice area for small fry to splash.  We had an ok time even though the bloody sun tent thing broke so I spent the whole morning sitting at a picnic table with B so his little bald head didn't get burnt to a crisp while M and P had a swim .

B and M.

P giving me cheek.

For someone who grew up on the Sunshine Coast and now lives on the Gold Coast I have me some deep seated ISSUES when it comes to the beach.  Issues I tell you.

As a teenager on the coast all the cool kids were surfie types and so I did the obligatory bleaching of hair and wearing of board shorts and bikini tops, as was the style at the time.  But as soon as I moved away to the Big Smoke for uni I died my hair pink, red, black, red, brown, black, blonde and brown -you name it -  developed a moon tan and generally stewed and became neurotic and weird.  And these days I am basically just down right phobic and scared of the beach.  I know.  Neurotic and weird, I hear you agree.  Neurotic and weird.

My phobic crazy beach disorder kind of goes like this.  Are you ready?

1.  I am pale, with a ruddy undertone to my skin, the sun burns the shit out of me if I walk outside to hang the washing out and if I spend the day in the sun then frankly I become pork crackling.  

This is me "sunbaking" on our honeymoon.  See? Moon tan.  Neurotic.  Weirdo.

2. I freaking hate the feeling of sand sticking to the sunscreen on your skin and I hate the feeling of putting clothes back on when you have sand and sunscreen and salt on your skin and it is all prickly and gross and URRURURURGHGHG I am FREAKING OUT JUST TYPING IT.  

3.  I hate public toilets at the beach, they never have toilet seats and the floor is always wet and sandy and God knows what and there's never hooks on the back of the door so your clothes get wet and OH GOD THE HORROR MY SKIN IS CRAWLING RIGHT NOW!  

4.  In a world that values hairless prepubescent female bodies I have been blessed with a thick pelt and that includes armpits, legs and the delicate BIKINI AREA and even my GODDAMN CHIN but that's another issue.  I am down with hairy armpits, I am all good, that's totally European and sexy and whatnot but I cannot come at hairy legs and so forth and frankly the upkeep to maintain a hair-free leg and pubical area is just too much for me and makes me want to have a good lie down right now.

5.  I am NOT THIN.

For so many reasons I endorse the Nigella burkini. [Source]

6.  I find the beach culture in Australia aggressive.  This was bad on the Sunshine Coast but oh fark it is worse on the Gold Coast.  Swaggering bronzed surfie types wearing thongs and no shirt, with their skinny girlfriends.  I feel like an alien near them.  Like they are so CONFIDENT and I can't help but feel like they have some SECRET KNOWLEDGE about being comfortable in your own skin even though you are a douchebag agro bogan and I can feel them all LOOKING AND JUDGING AND POINTING AND OH GOD THE HOOOOORRROOORR AGAIN (breathes into paper bag).

7.  SHARKS!!!!!!!!  My mum, who thinks I am an uptight wowser who should just chill out dude and go with the flow and calm the fuck down and enjoy myself, once tried to tell me there were no sharks in Hervey Bay/Woodgate Beach because it was protected by Fraser Island.  Nice try Mum, but I am pretty sure that is CYCLONES not SHARKS - I am ONTO YOU!!!!!!!

But I HATE MYSELF for being so ridiculous about the beach and always try and make myself go and end up practically on the floor of the car having a panic attack and shouting at my husband.

Our Argentinian neighbour M and her husband and kids spend every waking moment at the beach and they are brown as nuts.  When P was a baby and I was going slowly crazy as a loon, M used to say to me "Jost take herrrr to the beach!  All bebbies loff the beach!" and I wanted to scream, "Are you fucking out of your mind?! The beach with the sand and the sun and the waves and the bogans and the SHARKs and the OH MY GOD I AM LOSING MY SHIT AGAIN!!!!!!"

