Crappity, crap, crap

The crap that piles up in front of some places in the fortnight leading up to a council clean-up is amazing. So much stuff, most of which looks like it was never any use to anyone, except to have always been "Shit that I must throw out next council clean-up."

The boxes of not-so-crap pre-loved toys I dumped today, were gone within minutes. I went to get my camera to take a pic of my crap (as you do), returned, and it wasn't there anymore. I guess it's gone to make some bucks for those scavenger-types that loiter with their over-laden utes, chock-full of other peoples shit.

I have friends who are not averse to perusing the shit-heaps, looking mainly for children's toys, or the odd ("OK it's magenta and it's missing a leg... but I like it") occasional-table. I reckon a good deal of the crap in front of people's houses has been crap in front of someone else's house, it's been here before crap.

Beyond reason

It is so easy to be smug whilst watching a Bridget Jones movie when you have been comfortably (or not so comfortably) entrenched in a relationship for years. I have to admit, that last night, I was largely motivated to endure Bridget the fuck-up and her moronic, bad-advice providing friends, by the many close-ups of Colin Firth and his dreamy, alternately smiling/hurt-filled eyes.




My conclusions:

- it is a whole heap easier to get melancholy whilst watching any Bridget Jones movie when you are 37 and single;
- despite playing yet another sappy, to-good-to-be-true, forty-something bachelor... Colin Firth is totally shagable!

Glutton for punishment

I'm sitting here, knowing that tomorrow my arse, thighs and well, just about most parts of my body, are going to be sore, really sore. Tonight is another soft-sand workout at Booty Camp. I really like getting pushed by our trainer to go hard, but the sand, it is soooo fucking soft. The lazy, pain-fearing part of me, has been making quiet suggestions all day. And as I got ready to leave for my workout, it suggested I write this,

"Why don't you write, yeah that's a good idea with 5 minutes to spare before you have to go!"

Well, fuck you lazy little weasel part of me, see, I'm all done, ready to go, with plenty of time to spare... drat!

If you lie there, it might come... eventually

That, sounds like a description of a paint-the-ceiling-beige sexual encounter, but I talk of sleep in this instance.
A good night's sleep, (oh alright, and I'm totally up for some wake-the-neighbours-sex) is highly desired but rather elusive around Callistoland.
Just a few minutes more of it at 4.30am each morning would make my day.
I have the best intentions when it comes to sleep, I just go astray somewhere between Mr Patrick White and Mr pillow.
Whilst I do like having the bed all to myself, (left-side, right-side, right-in-the-fucking-middle should I so desire) I'd much prefer company of the single, male, mid-forties, good with his hands, variety.
I thought more exercise would help, but, so far, it has made little difference.
I really need to clear my thoughts before bedtime, I need an Etcha-sketch mind.