I decided today that it was all just stupid and even though the tent didn't work (M was screaming "WHY IS EVERYTHING ALWAYS SO HARD!!?? FUCKKKKKK!". I know! Out of character) I remained CALM and sat peacefully watching the little kids do their surf board riding lessons and thought to myself "If that bunch of tubby kids can be ok with the beach then dammit so can I".  

I am thinking maybe I need to take surfing lessons.  What doesn't kill you makes you stronger right?  Hmm.  I'll think about it.

Anyone else dislike the beach? Love it? Are you crazy as a motherfucker like me?

Operatunity. Carmen for Dummies.

Can I just say thanks to everyone for reading the ole blog?  Who would have thought it eh?  I hit 2500 views on the weekend.  How excitement.  I love everyone's comments and if you are reading, I'd be chuffed it you would comment or follow the blog or join the Facebook page.  You'll immediately be more attractive to whichever sex you prefer.  And everything you touch will turn to gold*. 

Anyway, because I like to go on about the weather, I thought I'd start this post by droning on about meteorological developments in the precipitation department.  That is to say, I am extremely relieved that it has finally rained!  Even though I am aware that some members of my family had the misfortune to miss out on seeing the cricket.  You win some, you lose some.  

Our pseudo-rainforest corner is somewhat less dry and brown and ghastly now.

A happy agapanthus.

It was a busy weekend but for me the highlight was being invited to go to the opera on Saturday - I AM SO HIGH BROW!  Excuse me while I just  dust off my opera glasses and fur stole and frock up OPERA STYLE!  My Auntie M rolls with a crew in her hood called University of the Third Age.  Basically a bunch of hip and happening retirees who like to go crazy Broadway style every now and then.  Auntie M and her posse hired a coach and booked en masse and ended up with free tickets to see Opera QLD's production of Carmen.  And Auntie M threw one my way.  I am not one to look a very generous gift horse in the mouth so naturally I snaffled it up.  Lucky me!  Auntie M if you are reading, thank you so much for thinking of me.

I'd only ever been to the opera once before, M and I went to see The Marriage of Figaro at the Opera House in Sydney yonks ago.  It was fantastic.

See how I've blurred out my face? Just working my mad photo shop skillz.

Me inside the Opera House.  This photo was taken ILLEGALLY. We just don't care, man.  We are free spirits.  Don't bring us down with your uptight rules. And so forth.

Anyway, this time round I wore this getup.  I don't have a proper full length mirror so this will have to do, photo-wise.

These shoes look a bit Homy Ped-esque in this photo.  They are the el cheapo ones I got at the op shop.

I done my nails all proper like in pink polish.  If you look closely you can see the splodges where I got it all over my skin.  Also, in case you were wondering, the writing on my hand says "Call Centrelink".  The glamour never ends round this joint.

Accessories de jour.  In case you were losing sleep over what I stuck in my lobes and around my neck.

So I met up with Auntie M and Cousin S and the rest of the U3A homeboys and girls.  I sat next to a lovely and youthful looking lady who told me she was a great-grandmother. She also told me that she meets up with some ladies every Friday and plays mahjong over a wine or two. I fitted in nicely with these peeps, what with my proclivity for gardening, reading Georgette Heyer novels and watching New Tricks of a Friday night and frankly I like the sound of a bit of cheeky mahjong too.  Maybe Auntie M can put a good word in for me and they can overlook the whole age thing and hook me up with some more sweet U3A action.

As I mentioned the opera was Carmen.  Raunchy.  Lots of saucy bare leg action and smooshing bosoms into the faces of male admirers.  Those crazy Spaniards with their tapas and their bullfighting and their crimes of passion.  For those of you who don't know the story here is a rundown:

ACT 1
Our hero , the soldier Don Jose, loves the sweet and innocent Micaela.  She loves him.  All good until renowned gypsy strumpet and girl about town Carmen spots him and sets her cap at him.  (Girlfriend has issues.)  She gets arrested for slashing the face of a fellow strumpet.  While alone with Don Jose she comes over all bosomy and leggy and mesmerises him with a flip of her chestnut locks and a bit of dry humping so he frees her.  Naturally. He goes to prison.

ACT 2
Gets released after a month.  Finds Gypsy Carmen hanging with her gypsy smuggler cronies in a tavern.  She comes over all bosomy and leggy and barefooty again.  But he won't desert the army.  She gets huffy.  He gets cross.  He punches out his superior officer who also wants to shag Carmen.  Not a good career move so he heads off with the gypsies on their mountainous smuggling mission anyway.

ACT 3
Carmen gets sick of him and tells him to rack off.  He gets clingy and has to be given a good talking to by her gypsy bodyguards. A hot bullfighter who also wants to shag Carmen and who I forgot to mention before turns up again.  Don Jose gives the bullfighter what for and he leaves.  Soppy Micaela turns up. Carmen hates her guts.  Don Jose hears his sainted mama is about to kick the bucket so he leaves with Micaela.

ACT 4
Carmen and the bullfighter hook up.  They arrive together in a showy offy parade for his next bullfight.  Don Jose turns up looking creepy and stalkery.  He gets her alone outside the bullfight.  (Brother has issues.)  He pleads and whines and clutches at her skirts.  She tells him to eff off.  He can't take no for an answer and gives her a damn good stabbing and she dies.

The End.

Anyway, I think Bizet would agree that if you can't see the opera for yourselves then reading that synopsis is the next best thing.  That is my gift to you dear readers.

Until next time...



*DISCLAIMER - May not actually result in increased sexual attractiveness or midas touch.

Obama Mama. Waybuloo.

Spent nearly all Wednesday glued to ABC24 watching the US election result unfold.  I love a good election.  Love it.  And I always watch the ABC coverage, but far out, election analyst Antony Green always KILLS ME with his dorkiness.  Actually I think that's probably all part of the enjoyment for me, yelling at the TV, "Make a prediction Antony, would it kill you to TAKE A RISK??!!!" because he is forever saying things like "It's too early to call" and "There's no point making any predictions now".  No point?  Then, frankly, what is the point of an election analyst at all, Antony?  Hey?  There, I said it.  I keep thinking that the ABC should totally ring me up because I would be all over it like a rash, and I wouldn't be afraid to make predictions left, right and centre.  I'll be waiting by the phone, ABC.  Just so you know.  I am available.

My friend KLF put this up on her FB page.

Sums it up nicely I think.

The other morning P was reciting some bush ballads for us*.  Yes, you know what I mean.  Watching TV.

She was watching one of the ABC2 programs called Waybuloo.  I used to love this one.  It was very soothing.  It has these weird little creatures who float about and talk in soft voices and practice yoga (they call it yogo).  Cute.  But then all of a sudden I noticed it had a new and unpleasant development - a narrator!  Not just any old narrator, a very irritating one.  He was ALL WRONG for the vibe of the show.  His voice made it all seem a bit suspect, and frankly, a bit rude.  This particular morning I could hear him say "And now it's time for Yojojo's BANANA TRICK!" and later "Now, spread your legs, and bend over.  Hnnnrrrrpphhooaarr (the sound of him groaning)".  Ex-squeeze me? Baking powder?  What are we watching exactly? Because it sounds a lot like "Carry On Up The Piplings" or some sort of Benny Hill movie.  Not asseptable, as the Super Nanny would say.

The Waybuloo Piplings doing their weird floaty thing. [Source]

I thought his voice sounded a lot like Griff Rhys Jones so I looked it up, but it's actually someone called Dave Lamb.  I recognise him sort of.  Anyway when I Googled "Waybuloo Narrator" a whole lot of articles came up that showed me I wasn't alone!  The narration was loathed by parents and toddlers all around and when it was introduced earlier this year in the  UK the BBC had to axe the narrated shows the very next day!  The article I was reading quoted parents saying things like "What is this nonsense?" and describing the narration as "inane prattle!".  That'll show you, BBC.  Don't you know NEVER TO MESS WITH KIDS TV!!!  You will infuriate an already tired and crazy demographic - the parent of the small child.  YOU DON'T WANT TO DO THAT!!!!!

So how come we poor saps in Oz have to put up with it?  An outrage!  Maybe I should get all activist on their arses.  I sure do deal with the big issues.  A petition, anyone?

*No she wasn't.

Kids TV. Stereotypes. Employment.

After spending an enjoyable evening folding washing, and rubbing moisturiser into my cracked heels, I went to bed early to try and make up for the previous dark night of the soul.  Slept like a log last night, thanks for asking.  What a relief.

This morning, after breakfast and before kindy, P watched some TV.  I know!  So novel!  Usually, when she's not spending time entertaining herself with creative imaginative play, or dabbling in a little educational paper craft, she's out in the backyard preparing simply adorable dance concerts and we sometimes don't hear a peep from her for ALL MORNING!  She NEVER watches TV! I swear on Stephanie Alexander's "Cook's Companion" that it was a ONE OFF!

Wait, I can explain!

I'm sure it was raining cats and dogs that day.

Now, she was DEFINITELY sick this day!  Promise!

Ahem.

Anyway, she was watching the Mr Men Show on ABC2 this morning.  I love this show too.  It's very funny!  I tried to explain to M why I thought it was so humorous and well done.

Me:  I just love the way the different Mr Men and Misses are characterised by different accents or regional dialects, it's so clever.  You know, like how Mr Rude is French.

M:  You mean you love the racial stereotypes.

Me:  Oh.  Um...

M: You do!  You love the Mr Men show for its racial stereotyping! 

Me: (Silence)

M:  Why don't you just put your "blackface" on now, Sam Newman

Me: Shut up.  

My pure and unsullied enjoyment of the Mr Men Show is tarnished forever now.

Because I am a noted intellektual and skolarly type, sometimes I listen to Radio National.  I feel smarter just having it on in the background!  You should try it too!

Anyway, this morning I was listening to Life Matters.  The segment was about an organisation called "Social Firms Australia".  They are all about aiming to get people with mental illness into the workforce and are creating the concept of "Social Firms".  These are organisations that provide supportive employment for disabled or disadvantaged people.  All based on the theory that everyone should have the ability to secure fulfilling and enduring employment.  They are working with the Federal Government and other businesses to encourage them to provide such employment opportunities.

I just found this incredibly interesting given the current climate in Queensland.  I don't think the Queensland Government is likely to qualify for "social firm" status any time soon.  Just sayin'.  I'm zippering my lips back shut right now.

In other news, this little fellow can sit up and has his first toothy peg.

Where has the time gone?!

We're off to my mum's (aka Slapdash Nanny, it's genetic) house for a few days.  You know, just in case my three loyal readers get worried they haven't heard from me.

Keep it real people.

Classic FM. Daycare. Misogyny.

Well, I'm in the swing of it now I think.  Bolstered by nice words from my rent-a-readership (ie my friends and relations), here is the next instalment of my scintillating blog.  M read it last night too, and found it to be not without its charms.  I found this gratifying because, as they say in the business, he's a tough audience.

Today was noteworthy for its encounters with grumpy old men who like to moan about women and mechanics who like to patronise them.

P woke up today on the grumpy side of the bed and I was only too happy to palm her off to her kindy teachers. Not even the calming and dulcet tones of our beloved Classic FM breakfast presenter Emma Ayres could soothe her savage breast this morning.

Australia's favourite cello teacher and Classic FM announcer.
Apart from Margaret "Throbbers" Throsby of course.

My uncle reckons that all the ladies in his bridge club hate Emma Ayres!  I find this inconceivable.  Anyone who has tired of Emma has tired of life, in my opinion.  Although, having said that, I do now remember that M is somewhat ambivalent towards her too.  Grounds for divorce, really.

At one point during her program, Emma played the theme from Schindler's List.  Rather inappropriately, it reminded me of that Seinfeld episode where Jerry and his girlfriend are making out in a cinema while Schindler's List is playing.  They get spotted by friends of Jerry's parents and hilarity ensues.  Speaking of Judaism,  did anyone notice the typo in yesterday's post?  Answers on my desk by 5pm.

This isn't from the right episode, but I just liked it.  Morty and Helen at their best.

Dropping P off to kindy set me to a-thinking about my looming return to work, and the dreaded day that I must drop Baby B off too.  3 months away.  B is a mummy's boy for sure and certain, and I have a niggling feeling the whole daycare thing won't go as smoothly for him as it did for P.  My guilt ridden thoughts naturally turned, as they often do when considering the childcare question, to that Leunig cartoon of the baby in the daycare centre.  You probably know which one I mean, but in case you don't, here it is again.  It was, um, a tad controversial.

Depressing.

Leunig's not my favourite. I find him smug and preachy.  Although, in a hilarious twist, I actually have a Leunig calendar hanging on the wall at the moment.    I am obviously a sucker for punishment.  It was free in the paper, what can I say?

Anyway, after kindy dropoff, Baby B and I went to the library.  After we did our library related business and returned to our lovely new car, we discovered it wouldn't start.  I know! I rang M, who rang the RACQ, and so Baby B and I waited outside the library under some shadecloth.  Naturally I was a little...how should I put it...irritated.

As we waited, an elderly gent, wearing trackies and reef sandals sat himself down next to us, a bookbag clutched in his gnarled fingers.

"Said 5 minutes, but of course it'll be 20", he complained to me.
"A taxi?" I asked.
"No, a woman", he clarified, adding in a confiding manner, "You know how unreliable they can be sometimes".

Not wishing to alarm him by alerting him to the fact that I, too, was a woman, I just nodded vaguely.

"Amazing really, if I'm late, ooh better watch out, but if she's late, well that's just fine," he wittered on at me.  "If I'm late, probably having it off with some woman, she says."

A highly unlikely scenario, I thought, but who am I to judge?  Stranger things have happened I suppose.  I blinked at him.

"That's the trouble today, no trust between people, no trust, you see," he concluded this dissertation with.

Yes old mate, I thought, yes, that's the problem. Mmmhmm. Yup.

Luckily, the RACQ truck turned up shortly after.

"Hello there!" I trilled to the two men, "I'm just so glad to see you!"

"Won't start for you, eh?" one of them said.  He was South African.  Imagine Tony Greig's voice.  He seemed like a trainee.  He tried the key and instantly noted it was the battery.

"Look, you've got the ceiling light on!  She's got the ceiling light on!" he gleefully pointed out to his colleague.  "You need to have it on "door", not on all the time.  She's had the ceiling light on, she needs to have it on "door", you know, in the middle!"

The other fellow, the boss,  bobbled his face in front of Baby B, saying, "What's mummy done, hey?  What's she done, what's mummy done?!"

"She's had the ceiling light on", the first man reiterated. "You have to have it on "door", not on all the time."

Naturally I was enraged by this misrepresentation, and wanted to shout, "You, sir, are a buffoon!" to him, or  at the very least haughtily ask "Don't you know who I am!?"  and so forth, but all I managed instead was to weakly protest "I never!".  I was confused, I'd never touched the damn light, and we'd only had the car a few weeks!  Then it occurred to me - a certain naughty 3 year old's favourite activity is roaming around the interior of the car, eluding my clutches while I scream obscenities at her.  The little minx.   "J'accuse!", I thought to myself, inwardly shaking my fist.  Well played, P, well played.

Anyway, long story short, they fixed it, leaving me with a long lecture about how you aren't supposed to have the ceiling light on all the time and to leave it on "door".  The South African trainee certainly got the lowdown today on how to be a true blue dinky die Aussie RACQ man, with a major in Patronising Female Drivers.  It's times like this I wish I was a woman in a powerful position where men wouldn't dare treat me with contempt, like being Prime Minister of Australia or something. Oh, hang on...